A Pig, a Posting, and the Perils of Pre-Entry Training..Growing Up in Bangalore Series...

I joined the bank over four decades ago, fueled by the idealism of youth and the promise of a stable career. The journey began with a three-day Pre Entry Training Programme at the iconic Ajanta Hotel in Bangalore. By the end of those three days, we weren’t just trainees, we were something of a family. And that was thanks entirely to one man: Mr. G.D. Desai.

Mr. Desai, a retired Personnel Officer, was our first trainer, an affable man with a patient smile and endless stories. His words carried wisdom and just enough mischief to make us believe that we were embarking on an adventure, not merely starting a career.

On the final day, we arrived early. We had been told that the sacred posting letters would be handed out, the ones that would reveal our fate. We were also sternly warned not to seek changes. We were in this for the long haul, a 40-year journey through a banking institution that had its roots in every nook and corner of India.

That night, I barely slept. While part of me secretly yearned for a posting beyond Bangalore, to discover new geographies and manage life without a family cushion, I was equally uncertain about what lay ahead.

When my turn came, the envelope felt heavier than it looked. I opened it with trembling hands.

Clerk/Typist, Personnel Department, Bangalore Regional Office.

Comfortable. Close to home. Secure already. Not quite the grand adventure I’d psyched myself for. Little did I know I’d spend the next two years typing out similar fate-deciding letters for new recruits.

Meanwhile, a friend of mine wasn’t half as fortunate, or depending on how you see it, perhaps more so. His posting letter bore the name of a place ending with “Halli”, Kannada for a village. It was in Bidar district, the northernmost tip of Karnataka. He was crestfallen. I wanted to offer him my posting, but Mr. Desai's voice echoed in my mind: “No changes. Embrace the journey.”

We joked about it. Someone called me “Junior Desai” for offering sage advice just two days into the job.

A few months later, that very friend turned up in Bangalore, slightly leaner but full of stories. The jowar rotis in Bidar had done wonders for his waistline, he said. The branch was small, but the welcome? Warm. The community? Respectful. The work? Responsibility-laden. And the real charm? The daily tales of rural banking.

Then came the story that would forever define his Bidar chapter.

He and a couple of colleagues shared a room with no toilets. The morning routine began with a stroll into the fields, armed with a chembu (metal water jug) after surveying the area and confirming no one was around.

One such morning, he crouched behind a bush. Just as the process was… in process… he heard a faint “grr… grr…” He looked left, then right, nothing.  The sound echoed again, this time louder and closer. A chill ran through him as he tried to pinpoint the source. And just as his mind raced through possibilities, he turned around, only to find himself staring directly into the snout of a pig, clearly waiting to break its fast, apparently waiting to feast on the freshest offering of the day!

Panicked but still committed to maintaining some dignity, that was already hanging by a thread, he hurriedly relocated a few steps away, legs parted, water mug in hand.  Just then, from the nearby bushes, a voice called out in pure Bidar Kannada: “Sir, what about my loan application? Should I come today or tomorrow for completing the documents?”

There he was. Exposed. Literally. Before livestock, nature, and his own customer.

It was then that I realized, truly and deeply, that my posting to St. Mark’s Road, Bangalore, wasn’t just a comfortable one. It was a blessing.

Mr. Desai was right. This life would bring challenges, and some of them would be downright unforgettable. You couldn’t make up half of what real life could deliver in the name of service.

And isn’t that exactly what makes the journey worthwhile?



Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.

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