ATMs and Bank Loans.

         

A recent news item about thefts from a nearby ATM prompted a conversation in my house.

Ever since I saw on television news the close-circuit camera-footage of a woman inside an ATM cubicle beaten to death by a thief (in Bangalore, some years ago), when I go to withdraw cash I carry with me a sturdy kitchen cleaver, wear pointed metal knuckles on my fingers and mentally revise Vasco’s Mahesh Kamat’s tips on self-defence for women. I look suspiciously at every passer-by and extra carefully at the watchman lest he want a sudden, quick-n-easy ‘loan’.

Actually, I envy watchmen their jobs. If I were one, I would sit with a book the whole day, preferably in the shade. And in the night shift there’d always be a bright light on in case one hasn’t finished the read. A watchman’s job description is a mix between guarding property, taking messages, giving tokens (in some banks these days), being a mobile helpdesk, assisting people park their cars—a jack of customer service.

When I stand in an ATM queue, with little else to do, I watch the watchman. I’m surprised no feminist group has protested that no women are employed as watchwomen. If women can be employed to fight wars, they can sit on stools outside ATMs on ‘watch’ duty, can they not?

As a good rule-abiding citizen, I change the password frequently. Partly because I choose easy-to-forget numbers and partly because the bank manager says it’s safer that way.

Shri Husband says: “Any hacker tracking your transactions will get a nervous breakdown trying to figure out which four-digit combination’s the latest. More importantly, after seeing the balance in your account, s/he’s more likely to feel sorry for you and put some money into it.” Meanie.

The newspaper said the hacker that stole money from the ATM used sneaky technological tricks to flout the system. I wonder why banks don’t employ these smarties as and when they’re caught. They could help the IT guys with the security loopholes. They might make good watchmen, too, since they know very well how criminal minds work.

“Seven lakhs they stole from one branch and five from another,” Bai Goanna read, putting her palm across her mouth. “Thirteen lakhs is a lot of money.”

“From several persons, so the per capita loss was distributed,” I said, sounding wise. Or so I thought.

“Twice in a couple of days,” she said, slapping her forehead this time, squinting at the fine newspaper print. She read on: “Not to worry, this particular incident is the bank’s responsibility and the customers will be paid what they lost.” She sighed in relief as if the money had gone from her account. She added, fanning her face with an open palm: “Now the banks will have to figure out a way to outsmart the hacker-thief.”

All this while, Shri Husband sat without saying a word. Ominous, that silence.

Suddenly he grunted: “Who takes responsibility for bank loans not paid back?”

Where did this come from, Bai Goanna and I wondered, silently communicating with each other via raised eyebrows and twisted mouths.

As if reading our minds he said: “Not saying the ATM hacker shouldn’t be tracked and punished. But there are big headlines and loud discussions and everyone’s chasing a petty thief for stealing a minor amount.”

“Thirteen lakhs in less than a week. Is that a paltry amount?” Bai Goanna and I chorused.

“It is, compared to unpaid bank loans,” he said. “If a person borrows a couple of thousands and doesn’t return it, he’s considered a criminal.”

True that, I thought. If someone doesn’t return a loan, he should be in jail.

“If a person borrows many lakhs, even crores from a bank and defaults, he gets a seat in Parliament. He pleads in Court how bad business is/was, how our laws must be changed, how he can’t afford to pay his staff salaries,” Shri Husband took a breath, “…and then off he goes to recover from the trauma, to his extravagant bungalow by the seaside or upon a mountain ridge or a super-delux yacht anchored in a foreign marina.” Lecture-baazi shuru, I thought.

Contemplating on what Shri Husband had just said, I supposed what the good swamis on television say: the defaulter’s karmas will catch up with him, if not in this life, then in the next. I said so aloud.

“Let the defaulters karma catch up with them whilst they’re in jail,” Shri Husband addressed me in a highly offending tone, as if I was responsible for the banks’ losses. I sniffed and responded: “I’m not concerned with loan defaulters. I’m worried that a hacker might hack my account.”

“You should be concerned about loan defaulters,” Shri Husband said, his voice-volume rising by several decibels. “Because it’s your money that’s involved. If the bank doesn’t get it back with interest, it’s your money that will suffer. Tomorrow if you want to take a loan, you’ll have to pay higher interest because the defaulter chap was irresponsible.” He sounded like one of those experts on television.

I looked at Bai Goanna trying to work out the math mentally. She nodded, agreeing with him.

I decided to ignore both of them and, for a change, I walked out of the room. I picked up my purse on the way out, opened the front door and hurried straight to the nearest ATM to withdraw all I had so no hacker would benefit. At least not from my account. This time I carried with me a magnifying glass, too, to locate, if any, equipment that could replicate/photograph the details on my ATM card. One has to be cleverer than and a step ahead of the hackers, no?

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