'One evening, my mother announced during dinner that we would open a Cumulative Time Deposit account in the post office.
'My father froze.
'The handful of curd rice that he had just put into his mouth remained there for a few extra seconds.'
Colonel K Thammayya Udupa (retd) recalls an important decision that changed his family's life forever.
Today, I opened a recurring deposit (RD) account.
I visited my bank's Web site and, a few clicks later, it was all done.
A few more clicks and the standing instructions had been registered for the monthly transfer of the amount from the savings account to the RD account.
I sat back and relaxed.
After the term of the RD is over, the accumulated amount will be transferred to my savings account.
Technology has made the entire process unbelievably simple.
My mind goes back to the early 1960s, when I was in primary school in Bhilai (now in Chhattisgarh, then in Madhya Pradesh, it is home to the Bhilai Steel Plant).
One evening, my mother announced during dinner that we would open a Cumulative Time Deposit (CTD)* account in the post office.
The words 'time' and 'post office' already existed in my vocabulary.
But what did these two new words, 'cumulative' and 'deposit', mean? Expecting to get some clue, I looked first at Amma and then towards Appa.
But there was no eye contact with anyone.
After her announcement, she was looking at Appa, waiting for his response.
He was pretending to enjoy his dinner and to have not heard Amma.
She persisted, "I have checked from the post office. We will open a monthly CTD account for Rs 50 for 10 years."
My father, who was then earning Rs 480 a month, froze.
The handful of curd rice that he had just put into his mouth remained there for a few extra seconds.
He looked up, eyes clearly showing disbelief.
He then slowly swallowed and said, "Sweet lady, Rs 50? For 10 years?"
When Appa used this tone, with the endearing 'Sweet Lady' thrown in, I knew he was trying to be his most charming self.
"Not now, after a few months when I get the long-overdue arrears," he said and helped himself to some more curd rice.
Amma tossed the ball back into Appa's court with just one word, "Tomorrow."
I looked back at Appa, who knew that he was being set up for a killer shot. But he was not giving up without a fight.
"But not 50. Let us save Rs 25 per month."
Back to Amma.
Just one word again, "50."
Though I was still unable to comprehend what this was all about, I was beginning to enjoy this exchange between pre-decided firm resolve on one side and hitting the ball just to stay alive in the match on the other.
"But, no, never for 10 years. Let us try for five years," said Appa with an air of decisiveness.
Amma was firm, "Rs 50. 10 years. Tomorrow. I will accompany you to the post office after he leaves for school."
I knew that Appa had acquiesced when he did not offer any more arguments but turned his attention to me and explained what savings, and CTD, were all about.
When I returned from school the next day, I was shown a passbook issued by the post office with Appa's name written neatly on it.
For 10 years it was an invaluable document, kept in the cupboard locker and taken out once a month for that visit to the post office.
For the first few months, Appa tried his best to create some financial crisis every month with the hope that Amma would re-think about the savings, but to no avail.
Initially, she took upon herself the sacred ritual of visiting the post office to deposit the instalment.
As the months passed, the CTD became an integral part of our existence.
Every month the Bhilai Steel Plant would credit Appa's salary to his bank account.
On first of the month, he would draw the cash from his bank account.
As soon as he was home, Amma would authoritatively demand Rs 50 and place it in the CTD pass book.
Only the balance amount was available for routine monthly expenses.
Today, a common man can depend on finance and personal wealth-related magazines, television shows and financial planners to help in all finance and personal wealth-related matters.
Most of the advisors would suggest that we should strive to save every month by adopting the formula, 'Income minus Savings = Expenditure' and not fall into the trap of 'Income minus Expenditure = Savings'.
Looking back, I marvel at Amma's intuitive sense. She had cracked this code on her own without the benefit of any books and magazines, without seeing any television programmes and with no financial planner to advise her.
All of us began to feel proud of her effort.
Many a time, Amma asked me to deposit the instalment.
As a young schoolboy, it gave me a feeling of immense responsibility.
I would be at the post office half-an-hour prior to the post-lunch opening time, to be the first at the window.
In those anxious moments, I would check and recheck if the passbook was with me.
I would count those crisp bank notes umpteen times, much to the amusement of those who had queued up behind me.
Finally, when the window opened, I would nervously hand in the passbook and the cash, hoping for everything was right.
"Hope some cash has not slipped suddenly from my hands, without my knowledge."
Or "Hope the post office clerk does not make a mistake while counting the cash."
The gentleman on the other side of the window, probably sensing my anxiety, would try and put me at ease by asking about my school and my studies.
He would rearrange the cash neatly as per the denominations and place them in his cash box, with the other cash, and efficiently slip a rubber band around each wad.
Then he would make a few entries in his register and in the passbook and finally stamp the passbook with the postal date stamp similar to the cancellation mark on postage stamps.
I would return home, relieved as well as satisfied that I had done my bit for the family that day.
When we were to go on vacations, our travel plans would be tailored to ensure that the monthly instalments were never missed.
Or Mathur Aunty, our sweet neighbour, would be spoken to months in advance and requested to do it for us.
As soon as we reached our vacation destination, Amma would send a postcard to Mathur Aunty to inform her that we had reached safely.
The actual intent was to remind her about the CTD.
Not to be outdone, Mathur Aunty would respond with her own postcard, informing Amma about everything happening in Bhilai and casually slipping in the fact that the CTD had been attended to.
Then came the day when the last instalment was paid.
One month later, on the day of the maturity of the deposit, Appa took half-a-day off from work and, along with Amma, went to the post office.
The postmaster congratulated them and was fulsome in his praise that not once in those 120 months had an instalment been missed.
He called for tea and samosas to celebrate one of the rare successful completions of CTD on his watch.
"You must be having some plans for this amount," he asked them.
Appa explained to him that we were on the verge of finalising a land deal in the Udupi-Manipal area, near our hometown in Karnataka.
"The maturity amount will be just about sufficient to buy the land ** where we want to build a house and finally settle down," he proudly informed the postmaster.
The postmaster filled up a few forms which were then signed by Appa.
He announced rather dramatically and formally that the CTD had been closed.
He also informed them that due to a recent enhancement of the interest rates, the maturity value was a few hundred rupees more than what we were expecting.
But when it came to handing over the cash, much to the shock of my parents, he said, "I will not give you the entire amount. Since you are getting some more money than what you were expecting, I want to keep hundred rupees for myself..." and he paused.
Amma and Appa were both shocked.
How could he? The 120 months of struggle to make this happen flashed through Amma's mind.
Appa had already drafted a complaint in his mind, addressed to the prime minister with copies to all concerned about how his hard-earned money...
But before they could actually react, the postmaster pulled out a pen, filled up a form and said, "I am deducting Rs 100. Please sign this."
It was a new CTD account opening form, filled up in Appa's name.
That's how Appa and Amma were happily tricked into opening a new CTD account that day, this time for Rs 100 a month.
*Cumulative Time Deposit (CTD): CTD Accounts were discontinued in the late 1970s. India Post now offers the Post Office Recurring Deposit account.
**My parents spent their sunset years in the house constructed on the land purchased entirely from the CTD savings. Currently I am the occupant of the same immovable property, the location of which is amongst the prime pockets of land in our city. Not a day passes without my feeling a sense of gratitude to my parents for their thrifty habits.
Feature Presentation: Aslam Hunani/Rediff.com
