Overtime worker

I still had to get a demand draft for the counseling. Shekhar and I went to the SBI located in the campus. It was about twelve thirty when we reached the bank and I took my position as the seventh man in the queue. Shekhar had already got his draft from his homeplace, a town called Akola, in Maharashtra.
The clerk processing the drafts was a middle-aged man with round glasses, who worked slower than a tortoise. He coolly lit something that seemed to be a cross breed between a cigarette and a beedi. Lunch was scheduled at two in the afternoon. This person would take out a bunch of notes from the drawer, count them, and put them back. This he did for all denominations, once every ten minutes. I was losing my temper and so were the other people in the line. The clock struck two and I was still sixth in position. The employees of the bank showed their punctuality and in a jiffy, all were in the dining room.
The clerk returned to his seat with a mere fifteen-minute delay and that dirty narcotic roll in his mouth. All faces lit up on seeing him back in his seat. But I put little trust in that guy. The bank was scheduled to close at four and no one got up till half past four. I was aghast at still not having got the draft. I learnt a little later that the employees had been “WORKING” overtime and that they would be paid for the extra time they put in. Bullshit. An old man from behind shouted at the manager in Telugu. All I could infer was his inability to understand the purpose of a computer in front of an employee who had processed exactly three drafts in the interval that I have mentioned. The whole day had been wasted. Shekhar had been patiently waiting there. He had actually gone to sleep with his head against a corner. I felt pity for him. We reported this to the authorities who were equally efficient and stood by only one notion – that they had worked overtime for the sake of the crowd.