Preface:
Some months pass like a gentle breeze. March is not one of them. In banking, it roars in with its own kind of monsoon—numbers swirling, deadlines pounding like relentless rain. But sometimes, in the middle of that storm, you discover that the most important reconciliations aren’t in the ledgers, but in the heart. This is one such story.

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March has never been a month—it’s always been a storm. For most people, it’s just the tail end of the year. But in banking, March means war. Year-end closing, targets to meet, reconciliations to chase, and endless streams of numbers that refuse to behave. Even with a Core Banking System doing the arithmetic, the sheer mental and emotional toll is the same. I often say March doesn’t come with days—it comes with deadlines.

This year, the storm felt heavier because the home was quieter.

Deepanvita, our daughter, was away in her college hostel, lost in her own whirlwind of classes, friends, and dreams. Deepa—my wife, my anchor—had finally gone to visit her father after weeks of postponement. Her parents and grandfather had been gently insisting she come, and I could see how much she missed them. I told her to go, even though I knew I’d miss our evening rituals: the shared dinners, the small talk over tea, the warmth of her laughter in the living room.

The days blurred into an endless loop—work, eat, sleep, repeat. Still, Deepa made sure to call every night before bed. That little daily lifeline kept the distance from feeling too wide.

But one night, I failed.

After an exhausting day, I had left my phone on silent after a meeting and collapsed in front of the TV. My eyes closed just for “a minute,” and when I woke in the middle of the night, I saw four missed calls from her. She had gone to sleep. I tried calling back, but it was too late.

The next morning, her voice carried an edge—tight, clipped. She ended the call quickly, before I could explain. I knew she was hurt. But a part of me wished she could also see how worn out I had been.

March 31st arrived, and the chaos was in full swing. Stacks of files, phones ringing off the hook, emails flooding in. And yet, somewhere under all that noise, there was a quiet ache. The tension from that missed call still sat between us like an unopened letter.

When Deepa called again that afternoon, her voice was still sharp. And that’s when I snapped. I ended the call mid-sentence—something I seldom do.

The silence after that was deafening. The hum of the office, the clatter of keyboards, the chatter of colleagues—it all felt distant. I missed her. I missed us. And suddenly, the balance sheet in front of me seemed less important than the imbalance I was carrying inside.

So I stepped outside. The late-afternoon sun was casting long shadows, softening the edges of the buildings. I stood there for a moment, then dialled her number.

This time, I didn’t talk like a banker with a full plate or a husband defending his exhaustion. I spoke like a man who missed his partner. I told her I was tired. Lonely. That I hadn’t meant to shut her out.

She listened. Her silence softened. She said she hadn’t realised how stretched I was. I told her I should have said it sooner. We promised to be gentler with each other, to remember that love, like work, needs tending.

That night, I stayed late to finish the accounts. The numbers still demanded their pound of attention, but my heart felt lighter. The storm hadn’t passed yet, but I knew it would.

And when it did, I’d make time—not for the ledgers, but for the people who fill them with meaning. For Deepa. For Deepanvita. For us.

Because in the grand ledger of life, the true balance is never just financial—it’s emotional.

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Postscript:
The world often measures worth in profits, targets, and closing figures. But when the dust settles, what truly counts is the warmth of the voices that call you home. Numbers can wait; love cannot.