My Accidental Tryst with Technology

My first posting as a confirmed officer was in an Agricultural Development Branch of the bank in the early nineties. One afternoon, the Branch Head called me to say he had recommended my name to the “Computers & Communication Department,” which was scouting for young officers with “technology initiative” to help the bank transition from manual to computerised operations.

I was puzzled. Neither he nor I were exactly “techies.” I asked him what made him think I fitted the bill. He said, “You’re young.” Technically, I wasn’t, I had already spent nine years in the bank as a clerk before becoming an officer. When I pressed him on the second part, “technology initiative,” his answer amused me. Apparently, I was the first person he’d seen calculating the maturity value of a fixed deposit using a calculator instead of the printed maturity chart prescribed by the bank.

I was sure that wasn’t enough to get me selected. Still, since the posting was in Bangalore, my hometown, I secretly hoped for the best.

As luck would have it, I was chosen. Suddenly, I began to believe in my supposed “credentials,” much like my Branch Head did. About half a dozen of us were picked as “Project Officers,” joining a team of programmers who had risen from the clerical ranks through exams and interviews.

Our Department Head was a massive man, both in build and presence. He wore trousers with a cross belt that went over both shoulders, which I first mistook for style but soon realised was a matter of necessity. His cabin had frosted glass, invisible from the outside but perfectly clear from within. Only a privileged few ever had direct access to him.

For the rest of us, our interactions were limited to the senior officers outside. The first couple of days passed in an air-conditioned hall doing practically nothing, chatting with the other recruits to size up who knew what about technology. I began to feel everyone was hiding their technical brilliance from me, though, in hindsight, we were all equally clueless.

Then, one afternoon, the big man appeared. He took us into an annexe room and, after a brief introduction, gave a stirring speech. We were told to be ready to sacrifice home and family since the project would involve round-the-clock work.  The bank, he said, was in a mission mode to computerise hundreds of branches across the country.  Fired by enthusiasm, we all nodded vigorously, eager to prove our dedication. The Department Head, seasoned as he was, probably knew our excitement was inversely proportional to our understanding of what lay ahead.

As he wrapped up, he called my name and said I’d be reporting to a senior officer in charge of Communications. That startled me, I had just been singled out from the entire group. Outside the room, murmurs spread instantly. My colleagues suspected influence or favouritism. I, on the other hand, was worried about being isolated with no one to share my confusion with.

Soon after, the senior officer in charge of Communications asked me to join him as he had some pending outstation work that I was to handle, alone. That’s when the “sacrifice” speech suddenly made sense, and panic set in. I had no clue about technology beyond using a calculator for fixed deposits.

Feeling cornered, I gathered my courage and asked him directly how I had been identified. Amused, he ushered me into the Department Head’s cabin and announced, laughingly, “Sir, Amarnath wants to know how he was the one selected.”

The big man, instantly sensing the fun, turned to the senior officer and asked what he had told him about me. The senior officer replied that  earlier in the day, while passing his table, I had stopped to ask what those blinking lights were on his modem, something I had never seen in my agricultural branch.

The Super Boss added that this was precisely the kind of “technological inquisitiveness” they were looking for. And that, apparently, was how my “credentials” were sealed.

Looking back now, I realise curiosity has always been my best qualification, and who knew a few blinking lights could light up an entire career.

If someone had told me then that I’d be sitting in that very Super Boss's cabin one day, I’d have laughed it off. But twenty-three years later, there I was, in the same chair, wondering if the next youngster walking in was thinking the same nervous thoughts I once did!

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.