November 9, 2016
It was in the small hours of the morning that I arrived at New Delhi airport. As usual, I looked for an ATM to get the local currency rupee. Strangely, ATMs in the airport was all closed, so l exchanged money at a bank. After I slept a bit on a chair until dawn, I took Delhi Airport Metro Express to New Delhi station; it was modern design with great speed.
New Delhi station was a lot of hustle and bustle. It was very hard for me to proceed toward an exit. Once I got out of there, rickshaws, coming and going, jumped into my eyes. In stagnant air, there was full of life. I took a rickshaw to go to my hostel. On my way, I saw a crowd of people in front of a bank―they seemed to holler at banks. I thought to myself: “This is India. I’m getting thrilled,” and while I was checking if he took a detour by using GPS on my phone. Sure enough, He did it, but I condoned his act and overpaid to him because the fare was cheep.
I entered the hostel and went right up to the reception. In the registration procedures, I put the money on the tray to pay a deposit. “We can’t accept old bill,” said one of the staff. “What?” I was not sure what it meant. Then he went on,“New bill only. You check the news.” I rooted my pocket for my phone and read the articles: “Bank of India says it will roll out new higher security 500 and 2,000 rupee notes,” “Banks re-opened on Thursday to dispense new notes in exchange for old 500 and 1,000 rupee notes that are no longer legal tender.” ―the removal of black money. “What a coincidence.” I lamented with flashes of closed ATMs and of the crowd in front of the bank―my bills was all old ones.
The following day, The crowd was surging out from a bank onto the street. For more than three hours, I had been stuck fast in them, until I applied for exchanging old bills for new ones that was all 500 rupee. To my relief, someone told me that ATMs would open “Tomorrow.” After a while, l noticed my jacket attached on the backpack on my back had vanished.
As a matter of fact, ATMs had remained shut, day in, day out. But I supposed the situation would change by the time I reached Rishikesh, where I was going to learn yoga for four weeks.
Unlike New Delhi, there were many tourists in Rishikesh. I walked with Lakshman Jhula bridge―its mark reddy poles―across Ganges river that lulled me into a sacred mood. Taking a long walk made me hungry. From time to time I stopped by food stalls, enjoying eating samosa and pani puri, which sold at reasonable price; I loved to know the local food.
While my yoga programs started, ATMs closures still continued and what’s more, the banks did not function properly. I supposed I should not to use cash, in case I needed something. The trouble was that the food stalls and local shops did not take credit cards, and so I could not help but eat at restaurants or cafes at times, though I was thrifty with money.
Eager to get cash, I checked if ATMs were operative day after day; however, they had showed no sign of starting to work. Dozens of tourists around them had been stranded and irritated. ‘’No cash, I can’t go home,’’ said a man, who squatted down and hung his head. What he said was exactly right. He would have to take a taxi, bus, or train to go to the airport―they only accept cash. Then an anxiety came over me as to how enough I would have cash to be going to go to Kolkata after yoga program.
On the other hand, I started to vomit and have diarrhea, like food poisoning, several days after I came Rishikesh. Having a lot of blanket covered my shivering body, thinking of my missing jacket, I had learned yoga.
Winter nights in Rishikesh were cold. My bathroom in my hotel had no hot water and no heater; there was no way I took a shower. Only when my head got itchy did I plunge my head into the bucket filled with cold water and wash my hair in no shampoo. Now and then I had diarrhea in the middle of the night―I was on the toilet seat, having been screaming with the chills and the pain in my anus.
Amid yoga program, one evening I was browsing the internet on my phone, I came across the peculiar mail. The contents of them indicated that I had ordered several items separately in less than one hour. The total amount was more than 3,000 dollars. As I suspected someone had stolen my credit card detail, the same things happened again―some bastard kept on buying the goods like home appliance. I could not help imagining my bank balance was close to zero.
I made in confusion a call to the bank center for invalidating it. The operator said, “Do you have anything about them?” “No.” I said immediately, becoming impatient. “Isn’t there possibility, you used it yourself? Could you remember buying them?” “Not my fault, It’s a crime,” I said in a stern voice, not wanting him to ask any more question.
But that made me uneasy about whether I could receive a full refund; I had a hard time falling sleep that night. I was so exhausted. Nothing worked: out of cash, the card fraud, food poisoning. It was not until next day’s supper that I pulled myself together; my friend Frei, a yoga student who was Swiss, and his Indian wife Kaira emboldened me in my thing. And as I played my phone … No kidding―that rat had indeed started to use my card that was not frozen.
The next day, I could barely work up no energy. After lunch, Frei told the cook, a yoga staff, that I needed some help about credit card frauds. One afternoon, the cook summoned me and introduced to a middle-aged stranger, who turned to walk out of the school; I called for Frei to come and we followed him. “I knew the nearest police station. Ride on my motorbike,” he said, sit on it and started the engine. Frei sat astride behind the stranger; I sat after Frei and said loudly. “And, do you know where an ATM is open?” “Yes, I know. I’ll take you there,” the stranger said; I believed him.
We rode it down the steep hill, the cows bellowing in a wilderness and entering the town; foreign people swarming about ATMs, passing many rickshaws, through the alley, the motorbike pulled up in front of a house. We alighted from it and Frei and I saw the stranger walk into the house alone.
After a few minutes, he came back and said, “Here is a pawnshop, not the police station. I’m not certain where the police station is.” I winced, not expecting him to say such a thing. “Where is the ATM?” I asked tentatively. “ ‘Tomorrow,’ public servants come to activate them,” he said, cocking his head. I was not sure what to make of these.
In the days which followed, I noticed people lined up at the ATM. It was a long time before ATM began to work. There were all “new 2’000 rupee notes” and the limitation: 1 note per card―if you want more, you have to use other cards. I was so relieved that I was able to get 4’000 rupees … But that was only temporary. Not only food stalls and local shops, but also cafes and restaurants did not accept this new one, not having change for “new 500 rupee notes” that had run short. It sucks. It was no use getting big ones, unless I had a luxurious meal otherwise.
I wandered around the town aimlessly, wondering if I could buy a bus or train ticket using these big ones. I stopped at the bank and walked in, not expecting anything. Once I found the customers did some kinds of procedures, I turned to leave. “Hey, may I help you?” Looking around, I saw a woman beckoning me; I fluttered 2’000 rupee notes I had pinched, wanting to exchange them.
Soon she begun to draw a map that marked the location of another bank, with a kindly explanation. She handed it to me, “It’s thirty minutes’ walk from here. You can get small ones.” She rose from her seat and went out, “Keep going along this street.” “Okay, thank you very much,” I said, feeling a little better.
So plausible was hers that I believed her. I started to walk with the map; past groups of tourists, at the stall that sold samosa I often ate, and the long and gloomy road with a tunnel of trees, no one walking, rickshaws running at full speed. After a while I came into a sandy road dotted with cows and horses. There was a row of shabby houses and cycle rickshaws running. I saw a man, whose clothes were frayed, loading fruits and vegetables on the iron cart. I continued to walk. Each time a vehicle passed by me, sand danced, blown by wind, covering me, as if to feel mocked for my effort.