Power Saving Gone Wrong : The Day A Branch Went Offline

From the days, when computers were new, servers were sacred, and every “system room” looked like a temple of technology, here’s one unforgettable story from my early years in the Bank’s computerisation drive.

In the mid-nineties, technology was cautiously tiptoeing into the banking world. Our Bank was among the first to make the bold leap from manual operations to front-office computerisation. It was an exciting time, equal parts progress and panic.

Each branch ran on a distributed database system, which meant every branch had its own server room, air-conditioned, UPS-supported, and spick and span, a rare oasis of cleanliness compared to the rest of the premises. You could eat off the floor… if the peons allowed it.

Officers like me, in the Computers and Communications Department, were on the frontlines of this revolution. We planned, installed, tested, trained, and stayed awake through more nights than a new parent.    As the go-live date approached, working till 1 or 2 a.m. was normal. 

Top management too was steering this grand transformation. At every “major” branch going live, a senior executive would arrive the previous evening, deliver pep talks and pearls of wisdom, and proudly declare that the “elephant”, our mighty Bank, was finally learning to move.  On the odd occasion, the  senior executive could even be the Chairman himself, though more often it was someone just one rung below.

The next morning was reserved for ribbon-cutting, chatting up customers, and showcasing how this banking behemoth was charging ahead into the brave new world of technology. 

For us junior officers, these visits were certainly well-intentioned, but also a touch exasperating, especially the previous evening, when we were dutifully roped in for motivational speeches meant to make us appreciate the top management’s vision for the technology revolution. We would have clearly lost a couple of crucial hours just travelling to the venue and back. 

The visiting dignitaries would ask predictable questions: “Timelines fine? Hardware fine? Power supply fine?” We nodded dutifully. No point confessing we weren’t entirely sure ourselves.  All this, of course, came at the expense of our sacred late-night routine built on debugging, caffeine and crisis-management, the real pillars holding up computerisation.

After one such  “interaction”, the previous day, we finished the take-on by 6 a.m., the following day, and dashed home for a 32-minute nap before returning at 9:30 a.m. for the grand inauguration.  

The system room, usually gleaming with bright lights and printer hums, on any other day, looked a little less dignified as was expected because of the overnight activity, that morning,  paper printouts scattered about, half-drained coffee cups on tables, and a weary team trying to stay upright. 

The local executives escorting the visiting top brass were in panic-cleaning mode, fussing over details: “Remove those cups! Stop that printer noise! Make it look neat!”. We smiled weakly, our real concern was whether the tellers could manage their first computerised transactions without panic.

At 10:15 a.m., the top executive ceremoniously cut the ribbon, admired the shiny monitors, and congratulated everyone. We, meanwhile, quietly slipped away to the banking hall to help the staff navigate their very first technology-driven transactions.  For the first ten minutes, everything went perfectly. Customers were cooperative, sweets were distributed, and we began to relax. Maybe, just maybe, this would be a smooth start.

And then, every screen went blank.  Utter silence. Followed by chaos.  Then the Bangalore classic: “What happened-ah?”

We’d faced such situations before, so we weren’t alarmed. Likely a UPS overload, we thought. A quick restart with lesser number of nodes/work-stations, and we’d be back on track. But our bigger worry was the presence of the big boss, optics mattered more than electronics.  What impression would this blackout leave?  We rushed to the system room… and froze.

The main server was off. Not asleep. Not thinking about it. Off.

Under normal circumstances, servers had their own UPS and personal dignity. Bringing one back wasn’t a “switch on and walk away” affair. Meanwhile, customers were already getting restless, and our reputation was ready to catch the first bus downhill.

Inside, the Branch Head was proudly briefing the VIP about how he had “personally supervised everything”. The VIP, smiling, delivered his version of TED Talk: “Power is precious! Always switch off systems when not in use!”

A slow, sinking realisation dawned on us. Yes.  In his enthusiasm to demonstrate energy conservation, he had personally supervised the OFF switch too, on our historic “go-live.”  Completely unaware of his electrical heroics, he turned to us and asked, “Why is everyone panicking?”

We gently mentioned that the main server, our technological heart and soul, had been switched off. We diplomatically avoided naming the electrician responsible.

To his credit, he was genuinely apologetic. Within twenty minutes we were back online, slightly wiser and infinitely more amused.

And that incident became part of our legendary computerisation folklore, one that still makes us smile whenever we hear someone ask,  “Did you switch off all the power switches?”

Those were the days when technology met innocence, servers had personalities, and big bosses could shut down history with a single well-meaning finger. Looking back, we laugh, because without such heroic mishaps, our computerisation drive might actually have been… boring.

(And if there’s one lesson we truly learnt, it was never underestimate a top executive with access to a power switch.)

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