Memoir 1 : Bank Orientation Odyssey

October 1985, the first of the month—a date etched in the golden annals of ambition. The hallowed grounds: State Bank of India Training Centre, Pataliputra Colony, Patna. This was the dawn of our odyssey, the sacred threshold where we, the eager probationary officers of the 1985 batch, gathered to ignite the flame of our professional voyage. A whirlwind of 25 luminous days lay ahead—immersion in knowledge’s forge—before we ventured forth to our inaugural branches, armed with the alchemy of theory transformed into practice.

Amid the sea of unfamiliar visages that sparkled with promise, a few beacons of familiarity pierced the horizon: Aditya Nath Jha, Mithileshwar Jha, Prabhash Kumar, and the late Mohan Lal Gupta. Aditya, a childhood comrade woven into the tapestry of family ties, I hailed by his intimate moniker, Mukund—a whisper from yesteryears that bridged the chasm of time. Mithileshwar and Prabhash were echoes from Netarhat’s verdant classrooms, fellow travelers on academia’s winding path. Yet, fate’s playful hand soon whisked Mithileshwar to NABARD’s illustrious halls, while Prabhash, upon the training’s crescendo after two transformative years, ascended to the railways’ iron-veined empire via the UPSC’s rigorous gauntlet. My encounter with Mohan Lal Gupta had unfolded like a serendipitous script on April 11, 1985, during the interview’s electric crucible. Vikas Ranjan, another alma mater ally, joined the fray belatedly, his arrival a delayed overture that tempered our early symphony of solidarity.

But oh, the instant alchemy of souls! From the very first gaze, a cadre of kindred spirits enveloped me in an embrace of effortless kinship: Nilabh, Sanjay (affectionately, Tuttu), V.K. Sinha, and Amitabh. In the blink of those nascent days, our constellation swelled with radiant additions—Sanjay Singh, Sanjay Sinha, and Jyoti Sharan—forging bonds that pulsed with unbreakable vitality. Ashok, the latecomer to our merry enclave, wove himself in with a grace born of patience, his delayed ingress only heightening the joy of reunion. Those friendships, kindled on that fateful day, endure as titans of loyalty—a Fevicol-forged alliance, impervious to the tempests of time. True, some luminaries have wandered into vanaprastha’s contemplative groves, like Aditya, now totally incommunicative  living a life of lone saint in the vicinity of Tagore Hills in Ranchi or Sanjay Kapil whom we lost to God’s desire long back. Yet, their imprints linger, luminous threads in memory’s grand weave.

Guiding our ascent were the sage architects of enlightenment: Course Coordinator Shri S.P. Gupta, a steady compass of wisdom, and the Centre’s Principal, R.S. Vadhwa, whose stewardship was the North Star of our sojourn. Revered C.K. Sharan Sir and A.R. Lal Sir stood as our intellectual titans, sculpting minds with unyielding precision—perhaps I.R. Shah Sir too (the mists of recollection blur the edges), alongside A.R. Mishra Sir. The indomitable Shankuni Sir helmed HRD’s vanguard, a domain then distinct from the Personnel’s broader realm. Sujata Madam and R.K. Banerjee Sir graced HRD’s ranks, as did Deepak Saket Sir, famed for his stoic veil that concealed a wellspring of resolve. Yet, it was to Shri R.K. Banerjee Sir that our chorus of supplication rose daily, for he was the benevolent custodian of branch allotments and our creature comforts. In his presence, we intoned with fervent harmony: “You alone are mother and father, kin and confidant”—a mantra laced with playful reverence. Through the thick lenses of his bold, black-framed spectacles, beneath the canopy of his luxuriant mustache, his silent smile spoke volumes: Rest assured, young dreamers; I shall orchestrate your triumphs with delight.

Ah, the electric anticipation of C.K. Sharan Sir’s sanctum! His dissection of the Ara branch fraud—a masterful tapestry of causation, remediation, and vigilant safeguards—stood as our lodestar, a pivotal monument in the architecture of awareness. He reigned as our paramount mentor, a beacon whose glow we chased with unquenchable zeal. A.R. Lal Sir, with his towering, expansive silhouette and eyes like ancient monoliths, initially evoked a thrill of awe that bordered on trepidation in our youthful hearts. Only later did the veil lift, revealing a soul of profound benevolence—gregarious, empathetic, ever the selfless sentinel, perpetually poised to extend a hand of unwavering support.

In the rhythm of those sessions, two quirks defined my essence: as lectures unfolded like rivers of insight, I would either etch fleeting sketches—portraits of epiphany—or capture whispers in verse, fragments of poetry born of the moment. These nascent stanzas, incomplete yet alive with mischief, circulated like cherished talismans among my comrades. Far from romance’s velvet sighs or philosophy’s solemn depths, they were buoyant parodies, elixirs of laughter to dissolve the weight of rigor. With deepest humility, I seek pardon from our esteemed trainers for the lighthearted verses that danced upon their personas—verses that rippled through our inner circle, igniting gales of shared glee. Never did malice or irreverence taint my quill; these were but humble arrows in my quiver, forged in the fires of an English-medium forge, to assert my spark amid peers. Through sketching and satire, I donned confidence’s cloak, a quiet declaration of spirit’s unyielding fire.

Those 25 sun-kissed days of initiation were a bountiful harvest: a constellation of comrades that illuminated our paths, and venerable elders whose lanterns pierced the fog of uncertainty. Today, as echoes of their guidance resound in my soul, I bow in profound gratitude—a heartfelt salutation to every architect who clasped our hands, teaching us not merely to walk, but to soar. To those trailblazers who cradled our nascent steps, we offer an eternal obeisance, brimming with reverence and renewal.

My inaugural outpost? Jhumri Telaiya—a saga of trials and triumphs to unfurl in the next chapter’s embrace.