STRESS, SUCCESS AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN
The Highs and Lows of A Woman’s Journey in the Corporate World
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.
“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.....)
*****
7 comments:
The chores and memories of a mother are eternal. I wonder if Rahul knows that those lines were drawn by him. Well, you didn’t lose much by not passing an exam which actually had become quite farcical.
Your vivid description of those days is captivating. Waiting for more and more impatiently.
A good write-up. I always thought that you must have been a resolute person
But little did I know a mother's heart. --Dinesh Kumar Jain
Lovely narration. A mother is a mother with a golden heart. She would sacrifice anything including a career( in Bank, you may call it carrier- cycle wala) for the comfort of his child.
A chapter, soulfully written, full of emotions!
I am an avid fan of what you write , Ranjana Ma'm , and eagerly look forward to next chapter(s). -- Vijay Gupta
No words to describe my deep appreciation for the content and presentation! It's indeed a dilemma every working-mother must be facing at some stage in her career ! My deep regards to all those "Ashtabhuji" mothers who mastered the art of balancing the various facets of life by effective prioritisation!😊🙏 -- Rajeshwar Kaushik
Touching write up. -- P Pradeep Kumar
Super! As I have mentioned earlier, these episodes touch many chords, specially among batchmates.
In fact I had exactly the same experience - albeit with a significant twist - during my CAIIB-preparation-period with my son who was 2 yrs old at that time. Normally a mamma's boy, he naturally made it a point to insist on being with me whenever I locked myself in a room for studies, the twist being that in my case it was the dad and not the mom who needed seclusion: we were also aided in no small measure by the fact that at that time my wife was a homemaker , unlike you.
Btw, (a) my Batliboy had some randomnly torn pages in it analogous to your boy's pencil lines and (b) when I came to the bit about your boy - when in his teens - wondering why there were random pencil lines in your Batliboy, my eyes turned moist. -- Kanwal Bir Singh Bedi
This was very common that in those days CAIIB papers used to get leaked. --Harish Bhambri
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