In the labyrinthine world of banking, where numbers hold court and regulations cast long, unyielding shadows, there’s one event that sends shivers down even the most seasoned banker’s spine: the audit. At our modest branch office, audits arrive like the monsoons—inevitable, unpredictable, and capable of turning calm waters into a raging storm. The auditors, those gatekeepers of financial integrity, wield their pens like swords, slicing through ledgers and leaving no file unturned. Their unofficial motto? “In God we trust, the rest we audit.” Our bank’s management, however, has its own spin: “In God and auditors we trust; all officers are suspect until proven innocent.” We laugh about it over coffee, but when an auditor steps through the door, the air grows heavy, and the temperature in the room drops a few degrees.

At the heart of our story is Mr. Mathur, our Senior Branch Manager—a grizzled veteran of the banking world with 30 years of service etched into his knowing smile. He’s seen it all: internal audits, statutory audits, concurrent audits, you name it. Each one, he says, is its own peculiar adventure, laced with tension, strategy, and, more often than not, a dash of comedy. Mr. Mathur has faced auditors of every stripe—some lenient, some sticklers, and a few who could be swayed with a glass of premium single malt scotch. Through it all, he’s mastered the delicate art of keeping auditors happy while ensuring the bank’s compliance, a balancing act that requires equal parts diplomacy and cunning.

“Two-thirds of the world is under water,” Mr. Mathur likes to quip, “and the remaining one-third is under audit!” It’s an exaggeration, of course, but it captures the pervasive presence of audits in our world. They come in waves, each with its own mandate and intensity. Internal auditors poke around for internal slip-ups, statutory auditors ensure we’re playing by the government’s rulebook, and concurrent auditors? Well, they’re the ones who linger, scrutinising transactions in real-time like hawks circling their prey. For Mr. Mathur, audits are less about fear and more about preparation—though he’ll admit, even he feels a twinge of nerves when the announcement arrives.

This particular tale begins with a memo from our Regional Manager, Mr. Goel, a man who knows how to roll out the red carpet for auditors. Mr. Goel’s playbook is well-worn: a warm welcome in his plush office, special accommodations at a nearby hotel, and a subtle reminder to all branch managers that a smooth audit is a happy audit. Last year’s auditor, a gentleman with a penchant for single malt scotch, set the gold standard for “smooth.” After the initial meeting, he barely set foot in the branch, conducting his review from the comfort of his hotel suite, a glass of amber liquid in hand. The report? Spotless. As the saying goes in our branch, a happy auditor makes for a happy branch.

But this year, the winds shifted. Mr. Goel’s tone was different when he called Mr. Mathur. “This one’s strict,” he warned, his voice low and serious. “No scotch, no shortcuts. Be ready.” The news sent a ripple of unease through the branch, particularly in the credit department, where the bulk of the audit’s scrutiny would fall. Mr. Mathur huddled with Mr. Saxena, our Loan Manager and resident audit wrangler, for a long, hushed discussion. We didn’t know the details, but the furrowed brows and cryptic nods told us something was afoot. The stage was set for a showdown.

When the auditor arrived, the atmosphere in the branch crackled with tension. He was a wiry man with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanour, the kind of person who seemed to smell discrepancies from a mile away. After a perfunctory round of tea and snacks, he dove into last year’s report, his fingers flipping through pages with surgical precision. Registers, files, ledgers—nothing escaped his gaze. By evening, his face had tightened into a frown, and whispers began to circulate. He’s found something.

For the next two days, the auditor was a force of nature, combing through records and firing off requests for files like a general commanding his troops. Mr. Saxena, tasked with fetching and explaining, dashed around the branch with a frantic energy that belied his oddly calm demeanour. The rest of us watched from the sidelines, holding our breath, waiting for the inevitable storm. Audits, after all, rarely end without a few casualties—a missed signature here, an unfiled form there, each one a potential black mark on the branch’s record.

On the third day, the audit team packed up and left, their expressions unreadable. We braced ourselves for the fallout. Would there be a scathing report? A show cause from the regional office? A reprimand for Mr. Mathur? The uncertainty hung over us like a monsoon cloud, heavy and oppressive.

But then, something unexpected happened. Instead of pacing his office or barking orders, Mr. Mathur called us into his office for tea and snacks. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he leaned back in his chair. “I have a story for you,” he said, and we leaned in, eager for a distraction—and perhaps a clue about the audit’s outcome.

He began with a tale from years ago, about an employee named Shyamal Bose, a man whose audacity was matched only by his creativity. Bose, a permanent employee, had submitted a claim under the bank’s Leave Fare Concession (LFC) policy, a perk that allows employees to travel with their families within India, subject to distance restrictions. The policy was clear: cover the employee, their spouse, and their children. But Bose’s claim? It included expenses for his pet dog.

When the Regional Office caught wind of the claim, they baulked. Pets, they argued, weren’t covered under the Bipartite Settlements, the sacred agreements between banks and their unions. Bose, undeterred, fired back with a logic that was as bold as it was absurd: the rules didn’t explicitly prohibit pets. If his entire family was travelling, he reasoned, someone had to care for the dog. Why not bring it along? To everyone’s astonishment, the employees’ union backed him, turning the claim into a cause célèbre.

The case landed on the desk of the Head Office, where it sparked a flurry of debate. After weeks of deliberation, the verdict came down: the dog’s expenses were a no-go, a clear violation of the rules. But the rest of Bose’s claim—for his family’s travel—was approved. Case closed, or so it seemed.

Then came the twist. Bose later confessed, in a moment of candour, that the dog was a diversion. He’d lost some of his original travel tickets, a requirement for full reimbursement. Fearing a shortfall, he’d cooked up the dog story to draw attention away from the missing tickets, hoping the auditors would be too distracted to notice. It was a gamble, and while it didn’t fully pay off, it earned him a grudging respect among his colleagues for sheer ingenuity.

Mr. Mathur paused, his grin widening. “Saxena Ji,” he said, “played a similar trick.” Our jaws dropped as he explained. The auditor, it turned out, had zeroed in on a minor oversight in the credit department—a clerical error that, while embarrassing, was far from catastrophic. Mr. Saxena, with Mr. Mathur’s blessing, had leaned into the mistake, offering reams of documentation and earnest explanations that kept the auditor’s focus firmly on the small fry. Meanwhile, the bigger fish—potential issues in other areas—slipped through the net unnoticed.

Mr. Goel and Mr. Mathur, it turned out, had seen this coming. Months earlier, they’d flagged the potential issue to the head office, ensuring it was already on record. The auditor, satisfied with his “find,” wrapped up his work without digging deeper. The report, when it arrived, was clean. The branch had dodged the storm.

As we sipped our tea, laughter filled the room. Mr. Mathur’s story was more than a clever anecdote—it was a reminder that banking, for all its rules and rigidity, is a deeply human endeavour. Audits may loom large, but they’re navigated by people—people with quirks, strategies, and, occasionally, a mischievous streak. In the end, it’s not just about numbers; it’s about wit, resilience, and the occasional well-placed distraction. And maybe, just maybe, a canine companion to steal the show.