What’s your name? The woman bowed her head. His bloodless lips trembled.

During my tenure in the banking sector, I encountered a plethora of unusual names and even more peculiar stories. Each name carried with it a piece of the person’s life, their joys, their struggles, and their hopes. Some of these memories have stayed with me, vivid and poignant.

At the Ichhapur branch, I met a woman named Boroline Bibi. Her nominee, which she referred to as “Namuna,” was her only son, Sheikh Boroplus. The names, quirky as they were, seemed to reflect a sense of humour and perhaps an affinity for the popular local brands they were named after.

At the Halishahar branch, another incident stands out. A lady stormed into my cabin, furious. “Please see sir, the guy outside is not doing anything up and down, saying the machine is out of order! Please ask him to up and down,” she demanded. It took me a moment to decipher that “up-down” referred to updating her passbook. Such idiosyncratic expressions became part of the everyday lexicon in the branches.

Then there was Madanmohan Mantri, a senior pensioner at the Ballygunge branch. When the Sukanya Samriddhi Yojana was launched, he wanted to open an account for his granddaughter, Shiksha — whose full name, Shiksha Mantri, literally translates to “Education Minister.” The coincidence brought smiles to everyone around.

My stint in a rural branch was eye-opening. On specific dates, the branch would overflow with illiterate customers withdrawing money from the 100-day work scheme. They would sign with thumbprints and smear the ink on their hair—a unique ritual that marked the completion of their transaction.

One day, a branch link failure caused panic. An elderly woman, wrapped in a white saree, approached me repeatedly.
“Saheb, I can’t get the money! Why can’t I get my money?”

Despite my explanations, she sat on the floor lamenting,
“Oh my God, all the lines are leaking, everything gone, what will happen to me now! My only money is also go-o-o-ne!”

Her anguish was a stark reminder of the real India — far removed from metropolitan comfort, where every transaction carried immense significance.

Then there was Ghenna Mandal. “Ghenna” in Bengali means hatred or contempt. Her name alone spoke volumes about her life’s struggles.

She came to me with a land dispute involving her brother. “Sir, we are seven sisters and one brother. I am the youngest sister, after me the brother. Please, sir, check if anything can be done,” she pleaded. Her husband had abandoned her, and she was raising her children on meagre earnings.

Curious about her unusual name, I asked, “Who named you?”

“Mother. After six years,” she replied, her eyes downcast.

Ghenna’s name reflected deep-rooted gender bias — a society that still views daughters as burdens, placeholders until a son is born. Such names, often steeped in prejudice, carry a lifetime of societal weight.

These experiences taught me that my true India is not the one depicted in movies or seen in urban gloss. It exists in the rural heartlands, in the faces of people like Ghenna Mandal, who struggle against societal norms while maintaining resilience and hope.

Names are more than identifiers; they are stories, legacies, and sometimes burdens. Rural banking offered me a unique lens into these narratives — a window into culture, hardship, and humanity.

Schemes like Sukanya Samriddhi Yojana and Kanyashree aim to empower girls and provide them a chance at prosperity. Real change begins here.

Let us save the girl child. Let us teach the girl child. This is my Bharat, my India — a land of stories, struggles, and enduring hope.