Ah, the glorious 1980s! The decade when shoulder pads were statements, mullets were majestic, and neon shirts could double as traffic signals. It was also a time when “road trip” meant more than just a destination—it was an adventure powered by questionable judgment, a crumpled map, and blind optimism.

And in one such epic adventure, I, a young Assistant Manager at Punjab National Bank’s Aligarh Main Branch, unwittingly became the proud commander of the most hilariously misguided convoy in banking history.

The Calm Before the Comedy

My life back then was a curious blend of serious business and subtle chaos—foreign exchange deals, trade finance puzzles, and corporate loan negotiations by day; dreaming of being a financial colossus by night. I truly believed I was shaping destinies with the flick of my pen.

And then, one fine day, our Telex machine—the temperamental ancestor of modern email—decided to test my patience. For the uninitiated, the Telex was basically a typewriter with a dial-up addiction. You’d spend 15 minutes trying to connect, another 10 cursing its existence, and by the end, you had a sore finger and a newfound appreciation for pigeons as a communication medium.

But that, dear reader, was just the warm-up act.

Enter: Sharmaji and His Big Fat UP Wedding

Our Branch Manager, Radhey Shyam Sharma, was a genial man with roots in Dhampur, home of the legendary Dhampur Sugar Mill. When his son’s wedding was announced, the invitation came with all the grandeur of a royal summons. There was only one small detail—Dhampur was 225 kilometres away, and the wedding fell right in the middle of a working day.

Of course, being dutiful bankers, we couldn’t just abandon the branch. So, we devised a plan so “brilliant” it should’ve been framed in the staff room. Finish all customer work by 2 PM, balance the cash, close the vault, and hit the road by 3 PM. A small crew would hold the fort while the rest of us drove down, partied like responsible adults, and returned before sunrise.

Simple, right?

From Banking Brigade to Road Trip Circus

The moment word spread, the excitement was electric. Clients volunteered their cars, others lent their drivers, and before I knew it, twelve cars lined up outside the branch like we were leading a presidential motorcade. Someone even joked that I must secretly be the richest man in Aligarh to command such a fleet. I took the compliment, though in truth, it was just efficient “resource management.”

Our first pit stop was the famous Khurja crossing—known for its ceramics, and, more importantly, a roadside shop that sold beer and whiskey.

You can guess what happened next.

In an instant, our convoy transformed into a full-blown baraat on wheels. Bottles clinked, Bollywood songs blasted from car stereos, and our once-professional demeanour melted faster than an ice cube in a whisky glass. Between frequent “nature breaks” and impromptu dance sessions on the highway, a planned five-hour drive stretched into eight.

By the time we rolled into Dhampur past midnight, we were a mix of exhilaration, exhaustion, and mild intoxication.

Drink First, Eat Later!

Sharmaji, bless his generous heart, welcomed us like heroes returning from a conquest. Beaming with pride, he led us straight to the drinks corner, declaring, “Drink first, eat later!”

We tried to explain that we’d already… er… “hydrated” en route, but resistance was futile. A few more pegs later, we had lost all sense of time, distance, and professional decorum. Still, by 2:30 AM, someone (probably me) slurred something about the need to reach Aligarh before morning.

Now, this is where the real comedy began.

The Night of the Infamous Road Signs

The sobering reality of needing to be back in Aligarh before sunrise to open the bank by 10 am was beginning to dawn on our inebriated minds. The only minor snag? We were collectively so tipsy that even the simplest navigational tasks felt like deciphering ancient hieroglyphics. And remember, this was the pre-GPS era. No Google Maps to whisper sweet directions into our ears. No Waze to reroute us around imaginary traffic jams. Just the dimly lit road signs and the dubious kindness of strangers we might encounter in the dead of night.

Picture this: twelve cars, twelve equally tipsy drivers, zero GPS, and a roundabout in the middle of nowhere. We stopped, unsure which road led home. That’s when my inebriated genius hat made an appearance.

“Why don’t we… adjust the signs?” I suggested, with the kind of confidence only whiskey can fuel.

And so we did.

Like a gang of night-time vigilantes (or vandals, depending on your moral compass), we “reoriented” the wooden road signs to suit our interpretation of geography.

One by one, the cars in our merry band of misfits followed the newly “improved” signs like a flock of very confused sheep. By the time we finally stumbled back into Aligarh, the sun was peeking over the horizon, and we were all so utterly fried we could barely remember the route we had taken. But we made it to the bank by 10 am, like true professionals.

But here’s the pièce de résistance. As the morning wore on, a trickle, then a steady stream, of disgruntled colleagues started appearing at the bank, their faces etched with confusion and mild irritation. “These road signs are absolutely useless!” they grumbled, recounting tales of unexpected detours and bewildering journeys.

We nodded sympathetically, offering our deepest condolences—while our hearts performed synchronised panic attacks. The culprits behind the chaos? Yours truly and my merry band of misdirected bankers.

The truth, of course, remained our little secret for a year—until the guilt (and hilarity) finally got the better of us. Eventually, after the memory of the resulting directional confusion had begun to dissipate, we revealed our prank. The ensuing eruption of laughter was profoundly cathartic, though we subsequently acknowledged the immaturity and alcohol-induced nature of our actions, a lapse in judgment never to be repeated.

Moral of the Misadventure

Looking back, it was a ridiculous, wonderful episode of youthful foolishness—equal parts camaraderie, chaos, and comedy. It taught me that sometimes, the best stories come from the detours, not the destinations.

So if you ever find yourself lost on a highway, remember: at least you didn’t “edit” the road signs like a bunch of overzealous bankers on a wedding hangover.

And for heaven’s sake, never trust a convoy of Aligarh bankers with directions after midnight.

If you enjoyed this slice of banking nostalgia, hop aboard the Indrosphere—where tales of travel, food, and life’s delightful detours find a home. Because sometimes, the best memories are the ones that go hilariously off-road.