Jingling Coins Rusted Coins

Copyright © 2013 by JJ Jadway.

ISBN:       Hardcover       978-1-4828-1105-6

                  Softcover         978-1-4828-1106-3

                  Ebook              978-1-4828-1104-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Partridge books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Partridge India

Penguin Books India Pvt.Ltd

11, Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi 110017

India

www.partridgepublishing.com

Phone: 000.800.10062.62

CONTENTS

1.   A Word

2.   A Retrospective

3.   The Early Days

4.   Rolling Stone

5.   Feel of Banking

6.   Unions at Work

7.   Understanding the Psyche of the Largest Bank

8.   Still Mooning Around

9.   The Show that Never Was

10.   Banker in the Making

11.   Branch Banking

12.   First Money

13.   Fast Money

14.   In the Saddle

15.   Bank Closing

16.   Discordant Domestic Front

17.   Training

18.   Inviting Trouble

19.   New Realities

20.   Falling Apart

21.   Well Entrenched

22.   Getting into the Skin of the Bank

23.   Growing in Stature

24.   Life and Literature

25.   Make Hay When the Sun Shines

26.   Emerging Banking Scenario

27.   No Dividing Lines

28.   Wage Settlements

29.   Facets of Banking

30.   Hush-hush Banking

31.   Institutionalized Wrong Doing

32.   Teacher Customers

33.   Crackling Home Front

34.   Let Down by the Guardians

35.   Shown the Door

36.   Poor Bankers

37.   Caste Factor

38.   The Turbulent Year

39.   Murkier Home Front

40.   The Flood

41.   Forces at Work

42.   Shocks Galore

43.   New Place, New Responsibilities

44.   New is Novel

45.   Upheavals Continue

46.   Communal Frenzy

47.   Change of Place

48.   Cobwebs

49.   Lengthening Shadows

50.   More Cobwebs

51.   The Last Cobweb

52.   End of Tenure

53.   Controlling Office

54.   The Month of March

55.   Whipping Boys

56.   Battered and Bruised

57.   Centenary Year

58.   Literary Circle

59.   Sexual Harassment

60.   SLBC and CM

61.   Banking Culture

62.   Past Catches Up

63.   Disappointments

64.   Branch Manager

65.   Learning to Live Without Electricity

66.   New Role

67.   Back to Mainstream Banking

68.   Back to the Controlling Office

69.   Financing under Government Sponsored Schemes

70.   Flashpoints

71.   New Government

72.   Special SLBC

73.   Whiplashing CM

74.   The Return of the Maverick

75.   Growing Top-Heavy

76.   Inspection of Currency Chest

77.   Jingling Coins Rusted Coins

Dedicated

To

The banker in the field

. . . beating in the void his luminous wings in vain.

A WORD

Jingling Coins Rusted Coins is the story of a soldier turned banker. One might justifiably ask why this vanity of writing the story of a soldier banker in the form of a memoir? Who the hell you think you are? Why should we or anyone else be interested in knowing about you, a non-descript soldier turned banker or whosoever else you think you are? In the midst of so many important things, events and personalities, why should anyone be interested in knowing about a person whose contributions to society may be suspect and may actually be a big naught? These are the very likely or perhaps very legitimate questions that the readers of this memoir could well hurl at me. Who the hell do I think I am? A poor air force chap with an unproductive and inconsequential childhood, having ended up as a banker–transiting from rusted coins to jingling coins category—in the process? And who do I dedicate this to? To a faceless banker! Why the hell do I regard his wings as luminous, not emaciated and battered as they should actually be and as they should legitimately be called? And who cares for the vainly flapping wings of a banker, a soldier with a past that would hardly make any sense to anyone in this second decade of the twenty-first century? These are hard, tough and very unpalatable and, at times, painful questions to answer. Memoir or what pretends to be a memoir has this advantage that you do not have to answer any of these questions directly or specifically as they are hurled at you. As the story (don’t they say every life has a story to tell?) unfolds, these questions begin to get their answers; or would, at least, make pretensions of attempting to do so. These and many other questions, perhaps more incisive ones, will be found answered as one progresses through its pages.

Yes, one has to progress through these pages and not just leaf through them, for then the questions and their answers will be lost on them. Besides, a progress is always a scientific exercise. There is, therefore, no real need for an introduction or a preface. I can start it all without any ado at all, and without much of a fuss. The only reason why I am taking liberty of writing this brief apology is because whatever little literature is available on banking, or even on soldiering, is resourced by those who either held a corporate post, were privy to corporate decisions—governance or no governance—or were hoisted from above; they did not come from the grass root banking or soldiering scenario—from the rank and file, as they say. They did not sprout from within. They were bankers or soldiers, depending on where they belonged at a specific point of time, in a very limited sense of the term and were not associated with day-to-day drudgery we may euphemistically call banking, or soldiering. Notwithstanding what the slogan—Pure Banking and Nothing Else or Banker to Every Indian—, may proclaim, a banker, even from the largest bank, does not enjoy much of a leeway in the society he lives and his banking practices are not necessarily pure banking. So long as he is able to meet the financial anxieties of the people around, he has some recognition and importance as a banker. Once he is out of the monolith, he joins the group of persona non grata. A soldier lurking from behind the fence makes little or no impact at all on the life around except when he moves in as part of one of the marauding parties out to teach a lesson or two to the villagers who dared to question them on any of their acts not approved by the civilized society. What if the soldiers were stationed there to provide protection to these very people from external and internal marauders!

My unknown banker is from the grass roots. My soldier too is from the grass roots. He is not a general or a field marshal, but a willing or unwilling member of those occasional feats of marauding raids, or just a fence sitter. No panoramic view of what obtained in air force establishments will be found here. Those perched high on the hierarchy have a view that would not match the vision of the man on the ground. So, both my banker—his jingling coins notwithstanding—and my soldier–with his rusted coins from air force—are from down the earth. He that is down needs fear no fall. Reading public has, perhaps, not seen banking from the perspective of a bank employee who represents banking at the micro level and straddles up to give us glimpses of macro economics with all pitfalls that stand between the two.

Likewise, it is highly unlikely that he has been acquainted with the daily chores of a soldier whether in army, navy or in air force who made sacrifices, but the leaders got away with accolades. There will be occasional glimpses on what went on inside the fence including the lamentation of some who thought they helped carve out Bangladesh out of Pakistan while the prime minister went on to become Bharat Ratna. Not that they quite minded it. But it rankled when the same prime minister disowned the excesses of the emergency by apportioning blame on the excessively enthusiastic officials for all the atrocities that were perpetrated on the people; when she completely disowned whatever was wrong with the Emergency. Suffering no qualms in taking credit for ‘71 Indo-Pak war that culminated into creation of Bangladesh, but wholly unwilling to take discredit for the excesses committed under her regime! Soldier in me found it revolting to his sensibilities. For him every credit entry had a corresponding debit entry. She had violated this time tested principle, and he did not approve of it both as a soldier and banker.

My bank began its journey from a land no longer part of this country. The journey began in the last decade of the nineteenth century though I joined it midstream in 1979. In its onward journey, it created many milestones. One such milestone was created when after partition, the bank flung open its strong room to anyone and everyone fleeing from the tormentors from across the border if only he or she could produce any piece of paper that could even remotely suggest he or she had an account with the bank, notwithstanding the status of the account—a banking feat never repeated anywhere by any bank in any part of the world. It encountered many millstones, too, of which I was a part, no matter how small or insignificant.

In writing this memoir, I have not, as a matter of rule, followed the chronological order of events. Rather, I have put them together in the manner of a collage—incidents picked up randomly from here and splashed them together there. In this kind of writing, there is always a dilemma as to where you begin. Do you begin at the beginning? Do you begin at the end with retrospectives thrown in or do you begin at the midway and saunter backward and forward? I chose to follow this midstream method without making any attempt to throw asunder the principle of chronology. I have made no conscious effort to break the chronology: just followed instincts within the limits of a memoir as I understood them.

It’s not a memoir in the strict sense of the term because one does not camouflage the identity of individuals and institutions in a memoir. I have camouflaged them because they are all living and kicking, are instrumental in various things that are happening. Institutions I allude to are functional. The intent of this book is not to cast aspersions on individuals or institutions. Naming them might do that. Therefore, I have used fictitious names for individuals and institutions. In that sense it is not a memoir. It should however be seen as an autobiography of an unknown banker. That would have been an apt title, but as the stress is not just on a banker but what banking entailed it is named Jingling Coins Rusted Coins.

Needless to say, for writing this memoir I had to do some research as well. I have used my own source for that without giving any bother to anyone at any stage. But I am beholden to some of those colleagues of mine who always wanted me to write some home truths, no matter how unpalatable.

JJ Jadway

*the symbol of rusted coins used for the soldiers may look far-fetched now with the 6th Pay Commission having infused the sound of jingle in their coins. It was not the case when I was part of it.

A RETROSPECTIVE

That I will end up being a banker was the last thing to have ever crossed my mind, given my proclaimed affinity with literature and my unbank-like characteristics. A banker, one thought, was money conscious or had a money-oriented frame of mind. I was hardly the one to have ever been acquainted with the sound of jingling coins which I thought a banker had to deal with and also contend with. My military background had prepared me for the rusted coins instead; and these rusted coins had so little purchasing power that it always left me wondering which section of the society I belonged to. These rusted coins had little or no jingling sound at all. Or so I thought. Banking, nevertheless, was foreign to me. I do not suppose I possessed any of those traits that could qualify me as a banker. Little did I know that traits were not important. Getting job was. I was keen to go in for education stream, though my English Professor Dr. Murli Das Melwani had vehemently warned me against any such misadventure. He did not think I could be as fortunate as he was, so far as getting a keen student was concerned. I was willing to ignore his warning. But those days—in the seventies—, banks, especially the nationalised ones, were the prolific job providers and schools and colleges were a big no no. Besides, as a job seeker I had a very limited choice then when I was in dire need of a paying job. I had to give up the idea of becoming a teacher—it was not a paying job then. Though, I could never put a lid on the teacher in me. I had to ready myself for becoming a banker. As for those traits and characteristics, maybe, I thought, I shall acquire them by and by as I went along. I had abjectly failed to imbibe any of those traits that made one a good or a successful soldier. I liked to read and study. I would not drink even when it was available free of cost on specific days. I would not move into the adjoining villages to enjoy free bout of sex. I would not save money to buy land and property like many of my colleagues did. In short, most of my colleagues thought I did not enjoy life. Or, simply stated in air force language I was a bloody fool. Enjoyment meant drinking, getting drunk and having lots of sex. My explanations on why I did not drink made my colleagues first cringe and then laugh. There cannot be any explanation for not drinking. I did not drink for two reasons in the main. First, I did not want to develop a habit I may not be able to sustain when I went out of air force. What if I did not have enough money to buy a drink? It was free here, not always though. It was free when weather was declared inclement. It would not be free in civil, inclement or not inclement. Second, well, I thought this explanation was funny and fit to be laughed at. On looking back, I too find it laughable. Nonetheless, that was one of the reasons why I chose not to drink. And it was not a laughing matter then.

There lived a sanitary inspector in our neighbourhood when I was a school-going boy. Scavengers of the town were directly under his control. Biru Babu, the Sanitary Inspector, would mark their attendance at his residence itself. He would allocate them their duty, assigning them to specific areas. Every morning, we would be subjected to a regular buzz that lasted for about half hour or so. On the first day of the month, the buzz would acquire a different hue. They would all be singing paeans to Biru Babu. It was their pay day—unlike our pay day in air force, it was called pay parade—and they would plead with Biru Babu to mark their presence on all days so that no money was deducted under muster roll payment system. Biru Babu was the last man to oblige them on this. How about his own intake? After receiving their payment, they would go, not to their homes but to the local toddy shops. That would be their destination that day. With jingling coins in their pockets, there was going to be no more paeans for Biru Babu. In the evening they would return on rickshaws, singing, swinging and disgorging choicest expletives on Biru Babu for having deducted this, for having deducted that. M . . . . . . . s/B . . . . . . ds were used unsparingly. Inquisitive school going boys that we were—I was perhaps the most inquisitive of them all—, we kept marvelling at their behaviour; it was explained to us that they behaved in this manner because they were drunk. This settled firmly in my mind that those who got drunk behaved in this manner. I had no other exposure to this kind of riotous behaviour that resulted after drinking until I joined air force. Is it not funny? Funny or not funny, these were my reasons for not drinking. What my air force colleagues did after drinking was not greatly different from what I had seen years ago at Biru Babu’s. Only, here they hurled choicest expletives on seniors for having denied something or the other which happened without any let-up. These were the best occasions for venting their ire, to let off some steam. One of my close pals would hit a tree standing tall in front of our billet. The fact that the quiet and sedate tree did not respond made his attacks more violent, more virulent; and, in the process he often hurt himself. Corporal Amarjit Singh had found an outlet. I had not.

And many of my air force colleagues thought I overdid it, especially when in the month of December in Leh where the river had frozen and had become our play-ground, I continued to desist from drinking. They did not believe that there could be a man in the frozen billets of Leh who would not consume rum and just live on tinned food and steaming tea! It was simply incredible and quite a few of them came to take a look at me, to marvel at me and at my foolishness. Possibly, they saw it as an impossible feat bordering on madness. I would not fault them for thinking so. For me it was a simple thing. I had no liking for it, no urge to consume alcohol. While in Delhi I was once medically advised to take brandy to stench flow of blood from my nose. I chose to ignore the advice. To many it appeared crazy. Not to me. The image of those drunken scavengers hurling choicest abuses on the hapless Biru Babu could not be erased from my memory.

THE EARLY DAYS

No gainsaying the fact that banks were expanding thick and fast. They were on branch opening spree and needed manpower for the growing number of branches that were coming up rapidly. What banks promised then others could not even dream of matching, unless one was girding up one’s loin for the big league: UPSC or other all India services which were not within the reach of many. Reasons could be many. I, for one, was not even aware of existence of such possibilities. Bare information, basic input was not available to many of us, or we simply did not care to ferret them out. Most of us were laidback and lazy, just not ready to explore, to move up and forward. Banks were easy outlets for fresh graduates, masters and the likes of me who returned young from the forces. We retired young to keep the force young and fighting fit. Besides, one thought, banks paid well. That was certainly a perception if not a reality. Bankers themselves, one felt, played a very important role in perpetuating this perception. When in air force, I knew or heard very little about banks except that the bank employees were a pampered lot: they could bring nation to a halt whenever they so desired. The idea of their being a pampered lot had taken roots in my mind during one of the sittings of the third pay commission in air headquarters in the national capital. I was then posted at the headquarters of the Western Air Command (WAC) located in the cantonment area. This was the biggest Command of air force. The chief of this command was the air chief marshal in the making whose next stop was the Air Headquarters as the Air Chief Marshal. So, WAC was the most coveted posting for the senior-most air officers and most of them vied for it. I was a cog in the huge machine called WACOM Centre, i.e. Western Air Command Communication Centre.

It was reported—we heard it in the WACOM Centre—that one of the members of the commission had frowned on the suggestion of some defence representatives seeking parity with bank employees. It was ludicrous of the defence personnel to even think of being placed in the same pedestal with the bank men. They earned their wages. The member was reported to have told the defence representative. Clearly, we, in the forces, were made to look small then. We were made to believe that we did not earn our wages the way bankers did. Well, as soldier all we did was to squander away national wealth. But if we didn’t, the nation would have been squandered away. This was accepted. But just. Now when I was standing on the threshold, I was quite undecided as to which basket I should like to belong to, or would like to be identified with. A pampered lot with jingling coins in the pocket or a poor uncared soldier with his rusted coins—soldiers who mattered only at the time of war or when some natural calamities or internal disturbances had engulfed the country!

While in air force, I had so very little to do with banks; although, I got occasional opportunities to interact with them through some specially convened awareness programmes that happened off and on. They were more like PR exercises carried out by individual banks than anything else. In Delhi in the late sixties, I used to often wonder at some of the slogans, particularly those of this premier nationalized bank. This bank’s visibility was more pronounced in Delhi despite the fact that an outlet of the bank was rarely seen at important places, or at places where it could be easily sighted. The slogan was—the Bank you can Bank upon. My English teacher used to ask me to use a word both as noun and as verb: bank noun, bank verb. But he insisted that the appropriate prepositional use was on at such places and not upon. I found it rather funny. The usage seemed a contrived one, the flow not being natural. Moreover, since I found it written all over Delhi, I was amused. It never crossed my mind to explore how exactly one could actually bank on a bank, least of it upon a bank! That it was neither funny nor a contrived expression except for that upon became known to me subsequently when I became part of this institution. How it became known will unfold itself as we go along. Bank nevertheless modified it subsequently to—the name you can bank upon. Modified it, but without tampering with upon. Subsequently, it got rid of ‘the’ as well. It continued to fox me nonetheless, and I continued to be amused as I regarded it as a mere statement bereft of any substantial meaning. This was the time when the government had taken over the assets and liabilities of fourteen major private banks. This was one of them. This and the other thirteen banks became public sector undertakings wholly owned by the government of India. This was one tag bankers proudly wore on their sleeves and displayed with dispensable glee.

On 27 November, 1978 I was musing over this and many other things of those bygone days and the present possibilities, oblivious of candidates arriving and taking their seats. I was in the regional office of the bank. I and so many others had arrived there to attend interview. Like a true and disciplined soldier who understood the value of time, I had presented myself exactly at 09.30 a.m. sharp, for that is what the letter had insisted on. I was the first candidate to have arrived. Little did I know that this tag of value of time was going to nag me throughout my association with the bank. The personnel officer of the bank, a lanky South Indian with a sparkle in his eyes, was there to receive and guide us, with one of his assistants to check our credentials.

Written test was held two months ago and I was one of the several candidates who had qualified in the test and were here to be interviewed by the regional manager and his team of officials to assess whether or not we were fit to be absorbed in this premier nationalised bank. We were thirty four in all, although call letters were sent out to thirty seven candidates. Barring a few others, and me, most of the remaining candidates were in the age group of twenty to twenty five. I must have been senior to most of them in age. I had put in ten years, the ten best years of my life, in air force. I was never tired of making this declaration whenever opportunities to do so came my way. I thought it mattered a great deal to the civilians and that they would be proud of having me, an ex-serviceman, in their midst.

I was briefly interacting with the candidates present. Soon a comely lady emerged from the glass chamber wearing a broad smile on her face. She was the first candidate to have been called in for interview. That she had happily encountered the board was apparent from her body language and gait. She was virtually mobbed by the curious candidates and officials alike. In a male dominated society—especially in a sexually starved nation as India—, females always enjoyed a special attention and some degree of favours too, with an in-built self assurance that a return favour, in whatever form possible, at whatever stage possible, can be expected, consciously or sub-consciously or even unconsciously. Though an obese, she had a look that could be recommended for prolonged viewing. She had what I call feminine grace. This was more important than just being beautiful. Feminine grace added lustre to beauty—an inner glow that expressed outwardly with lustre. She could not have been more than twenty-five and despite her bulk, she was very attractive. Wordsworth’s expressive statement that ‘to be young it was heaven’ whiffed through my mind. What the poet had said, however, was in a different context altogether.

My turn too came soon thereafter. The time I spent inside with the board gave me the first insight into the minds of bank’s executives. A short-built and a dark-complexioned man in his early fifties sat cosily in his chair and nodded me in as I sought permission for entry. He was the regional manager (RM) of the bank. It had been grilled into my head that the executives of the public sector undertakings, those of banks in particular, had all the pretensions of bureaucrats without the tact, training, power and glamour of the bureaucracy; that they missed no opportunity to impress others with this pretension. And who could be better bait than a new entrant or an aspirant who could hardly ever be expected to question this arrogance or this misplaced authority?

The seating arrangement of four on one side of the table and one facing them from this side of the table reminded me of what I had heard, not read, about the interview Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose had faced for his selection to ICS. He was facing an identically constituted board in London where he had gone to attend his interview. The board did not have an Indian. They were all English or Europeans. The parallel I drew here between this board that I was facing and the one Netaji faced is limited only to the extent of physical arrangement, and not to the quality of the board or to the quality of the interviewee or interviewers. When an Indian qualified for Indian Civil Services, he was frowned upon by the English and was grilled to the extent of driving him to his limits. Netaji was a hot breed, yet he was answering them with a quiet composure that did not suit the board. The board must have thought that failing to ruffle Mr. Bose was their own failing. It was a bitter pill to swallow. When it finally failed to ruffle his composure, the board, it was said, decided to try another trick to rattle him. In its attempt to do so and, in order, also to bring out the acerbic side of Netaji’s personality, the chairman of the board hurled this salvo at him: WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN DOGS AND INDIANS, MR. BOSE? Subhash Chandra Bose exhibited the same composure as he pointed to the table and said, Table . . . table is the difference. Chairman of the board looked at the table; looked at himself and those seated with him, and finally rested his gaze on Bose. Netaji too followed his eyes: Indian on this side of the table and dogs on the other side of it. He was selected.

The regional manager was peering at the mass of papers in front of him and soon looked up and addressed me, so you are from the army.

. . . . air force, Sir. I corrected him. Civilians, I thought, had this funny idea about the services. This impression was reinforced when the regional manager said that he knew there was difference between military and air force. This was so brazenly stated that I really had to give a brief sermon on this. The teacher in me would not give in. I took it as my duty to inform them that military did not mean army. Military included all the three wings: army, navy and air force in that order. This had some effect on the chairman of the board. He burst into a hearty laughter by saying ignorance is bliss. Could Thomas Gray have been turning in his grave on hearing this? I was not sure. His meaning, his context, everything was altered and a new and unwarranted meaning was ascribed to what he had said. They did not seem to know the thing Thomas Gray had said; nor, for that matter, I thought, they cared.

WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS, IT’S FOLLY TO BE WISE. Thomas Gray must have been wondering in his grave as to why he was not quoted in full. I decided not to be wise here. The teacher in me had to be kept under check. He was my boss and don’t they say, Boss is always right? Besides, I thought, I was facing a banker, not a litterateur, his bureaucratic and I-know-everything pretensions notwithstanding. I had to be ready for more of such fireworks.

What is the use of military discipline in bank? A teacher of psychology from the university, a co-opted member on the board, asked this question. A teacher questioning the utility of discipline! The teacher in me took the matter in hand.

"There is nothing like military discipline, sir,’ I said, looking squarely at him,’ discipline is discipline and it is indispensable for any organization." Adjectives always played a spoilsport, I briefly added and I patted myself for having put it so succinctly.

‘Life must have been very tough out there!’ The teacher member of the board said, unmindful of my retort that I thought was so succinct.

‘Tough and educative.’ Even if I disliked life in air force for some of my own reasons, I firmly believed, despite my not very positive impression about air force, that a stint in the armed forces was highly educative and fruitful for an individual.

‘How come? ‘ This was the regional manager, the ex-officio chairman himself.

‘Tough because it physically made one strong and educative because it readied one for the life ahead.’ I spoke with the conviction of a teacher addressing his pupil. I continued with my observation:

‘They are more fit than others . . . . . their background enabled them to successfully face up to any challenge in life whether military or civil. They can ward off any crises; they are decisive and therefore a valuable asset to any organization,’ I concluded and looked at them for their reaction. They presented a bland expression, an expression of listlessness.

‘But we also hear things about armed forces and they are not always very pleasing to hear’. This was the psychology professor.

‘That can be said about any organization, not just armed forces’, I answered.

‘You are a student of literature,’ the regional manager was scanning my bio data kept in front of him and changing the course of discussion, he drove me towards my own area of excellence. ‘Honours in English, Huh! Tell us something about Shakespeare’s novels.’

Novels and Shakespeare! Pyrotechnics coming thick and fast, I thought. The teacher in me was in a rebellious state, but I had to calm it down.

‘I am afraid, Sir, I cannot tell you anything about that.’ I tried to be as polite as possible in the face of this extreme provocation to the teacher in me.

‘But aren’t you supposed to know about it? You are a student of literature, aren’t you? Shakespeare is at the centre of it.’ The assistant regional manager spoke, it seemed, to supplement the efforts of his boss. What pleased me about him was that he knew Shakespeare was at the centre of it.

‘I am supposed to know about Shakespeare, no doubt, Sir,’ I submitted politely and added,’ but I cannot tell you anything about his novels, simply because he never wrote any. He was a playwright, a dramatist; he was a poet.’ Even if he or his deputy was embarrassed, none of them showed it. For them there was no difference between ‘a novel’ and ‘a play’. This was soon corroborated by the chairman of the board himself. He said, ‘that’s what I meant’’ Other members seemed totally unaware of it. I always had this willingness to accept that not all can be expected to know about the works of Shakespeare or any writer or any person for that matter. But I also thought that no matter how ill-informed a person, if he had heard the name of the Bard of Avon, he would at least know that he was not a novelist. This is elementary, as Holmes would often put it. Only, there was no Watson around to whom I could confide. My interview continued on this turbid ground for a while. The fact that I was from air force and that I had studied English literature surprised them no ends and it provided them with enough material to use against me. But the fact of the matter was—the more they queried me on my home turf, the more they got into the quagmire without actually realising it.

‘What’s the use of literature in bank?’ The chairman of the board asked me in a business-like manner. ‘Literature is useful in every walk of life, not just bank.’ I answered briefly and elaborated,’ nothing is divorced from literature. There is no sieve that can sift literature from life.’

‘But why should one know Shakespeare in order to be a good banker?’

‘One doesn’t have to know Shakespeare at all in order to be a banker, good or bad.’

‘So what’s the use of literature in bank?’ Interviewers had the licence to ask any question, no matter how bizarre or silly.

Shakespeare is literature, but literature is not Shakespeare. To explicate it further as I found the members a little bemused and unimpressed, I added with a smile that could not have hurt anyone, ‘Sir, if we substitute Shakespeare for literature—we cannot do that—, then we may say there is no use of it in bank or anywhere else. One can very easily live without Shakespeare. But literature is not Shakespeare.’ He decided not to query me any further and handed me over to the other members. He may have thought that he had enough of me. Tiwari asked me to give an account of how the War of Bangladesh was fought and what role, if any, I had played. I informed the board that as a member of a reconnaissance team from air force, I had a small but risky and significant role to play. I was in the western front to collect intelligence on the movement of Pakistani forces and to contain Pakistani attacks while the actual war of liberation was fought in the eastern front where we made Pakistani