"Here, you almost forgot this," said my beloved spouse accusingly. He held out a familiar-looking grey plastic sheath. "How many times have I warned you not to travel without your credit card?" "But you know I am somehow unable to use the darned thing," I whined plaintively. "It simply refuses to pay my bills." I eyed the small rectangle miserably. The very sight of it reminded me of many embarrassing occasions when I had run up huge bills and had card machines simply refuse to accept my plastic. There, I'm sure I've even got the terminology all wrong! I bet there is some perfectly nice name for those gizmos that swallow my card, make spitting noises and regurgitate it as if its poison, flashing lights to say that the card belongs to a congenital embezzler. The worst was when I had taken my sister to Bangalore's biggest and most expensive mall on her birthday -- and then made her pay for both her gift as well as for my extravagances. Worse, that nasty credit card, which was the first piece of plastic to worm its way into my wallet, had somehow passed the word to its brethren: they too followed suit. Now my bank people simply refuse to let me even enter the ATM premises. That machine never fails to reject my access card and code, and simply strikes me off its list whenever I approach it. And now I was off to Bombay on work. The last thing I wanted was to be spooked by this nasty piece of plastic. "Look, this thing is downright inauspicious," I said firmly, pressing it right back into the nasty half's palm. "I absolutely refuse to even try to use it in Bombay, and have it announce to all my colleagues that I am the world's most wanted con woman." I walked off before he could reply, and picked up my young daughter Amala's plate and spoon, hoping that the dear man would hesitate to interrupt me when I was on the important mission of feeding our skinny, recalcitrant progeny. It was only when I was checking in my suitcase into the luggage counter a few hours later at the Bangalore airport that I found that the plastic had returned to haunt me. On re-checking my tiny purse for my key I suddenly felt the familiar stiff figure. I fished it out disbelievingly and glared at my husband. "I'm not guilty," he said in an injured tone, pointing at a chocolatey smudge on the card's wallet. "It was Amala." "And how did she know that she should put it here?" I demanded. "You must have made her do it so that your fingerprints would not be on it, only hers!" I was quite an expert on fingerprints these days, what with our recent brush with a burglar, who stole my daughter's chocolates among other things from our apartment. I pushed the offensive piece of plastic deep into the tiny pocket of my purse, put that back into my handbag and trotted off resignedly towards my flight. A couple of hours later, I alighted happily at the Bombay airport, looking forward to a welcome break from the aggravating denizens of the jungle of my home in Bangalore. As I walked out of the baggage claim area, I eyed a dustbin nearby longingly. Dare I, I asked myself, casually drop my credit card into it as I passed by? I turned my back resolutely on the temptation and began looking around for a man carrying a huge placard saying 'Welcome Riti' or 'From rediff.com.' This was what my office had said I would find, as most of my colleagues (barring my editor and a couple of others) had just been voices over the telephone. I saw no such person. There were an amazingly large number of placards of every other name and description, but none asking for me. I decided to hang around the exit, sure that someone would soon emerge to claim me. But nobody did. Not for a quarter hour, anyway. My co-passengers all left. The waiting taxiwallahs began eyeing me with renewed interest. It was time to act, I thought. I walked up to the nearest public call booth, fished out my contingency coins and began dialling my office. "Oh, someone's there already at the airport," I was told. "Just wait for a few more minutes." I agreed, feeling a little silly for having called so quickly. I went back to the exit and leaned against the railing, glaring at the taxi drivers until they melted away. One more flight and its exiting passengers, but still nobody for me. It was almost 45 minutes since I had arrived. I decided to take matters into my hands. I walked back firmly to the bank of call machines, popped in a coin and dialled. Nothing happened. My coin did not come back, nor did my call go through. Never mind, I thought. I did it all over again at another machine, with exactly the same result. By now, I had used up my cache of coins. I walked up to a counter, proffered a tenner and asked for change. "Nahi," said the man firmly, looking sceptically at my slightly dishevelled appearance. Two more counters and 10 more minutes of pleading later, I walked into a bookshop, looking as desperate as I was feeling. The teenage shop assistant looked commiserating when I explained my plight and gave me change. I put my purse back into my now-open handbag and walked back to the telephone. Just as my call finally came through, I heard someone calling my name. The voice was familiar, the face was not. "There you are," I exclaimed in relief. "Let's go." As we walked towards the line of waiting taxis, some unknown instinct made me fish for my purse. It simply was not there! "Wait!" I cried out in panic at my colleague's back. "I seem to be missing something." He watched in some amusement as I emptied my handbag of all its chocolates, my contact lens cases and lipstick, arranging them all neatly on the taxi's bonnet. But still no purse. And then suddenly I remembered what the purse had contained besides the Rs 1,000 I had put in it. I had finally managed to achieve what I had not been able to do for months in Bangalore: some noble pickpocket had actually helped me shed my credit card without making me guilty of wantonly destroying it. "Shall we report your loss to the airport authorities?" asked my colleague anxiously. "No, no," I said magnanimously. "One must be realistic about such losses, rationalise them in one's own mind and learn to get over them. Let's leave now." I took care not to mention to the dear man that I had another Rs 1,000 tucked away with my lingerie in my suitcase. Thinking that I had lost every rupee that I had travelled with, he not only paid for my taxi but even insisted on treating me to dinner at a lovely little seaside restaurant to help get over my loss. "I have contacts in that bank," he offered eagerly, as we watched families walk along the beach close to midnight. "Let's call them up immediately and ask them if they can give you another card right here in Bombay tomorrow." "Certainly not!" I exclaimed in horror. The pleasant wine-induced fog clouding my mind lifted abruptly as I contemplated the prospect of a new piece of plastic in my handbag. I controlled my quavering voice and said: "I shall just call up my husband in Bangalore and tell him to handle this whole issue. After all, it was his bright idea to get me a card in the first place." The next morning I was woken up bright and early by a call from my beloved editor, who just wanted to commiserate with me over my loss, and not say, for a change, "Kuch story karo, behen." I rode out my editorial conference on a sympathy wave, even managed to touch the Ed for an enhancement of facilities, and finally boarded my flight back to Bangalore. Another colleague had very kindly agreed to pay me back the Rs 1,000 I had lost as compensation if I wrote him a diary on the next episode of burglary in my excitement-filled life. My husband could not keep the grin off his face when I walked off the aircraft. "Look, I always told you I loved you, didn't I? That I would do anything to prove it to you? See what I got for you now. A brand new credit card..." M D Riti specialises in being gypped. Click here if you don't believe that. Tell us what you think of this diary
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