Translation
“Again and again…”
Written by Manju Warrier, Malayalam Cine Actress.
This is not a gift from my father, it is unending love. The echo of words climbing the staircase of memories — it’s been seven years this June 10th since my father passed away. But I correct the word “passed away.” Father is still with me.
A few days ago, I realized again that father hasn’t gone anywhere. One evening, a journalist friend called and said, “Your father left behind a gift somewhere. It needs to be claimed. Those entrusted with keeping it safe asked me to tell you.”
At first, I didn’t understand what it was. But as he explained, it felt as if father was smiling from somewhere nearby. Many years ago, my father had taken a life insurance policy in my name through a friend who was an LIC agent in Vadakara. It had matured. It was a considerable amount. Since both my father and that friend had passed away, the LIC office had been struggling for some time to figure out how to reach me. The only contact they had was an old landline number — the kind that, like the elders at home, passed away in time…
That’s how the LIC office reached out to the newspaper office in Kozhikode for help. The very next evening, the call reached me.
After that phone call, I couldn’t think straight for a while. My father — without ever telling me — had saved up small amounts for me. And now, that came to me as a sizable sum. Every time he set aside money, perhaps he resisted the urge to buy a shirt he liked, a dish he craved, or a movie he wanted to see. My father, who made anklets out of sweat beads — a miracle of a man. A dream a father once had for his daughter’s future. Father is making me cry again…
Let me end this note by saying one more thing — this is about the dedication of the officers at Life Insurance Corporation of India. Their efforts to find me and inform me about the matured policy deserve appreciation. The LIC staff truly went the extra mile. The employees in Vadakara could easily have written it off with a single click on their computer, saying the person couldn’t be located. They could have closed the investigation forever. Or dismissed it, thinking, “Why would a film star need this money?” But their integrity didn’t allow that.
Because of that, I didn’t lose what my father left me — no, the love he left behind. Please don’t trivialize their efforts just because this happened to someone like me. LIC officers and agents understand that every policy holds the love of someone dear — and that is what keeps LIC among the finest public institutions in the country. That care is like a clay pot holding hearts… *KINDLY CIRCULATE TO MAXIMUM CLIENTS ,FRIENDS,REL;ATIVES,PROSPECTS,HERE,THERE,EVERYWHERE
*FORMER FM ASSERTED' THERE IS NO BETTER 3-LETTER WORD THAN LIC*
* R.B.KISHORE*
1 comment:
Manju Warrier’s poignant tribute to her late father and the heartfelt gratitude she expressed towards the Life Insurance Corporation of India (LIC) paints a touching picture — one of a dutiful father, a forgotten policy, and a public institution that rose to the occasion. But let us not be swept away by sentiment and overlook the hard legal and moral truths buried beneath this exceptional tale.
Because that’s what it is — an exception.
The principle of Uberrima Fides — utmost good faith — is the bedrock of every insurance contract. It is binding both ways. While insurers routinely invoke it to reject claims based on non-disclosure or delay, they are often silent when it comes to their own obligations: timely communication, policyholder service, transparency, and above all, honoring the trust placed in them by the common man.
Unfortunately, what LIC did for Manju Warrier — locating a matured policy and ensuring rightful disbursal without being nudged by courts, media, or ministers — is not standard procedure. It’s an outlier. Most policyholders or their families are not cinema icons with media access. They are everyday Indians — senior citizens with fading memories, rural households with little literacy, or salaried individuals with no time or energy to navigate LIC’s outdated bureaucracy. For them, the same LIC becomes a Kafkaesque maze of token slips, counter queues, “missing records,” and dead-end phone calls.
Why did it take a movie star for the system to work as it should?
That is the real contract question.
Millions are still running pillar to post for claims — life, maturity, money-back, pension annuities — many of which are fully paid-up and due. The excuse is always the same: "incomplete records," "non-updated contacts," or "policy lapsed." The same organization that can't send renewal reminders or e-mails to a living policyholder somehow finds the energy and compassion when the spotlight shines!!
Yes, public perception matters. And today, LIC’s image is eroding — not because of stories like Manju Warrier’s, but because they are so rare. Integrity in one office cannot compensate for systemic decay in hundreds. For every policy located by a kind-hearted officer in Vadakara, there are thousands more left abandoned, unclaimed, and quietly appropriated into LIC’s balance sheets under "lapsed/unclaimed liabilities."
Unless LIC reforms its processes, digitizes its archives, improves customer service standards, and treats every policyholder as if they were Manju Warrier, public trust will not survive.
The clay pot of hearts Manju spoke of? It’s cracking — not because of neglect, but because of systemic rot and indifference. For every rare gesture of grace, there are a thousand policyholders left in the lurch — cheated not just of their money, but of their dignity. LIC must understand: trust once broken cannot be bonus-restored. If it does not overhaul its archaic systems and abandon its smug monopoly mindset, it risks becoming just another bloated relic — feeding off the dead, and failing the living. Mohan MURTI
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