KYC – a blight on my life

I paid a visit to my friendly bank, a stone’s throw away from where I live, to renew a fixed deposit account which was due to breathe its last in a few days’ time. As they always do, the bank authorities sent me a text message informing me of this fact and would I come round and complete the formalities. On arrival, I went to one of several desks mostly occupied by young ladies. A sound policy as I have invariably found ladies in service situations far more courteous and competent than their male counterparts. I could have approached any desk of my choice as all the executives were trained to multi-task. One of them was free. I went up to her and sat myself down across her table. Her name was Sunita Chand, if the bi-lingual sign board in front of her desk was anything to go by. As her name was printed in English and Hindi, alongside the bank’s logo, I was doubly sure that I was addressing the correct person.

‘Good morning, Ms. Chand. I have come to renew one of my FDs which is expiring in a few days. I received this text message from the bank, which has all the details. I have the passbook as well. Do tell me how I should now proceed.’ I sat back smugly after that opening statement and waited for her response.

‘And a very good morning to you too, Mr. Subrahmanyan. Firstly, I am not Sunita Chand, who usually sits at this desk, but she is on sick leave today and I am temporarily standing in for her.’

‘Sitting in, more like. So why don’t you display your name? Which is what, incidentally? A bit misleading displaying the absent Ms. Chand’s board, don’t you think?’

‘I am Kavita, Sir. I have been summoned from another branch to fill in for Ms. Chand on a temporary basis. Hence there is no board with my name printed. Sunita should be back in a few days. However, you are quite right. I shall remove her name board right away.’

I was somewhat mollified. Expressing a hope that Ms. Chand will quickly recover from whatever illness she was afflicted with, I proceeded to get to the point. ‘Now about this FD of mine, I wish to renew it for another five years. Would you kindly do the needful?’

‘Certainly Sir. I must advise you that our interest rates have come down and on renewal of this FD, you will be earning interest at 6.5% against the 8% you have thus far been enjoying.’ She said it so sweetly that it sounded as if the interest rate had actually been greatly enhanced.

‘Look here, young lady. I have been banking with this branch for close to 25 years. Instead of rewarding people like me, who are your loyal, long-time customers, we are being punished year-on-year in our dotage by the bank lowering its interest rates.’ Regrettably, I had to raise my voice and other curious customers craned their necks towards me to see what the fuss was all about.

‘I am sorry Sir, but this has nothing to do with us. Please keep your voice down. We follow instructions from our Head Office, who in turn are answerable to the Reserve Bank of India. However, I do have some good news. As a senior citizen, you are entitled to half a percent extra, which means you will be earning 7%.’ She beamed as she said this, like she was informing me that I had just won a lottery.

I sighed and nodded assent and said, ‘I am sorry if I sounded somewhat cross, but your announcement about the interest came as a rude shock. Since I have no choice, let us press on. Just tell me where I should sign and I shall be off in a jiffy while you slip the next customer the bad news.’

‘There are some formalities, Sir. You will need to fill in this KYC form before we can proceed with the FD renewal. It is a simple form. I suggest you take it home, as your wife, being a joint account holder will need to sign the forms as well.’

I tried to stay calm, but this was beginning to irk. ‘Listen, young Kavita. I know you are only doing your job. RBI, HO instructions and all that. As I told you earlier, I have been your customer for 25 years, and I have filled KYC forms on six separate occasions till I was blue in the face. Nothing has changed in my life. My address is the same, you have my date of birth so you can do the math and come up with my present age, my mobile number remains unchanged and lastly, I am married to the same person. Given our age, we are on a till death do us part alliance. I can offer to give you a fresh photograph as my distinguished grey hair of two decades ago is now a snowy white and rapidly thinning. So why do the authorities insist on our repeating the same thing all over again. It’s all there in your computer. If needs must, you do the grunt work. I refuse to fill in this 16-page KYC. I know it stands for “Know Your Customer” but it feels more like “Kill Your Customer.”‘

‘Can I get you a nice cup of tea, Sir? With or without sugar?’

She was a smart one, this Kavita. The sick-leave-Sunita could learn a lesson or two from her on how to handle irate customers by changing tack to pleasant non-sequiturs. ‘That will be nice, thank you. Two sugars, please. And go easy on the milk.’

She signalled a passing peon to do the needful and turned to me. ‘Sir I know the KYC form looks formidable. I would suggest you and your wife just sign only where I have pencilled in an X to mark the spot. I will take care of the rest as I have all the information already. As you have forcefully pointed out.’

‘That’s another thing. These boxes provided for our signature are so small and narrow that only someone with a name like A. Bose can sign in a normal fashion. Suresh Subrahmanyan will spread way beyond the box and stray into the joint account holder’s box, and my wife’s signature is equally long. And please don’t tell me this is as per RBI’s diktat.’

Just as I was beginning to lose it again, the tea arrived. With a couple of Britannia thin arrowroot biscuits. My favourite. I must remember to put in a good word for Kavita. I calmed down again.

‘Sir, have your tea and biscuits. As for the signature problem, do not worry about it. Sign whichever way you want across the box. We will accept it. After all, as you never fail to remind us, you are a 25-year-old customer. Not that I mean you are 25 years old…ha ha.’

‘Ha ha indeed. Thank you for the tea, biscuits and comforting words, Kavita. I could have considered taking my money out of this FD and going to these fancy mutual fund or portfolio management chaps, but their KYC forms are even more diabolical than yours. It’s all a bit Kafkaesque. I may earn more through the stock markets but the paper work will finish me off before I can enjoy the earnings, if any. As it is, once I have paid the 33% tax on your 7% interest, I will be left with little more than 5% in hand, which barely covers inflation. Then again, better a known devil etc.’

So saying, I took leave of the industrious Kavita who asked me what Kafkaesque meant. As a parting shot, I told her to read The Metamorphosis. What I did not tell her was that I have parked some funds with mutual funds and some portfolio management experts. Spreading the risk, as it were. Next time they come to me with KYC forms to fill, I shall call up Kavita with my meagre capital. That is to say if Kavita has not been replaced by Savita or Paromita or just plain Mita.

My late father was a highly thought-of banker. When he passed on, all he left behind were two passbooks – one for savings bank account and another for fixed deposit. He did not own any property. The term ‘mutual funds’ was gobbledygook to him. His sons were the beneficiaries of his modest nest egg which, when split three ways, accurately defined the word modest. In his 50-year service with the bank, I have never ever heard him mention the acronym KYC. He slept soundly and dreamlessly all his life.