38. A WOMAN BRANCH MANAGER? HOWZZAT? (1979)

 STRESS, SUCCESS AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN

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

38. A WOMAN BRANCH MANAGER? (1979) 

CARE: This is Chapter 38 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 right from Chapter 01 onwards.

After I had spent about two years in the Head Office, they decided to transfer me as Branch Manager to a branch in a middle-class residential locality of South Delhi.

My name plate displayed my name as Ranjana Bharij, but would a customer bother to read the name before entering the room?

On the first day, a customer walked into my cabin and asked me, “Where is Branch Manager Saheb?” 

I was the only person in the room and sat on the plush high-back revolving executive chair. "Does he think I am the Assistant to the Branch Manager?" I thought but replied politely, “Tell me what I may do for you."    

“I want to meet THE Branch Manager.” Why did he sound so irritated, I wondered.

I was amused, “Tell me, please. I am the Branch Manager."

Shocked, he stared at me in disbelief for a few seconds and left the room in a huff. He went out and requested the Accountant to do the favour to him. As it was not within the financial powers of the Accountant, he had asked him to see me. But the gentleman returned and told him that he would not seek a favour from a woman. Finally, the officer came to me to plead his case. 

 

The next day, I was in my room and asked the messenger to file some confidential papers in my presence on my table. As he did so, standing there in his navy-blue uniform, a customer walked in, looked at the messenger, doubled up with humility, folded his hands and requested very humbly, “Sir, I have a request. Could you please permit me a temporary overdraft of ….”

The messenger pointed towards me and said, “Please speak to Madam.”

The customer repeated, “No Sir. I am requesting you. Accountant Saheb says only Branch Manager Saheb can allow this. Sir, please….” Embarrassed, the messenger repeated, “Arre Bhai Saheb, Madam is the Branch Manager, not me.”

“Ohhh!” The customer looked at me and realised that I, the Branch Manager, was a woman. His humble and polite demeanour vanished, and he turned into an arrogant demanding customer. “Hey, listen! Allow this overdraft! My cheque is in the clearing. There will be sufficient funds in the account tomorrow.” His humble request had suddenly turned into a command. He decided he could order me, as I was a woman and, therefore, an inferior species. 

 

The next one takes the cake. I was required to inspect a Lock & Key godown, which stored a few hundred helmets seized from a defaulter borrower.  

The godown was a room hired in an old house in a nearby urban village. I, along with an officer, went there. Driving the car in the narrow lanes of the village, trying to save rickshaws and hand-carts parked haphazardly on both sides of the road, and pedestrians walking in the middle of the road was a big challenge. 

The village urchins found it strange that a woman was driving the car and a man was sitting in the passenger seat. They started running after the car, shouting on top of their voices, "Dekho re dekho. Janani motor chala rahi hai. Bhai baitha hai." (See guys, see! A woman is driving the car, and a man is sitting.)  

When we finally reached the destination and stepped out of the car, the children surrounded me, staring at me as if I were an alien. 

The godown was a room in an old haveli-type house, access to which was through the courtyard. The officer knocked at the door, which was already open and stepped into the courtyard where an old lady was seated on a cot, enjoying the winter sun and shelling peas. She was the mother of the landlord and was hard of hearing. The Head Cashier accosted her loudly, "Ram Ram, Amma!"

 She had seen him earlier, but I was a new face. She was amused seeing me and asked loudly, "Kya re? Aaj apni janani ko bhee sath laya sai?" (What! Today you have brought your wife also along.)

The Head Cashier was embarrassed and replied, "Nahin nahin, Amma. Ye to hamari Madam hain. (No, no. Amma! She is our Madam."

"Haan, haan, wahee to kahein hain janani ko, angreji mein. main kya janoon na? (Yes, yes. That is what one calls the wife in English. Don't I know?)" 

He tried explaining again, much to his and my discomfort. But I told him to ignore the woman and proceed with the task.

We went inside and started counting the boxes. Bang! A sudden gush of wind forced the door and window to close. The room became pitch dark. I stopped counting and promptly came out. Standing in the doorway, I asked him to continue counting the boxes and checking their contents. Needless to add, I never went to that godown again.

 

Accepting a woman in a position of authority was not the problem of only the sub-ordinate staff: the customers of the Bank, that too in South Delhi, were no better. Everybody seemed to be saying, "A woman as a Branch Manager? Howzzat?"

(To be continued....)

*****

37. THE MEMBERSHIP OF THE LUNCH ROOM (1978)

 STRESS, SUCCESS AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN

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

37. THE MEMBERSHIP OF THE LUNCH ROOM (1978)

CARE: This is Chapter 37 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 right from Chapter 01 onwards.

Neeta, Ananya, Manushi, Sarojini and I stood on the ground floor of the building, waiting for the torrential rains to stop. If we ventured to walk up to the old building where we used to go for lunch, we would have certainly got drenched. Neeta said, “Why do we have to go to that building every day when there is a Lunch Room in our building? Can we not join the Lunch Room on the top floor?”

“Is it not for the seniors only? Who will allow us entry there?” said Sarojini, who had the longest stint in that office.

“No, it is not true. So many officers of our grade go there regularly, for example, RP Nautiyal, SS Tewari, BD Arora, and TC Bhalla. Let me think. I can recall many more,” Manushi blurted out their names.

“OK, girls. Let’s go tomorrow and request the membership of the top floor Lunch Room,” one of us suggested.

“Why tomorrow? We will go there today itself,” Manushi was not known for her patience.

“The rain has stopped. Let us go and have our lunch in the old building now. Otherwise, even that will be over,” Ananya, the most practical, had her feet firmly on the ground.

As soon as the lunch was over, we decided to meet the Officer-in-charge of the Senior Officers’ Lunch Club in the afternoon. At 4pm sharp, all five of us marched to the 13th floor and assembled in the stairwell before approaching the right official.
 

As the Officer-in-Charge was a very senior officer, an officer who sat outside his room stopped us. On hearing the purpose of our meeting, he shook his head vigorously from left to right and uttered condescendingly, “No. That is not possible. I handle the Lunch Club also. Women are not allowed to become its members.”

“But why? If women can work here, why can't they join the lunch club?” asked Ananya. 

“We want to meet the Officer-in-charge,” we demanded firmly in a chorus.

He went inside and returned after fifteen minutes to inform us, “Sir is busy. Please come tomorrow.” 

“It has taken him fifteen minutes to find out that his boss is busy. Surely, they were working out strategies to keep us at bay,” Neeta quipped as we walked back to our respective floors. 

While walking down, one of us asked, ‘What is this officer’s name?”

While others shrugged their shoulders, Ananya, the creative one, suggested, “Let us call him Nandi. He protects his master from us just as Nandi sits outside the Shivalaya.” The idea appealed to all of us. 

The next day, all five of us were again there at the same time, and Nandi told us curtly, “Boss has gone for a meeting. You may come some other day.”

We were there again the next day. “I am sure the Nandi will tell us that there are no vacancies or that officers of our grade are not allowed to join or some such thing. He surely is thinking of some solid reason to keep us away,” I said while huffing and puffing as I climbed up from the 5th to the 13th floor. 

The daily drill continued for many weeks, and the Nandi continued to invent a new excuse every time to prevent us, the women officers, from meeting his boss. We were also resolute and had adopted entry into the lunchroom as our single-point programme. “Same time, same place!” had become our daily mantra.  

Unable to withstand the pressure generated by our daily visits, Mr Harsh Vardhan (name changed), a Staff Officer Grade 1, finally agreed to meet us. As we put forward our case, his reply shocked us all, “I am sorry. But you see, women officers are not allowed to join the Lunch Club.”

“But why?” I impatiently questioned the wisdom of this decision.

“You see, Ladies! Your presence there will affect the freedom of speech of the male officers in the lunchroom,” Mr Harsh Vardhan squirmed while uttering these words. 

“Why should male officers indulge in such conversations in the office which they cannot have in front of female colleagues,” Neeta was firm and assertive. 

“Please try to understand, Madam. Men talk all kinds of things which may be embarrassing for decent ladies like you to hear,” he uttered in a patronising tone. 

“Male officers in the organisation are supposed to behave like gentlemen and talk decently in office. The Lunch Room is also a part of the office set-up. I am sure you can counsel them to keep their freedom of speech for their stag parties only,” one of us uttered while staring at him without blinking her eyes. 

“OK. Ladies, I will think about it. Please check up after a week,” this was yet another effort by him to gain time.

By this time, it had become a part of our regular follow-up regimen, and we were in no mood to give up. A long battle continued for many months, and innumerable visits to the 13th floor were made by us. Finally, the mighty Harsh Vardhan succumbed to our mounting pressure. At last, we succeeded and triumphantly marched into the prestigious Lunch Room for Senior Officers on the 14th floor. 

 

The icing on the cake was a lovely poster placed at the entrance to welcome us. Anne Sharma, a highly creative clerk in the department, had been watching our struggle and sympathising with us all along. Ultimately, when we won the battle, she quietly prepared a welcome poster and displayed it in the Lunch Room. Seeing this poster, the thrill of our victory doubled up. The caption of the poster was, “Welcome, Lady Members!” It also showed a male officer at the dining table and a waiter asking him, “Sir, but you never asked for a fork and knife in the past?”

 

Today, women officers walk in and out of the Lunch Room without restrictions. They have no idea how five of us pursued the demand relentlessly for five months before this essential facility was extended to us almost five decades ago. 

With this rewarding end to a long struggle, two learnings took place. Unless you demand, you may not be given even your fundamental rights, and also that persistence pays. 

I do not remember whether it was the International Women's Day. For us, every single day when we struggled for our rights, was Women's Day!

Happy Women's Day to all my readers and the women in their lives!

(To be continued)

*****

36. PENCIL LINES VS CAREER LINES (1978)

 STRESS, SUCCESS AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN

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

PENCIL LINES VS CAREER LINES (1978)

CARE: This is Chapter 40 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 right from Chapter 01 onwards.

I was posted in the Head Office and travelled by a chartered bus like others. At the end of the day, I would pack up my desk and reach the pick-up point, where I boarded the chartered bus to go home. 

“Haven’t seen you before here. Have you come here recently? Which department?” I looked at the person who had accosted me at the bus stand. He was tall and fair and was smiling warmly. I recognised him instantly: I had seen him in the Bank. 

“Yes. That is right. I have joined this office recently,” I replied politely.

“Where were you earlier? In which department?” he sought more information about me. The guy was my senior by a few years but posted in a different department in the same building. Although he boarded a different chartered bus, our timings coincided, and we met frequently at the bus stand.

“Have you passed the CAIIB examination?” he asked me one day. 

“No. I haven’t,” I sounded disappointed while saying so.

“But why not? Do you know how important it is for your next promotion?”

“I know it very well, sir. I enrolled for CAIIB membership soon after I had the mandatory six months of service. In the first attempt, I cleared four out of five papers of Part 1 without any preparation. But for the fifth paper on Book- Keeping and Accounts, I failed each time I appeared for it,” I smiled to hide my embarrassment. 

“But it is not all that difficult. Why don’t you study for it?” His concern sounded genuine. 

As his chartered bus had come, he picked up his briefcase and left. I felt relieved as I could not have told him how I had been struggling to remember the principles of double entry book-keeping and trying to understand the fundamentals of analysing a Balance Sheet and preparing a Profit & Loss Statement. 

The date of the next CAIIB examination was approaching fast, and I had not been able to prepare for it again. I knew very well that by not qualifying for this all-important examination conducted by the Indian Institute of Bankers. I would be pushed back for promotion by five years. It was, therefore, essential to pass it if I wanted to climb the corporate ladder and chart out a successful career.

The next day, as I waited for the bus in the evening, the fellow approached me again, “Are you taking the exam on Sunday?”

“No. I have received the Admit Card, but I have not been able to prepare for the exam. What is the great idea of appearing and failing again?” I was crestfallen. 

“Who studies for these exams, Madam? One can take it without studying either. I am the Chief Superintendent for this centre. You may bring someone who can write the paper on your behalf. You only sign the answer sheet and enjoy tea with me in my room while he writes the exam for you. I will take care of the rest of it,” he looked at me intently, watching my reaction and waiting for a response. 

I was shocked and disgusted, “What are you saying, sir? How is it possible?”

“Everything is possible, young lady,” he grinned and continued, “How do you think all your seniors have passed this exam? I have helped them all like this only. So, you are coming for the exam next Sunday?” he winked and boarded his bus as I got goose pimples at the very thought of what had been so explicitly suggested by him. 

I could not sleep at night. Would people really take recourse to such derogatory means? Is it not impersonation? How does their conscience permit it? Why was he going out of his way to help me in this devious manner? I hardly knew him. What was the quid pro quo he would have expected from me? What was the meaning of that wink? I have been a good student all my life. There is nothing I cannot clear if I get just a little time to study. I will not resort  to any unfair means, I will study and pass the examination, I resolved.  

Next day on, I delayed my departure by fifteen minutes to take the next chartered bus. As I was circumspect about his intentions, I decided to avoid him. 

Determined to pass the examination, I decided to study hard for the next few days. In the evening, I asked my husband to take our little son out in the park so that I could study for the examination, which could give me a setback of five years. Being a good sport, he agreed, but he was back from the park within half an hour. How long could a man play with his two-year-old child in the public park after a long and tiring day at the office? 

“I cannot play with him in the park anymore. You had better close the bedroom door from the inside and study for an hour. Till then, I will keep him engaged,” my husband said when I opened the door. 

“Okay. Sounds good,” I had no other choice.

Back on the study table and over to “Debit what comes in, credit what goes out…” 

Not even ten minutes passed when I heard a knock at the bedroom door, “Mamma…Mamma… Mamma,” my two-year-old was thumping his tiny hands at the door. 

No mother worth her salt could resist a desperate call from her toddler, especially when he had been deprived of her care and company since morning. I got up, opened the door and allowed him to sit on my lap as I continued my efforts to understand the nuances of balance sheet analysis. 

The child gleefully grabbed my pencil and started drawing haphazard lines on the book. I tried to study for a while but instead was engaged in a dialogue with myself. 

“What business do I have to keep this innocent child deprived of the mother’s love and attention for the whole day?”

“What about your career? Study, woman, study.”

“But this little baby? He needs me.”

“Can you pass this exam without studying? Leave the child with your husband and get serious about your studies.”

“Why did I bring him to this world if I could not give him even an hour of attention in a day?”

“Do you know that you are consciously killing your career?”

“Do I deserve to be called a mother? I am being unfair rather cruel to this little child.”

“What about your career? You will straightaway lose five years and will never be able to make up for that.”

“But the childhood of this baby? Will it ever come back?” 

“You dimwit, your juniors will become your seniors and will order you around.”

“What has he done to deserve this? To be left in the crèche the whole day and missing even the mother’s touch in the evening?”

“Push the baby out of the room. Let him cry. It is a question of a few days only.”

“I have a mother’s heart. How can I be so ruthless?”  

The mother in me had finally won the conflict, and Batliboi’s “Double Entry Book Keeping” was consigned to the loft in the room.

That evening, I consciously decided to put my career on the back burner.

 *****

Fast Forward to 15 Years

“Hey Mom! Give me some dough!” Demanded my teenage son.

“What for son?” I asked while cooking dinner for the family.

“Need to buy a book. Give me Rs 500, and I’ll go and get it right away.” He said impatiently.

“Which book?” I asked without raising my eyes from the pan on the stove.

“Batliboi’s Double Entry Book Keeping. My teacher says it is a very good book,” he clarified impatiently.

The mention of the book evoked memories of yonder years, and I instantly travelled into the time machine by about 15 years.

“Mom! What are you thinking? Please give me the money quickly. Otherwise, the bookshops will close,” my son was getting restless.

“Uh… eh…yeah, will you bring the ladder from outside,” I told him as if waking up from my reverie.

Though irritated, he brought it in and almost dumped it there.

“Now you climb up the ladder,” I said without changing my tone or expression.

“What is all this?” he grumbled but climbed the ladder grudgingly and opened the loft.

“Now look up on the extreme right side. There must be a hard-bound green book. Just pull it out,” I uttered with a smug look.

As my son pulled the book out, he was overwhelmed with joy. “What Mom! This is the book I had been looking for, and you have kept it hidden in the loft?” He pushed the ladder aside and cleaned the dust off the book cover. He rushed to his room to resume his studies but was back in two minutes. 

“Such a lovely hard-bound cover and costing only Rs 16? These days, even a paperback costs about Rs 300. But Mom, who has drawn these mindless pencil lines on it, spoiling the entire book?” Not waiting for a response, he rushed back to his room with the book clutched under his arm. 

I knew well the relevance of these pencil lines in my career. When these pencil lines were drawn on the book, I had consciously erased the career lines from my palm!

(To be continued.....)

*****