AN ODE TO MY FATHER ON HIS 98th BIRTH ANNIVERSARY

 AN ODE TO MY FATHER ON HIS 98th BIRTH ANNIVERSARY 

Located amidst stretched fields in a village backward and old, 

Youngest of three, your spirit was cast in a different mould. 

Poverty's grip was tight, yet your dreams refused to wane, 

By kerosene's faint glow, knowledge became your gain.

 

No velvet cushion, no books laden on a shelf, 

Street lamps were your tutors, the night your only pelf. 

Fire in your eyes, a vision etched so clear,

To lift your family, chase away every tear.

 

Years blurred in a torrent, ambition your only guide, 

A promise you whispered, forever by your side. 

Then came the sweet triumph, a smile that lit the way, 

For your family's struggle, you finally paved the way.

 

With tireless endeavour, success you did embrace,

Medals of merit, testaments to grace. 

You were a beacon of honesty in the civil domain, 

You served with fierce honour, a shield from every strain.

 

When floods devoured villages, a hero rose to stand, 

Rescue operations, led by a steady hand. 

Your duty called you to treacherous terrain, 

Hunting for outlaws, erasing their wicked reign.

 

In the seat of judgment, your scales held ever true, 

Justice for all, a promise that forever grew. 

The corrupt and cunning felt your righteous might, 

Their misdeeds exposed, they bathed in punishing light.

 

Fear gripped the wicked, your roar a thunder's call, 

Their crimes laid bare, how they trembled, one and all. 

Bribery's whispers met a withering scorn, 

For the downtrodden public, a champion was born.

 

Before I graced this world, a wish bloomed in your heart, 

A daughter, to be the reason for a brand new start. 

Your soaring expectations, a wind beneath my wings, 

To reach for the heavens, the joy that your spirit brings.

 

A father's firm hand, guiding us with care, 

Honesty as our compass, hard work a burden we'd share. 

No favours for anyone the path you followed was full of fight, 

Your values we hold close, a legacy that is always right.

 

Though you've walked on, your spirit forever remains, 

A guiding light, whispering through life's joyous strains. 

Papa, our hearts brim with pride, a love that knows no end, 

For the man you were, the values you gave us will never bend.

                            *****

40. THE TABLES GET TURNED (YEAR 1981)

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.

When I was tormented by a rogue borrower at the MN Branch, and the higher-ups did not know how to handle it, they did the only thing they knew they could do. They promptly transferred me to another branch where I was required to manage the Personal Banking Division. It was a medium-sized branch, and I was in the third position as per the hierarchy of the branch.

What made this place a happy experience for me, despite hard work, was its leadership. The Branch Manager was different from his contemporaries in extending gender equality to women colleagues. He was comfortable with women managers and virtually handed over the reins of the branch to the three of us - two Divisional Managers and an Accountant, all women, under his benevolent leadership.

Now, fast forward to the day of the dreaded inspection and audit. In walks one Mr VB Saxena (name changed to protect his identity), for inspecting the branch.

We arranged for the inspecting official a table in the room of the Branch Manager, thinking he would be kept engaged by our boss and his every action would remain under his close observation, helping us to sail through the inspection exercise.

Mr Saxena was a textbook inspector, far away from the practical realities of everyday banking. He was ready to scrutinise every ledger, register and voucher in any nook or cranny of the branch.

Every time Mr Saxena so much as breathed a word of criticism, our Branch Manager would call us to explain, and it was like a call to arms for us. One of us would march in to defend, and before you know it, all three of us were standing in front of him, ready to take on his contention. It got to the point where poor Mr Saxena could not handle the estrogen overload. He would look self-conscious, his face would turn red, and he would try to shoo us away quickly.

He would say, "Please, please, please! You ladies, please do not come to me together. I feel trapped and cannot handle it.”

We knew we could convince him more easily by arguing collectively and making him concede his point. Eventually, he could not take it anymore. He approached our boss, asking him to rein in his "female brigade" as the trio gave him jitters. Can you believe it? The senior officer could not stand up to us as we were women! Talk about a reverse harassment situation! Hadn't the tables turned to our advantage this time?

They say there is strength in numbers. We experienced it in 1978 while fighting for the women officers' right to join the Lunch Club and again in 1982 while taking on the Inspecting Official to counter the irrational shortcomings in branch functioning pointed out by him. 

(To be continued...)

*****

39. WILL I BE KIDNAPPED? (YEAR 1980)

STRESS, SUCCESS AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN

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

CARE: This is Chapter 39 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.

The day I took charge as the Branch Manager at the MN branch, my predecessor, Babu Lal Hirani*, introduced me to one Surender Pal Dabbas* as the most important client of the branch. He was dark-complexioned and had a stocky build. Moreover, his ego appeared to be bigger than his hideous paunch. 

After Dabbas left the office, Hirani shared more details about him, including how he had risen from the ranks of a lowly clerk in the government to amass questionable wealth through dubious means and started the Export House. 

As this was the only export unit in that otherwise personal segment business-oriented branch, he had acquired the importance of being a VIP client. 

After a couple of days, Dabbas dropped in at my office, settled in the chair and placed a large key in the centre of my office table.

“What is it? A car key?” I asked. 

“Yes, I bought this car today only. It is a BMW, and it is parked outside. Come and have a look.” I stepped out to see his new acquisition and congratulated him.

“Let us go for a ride and have coffee somewhere,” he suggested promptly. 

I had no intentions of going anywhere with him, especially after I had noticed the lewd looks on his face. 

"Sorry, I cannot leave the branch and go anywhere during business hours.” 

The next day was Saturday, and Dabbas turned up soon after business hours, “The business hours are over now. Let us go for lunch today?” 

I did not want to go and quickly fabricated another story to wriggle out of the situation. 

With each passing day, his attempts to coax me into private outings were met with polite deflections on my part. Soon, the demeanour of Dabbas changed from gentle to aggressive.

A few weeks later, I received instructions from the Reserve Bank of India to recover a substantial amount from his business account for certain irregularities in dealing with his overseas buyers. As soon as I informed him of the demand, he exploded, “Try deducting the amount from my account, and you will face the consequences. You do not know what I am capable of, you xxxxx!” 

The volley of abuses in his high-pitched voice was audible across the entire branch. After yelling and screaming at me for a long time, Dabbas stomped out of the Bank premises, seething in anger. 

I looked out of the partition window of my cabin. The staff members in the banking hall sat with their heads bent down on the account books. They never appeared so busy. I could not decipher whether they were actually engrossed in work or pretended to be busy. 

The next day, Dabbas came again and enacted the same drama. With his face contorted with anger, he shouted, “The day you execute this order, I will have you kidnapped along with your children. I know where you reside. You come to the Bank in that blue car only. No?” He pointed towards my car parked outside the office. I was shocked to hear this blatant threat. 

After he left, I got up to see where my staff was. I had a team of thirteen. I asked the Assistant, who sat just outside my cabin, “Where were you when Dabbas threatened me?” 

“Oh! Did he threaten you? I did not hear anything as I had stepped out for a cup of tea as someone from my village had come.” His reply was unacceptable. I had seen him on his desk when Dabbas was shouting at me. 

I walked up to the table of the Accountant, my second in command. His desk touched the wooden wall of my cabin, and he was usually all ears. But he was absent from his desk. I had seen him from the glass window partition, arguing with a customer, a few minutes ago when Dabbas had stepped into the branch. I walked up to the cash section. The Cash Officer was also missing. Both were huddled in the Cash Room sorting out old currency notes, a job they would not do despite my repeated reminders. I was surprised they decided to do it at the peak of business hours. They had roped in the only male cashier also to assist them. The sole messenger was busy arranging old vouchers in the record room. 

Could I expect any help from these colleagues in case of a need? Their elusive attitude made me insecure. I recalled how many years ago, the officer colleagues in a branch in Kanpur had refused to give any evidence against the clerks when the Branch Manager was gheraoed. Will history repeat itself? 

I was alarmed at the malicious intentions of Dabbas. Was he capable of executing his threat? No guard was posted at the branch, and I often sat there alone late in the evening. I immediately stopped that practice despite knowing that the curtailed timings might affect my efficiency adversely. 

The next day, Dabbas came again and reiterated his threat in the same tone.

At this juncture, I decided to go to Head Office to apprise my immediate bosses of what had transpired and seek their permission to report the matter to the police. The Regional Manager listened to me patiently but did not comment. He asked me to accompany him to the Chief Regional Manager. Hearing my tale of woes, the CRM was amused and laughed loudly. Dismissing my fears as baseless, he sermonised, “You are unnecessarily agitated. He will not do any such thing.” 

“You do not know him, Sir. He is a wicked fellow, capable of doing anything. What will I do if he actually gets me kidnapped?” I shared my worst fears with my seniors. 

“This is the problem with you women. You react too much and without reason. Look at Kiran Bedi. I am so impressed with her. She has the nerves of steel,” he drew a parallel between me and a senior police officer. Was he trying to motivate me?

Laughing loudly at my discomfort, he tossed a spoonful of paan masala in his mouth. 

“Sir, Kiran Bedi has the backing of the police force, and she carries her revolver with her. If I were in the police, I would have had even stronger nerves than her,” I said in exasperation. 

“Please permit me to close his account or report the matter to the police. I assure you I will bring in much more business than what he is giving us now,” I pleaded again, but my request fell on deaf ears.

“Expel these baseless fears out of your mind. Go back and do your work, and do not waste your or our time.” 

The dismissive response from my superiors at the head office only added to my sense of insecurity. I came out upset, frustrated and scared. Their casual disregard for the gravity of the situation left me grappling with the reality of being a vulnerable woman facing the wrath of a rogue with nefarious intent.

The deadline for executing the orders of the Reserve Bank was approaching fast, and I had already received a couple of reminders from the central bank. Despite the explicit threats from the borrower, I mustered enough courage to execute the instructions to recover money from his account. I gave the debit voucher to the counter clerk for posting it in the business account of Dabbas. I was sure the ledger keeper would inform Dabbas before raising the debit in his account. 

That evening, I could sense that the staff members were in a hurry to leave. I was keeping my ears to the ground and eyes fixed outside. I had removed the curtain from the partition window of my cabin for a better view of the banking hall. Or was it to make myself more visible from the outside? I am not sure. As the last employee left the branch, I also made it a point to mark an exit. My sixth sense warned me against sitting in the office alone. I hurriedly locked the main door of the building. Locking the wicket gate at the boundary wall, I briskly walked towards my car parked alongside the building. It was at least an hour before my usual departure time, but I was too scared to stay there alone. Getting into the car, as I adjusted the rear-view mirror, I noticed a fully covered Willys Jeep stopping in front of the gate of the Bank, which I had locked barely two minutes ago. Two suspicious-looking characters sprang out of the jeep. The hulk driving the jeep had thick moustaches and wore black headgear. His companion was another burly fellow in a red collarless T-shirt with grease stains and a hanky around his neck. He also carried a bag on his shoulder. Surprised at finding the gate locked, they looked at each other questioningly. Next, they glanced towards my car. 

The suspicious presence of the unfamiliar vehicle signalled the impending danger, and my natural instinct warned me that all was not well. I had already started the car and quickly took to the road. I could see in the rear-view mirror that both the fellows had hopped back into the jeep and moved in my direction. With nerves frayed and instincts screaming loud, I made a harrowing escape, pursued by the shady figures whose intentions were suspect.

The distance of about a kilometre and a half from the branch to the main road was lonely and, therefore, more vulnerable. I pressed on the accelerator, but the jeep also speeded up. My heart was racing. Obviously, they were coming after me. Struggling to remain balanced, I mentally mapped the area. There were usually no police posts on the way where I could stop for any help. Driving to a police station without proof also did not appear to be a good idea. Even if I take a detour and reach a police post, the purpose will not be served, I thought. These goons may drive away, and the police will dismiss my fears as baseless, just as my bosses had done the previous day. The faces of my two innocent kids flashed in front of me, and I wondered whether they were safe. The only thing I could think of at that time was to somehow reach home and ensure their security. It was a busy hour, and the traffic on the road was at its peak. I continued to press the accelerator and drive the car as fast as possible to keep that suspicious jeep at bay, but it was becoming increasingly challenging. 

Halfway through the reckless drive, I noticed another vehicle, a black Ambassador car with heavily tinted glasses, which also appeared to be following me. Noticing that there were two of them following me, my heart sank. Driving at break-neck speed, I could not decipher how many persons were seated in that car. But the way they were after me, I was convinced that this car carried their accomplices in it. I continued to dodge both vehicles to the best of my driving skills. With the faces of my two small sons floating constantly in front of my eyes, I knew I had to reach home at any cost. Praying for their safety, I started chanting Gayatri Mantra, my anchor in distress. 

As I approached my flat, I had become a nervous wreck. My mind was going numb with fear, my heartbeat had increased manifold, and I had no idea of what lay ahead of me. Both the vehicles, the jeep with two obnoxious occupants and the black Ambassador with tinted glasses, were close on my heels. What will I do if they kidnap me as soon as I stop the car in front of my flat? Will I get time to run up and bolt my flat from inside? Will I be able to ring up the police before they break open the door of my flat? Are my children safe with the young caretaker at home? My husband might not have reached home; he had a meeting to attend in the evening. I did not expect my neighbours to risk their lives for me, but someone may inform the police if they see me being dragged into a jeep. At least, they will do this much, I hoped. 

When I turned towards my colony, I could not locate the jeep in the rear-view mirror. Probably, they could not jump the previous traffic light due to the presence of a cop there. I pressed on the accelerator pedal, determined to reach home before the goons caught up again. 

The sun had already set, and it was getting dark, but I had managed to reach home. 

As I stopped my car, the black Ambassador screeched behind me. My heart was thudding hard, and I broke into a cold sweat. From the car stepped out a tall, muscular man. Moving swiftly towards my car, he opened the door with a jerk: I closed my eyes with fear. 

“Ranju Di, you really drive like a maniac. I have been chasing you for almost five kilometres now, but you would not let me overtake you.” My cousin in khaki uniform was grinning at me. “Ohhh… Tammy! You rascal! How come? What are you doing here?” I wiped the sweat from my brow. 

“Chasing you, Di. Ha.. ha.. ha! I was transferred to Delhi a month ago. I am now in charge of this area. I wanted to surprise you, but what a Formula One driver you are! Will you quickly give me a hot cup of tea? I will come up for two minutes only.” He was happy and oozing with self-confidence. 

I saw from the crook of my eyes. The Willys Jeep had also reached my apartment complex. It had stopped and was idling. Noticing the man in the khaki I was talking to, they sped away. 

Climbing the stairs to my first-floor flat, I heaved a sigh of relief and quietly wiped my tears, the tears of relief. I was once again secure in the knowledge that my cousin was there to take care of me in the wake of any untoward happening. 

The timely arrival of my cousin on the scene saved me from a potentially dangerous situation. Is it not the family who always stands by us when we reach a dead end in life?

(*All names here have been changed to protect their identities.)

(To  be continued...)

                                *****

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

STRESS, SUCCESS AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN

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

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 (YEAR 1978)

STRESS, SUCCESS AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN

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

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 (YEAR 1978)

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.

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.....)

*****

35. ACHLA SETHI-STRONG AS STEEL (YEAR 1978)

STRESS, SUCCESS AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN

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

CARE: This is Chapter 35 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.

In April 1978, when I was posted to Head Office as a Desk Officer, I met a few women officers with whom I formed strong and lasting friendship. These bonds proved invaluable as we together navigated the challenges ahead in our careers. The sense of isolation I had experienced all along in an all-male world began to fade as we leaned on each other for support and fostered enduring relationships.

One such woman was Achla Sethi. Her confidence and determination left a lasting impression on me. Tragically, her husband, who was a Bank officer, had died in a road accident, while on duty, leaving Achla to take care of their two young sons. She was less than thirty at the time of this tragic incident in her life but she demonstrated remarkable fortitude.

Soon after the unfortunate death of her husband, the Bank appointed her directly as an officer on compassionate grounds. Within a month, she had joined a local branch and was assigned a job on the sixth floor. 

While Achla joined the Bank and showed up for work, the emotional toll of her loss remained palpable. But she bravely managed to put on a strong facade, Unfortunately, many around her seemed oblivious to her suffering and their interactions with her were often marked with insensitivity and callousness. Achla, however, was determined to learn the work and procedures as well as to navigate through the rough waters.

One incident, in particular, demonstrated her defiance against the insensitivity of the colleagues. After experiencing many days of thoughtless comments and queries from her colleagues, she had reached a breaking point. It was as if she had decided to virtually roll up her sleeves, ready to confront the insensitivity head-on.

The turning point in her life came when Achla received a cheque of a sizable amount from LIC. Coincidentally, the funds from the Provident Fund account of her husband were also released the same day. A male officer, checking the credits to her account, callously remarked, "Madam, you are so lucky! You have such a huge balance in your account at this young age."

His words hurt her deeply, igniting rage within Achla. Her response was a mix of pain and anger which had been simmering at the insensitivity of some people for so many days.

"Your wife can also become lucky," she retorted sharply.

Insensitive to her sharp tone, the officer, still engrossed in his ledger, probed further, "How?"

Achla's reply was quick and sharp and her voice a mix of defiance and resentment. She looked at the window on the sixth floor where they were seated and replied, "Do you see that window? Go and jump from there. Your wife will also become lucky." 

The sting of her rebuke reflected the pain and hurt she had endured till then.

The room experienced pin drop silence, the weight of Achla's words hanging heavy in the air. From that moment on, that officer never spoke with her but could she be bothered?

A soft and sophisticated young woman had turned into a ferocious tigress that day! And she never looked back. 

(To be continued....)

*****

34. SAVED BY THE DIVINE SHIELD (YEAR 1977)

STRESS, SUCCESS AND EVERYTHING IN-BETWEEN

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

CARE: This is Chapter 34 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.

That evening, I was alone in the office, winding up my desk after a hectic day. I was surprised to receive a phone call from the reception. Manjari (not her real name) was on the phone. 

“Madam, are you alone? Do not speak. Just listen to me. They have decided to transfer you from this branch,” Manjari whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Transfer? Why? What happened suddenly?” 

“I understand there are some telephonic instructions from the Central Office to transfer you immediately. You have that woman Reena (not her real name) in your office? Her husband has complained to the Chairman that the customer service at the branch is poor. So they have decided to transfer you immediately from here.”

“What the heck! Why her hubby of all the persons?” I was agitated by the news. 

“Reena is annoyed with you. She whined before her husband, a clerk in the Ministry of Finance in the Government. And he complained to the Chairman when the latter called on the Finance Minister yesterday. As this is an all-women branch, the management is trying to find a woman officer to succeed you. There are not many women officers. Therefore, it is taking some time. Somebody will come to take charge from you in a day or two,” she spoke breathlessly in a hushed tone. 

“During the day, my department kept a close vigil on me. So I could not inform you. On my way home, I have stopped here to let you know. I am calling from the reception but have no guts to come to the branch. If somebody sees me talking to you, I will be in trouble. Take care. Bye.” The phone disconnected, leaving me numb.

 

Manjari, who had worked with me earlier, was one of my most trusted lieutenants. She was also fond of me. She had risked leaking the top-secret information to me, but the news left me heartbroken. Was this the reward for taking good care of the customers in the branch? I knew her husband worked in the Government of India, but did it give Reena the license to misbehave with the customers? And her husband? I never expected him to stoop so low. He walked up to the Chairman, who was waiting outside the office of the Minister and provided him with some fictitious feedback about my misbehaviour with the customers and asked that I be transferred from there immediately. I was also upset with the circle management for their unquestioned compliance without verifying the facts of the matter. 

 

I was crestfallen but did not know what to do or who to talk to. At home, when I shared this with my husband. He listened stoically and gave me practical advice, “Never mind. A transfer is a part of life in the career. Just take it in your stride, and do not brood over it. Such occasions will come in future again. Do not take them personally. Shall I fix up a daiquiri for you to soothe your nerves?”

 

His advice was sensible, but my mind was agitated. At night, I lay awake in bed, reliving every single moment of pain that Reena had inflicted on me during the last six months. 

 

The customers of this branch were only Government officials who did not like to wait for payment by holding a token. They used to complain to me every day about the absence of a Teller in the branch. I met my seniors and apprised them of the public expectations. I recommended to head office for posting at least one Teller, but my recommendations fell on deaf ears. I persistently verbalised my need at all the fora. Finally, the head office heeded and decided to post a Teller at the branch.

 

I remembered the morning when I saw a tall woman walking nonchalantly into my cabin. She was wearing dark maroon lipstick on her dusky complexion, along with a disgruntled expression on her face. Walking into the room casually, she plunged into one of the visitor chairs without introducing herself. Opening her branded big bag without even looking at me, she started searching for something in it, opening pocket after pocket, as I looked on, wondering who she was.

 

Though irritated at her behaviour, I did notice her expensive tanchhoi silk saree. Finally, she pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her stylish bag and threw it in front of me without uttering a word.

 

Reading the letter, I realised the visitor was Reena Sarna (not her real name), who was posted to the branch as a Teller. Despite her uncivilised etiquettes, I felt jubilant that head office had finally heeded my request. Now, we will definitely be able to improve the quality of service to our elite clientele. 

I personally went with her and introduced her to every staff member. Everybody was happy to have one more person in this heavy workload branch. Little did I realise then that Reena Sarna was an inauspicious omen for all of us.

 

On the first day, she had an altercation with a customer on the way he handed her the cheque for encashment. Hearing her shouting at the customer in a high-pitched voice, I walked up to the counter only to find Reena screaming, “You have given this cheque to me like this. Who will unfold it? Your father?”

 

I was shocked. I had never heard anyone, let alone a woman, using such foul language. The only fault of the customer was that he had handed her over a folded cheque instead of opening it before presenting it to her. Perhaps it was too much effort for her to unfold the cheque and make payment!

 

Reena had a sense of entitlement about her and looked down upon all other team members. Nobody seemed to like her and her brusque behaviour. The cohesiveness of the team was under the threat of cracking down.

 

Next week, Reena was late by half an hour. There were customers lined up at the counter, and other staff would not handle her work on the plea that these were self-payments and the Teller should pay them. Their logic made sense. If she received a hefty Teller Allowance, she should be at her desk on time to do her work. 

 

I put a cross against her name on the attendance register and gave the powers of Teller to the next senior clerk. Reena reached late, yelled, screamed, and created a ruckus like a spoilt brat. Her shrill voice was audible across the entire VIP floor of that building, which usually was serene with pin-drop silence.  

 

Come another day, although Reena was on time, after opening her counter, she barged into my cabin, picked up the phone, and started instructing her servant loudly, “Ramu, give bath to Bunty. See that the water is not too hot or cold. Make him wear a white printed shirt. Yes, the same one on which brown cats are printed. After that, give him milk. Wash the bottle properly and see that you hold the bottle well. Do not start watching TV while feeding the baby.” The instructions went on.

 

Her high-pitched voice was shattering the silence of that prestigious floor. Meanwhile, some customers who waited at the counter were getting restless. I told Reena to return to her desk and attend to the customers first, which irked her no end. “Let them wait. They can stand for some time. Heavens will not fall if they wait there for a few minutes. As it is, they do not do much work in their office.”

 

“No. You attend to the customers first,” I was polite and firm, but Reena thought I was being rude and siding with the worthless customers at the cost of Bank staff. 

 

Having a daily altercation with Reena had become a routine. 

 

Last evening, when Manjari conveyed the news of my punishment transfer, it became one of the most memorable experiences of my life. 

 

“Ding…dong,” the call bell rang, and I realised it was morning, and the milkman was at the door. I had been awake the entire night. I was not upset about the transfer but about how it was being done. I felt humiliated to the core. 

 

Resigned to my fate and feeling down in the dumps, I reached the office early that day and started clearing the table. I had to remove my personal belongings from the drawers and prepare myself to get relieved. Manjari had forewarned me, and I could do little about it.

 

 "The Divine Shield" as envisaged by the author

At 9.15am in my office, I heard the tick-tack sound of a walking stick. I knew these were the footsteps of Mr Bijoy Banerji (not his real name), a top-ranking government official.

“Good morning! I see you come to office quite early. Good to find you here. Now, I can empty my pockets. Here is a cheque. Please put it in my savings account. And…eh… here is some cash. Please deposit it in my PPF account. You know the account numbers. No? Will you please fill out the forms on my behalf? Keep the receipts with you. I am going abroad for two weeks and will collect the receipts on my return,” Mr Banerji was giving instructions about his accounts. As the topmost official in that building, he was used to personalised service from me. 

 

As Mr Banerji turned around to leave, I politely mentioned, “Sir, I will do all this but may not be here to hand over these receipts to you on your return as I am being transferred from here.” 

 

He stopped, looked at me in disbelief, and said, “Transferred? Why? You have not completed even two years here. Is it a routine transfer?”

“I understand somebody from the Ministry of Finance has complained against me that I am not extending good customer service,” I uttered and shrugged shoulders. 

“Who says so? You are doing a wonderful job. I know it for sure.” He turned around, pulled a chair and sat down. Picking up the phone, he dialled a number from memory and started talking to someone in Bangla. I could not understand a word of it. 

 

Ending the phone call, he told me not to worry and to continue working as usual. Half an hour later, I received a phone call from the Ministry of Finance, “Where exactly is your branch? Which floor? Which side? The Finance Minister will visit your office in the afternoon at about 2.30pm.” 

 

At 2.30pm, my heartbeats increased as the Minister of Finance walked into the branch, “I did not know there was a bank here. How long have you been here? What is the business like? How many accounts?” He made some general enquiries and was gone. 

***

 

The next day, my successor landed up at the branch, “I have been sent here to take over charge from you and relieve you today itself,” she informed me. Before I could react, the phone rang, “Has Ms Kampani (not her real name) reported at the branch?” This was my boss, the Regional Manager.

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmmm. Do not let her know that I had called, but do not hand over the charge till further instructions."

“Yes, sir,” I said and looked at Ms Kampani. She was busy looking around, admiring the interior of the branch. 

 

A few minutes later, she said, “Let us start with Branch Documents.”

“Let us go and have some tea and samosas,” I evaded the suggestion, and we walked to the cafeteria in the building. 

 

By afternoon, it was difficult to resist her pressure on me. She had been instructed to relieve me on the same day. Obviously, she was pressing for that. Ignoring what the boss had said, I shared the truth with her. She was quite a sport, and we mutually agreed to sit and enjoy the company of each other until the bosses took the final call. 

 

Three days passed like this. The mystery about the way forward was intensifying. Meanwhile, I had an attack of the flu and developed a high fever. I rang my boss, “Sir, I am down with flu and want to go on leave. May I hand over the charge of the branch to Ms Kampani? She is already here.” 

 

Without thinking for a second, he responded, “No. I am deputing Ms Varma (not her real name) to take charge.” This was the usual arrangement. When Ms Varma came to take charge, Ms Kampani could not stomach it and left for head office, never to return. At head office, they asked her to join there itself.

 

I won the battle and had immense satisfaction that I could not be dislodged in a devious manner. The way fate protected me, I felt strong enough to take on Reena Sarna head-on during my remaining tenure. 

 

Reena Sarna continued to work in the same office, and so did I, though the daily confrontation continued. She had tried to use the official powers of her husband to kick me out, but a divine shield saved me from her evil designs. 

 

Don’t they say, “Jako raakhe saainya, maar sake na koye.”

 

***

 

PS: A week after Ms Kampani went back, the Personal Secretary to the top boss of the circle phoned me. He wanted to know how my transfer was stalled. 

"I cannot understand this puzzle at all. One day, the Chairman wants you to be transferred from the branch immediately. Two days later, he instructs the transfer to be cancelled." 

"How would I know? Why not ask the Chairman?" 

"The boss tried to, but the Chairman is also zapped," he confided in me. He hoped I would divulge some clue to the mystery of my transfer and its reversal.

 

I had grasped he was trying to explore what connection I had wielded to stop my transfer. He continued to interrogate me for half an hour, but butter would not melt in my mouth. I had learnt to be discreet. 

 

                                                                                                                                                        (To be continued....)

*****