As our Prime Minister began his historic speech on November 8, I was casually packing some woollens. In two days’ time, we were about to visit Mcleodganj in Himachal. This trip, planned much in advance, would take us from Ahmedabad to Delhi and finally to the mountains via Jalandhar.
Like any other time, we had planned to collect money from an ATM on the day we left, so there was hardly any cash lying around. But with every line he spoke, my heart sunk as I did the math. No 500s and 1000s from midnight? ATMs would be closed for the next two days? I ran to check my wallet – there were two Rs 500 notes and just a single Rs 1000 note.
The phone rang as my husband informed me he would be late. “Will try a couple of ATMs tonight but people have already started to queue up!” he said. Worried by now, I called my friend who was joining us from Delhi. “Between me and my husband, we have Rs 200! Hitting the ATMs now!” she said. The trip now felt like a puzzle with a few important pieces amiss.
In the next two days, I paid my toddler’s nanny with all the Rs 500 and Rs 1000 notes I could rummage and she got me several Rs 100 notes from her gullakh which I promised to return. My husband brought Rs 7000 in hundred rupee notes on the evening of our flight and the minute we reached Delhi, we all downloaded PayTM.
As the train fare was paid for, we relaxed during the journey to Punjab. Once there, the cabbie – who would take us to Mcleodganj – was poker faced when he said, “Sir, it has to be cash, abhi clear kar deta hu!” By the time we reached our destination, we had only Rs 5000 left.
‘Card Chalega? No?’ *Leaves*
If we had expected our trip to be rejuvenating and the cash situation to be lenient as it was a tiny town, we were mistaken. Mcleodganj was full of tourists, locals and monks. Yes, monks who needed cash. Every ATM we went to had slithering lines full of all kinds of people. If I had to teach my toddler a thing about diversity, I could have just stood in a queue and pointed at every one.
While the cabs that took us from one spot to another took only cash, the restaurants still had machines but they needed repeated swiping. At Jimmy’s – a favourite joint of tourists – we chomped down amazing pasta and ravioli in 40 minutes. But in the next 40 minutes, we stood patiently as one after the other our cards got spat out by the machine. Finally, one worked but our confidence took a hit – these machines weren’t going to last the onslaught.
Next day, at the picturesque Norbulingka Institute, a Buddhist monastery, the entry tickets were Rs 40 each. I shamelessly asked the woman behind the counter if they had PayTM or took cards. She said NO without blinking.
Hungry and way past lunch, we tried to grab a bite in the monastery’s café. The carrot cake I was eyeing like an entitled Bollywood hero was rudely snatched away when the waiter said: “We will only take cash. Our machines aren’t working.” From where we stood, our fool proof plan of using cards for lunches and dinners was screeching to a halt.
We drove to a random hotel, asked if they took cards and ate fake Chinese food after they obliged. While outdoors, we kept looking for that one ATM that could get us out of the soup we had involuntarily fallen in. But ICICI, HDFC, SBI, even Kangra Cooperative Bank ATMs sent us back empty handed. Half shutter, full shutter, men nodding their heads from the other side of the road, men slouching as they came out of a bank, we became pros at decoding human behaviour.
Our cabbie propositioned, “Money transfer companies are giving out cash, albeit at a 10 percent interest. So is a friend. I can take you there.” We contemplated and decided to resist taking this step just yet.
The Night of Humanity
Dinner that night seemed impossible. Every restaurant we entered informed us they wouldn’t take cards – including the ones that had previously. Their machines had given up, they informed us sadly.
As my friend and I started to walk out of yet another restaurant, a man tapped me on my shoulder. “How many 500s and 1000s do you have? Give me. Take 100s from me, quick,” Adil, the light-eyed Kashmiri man said, already counting notes. We suddenly felt stupid for having rid ourselves of all the demonetised notes. After all, some people were still ready to take them. “We just have cards, nothing else. And we haven’t managed to have dinner either,” I told him, playing the hunger card.
To our shock and surprise, Adil took out a pink Rs 2,000 (the first time I saw it) and put it in my palm. “Hey, just take this. And take my phone number. I have a handicrafts shop on the temple road. Just come tomorrow and get your card swiped in my machine. I believe in humanity and I believe in you,” he said.
Wondering if he was drunk or if there was a catch, I asked him if he would charge me extra the next day. “You give me back just 2,000. Or don’t return it. I don’t care. I feel it’s my duty to help my countrymen right now,” he said simply.
Considerably numb after this encounter, we walked into a rooftop restaurant and ate the yummiest dinner of our lives, probably due to the added warmth of a complete stranger. And of course, we kept our orders well within that precious 2,000.
Next day, help came from another unlikely corner when the hotel manager swiped our card for a few thousands more than what we had incurred. The extra money he charged, he gave us in cash that he had collected from queuing up in front of a bank. “You guys need the cash more,” he said and smiled. With a pink note on each of us, we had the most elaborate breakfast in three days and started our road trip downhill.
We bought no souvenirs but there is no way we’ll forget this holiday. As a Friends fan would say, this was 'The One Without Cash'.
(Runa Mukherjee Parikh has written on women, culture, social issues, education and animals, with The Times of India, India Today and IBN Live. When not hounding for stories, she can be found petting dogs, watching sitcoms or travelling. A big believer in ‘animals come before humans’, she is currently struggling to make sense of her Bengali-Gujarati lifestyle in Ahmedabad.)
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