The honour girl

She came to my bank situated in a college premises at least several times in a month. She had an aura of simplicity, grace and dignity about her.

She was not very beautiful, but her mediocre beauty was refined by her fine facial features, wheatish complexion with a tinge of whiteness, big black eyes, long hair that she always covered with a white duppatta.

As she entered, she greeted everyone with Assalam-o-Alaikum in a soft low tone, placed the books in a corner, gracefully walked up to the counter, picked up a savings deposit slip, confidently filled in all the details, submitted it to the cashier, waited quietly and patiently for the return of the counter foil which she placed in her note-book folder and left, bowing her head and muttering Allah Hafiz almost inaudibly.

There was something unusual about her that we all noticed. Like other students, she was neither accompanied by a friend nor by any elderly lady. She never came in with a group of classmates. Though alone, she was not hesitant to approach any male staff if the three female officers were too busy with other clients. Her queries were simple and official. She would ask for the balance in her account or the profit paid by the bank; would the bank remain open if the college was closed? Could she deposit her money on bank holidays? Once, she quite innocently asked if the bank published examination results and, if so, could she get a copy? Though we were amused at what we considered a silly question, yet her serious innocence evoked a simple nod with a meek “No.”

It was for over a year now that she had been coming to the bank. As the conduct of her account was only deposit and withdrawal for payment of college fees, it was just a matter of ordinary book-keeping procedure. However, the cashier had one complaint: she never deposited the amount in round figures and though it was never more than four digits in rupees, yet it was always with some paisas, at times even in odd figures such as Rs1,246.50. As a commercial bank in the private sector dedicated to service, we could not ask her to round up the amount to an even figure for the convenience of our computation.

Everything, of course, was computerized,. Still, the possibility of an error in posting could not be ruled out, and this irked the cashier. Once, he requested her to round up the figure. All she did was add 50 paisas more to make it Rs1,247. The cashier accepted the amount but remained uneasy. After continuing for sometime, he approached me with the problem of this particular account. I asked him to send her to me the next time she came.

Though she came only twice a month, her timings were uncertain. I prayed that she came on a lean day and on one such day, the cashier brought her to me with the cash pay-in slip. She greeted me with Assalam-o-Alaikum. I replied with a nod. As I was busy on the phone, I asked her to take a seat with a wave of my hand. I looked at her while attending the phone and was simply disarmed by the animated but sober innocent look in her eyes, her confident yet humble appearance and her respectful posture with arms folded over her duppatta that she had wrapped around her. When I had finished with the call, I addressed her.

“Beti, for over a year, you have been depositing the amount in odd figures. Can’t you make it, say, like Rs1,250 or Rs1,200?”

She shook her head in negation without uttering a word.

“Can you explain?” I asked in a beseeching tone.

“Uncle,” she said, looking straight at me, “I cannot take out even a single rupee from the amount I put in the account. I can only add a few paisas I save.”

“You are like my daughter. If there is a problem I can help,” I said.

“Thank you, uncle. But we’ve vowed to do it on our own,” she said with a feeling of honour.

“It won’t be any obligation,” I insisted. “I’ll just add a few rupees and even paisas to make it even so that we avoid a posting error.”

“It’s very kind of you, uncle; but myself and no one of our family would like it because it will be charity. My father works hard day and night, and would be hurt and feel degraded. He works hard and saves one-fourth from his daily earnings and without taking a rupee out if it, gives me all of it. He says he wants me to be a doctor.”

“That’s quite noble of him. He is a great man. What does he do?” I asked.

Without hesitation or a second thought, and with an air of praise and pride, she instantly said, “He is a rickshaw driver.”

Stunned by her boldness, I stood up and bowed my head respectfully, without looking into her eyes as she said, “Allah Hafiz,” and confidently walked away.