How We Became Human: The Path to a Bank Card in Kerala

Life in Kerala is beautiful — like a February sunset over Lake Vellayani — but sooner or later, anyone who stays here longer than the 90-day tourist limit (which is, frankly, enough time to morph into a relaxed expat in a lungi — or, at the very least, elephant-print harem pants — with a giant tilaka on the forehead and a vague hope of someday understanding Malayalam) begins to feel a deep, irrepressible urge… to feel human.

Not a saint, not a yogi, not a Kathakali dancer (though the odds of becoming one are higher than you'd think) — just a human. With a bank card.

The reason is simple — and tiny, like the coins that fill your wallet. These little guys come pouring in as change whenever you pay for dosa with a 500-rupee note. Within a few weeks, your pockets start to resemble gym weights for your thighs. Time to scan a QR code and step into the shimmering world of contactless payments.

Why not keep using “our” cards?

You can survive with Kazakh, Uzbek, Tajik, or other post-Soviet or foreign cards, sure. But in many places, local payment systems react to them like a Kerala cow asked politely to move off the road — with a calm, slightly confused look… and zero actual movement.

Local payment methods — the endless array of *Pe* apps and QR codes — are everywhere. But they only work with Indian bank accounts. That’s when the question arises — a question that returns as regularly and inevitably as the smell of dried fish on Fridays: how does one become a human with a bank card?

What does Telegram say? What do the ancient scrolls of expat forums reveal?

Searching for truth...

You’ll mostly find scattered info and dusty posts from 2–3 years ago, with contact details of the authors and titles like: “How to Open a Bank Account in India for 10,000 Rupees and a Sack of Rice.”

The main message is always the same: “It’s hard. But we can help. Cheaply. Almost free. Almost.”

Yet in our village, the whole process turned out to be simpler than finding a man without a mustache (which is practically impossible — but try, if you dare).

The Pilgrimage to Canara Bank

You walk into Canara Bank on Beach Road. And you carry with you:

- A passport

- A photo (like for a visa — serious expression, maybe dreaming of the Eiffel Tower)

- A C-form (that mysterious piece of paper your house owner probably sent you via WhatsApp as a blurry smudge, after you negotiated all the terms, settled on the rent, and shouted “deal!” together)

- An Indian SIM — not a tourist one! (This might seem like a problem, but it’s easier than it looks. Technically, a tourist SIM might work, but it expires after 180 days — then things get murky.)

You approach the desk labeled *May I Help You* (which feels more like a threat), brace your whole body, wrinkle your nose and proudly declare:

“I need a bank card” — clear, firm, as if you're offering your neighbor a bottle of toddy.

Malayalam Bureaucracy

What follows is bureaucracy in true Malayalam style: cheerful, confusing, loud, and with uncertain results.

1. The bank clerk, with the enlightened look of a baba and the speed of a panda, examines your documents.

2. He asks: “India only? Or international use?”

3. He photographs your documents with his phone.

4. He prints a stack of papers filled with mysterious text.

5. He asks you to sign here, then here, and a couple more times “wherever you feel like.”

6. He glues your photo to the papers with a 5-rupee glue stick.

7. He asks for your email and (Russian!!!) address, tries entering them into the computer, quickly gives up, and asks you to write it all on a scrap of paper that probably held his mom’s leftover idli that morning.

Then, he solemnly declares that everything is ready. All you need to do is wait a little.

Waiting, Hoping, Believing

He promises an SMS will come. In 3–5–7 business days. Probably 7. Maybe 10. But it will come, he says, pointing significantly at the statue of Ganesha in the lobby.

In most cases, no SMS. No call. Nothing.

Eventually, you muster the courage to return and ask, with quiet dignity and unwavering belief:

“Where is my bank card?”

He shakes his head side to side, diagonally, consults a colleague, does a few strange steps, spins around his rather large axis, and voilà — a sealed envelope with your card emerges from the abyss beneath his desk.

And then — like magic — an SMS does arrive a few hours later. The card is active! (But not activated… heh.)

The Way of Activation

You call the number written in the envelope. A metallic AI voice answers in Hindi. You press five random buttons to switch it to English, battle through a few circles of audio hell, and finally… a voice tells you that this particular card *cannot* be activated via phone. You must return to the branch.

You try again. And again. And then you accept: this is the path of futility.

Then, after reading the fine print in the booklet (twice) and exploring the bank's website, the truth emerges: there is another way. A more mystical, less obvious, but very effective path — through an ATM.

And so, face to screen, you and the machine begin the ritual. Step by step, guided by instructions or fate.

At last — it works. You are now human. A person. With a bank card. In Kerala.

Apps and Digital Enlightenment

Of course, you should install the app. But be warned: if you’re used to sleek interfaces like Tinkoff or Raiffeisen, this one feels like the control panel of a Cold War-era Soviet satellite. It works… just not in a way you understand.

That’s why we use Google Pay or Apple Pay — just add your card info and voilà! Local QR codes treat you like one of their own. No more sacks of coins. No more cashier despair.

How to Top Up?

- With foreign cards

- Through currency exchangers (you send rubles — they credit rupees)

- In cash (which you can also get from said exchangers) — at a bank branch or ATM

- Via Sberbank (transfers to Indian cards) — the easiest if you receive income in rubles

Final Thoughts

A bit of patience, a bit of English, and a whisper of luck — and you too can hold a true Indian bank card.

We’ve done it four times. We’re still alive. And happily paying😊