Some Sundays are meant for lazy breakfasts and gossip with neighbours. But that particular Sunday morning, Mr. Ashish Dutta decided to play Sherlock Holmes with his documents. Out came the cupboard’s treasure chest—passbooks, policies, FDs—all spread across the floor like a colorful paper carpet.

From the doorway, Mrs. Dutta peeked in.
“Ah, so busy, you’ll be late for lunch today. It’ll be two o’clock by the time you finish! Let me go and chat with Boudi next door.”
“Go, go… what else do you two do? Gossiping and giggling all day.”
“Do you want to stop our laughter now?” she retorted, before stepping out.

Mr. Dutta smiled faintly but carried on. Then his eyes landed on something that pulled him out of his methodical rhythm—an old joint account passbook in his daughter Nandini’s name. It hadn’t been touched since her marriage. He decided he’d get it updated on Monday, and perhaps even close it. After all, retired life feels lighter when you get to tick off small tasks.

On Monday morning, after his customary breakfast, he walked to the bank with Nandini’s passbook. The teller updated it and directed him to the Savings Account Officer, Mr. Das, for closure.

Mr. Das frowned at the screen.
“Sir, this account is linked to a locker. Locker rent is being deducted every year. You’ll have to surrender the locker before the account can be closed.”

A locker? Mr. Dutta nearly fell off the chair. Four years ago, they had returned the key, emptied the locker before Nandini’s wedding, and moved on. Even Mrs. Dutta remembered it clearly—“We had only two jewellery pieces left, and they’ve been in the house ever since!”

But Mr. Das was firm: “Locker number 508 is in your name. Bring the key, empty it, and then we can close the account.”

Back home, Mr. Dutta and his wife rummaged through drawers, cupboards, and trunks. No key. Mrs. Dutta insisted it had been returned years ago. Even Nandini, called that night, was categorical: “Everything was taken out, Baba. Send me the account money if you want, but I don’t have any key.”

The next day, Mr. Dutta returned to the bank empty-handed. Mr. Das double-checked: “But locker 508 has been operated three times in the last two years.”

The mystery deepened.

With no key in hand, Mr. Dutta consented to the bank’s procedure: the locker would be broken open in his presence, at his cost. A fortnight later, he and Mrs. Dutta stood nervously as the locksmith’s tools clanked and the lock gave way.

Three potli bags were pulled out. Mrs. Dutta untied them with trembling fingers—inside lay jewellery worth 15–20 lakh rupees.
“These are not ours!” she gasped.

The Assistant Manager turned pale. Staff gathered, whispering and speculating. Chief Manager Mr. Mukherjee rushed in, ordered tea for the couple, and placed the potlis safely under vault custody. “We will resolve this,” he promised.

As frantic searches began in the record room, it became clear that the trail led back four years. By evening, the dusty archives revealed the real culprit: digitization errors. Four years ago, the Duttas had indeed surrendered the locker. But during computer entry, their account had been mistakenly linked to Mr. Ramashish Sen’s locker.

When informed, the Sen family stormed into the bank, shouting, threatening police, and demanding explanations. Overwhelmed, Mr. Dutta fainted in his chair. Chaos reached peak Bollywood levels.

Mr. Mukherjee rushed the couple to a nearby nursing home, visiting them personally the next morning. Meanwhile, Mr. Sen’s family inspected the potli bags, and Mrs. Sen confirmed they were indeed theirs. Nothing was missing. Relief washed over everyone.

By late night, records were corrected, rents reversed, and a fresh locker was issued to Mr. Sen. Mr. Dutta’s account was freed. The following day, as if to cleanse the branch of lingering anxiety, the Operations Manager performed a pooja at the nearby Kali temple and distributed prasad.

When Mr. Dutta regained consciousness, weak but stable, Mrs. Dutta declined the Chief Manager’s offer to pay for the medical expenses. The Sen family, softened by the ordeal, sent sweets and flowers to Mr. Dutta as a gesture of goodwill.

What began as a harmless attempt at tidying documents turned into a full-blown drama—part thriller, part comedy. In one corner, a retired man chasing closure of an old account; in another, a bank grappling with its own bureaucratic ghost. Between mistaken records, missing keys, and misplaced ownership, the ordinary became extraordinary.

Life, as it turns out, writes better scripts than cinema. And as Shakespeare wisely said: all’s well that ends well. But in the Duttas’ case, it was also proof that even the most mundane chores—like updating an old passbook—can take you on an unexpected adventure.