The Reluctant Sleeper

I had been a faculty member at the Bank’s training institutes, two years at the State Level and five years at the National Level.

The training groups consisted of all categories of staff at the State Level, clerical and officers, while at the National Level, it was exclusively officers. The training centres were all residential, which meant participants stayed on campus, having come from different parts of the State or the Country.

Each program had a coordinator who was responsible for preparing the training calendar, getting it approved, conveying the institute’s expectations to the participants during their stay, and addressing any concerns they might have. Typically, there were four sessions of an hour and a half each, two before lunch and two after, with a 30-minute tea or coffee break (and the inevitable biscuits) between each pair of sessions.

During 2003–04, at one such State Level training centre in Bangalore, I was the coordinator for a week-long program for Probationary Officers. There were about forty trainees in the batch.

On a Monday morning, I introduced myself, and the trainees followed suit in the first fifteen minutes, as per the protocol. After this warm-up exercise, I began the first session.

Barely ten minutes in, I noticed one participant in the second row with his eyes half open, half closed. Being the coordinator, I asked if he was feeling unwell and offered to refer him to the Bank’s doctor. He replied that he had travelled overnight by bus from Bidar and had just reached Bangalore that morning, so he was simply a bit tired.

Usually, I found trainees arriving on Sunday mornings, taking a quick tour of Bangalore’s hotspots in the evening, and turning up fresh for the Monday session. This gentleman, however, had been an exception. Still, using my coordinator’s prerogative, I suggested that he rest for a couple of hours and return for the later sessions. But, being the committed soldier, he insisted he could manage and urged me to continue. I must admit, most others in his place would have gladly taken up my offer.

Within another ten minutes, I found him being gently managed by two fellow participants on either side as he began to sway in his chair. Realizing this was only going to get worse, I firmly instructed him to go to his room, sleep well, and return after lunch. He resisted at first, but I had to quite literally push him out of the class.

The rest of the session went on smoothly, and we broke for tea. After the break, just as I was about to begin the next session, I noticed, lo and behold, the same participant back in his seat in the second row. I asked why he had returned so soon, and he explained that he had had some tea, felt refreshed, and was ready to continue. Taking him at his word once more, I resumed.

Exactly ten minutes later, he started swaying again, not just sideways this time, but also backwards, and four people were now involved in keeping him steady.

I had seen the occasional elderly participant struggle to keep awake in a post-lunch session, but this was the first time I was witnessing such a spectacle within the very first couple of hours, among young probationary officers, no less. Annoyed, I asked curtly why he had come back to class instead of sleeping in his room, as instructed.

His reply left me speechless.

“Sir,” he said earnestly, “I was unable to sleep there.”

The entire class burst into laughter, leaving me momentarily embarrassed. And as I tried to make sense of it all, he added, “Sir, I am unable to sleep there, You asked me to sleep, and I am sleeping right here, under your supervision, with thirty-nine others as witnesses! ”

That broke whatever little composure I had left. I joined in the laughter.

And that day, I discovered a hidden talent of mine, a mother might struggle all night to put a child to sleep, but I seemed to have the rare power to lull full-grown adults to sleep, even after their tea.

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.