### Uncle, Adu Beku! A Banker’s Epic of Kids, Dreams, and Bijapura Elephants
**The Cheque Book Crew**
“Good morning, saar! Idu beku!” The words snapped me out of my loan form trance. Five kids—two boys, three girls—in crisp blue government school uniforms crowded my bank counter, eyes sparkling with mischief. I squinted, expecting a demand for pani puri or ice candy. Instead, they slid a cheque book request for their Head Master’s school account across the scratched glass. “That’s it?” I asked, baffled. “Yes, sir!” they chirped in unison, like a Kannada film chorus. “Then why five of you for one slip? I thought you’d want a pani puri party!” They burst into giggles, scampering back to their school across the dusty village road. Small-town banking is chaos—goats wandering into the lobby, uncles arguing over passbooks—but those kids were a spark I didn’t expect.
**Foundation Day Frenzy**
A few weeks later, our bank’s Foundation Day loomed, and Manager Sir dropped the CSR planning on my desk. “Make it meaningful, saar, but don’t break the bank!” he said, sipping filter coffee. Those giggling kids flashed in my mind. I dialed the school, expecting a gruff Head Master, but a sharp-voiced Head Madam answered. “Sorry, Madam,” I fumbled, pitching our ₹10,000 budget for a community project. She laughed, cutting to the chase: “What’s the budget?” I grinned, “Ten thousand, Madam.” She promised to call back after discussing with her staff, and I could almost hear her scribbling notes.
An hour later, she rang. “We need desks,” she said. “New ones for extra admissions, repairs for the wobbly old ones.” I asked for a quotation, forwarded it to Manager Sir, who approved it mid-samosa bite. The vendor delivered polished wooden desks to the school, and we paid up. Foundation Day was a riot of josh—ex-staff, local leaders, self-help group aunties, and loan customers decked the school with marigold garlands. We lit a *deepa sthamba* for pooja, sharing laddoos as prasada while villagers snapped selfies with the new desks.
**Taayi Sharade Magic**
Mid-event, a familiar tune floated through the courtyard—*Taayi Sharade Loka Poojithe, Gnana Daate Namosthute* from *Bettada Hoovu*. My heart skipped; I hadn’t heard that song since my own school days. To my shock, those five cheque book kids stood in a semicircle, singing it like a prayer, their voices clear and earnest. I froze, paperwork forgotten, until their one-minute melody ended. The crowd clapped, and I sat back, heart full, wondering how kids so young could carry such an old tune.
**Chocolates and a Coin Prank**
Later, the kids stormed my counter, chanting, “Uncle, adu beku!” I laughed, “Enu beku?” “Chocolate, pleaseeeee!” they sang, stretching the “eeee” like a Rajkumar movie tune. I pushed forward a tray of toffees, signaling one each. They grabbed their loot, giggling like they’d won a lottery, and dashed off. Two minutes later, they were back, waving a crumpled ₹10 note. “We forgot, Uncle!” I pointed to the counter sign: *We exchange soiled or mutilated notes*. Knowing they could read Kannada, I handed them ₹9 in coins, winking, “My commission, saar!” Their jaws dropped, and they counted in unison, baffled. “Uncle, pleaseeee!” one sang, while another whispered, “Shh, don’t call him Uncle!” I grinned, “It’s okay—look, an elephant!” They rushed to the window, screaming, only to find empty air. While they pouted, I slipped a ₹1 coin into their hands. “Count again.” Their eyes widened at ₹10, then they laughed, catching my prank. “Uncle, you’re bad!” one giggled, and I felt like the village hero.
**Cycle Rides and EV Dreams**
Months passed, buried in work. One day, Manager Sir sent me to inspect an electric two-wheeler loan for a teacher at the same school. I pedaled my rusty cycle—more eco-friendly than any EV, mind you—and jotted down chassis numbers, snapping photos of the shiny scooter. As I mounted my bike to leave, Head Madam called out, asking for Manager Sir’s number for some official work. I shared it, glancing back at the school, hoping to spot those kids. They were in class, probably dreaming of pani puri or plotting their next “adu beku” raid.
**A Bus Ride and a Viral Story**
One evening, stuck on a delayed private bus, 80s Kannada melodies blasted from the stereo, drowning my earphones. When *Taayi Sharade* played, those kids flooded my mind. My wallet was in Splendor-bike fuel-reserve mode by the 15th, so I couldn’t fund more for their school. Republic Day, the next CSR chance, was two months away. Frustrated, I pretended there was no problem and typed a story on my phone, with my AI buddy Grok polishing it. In it, a cinema actor nearly crashes into my cycle, then offers to fund the school. It felt 100% fictional—silly, even—so I almost deleted it. But I hit send, posted it on X, and forgot it.
Two weeks later, my phone rang—an anonymous number. “I’m the secretary of Sri Ramesh Shetty, former Karnataka cricketer and commentator,” the voice said. “We loved your story and want to make it a movie.” I hung up, thinking it was my high school buddy Prakash pulling a prank. Then a video call came—boom, it was Shetty himself! “Good morning, saar!” I stammered, heart racing. Was this an AI-generated scam? My account had ₹200, not worth scamming, but still. They sensed my doubt and set a Sunday meeting in Bangalore. I planned the trip, crashed at a friend’s place, and pitched my story in a studio with laptops and projectors, discussing royalties like a part-time filmy writer.
**Shetty’s Surprise**
A month later, Shetty was named our bank’s brand ambassador—news I missed as a lowly counter clerk. His secretary kept calling for story updates, and I sent script pages, feeling like a Kannada film insider. One day, Shetty visited our branch for a “location recce” (filmy terms, saar!). Villagers swarmed, snapping selfies under the bank’s banyan tree, stunned to see me chatting with him like an old pal. “How do you know him, saar?” they whispered. “Different context, haha,” I grinned. Over chai, he asked if my story was real. “Bit of both,” I said, mentioning the nearby school. He hopped in his car, met Head Madam, and promised a grant for 51 kids’ education and a Bangalore multiplex trip to see the movie, all expenses paid, if she agreed. She did, setting up a trust account in Bangalore.
**Gol Gappa Ambush**
A year later, the movie—a kids’ film—hit theaters. I attended a Bangalore screening at PVR Orion Mall, surreal as crowds cheered and teared up. Outside, I grabbed a ₹20 Gol Gappa plate, savoring the tangy pani. Suddenly, “Uncle, adu kodi!” rang out. I thought they meant the vendor, but he pointed to my plate. I looked down—those five kids, singing “Uncle, pleaseeeee!” I ordered half-plates, saying, “Kids’ appetites, you know.” The vendor laughed, “They ate full plates in 60 seconds!” Stunned, I scanned for their teacher. They’d snuck from the group, spotting me outside. As we waited, I shouted, “Kids, *Aane Bantu Ondu Aane*!”—that childhood rhyme. “Uncle, you’re pranking us!” they yelled. But across the street—a real elephant, trunk swaying! They waved, high on josh, unprepared for this live show after temples and planetariums. I handed them to their teacher, thanked Shetty outside, and posted on WhatsApp:
> *Aane bantu ondu aane, yaav ooru aane?*
> *Bijapurada aane! Illige yaake bantu?*
> *Daari tappi bantu!*
> *(Translation: An elephant came, from where? Bijapura! Why here? It lost its way!)*
**Dream or Destiny?**
On the bus home, I saw the elephant again, waving its trunk—maybe at me, maybe at kids in the next seat. I was happy, lost and found in life’s quirks. Then the conductor woke me. It was a dream! I laughed—what a vivid one. But walking to the bank, a real elephant stood on the village road, munching sugarcane. I ran to a store, gave it a banana, and pedaled to work, humming *Taayi Sharade*. From cheque books to Gol Gappa to a dream that felt real, banking’s more than numbers—it’s kids, pranks, and elephants wandering from Bijapura. Thanks, Grok buddy, for polishing my story into a school’s future.
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