I
winced at the fixed stare from that graying, paunchy
banker in a mauve safari suit seated on a swivel chair
behind that glass-topped table in the cabin. Many of
my friends had already warned me about the loquacity
of this banker, but I was helpless as I had to put up
with it, as I had to wait for at least for some time
to obtain the demand draft I had applied for. So I steeled
myself and returned the glare. Evidently he was agitated
and I knew that the open file before him named "Credit
Derivatives" triggered his emotion by reminding
something portentous.
"Do
you know I am sitting on a time bomb?" he asked
as if it was an unpardonable offence not to know his
plight.
In
reply I stared, for I am not deaf and I heard no ticks.
Even then I did sweat, because I had to wait and collect
the draft. I prayed that the bomb should not go off
till then. However, I managed a forced smile.
His
shrewd eyes did not fail to notice my alarm. "Look
at this," he chuckled pointing to an HP monitor
that stood on his table. Giving a few violent taps to
the keyboard, he opened the system and the monitor displayed
clusters of numerals in `columns' and `rows'. "This
is my portfolio of loans and investments, the `income
generators', the lifeline of the bank. But some accounts,
like a time bomb, can tick themselves into bringing
down the bank as a smoking heap of debris." |