<p>I paid my Additional Security Deposit (ASD) online for my Bescom electricity bill as soon as I was notified earlier this summer. Since then, a highlighted reminder appears every month at the bottom of the narrow, limp bill that is slipped under my door. Perhaps it’s a computer glitch I should ignore. But the circled numbers emphasising my ASD arrears leap out at me each time, suggesting negligence and irresponsibility. I feel compelled to investigate the problem.</p>.<p>The Bescom office for my district is located in Wilson Garden, off Adugodi Main Road in Bangalore. It’s a bustling, congested neighbourhood, home to a slew of wholesale marble stores. Work on the burgeoning overhead metro makes manoeuvrability in the area that much more cumbersome. Several sharp turns down narrow streets place me on crammed Adugodi Main Road, where there is absolutely no chance of parking my little Espresso car. The Bescom office itself, which looks more like an old, dilapidated house, has a small compound from which I am unceremoniously shooed away by a young, surly custodian minding the property.</p>.<p>I instinctively swerve into a petrol pump next door like a derelict looking for shelter. There doesn’t seem to be much activity. A group of young attendants in bright orange and tan uniforms wonders what I’m up to because it’s clear I don’t want a top-up. Instead, I want to park in a corner. Nonplussed at first, they acquiesce. I’m gratified. I’ve never known of a petrol station doubling as a parking lot.</p>.<p>I’ve forgotten that many government offices shut shop on the second and fourth Saturdays. It’s the end of the month. The same young custodian, now engrossed in a movie on his phone, signals that the Bescom office is closed. My exasperation, or perhaps my disappointment, makes him usher me in and point to his boss, who is working quietly inside, catching up with the back-<br>log. The cavernous hall, divided into many little cubicles, is dark and quiet except for a few tube lights glaring from the ceiling.</p>.<p>I interrupt the man’s reverie with my problem. Without the slightest annoyance, he sends me to his colleague, who is also labouring on a customer-free day. “Take a seat, madam,” he says, indicating a chair besides his glass-topped desk covered with files and heaps of paperwork. I’m not reminded by either person that it’s their day off and that, in fact, I shouldn’t be permitted to see them. Instead, he calmly pulls up my file on his screen and chuckles at the computer’s error. He assures me that I’ve paid my dues. There’s nothing to worry about. But printing a receipt turns out to be tedious because the system is down. No matter, he gives me his mobile number and promises to email me the receipt the following day. I would have proof of prior payment.</p>.<p>As I wind my way home, I am struck by the humility of the man and the immense kindness of strangers to help me that day.</p>
<p>I paid my Additional Security Deposit (ASD) online for my Bescom electricity bill as soon as I was notified earlier this summer. Since then, a highlighted reminder appears every month at the bottom of the narrow, limp bill that is slipped under my door. Perhaps it’s a computer glitch I should ignore. But the circled numbers emphasising my ASD arrears leap out at me each time, suggesting negligence and irresponsibility. I feel compelled to investigate the problem.</p>.<p>The Bescom office for my district is located in Wilson Garden, off Adugodi Main Road in Bangalore. It’s a bustling, congested neighbourhood, home to a slew of wholesale marble stores. Work on the burgeoning overhead metro makes manoeuvrability in the area that much more cumbersome. Several sharp turns down narrow streets place me on crammed Adugodi Main Road, where there is absolutely no chance of parking my little Espresso car. The Bescom office itself, which looks more like an old, dilapidated house, has a small compound from which I am unceremoniously shooed away by a young, surly custodian minding the property.</p>.<p>I instinctively swerve into a petrol pump next door like a derelict looking for shelter. There doesn’t seem to be much activity. A group of young attendants in bright orange and tan uniforms wonders what I’m up to because it’s clear I don’t want a top-up. Instead, I want to park in a corner. Nonplussed at first, they acquiesce. I’m gratified. I’ve never known of a petrol station doubling as a parking lot.</p>.<p>I’ve forgotten that many government offices shut shop on the second and fourth Saturdays. It’s the end of the month. The same young custodian, now engrossed in a movie on his phone, signals that the Bescom office is closed. My exasperation, or perhaps my disappointment, makes him usher me in and point to his boss, who is working quietly inside, catching up with the back-<br>log. The cavernous hall, divided into many little cubicles, is dark and quiet except for a few tube lights glaring from the ceiling.</p>.<p>I interrupt the man’s reverie with my problem. Without the slightest annoyance, he sends me to his colleague, who is also labouring on a customer-free day. “Take a seat, madam,” he says, indicating a chair besides his glass-topped desk covered with files and heaps of paperwork. I’m not reminded by either person that it’s their day off and that, in fact, I shouldn’t be permitted to see them. Instead, he calmly pulls up my file on his screen and chuckles at the computer’s error. He assures me that I’ve paid my dues. There’s nothing to worry about. But printing a receipt turns out to be tedious because the system is down. No matter, he gives me his mobile number and promises to email me the receipt the following day. I would have proof of prior payment.</p>.<p>As I wind my way home, I am struck by the humility of the man and the immense kindness of strangers to help me that day.</p>
