The Costliest Rs.7 — and My Rs.20 Education

A couple of weeks ago, a friend in his mid-seventies finally accomplished what many modern Indians postpone longer than retirement planning, buying a new mobile phone.

After nearly two months of heroic procrastination, consulting all and sundry (including people who themselves change phones once every lunar eclipse), he surrendered. His old phone had developed a delightful personality of its own. Incoming calls no longer rang, a feature he secretly enjoyed, since it provided a perfectly respectable excuse for not answering certain calls. The screen had also acquired a tasteful spider-web of cracks, all within less than two years of purchase.

Still, progress happened. He bought a shiny new phone for about ₹35,000 and even managed a surprisingly dignified buyback price of ₹5,000 for the old veteran, proof that even wounded soldiers get pensions.

Barely a fortnight later, he had some work in Yelahanka related to selling a property. Despite owning two sparkling new cars, he chose public transport, wisely factoring in Bangalore traffic, parking puzzles, and planetary alignments. Metro to Jalahalli, then a bus onward.

At the bus stop unfolded a lively debate with the conductor over senior citizen concession. The conductor demanded a senior citizen card; my friend confidently offered his face. After negotiations worthy of the United Nations, complete with silent stares and moral posturing, he emerged victorious, richer by a majestic ₹7.

The bus itself was almost empty. Apart from him, only one other passenger boarded at the same stop, while another gentleman got down. My friend vaguely remembers being on a call while boarding,  a detail destiny carefully planted for later use.

No sooner had he settled into his seat than panic struck. His phone was missing.  Pockets were searched. Bags were interrogated. Memory was consulted and gave no useful testimony. Coincidentally, the other passenger was also searching just as desperately, his phone had vanished too. It slowly dawned on both of them that they were the only two who had boarded, and the only person who had alighted had done so at the very same stop.

They headed to the police station to lodge a complaint, an exercise requiring patience, paperwork, and persuasive skills normally reserved for bank loans and insurance claims. There my friend realised he was actually the fortunate one. The other gentleman had kept his entire cash inside the phone cover, modern wallets are becoming dangerously efficient. My friend even had to lend him some money so he could reach his destination.

Both rushed to block their SIMs and apply for duplicates.  Ironically, the man who had taken two months to decide on buying a phone took less than an hour to buy its replacement.

From a heroic gain of ₹7 on the bus, he had ended up losing over ₹35,000. Worse, until his SIM was safely restored, he lived under constant anxiety that his bank accounts, lovingly linked to the phone,  might suddenly begin operating independently, possibly vacationing abroad without his permission.

This episode instantly transported me back almost two decades.

I had once purchased a pair of spectacles costing, yes,  ₹35,000, fitted with a supposedly platinum-coated frame. Whether the platinum existed in reality or only in the salesman’s imagination remains unresolved, but my pride certainly existed in abundance. Because they were so expensive, whenever I visited my favourite salon for a haircut and hair colouring, I would wear my old spectacles and carefully carry the expensive pair back home in its protective box.

This was in the prehistoric era before Ola and Uber brought civilisation to auto travel. Fares were negotiated with the emotional intensity of peace treaties and the logic of stock markets. On one such day, the driver demanded two and a half times the normal fare. After intense bargaining, I settled it at double. Normal fare was ₹40; we agreed on ₹80.  But upon reaching my home, with a light drizzle threatening my freshly dyed masterpiece, the driver suddenly resurrected his original demand of ₹100.

This ambush irritated me beyond reason. Determined not to be cheated out of ₹20, I remained seated in the auto like a freedom fighter guarding territory, argued passionately, and finally “won” after a mildly unpleasant exchange. I paid only ₹80 and marched home in moral triumph, convinced I had defended the honour of Indian commuters everywhere.

The triumph lasted exactly until I opened the door.  My ₹35,000 spectacles were still sitting serenely in the auto.

In my glorious victory over ₹20, I had managed to lose ₹35,000. Any remote chance of the driver discovering the spectacles and returning them evaporated along with our goodwill, which had died an honourable but noisy death at the gate.

That day educated me far more efficiently than any management course ever could.

In a city where traffic steals hours and autos steal patience, sometimes our own ego steals the most expensive things.  The older I get, the more I realise: peace is often cheaper than victory.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.