SBI - State Bank of India or Surrounded By Incompetence

A few months ago I decided to check my SBI (State Bank of India) bank account status and to open a new deposit account. The toughest thing about this task – its having to stand in line at a State Bank of India branch. Over the years, India has lost many potential investors simply because they couldn’t handle the intensity and range of emotions that an SBI experience took them through. Nothing prepares you for a life of dealing with a hopeless bunch of SBI employees who do not give a fuck about what you want.
When you enter an SBI outlet, you will notice a man your grandpas age carrying a double barrel gun. This is called security. Because really, nothing makes me feel more secure than a man needing a cataract operation carrying weapons from the sets of Mangal Pandey. When was the last time you saw dacoits charging in on horses trying to loot a branch in Bandra? Wouldn’t it look fantastic when a bunch of thieves come in with quick loading handguns and shoot the place down and our man is busy trying to find bullets somewhere inside his medicine box? Isn’t it easier to buy a walking stick instead of a double barrel if they’re used for the same purpose? I know! Why don’t we just keep cannons inside the outlet? Seriously, that’ll scare them! Cannons! Even our man will look more authentic standing next to one. Not like anyone is going to museums in India, plus the kids will have fun shoving their heads inside the barrel instead of running around like puppies on crack trying to scratch a tick on their ass.

You will then meet the employees. You know how in superhero movies a mad scientist always inserts a serum inside a human body which goes terribly wrong and creates the villain? That’s what Defence Research & Development Organisation (DRDO) does with State Bank of India employees. Able-bodied individuals are taken from each state and inserted with a serum that makes them equally shitty no matter which state or branch you have the misfortune of visiting. They’re like human Mig-21s. I’m surprised every employee doesn’t have a serial number (SBI-05-3304/172) written with a chalk on their forehead like every computer desktop, almirah, metal chair and everything else that is classified as government infrastructure. There’s a fun game I like to play when I’m at SBI i.e. spot the employee who’ll keel over and die of diabetes first.

SBI branches operate on a crucial principal i.e. every branch will have multiple counters out of which only ONE will be functional. Other counters will either be empty mocking your existence or have employees sitting around drinking chai refusing to do your work. It’s the governmental equivalent of showing rebellion by wearing a Che t-shirt. You then stand in a "queue" flanked by two people on either side whose only job is to somehow cut in front of you if the opportunity arises. They are usually older, have a big cyst on their scalp and pull every emotional card they know. The first includes not saying a word – just looking at you every three seconds and grinning nonchalantly. The second is the emotional card of having to deposit money into a distant relative’s account who has blood cancer (a trope from 80s Bollywood where for some reason that’s all people got) and won’t be able to recover if a sum of 900 rupees isn’t deposited immediately. The third is when they realise they have an account in Central Bank of India and not SBI and that they just wasted theirs and everyone else’s time. Finally after an hour when your turn finally comes, an employee will emerge from the back bearing prasad from a recent trip to a religious centre which will then lead to a 30 minute conversation between the chai drinking employees about all the religious centres they have ever visited and which offered the best prayer conversion rate so their mother in laws would get herpes and kids wouldn’t have to work in an SBI. There are higher chances of Narendra Modi getting a U.S. visa in one shot than your work getting done at these ironically named "single window" counters. When they say 0% interest, they’re talking about how they feel about their work.

What this waiting period does provide however is a chance to reflect on the deeper, more existential questions in life. For example, why does an SBI poster of a fixed deposit always feature a white baby doing shit like growing a plant? First off its not an Indian baby if it doesn’t have a black circular spot on the forehead atleast 40 cm in diameter that will miraculously save it from ill will. When was the last time you saw a baby who was fond of gardening? An accurate representation would be a baby eating mud and shitting itself crying while the parents pull their hair out trying to access their fixed deposit. Why does Syndicate Bank have a dog as their logo? Why do I know things like Syndicate bank having a dog as their logo? Will Syndicate bank be successful in Korea because people love eating dogs? Am I supposed to be turned on by the aunty counting money in slow motion while constantly licking her finger?

While in that queue, an aunty saw me carrying my deposit application form and started chatting me up. I say chatting me up because it sounds sexier than using the word conversation.

Beta, you’re applying for the new fixed deposit

(Nahi, mujhe shauk hai teen ghante logon ka hair oil smell karne ka) Yes aunty

My son is also applying. Except he is at home sleeping and I am here.
Waise what do you do?
Aunty unemployed (I lied because prankster and Twitter are not socially acceptable answers)
At this point aunty looked at me as if I was Lalloo Prasad's testicle and turned away.

I would never step foot in an SBI ever again. I hope you never have to either, unless you have an account in the State Bank of Travancore. You know your bank is shit when the kingdom its named after doesn’t even exist.

Fat or Big is Beautiful

It’s time I came to terms with it.
I’m fat.
I’m not the "let’s stare at him his ass is so huge he probably shat and doesn’t realise its still stuck in his crack" fat. When you’re Shashi Kapoor fat, you and the world both know that there is no hope and everyone can place bets on when the person will keel over and die in the middle of a meal without any guilt. However when you’re wearing an additional size to cover the paunch and seatbelts accentuate your titlets™ fat, there is always hope that somehow, someday it will become better. People tell you that it’s easy to get rid of. When you bathe you can still see your penis when you look down and tell yourself all is not lost. It is then when you accidentally run your hand to the fat cliff underneath your navel and realise that you didn’t know this area existed till a few weeks ago. You then cry in the shower, realising you need the same mirrors mall security use to check underneath cars for bombs to see portions of your own stomach.

Of course, one does not become fat overnight. On some level, I am almost proud of my titlets because I have seen them grow over time. I imagine this is what women feel like when they’re pregnant. Somewhat glowing, somewhat proud, somewhat indulgent in unnecessary squeez..never mind. However, I have noticed the following changes in my lifestyle ever since I have become aware of my fatness.
Dietary patterns: An essential aspect of being fat but pretending as if you’re working on losing weight are internal dietary compromises one makes with the brain. Old Monk starts being paired with diet coke, which is as good as defiling the grave of all your life’s greatest memories. Sugarless coffee suddenly becomes the norm and one pretends as if they were part of an American sitcom where everyone spends their mornings walking around New York with a coffee cup. Fried food becomes a strict no no, till one realises that the only way to finish an Old Monk with Diet Coke is by supplementing it with fried food.
All of this to satiate the brain into believing that the number of calories being consumed has been reduced even though absolute consumption of food remains the same if not more. My personal favourite has been replacing regular sugar with sugar free, whose tag line might as well be "WE TOLD YOU YOU’D LOSE WEIGHT, WE JUST NEVER SAID IT WOULD BE BECAUSE OF CHEMO!"

Clothes: One of the toughest things about being in India is caste discrimination, female foeticide, poverty, malnutrition not being able to find clothes your size if you’re fat. I already faced this problem before, but becoming fat means that I am forced to look at acquiring a U.S. visa. The problem is that even if you wear a size 40, it isn’t big enough because of the increased shamiana like titlets and paunch pulling up the cloth from its appropriate length. I presume this is why so many old people across India can be seen in the morning wearing tight, ill-fitting vests with their navels exposed while spitting out a blowjob level daatun paste. I am happy to report that I am getting the perfect training for that future. Size 40 is now too small. Very few manufacturers make a 40 and above, and the ones who do seem to have no sense of taste. It’s almost like Indian manufacturers got together and thought "Chal na pehle hi saala itna mota hai who cares what he is wearing he will still look fuckall just give him the leftover drapes".


It is virtually impossible to pull off the hipster look. While black plastic framed glasses work effectively, bright coloured chinos and other such clothing items that are essential to depict the "I’m a youthful commodity buy me buy me!" look to potential clients in Mumbai is hard to achieve, thus placing one at a disadvantage. Black however, is your amazing best friend. Not because it makes you look slim but because black doesn’t look very dirty in public even if you wear it four times without washing it.

Finally, I realised that I’ve reached the stage where I suck in my stomach around women without even realising it. More than women, the other day I caught myself sucking it in when a delivery guy came over with pizza. First off, what is the point of involuntarily sucking in my stomach if after that I'm still fat? It’s almost like even if I’m not my body is too ashamed to let the delivery boy know that I eat too much. I make a "don’t judge me" face and try and communicate with my eyes that it is infact, thin crust, but they don’t seem to buy it. At my age where people have already starting playing Chinese whispers (Am I the only one who thinks the term Chinese whispers is like a communist sanitary pad that each woman in the village has to share for the greater good?) with the M word, it is especially important that I stay fit so that my future partner does not have to deal with my jelly.

When I was in school I had a two-year period where I was rather fat and photogenically challenged. I didn’t get bullied or made fun of, except this one time where I tried to bowl in a cricket match after a long time and realised I couldn’t extract any pace from my run up. That for the simple fact that I couldn’t run fast enough and delivered a series of Nehras. I outgrew that phase in a year because of a magical growth in height. I wonder what will happen now, and how ill get out of this jam. Oooo…jam.