22. A NERVOUS BRIDE (YEAR 1973)

STRESS, SUCCESS AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN

The Highs and Lows of A Woman’s Journey in the Corporate World

CARE: This is Chapter 22 of my book Stress, Success and Everything In-Between. These are individual anecdotes but to understand the professional journey in totality, I would recommend reading the book from Chapter 01 onwards.

The training programme at Hyderabad was over on the 3rd of February 1973, and I was back in Faizabad to resume the on-the-job training on the 5th of February.

The wedding venue was ready.

Meanwhile, my parents had  fixed the date of my wedding. Only 17 days were left before the wedding day, and a lot had to be done, including the grant of leave. I found it quite challenging as the Branch Manager was known to be very strict about sanctioning leave to anyone, even for a day. I could appreciate his compulsions subsequently when I myself became a Branch head. But at that time, it was simply terrifying to approach him for sanction of leave.

The D-day was approaching fast, and my mother would call me daily to confirm whether I had applied for leave. However, I could not write the leave application, as I found it embarrassing to mention marriage as the reason for my leave.

Finally, I started writing, “As I am getting married, I shall be grateful if you kindly grant me leave for three weeks with effect from....” 

Oh no! It is so embarrassing. Will they make tongue-in-cheek comments if they knew that I was getting married? Will they tease me? They all appear to be so conscious of my gender. I was always uncomfortable feeling their gaze on my back: I had even started covering my back with the saree while in the office. How can I let everyone know 

I tore the half-written application, and threw it in the dustbin.

Unable to withstand the continuous pressure from my mother, I finally wrote an application, "I have some urgent domestic commitments to fulfil and shall, therefore, be grateful if you kindly grant me leave for 20 days with effect from...," and quietly handed it over in the Secretariat of the Branch Manager.

Within a few minutes, the Head Messenger of the Branch, in his crisp white uniform and red and gold turban, was at my desk, saying courteously, "Bade sahib is requesting your presence".

  

As I entered his room, the Branch Manager growled, “You want leave for three weeks? Why?” 

“I have some urgent work at home. It is important,” I replied with a straight face. 

“Urgent work? What urgent work? Huh! You are still in your probation period. You are not to even dream of taking leave. Why do you need such a long leave?” His voice was loud and brusque, and my heart sank.

“Sir, It is some important work at home. My parents want me there,” I said as I looked at the floor. 

“Hmmm… I cannot recommend leave for you for more than a week. You bring another application for six days only.” He threw away the application, and I caught it mid-air before it fell on the floor. 

He was furious that an officer, a mere probationer, had applied for leave for some vague reason like an urgent piece of work, and that too even without discussing it in advance. Frustrated that the ploy which had worked with the Principal of the DWT College in Dehra Dun in July 1970, did not work in the Bank and humiliated at his rude behaviour, I left the room to write down another application requesting leave for only six days, starting from the wedding date. On his recommendations, the Head Office sanctioned me leave for six days for urgent personal work.

The sanction came after ten days. The Branch Manager again called me, “Head Office has sanctioned your leave. But you dare not extend it after it is over. You have to come back immediately after the leave. Otherwise…” He gave me a nasty look with a veiled threat. 

“Yes, sir,” I nodded compliantly and left the room.

 

Two days before I was to proceed on leave, my mother sent me a packet containing a few wedding invitation cards for distribution to my colleagues and friends in the office. Well, it was a tough job for me. How could I go around telling people, “Hey guys? Here is some great news! I am soon going to get married. Do come to my wedding and see me standing there in a red saree with my head covered and eyes downcast.” 

My mother called me again the next day, “I had sent you a few invitation cards. Have you distributed them? How many of your colleagues are likely to attend the wedding? Any stay arrangements required for them?”

“No, Mummy. I have not done it so far. But I will do it today. I do not think anybody will come to Lucknow,” I replied. Although I told my mother that I would distribute the cards, I knew I would not do so. Mulling over it overnight, I found a solution. I tore off all the invitation cards and quietly consigned them to the dustbin. 

I reached Lucknow on the morning of the wedding day. There was nobody to receive me at the railway station as the family had gone to Charbagh railway station to receive the baraat (the wedding party) since their train was scheduled to reach Lucknow around the same time as mine but at another railway station.

 

I hailed a rickshaw and reached home. The household was bustling with activity. The call bell was ringing every two minutes. Relatives, lugging their suitcases, were arriving one after the other. The menfolk mostly sat outside on the chairs on the lawn. They were basking in the sun, sipping tea and discussing politics. Inside, women were singing wedding songs on the beats of the dholak. 

 

Seeing me, my mother instructed me to change immediately from jeans and a shirt to an ethnic salwar kameez. Seven married women were ready with Haldi and Chandan Ubtan. They were to apply this paste on my face and limbs within the auspicious time. I shrank at the idea: I never liked the strong smell of mustard oil, one of the ingredients in the paste. The womenfolk seemed to enjoy the ritual and took their own sweet time leisurely rubbing the paste on my limbs, singing auspicious songs. 

Amidst all the holy confusion, my father walked into the room. He looked grim and waved at me a pink paper. I could see it was a telegram. But why did he want to show it to me? So many congratulatory messages were pouring in from friends and relatives. What was so special about this telegram? Seeing him, the women stopped applying ubtan. Without uttering a word, he handed over the telegram to me with a straight face. Reading it, I was shocked. 

“IN VIEW OF THE CALL FOR STRIKE GIVEN BY THE ALL-INDIA EMPLOYEES UNION IT HAS BEEN DECIDED TO CANCEL THE LEAVE SANCTIONED TO YOU FROM 23RD FEB TO 28TH FEB 1973 (STOP) PLEASE REPORT FOR DUTY FORTHWITH REPEAT FORTHWITH (STOP) PERSONNEL MANAGER (STOP).” 

 

I looked at my father helplessly, “What do I do now?”

“You tell me. It is your bank.” He sounded grim.

“Do I have to return to Faizabad now?” I asked in a voice so edgy and nervous that my father could not continue with the poker face he was trying to maintain.

He smiled reassuringly, "Do not worry! I have already spoken to the Secretary and Treasurer of your bank in Kanpur. He apologised for this and said there must be some misunderstanding somewhere. Let her proceed with her marriage plans as scheduled. Yes, one more thing. He has asked me to convey his good wishes to you. He has also sanctioned you leave for one month. He will inform the branch. Did you not mention marriage as the reason when asking for leave?"

 

I lowered my eyes. I knew I was responsible for the mess. My father was busy and moved on without waiting for my response.

 

The women resumed singing the auspicious songs and applying the sandalwood-turmeric paste on my arms.

(To be continued....)

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