It was one of those lazy afternoons when the WhatsApp group of my old batchmates started buzzing with nostalgia. The messages came in fast and furious, as they often do in these moments of shared memory. The topic? Our training days—those formative months of 1985-86, when we were all fresh-faced and ready to take on the world as Management Trainees at Punjab National Bank. The group chatter had a life of its own, weaving in and out of fond recollections of the wild, carefree days that, in hindsight, seemed almost like a dream.

Then Mukesh — always the shy gentleman, the introvert, and a quiet yet steady figure in my memories — sent me a message that stirred it all up again: a “clean certificate,” he called it, with that familiar mischievous twinkle behind the words, a playful reference to the escapades we had shared. In an instant, I was transported back to those crisp February and March days of 1986, to the lively Paltan Bazar branch in Dehradun, where Mukesh and I had been posted together, learning the intricacies of Foreign Exchange Operations.

The Paltan Bazar Experience: Not an Average Branch

The Paltan Bazar branch wasn’t your average bank branch. It was a bustling hub in the heart of Dehradun, complete with nine extension counters, evening services, and even a quirky mobile counter housed in a bus. For Mukesh and me, it was the perfect playground to learn the ropes of Foreign Exchange as Management Trainees.

As Management Trainees, we were a bit of a paradox—officers in title, but still green behind the ears. The seasoned promotee officers at the branch weren’t always thrilled about these fresh-faced rookies walking in with their officer titles. The atmosphere was ripe for competition, and we quickly realised that we were expected to prove ourselves.

In many other branches, many management trainees would have been relegated to tedious clerical tasks—filing, ledger work, the kind of menial work that felt a world away from the technical skills we were supposed to be learning. But Paltan Bazar was different. Here, there was a mix of senior direct officers— earlier batches of Management Trainees, and that made all the difference. We were treated with a bit more respect—or at least, less suspicion. The pressure was still on, but it didn’t feel quite as stifling.

Sukhsadan: Our Happy Abode

Our home away from home during those early days was a modest lodge named Sukhsadan, or “Happy Abode.” It wasn’t anything fancy—far from it—but it became ours, tucked just a short walk away from the branch. The lodge had its own unique charm, offering warmth, laughter, and the kind of comfort that comes only from good company and shared experiences. The atmosphere wasn’t luxurious, but it had everything we needed.

The place mainly housed bachelors—what we affectionately called “forced bachelors,” many of whom had been posted in Dehradun from Delhi. We often referred to it as “Dukhi Atmao ka Sadan”—a place for sad souls, fitting for the lonely men far from home.

In the room next to mine was a man who couldn’t have been more different from me—a quiet, disciplined officer from the State Bank of India. Despite our contrasting personalities, we ended up sharing a routine, taking the same DTC bus from Dehradun to Delhi every Saturday and then returning early Monday morning.

Our Weekend Escapades: Mussorie, Rishikesh, & Haridwar

Despite the demanding training, we always found time for spontaneous adventures. One Sunday, we decided on an impromptu trip to Mussoorie. There was no plan, just a spur-of-the-moment decision, but it turned out to be a memory we would cherish forever. After a long bus ride, we arrived in the hill station, where the cool mountain air offered a refreshing contrast to the heat of Dehradun.

Another weekend, we made our way to Rishikesh and Haridwar during the Kumbh season. Haridwar was buzzing with devotion, but thankfully, it wasn’t the day of the major “Shahi Snan,” so the crowds weren’t overwhelming.

We once stopped at a small, nondescript restaurant called “Satkar” for a meal. The food and service were unremarkable, and the ambience downright shabby. We couldn’t resist calling it “Balatkar” (a crude joke, of course) about the unimpressive surroundings and poor food taste. Despite the lacklustre experience, it became one of those moments we couldn’t forget, largely because of the laughter and shared jokes it sparked.

A Mischief-Filled Routine

Mukesh, always punctual and professional, was the epitome of obedience. While we didn’t exactly run in the same circles, we were batchmates and so became friends, despite our contrasting personalities. He would arrive at his desk in the Foreign Exchange department by 9:45 a.m. every day, calm, composed, and ready to take on the challenges of the day. Me? I was the one always on the lookout for the next bit of fun, even if it meant bending the rules a little.

Every morning, I followed a routine of sorts, though it was far from conventional. I’d mark my attendance, throw a quick smile at the officers, and then—like clockwork—sneak out the back door. The winter sun in Dehradun was too tempting to ignore, and the nearby tea stall had an irresistible pull. There, I’d sip chai, puff on a cigarette, and chat with anyone who was around—clerks, peons, even the occasional passerby. By 10:15 or 10:20, once the branch had settled into its rhythm, I’d casually slip back in, warmed by the sun and the nicotine, and take my place in the Foreign Exchange department.

Poor Mukesh, on the other hand, had no such escape. His punctuality and strong work ethic made him the ideal target for the sub-manager. Whenever someone was on leave, Mukesh would invariably find himself stepping in to handle the tedious tasks—sorting vouchers, balancing ledgers, and covering for others. Meanwhile, I managed to avoid such responsibilities with ease, and though I felt a twinge of guilt, my mischievous nature always got the better of me.

During our training, we were joined by another batchmate, Prakash Chandra Sia. There wasn’t much foreign exchange business at his branch at the time, so the Senior Regional Manager transferred him to our branch. His arrival was welcome, but he also had the same fate as Mukesh.

Building Bonds Over Chai

My frequent tea breaks weren’t just a retreat; they also helped me make friends. The staff at Paltan Bazar—clerks, peons, even the security guards—warmed up to me. I’d strike up casual conversations about cricket, the weather, or the rising price of vegetables. In return, they’d keep me off the clerical roster, especially Nanda ji. Occasionally, I’d help them out with small tasks, but it was never anything official. These moments of connection, forged over steaming cups of chai and shared laughter, became my shield against the less glamorous aspects of training

Dehradun Evenings: A Different Kind of Adventure

The evenings in Dehradun had a charm all their own. As the sun dipped behind the hills, the streets grew quieter, and by 9 p.m., auto-rickshaws were nowhere to be seen. Private cars, of course, were a luxury for the few, making getting around a bit of a challenge. But that only added to the adventure. Gupta ji, a senior officer from Delhi, and I would often head out to catch a movie in the evening. Mukesh used to retire to his room after office. There was a billboard right at the corner of the road next to the branch, plastered with movie posters. We’d stand there, deliberating over which film to watch, like kids at an ice cream stall, before settling on one and heading to the cinema.

Tickets were easy to come by since the shows usually wrapped up around 9:30 p.m., but the downside was that public transport had stopped by then, leaving us stranded. Yet, in its own way, that became part of the charm. The walk back to Sukhsadan under the starlit sky, the cool Dehradun breeze kissing our faces, felt like the very essence of freedom. We’d chat and laugh about the day’s events, our voices rising and falling in the quiet night, until we reached the lodge. One evening, Mukesh joined us for a night out. We all headed to the cinema to watch Meri Jung, starring Anil Kapoor and Meenakshi Sheshadri.

There was an old cinema next to our branch building. I once pulled off a bit of mischief by sneaking in to catch a matinee of Padosan, slipping back to the branch by 6 p.m. The manager of the Loans and Foreign Exchange department, Mr. Mangal Singh, was usually absent during the afternoon but returned around 6 p.m., often working late into the night. He never seemed to notice my absence. When I returned, he gave me a warm smile and a nod of approval, thinking I’d been diligently at work the whole time. I, of course, kept the secret of my afternoon cinema adventure to myself and to my immediate boss, Mr. Rawat, the department head, feeling rather proud of the little deception.

Breaking Barriers with Mangal Singh

Mangal Singh was a no-nonsense manager. He was known for his strict control over the branch’s credit files, particularly the letters of credit, which he never allowed anyone else to handle. He took full responsibility for them himself. I had a strong desire to learn about Foreign Letters of Credit, but even the officer in the Foreign Exchange Department wasn’t allowed access to those files.

So, I decided to wait patiently, often staying back late until Gupta ji was free, just so we could catch a movie together. My late sittings, though for entirely different reasons, gave me the perfect opportunity to slowly work on building a rapport with Mangal Singh. I started appreciating his work ethic, recognising his dedication and sincerity, and acknowledging his no-nonsense approach in subtle ways.

Eventually, my persistence paid off. Much to everyone’s surprise, Mangal Singh allowed me to finally see and handle the foreign letters of credit. It was a breakthrough—a moment that caught the attention of the whole department, and one that felt like a personal victory for me.

The Trap & The Lucky Break

As the days passed, my mischievous routine didn’t go unnoticed. Some of the promoted officers, perhaps fed up with my morning disappearances, decided to hatch a plan. They were waiting for me to slip up, to allow them to stick me with the clerical work I had managed to avoid thus far. But life, as it often does, had other plans.

One day, the Incharge of the Foreign Exchange department, Rawat ji, requested a week’s leave. Foreign Exchange wasn’t your average department—it was technical, complex, and demanded a certain level of expertise. There were rate calculations to handle, encrypted codes to verify, and coordination with the Head Office. The Chief Manager, in a bind, called me into his office and asked, “Can you handle the department while he’s gone?”

Without skipping a beat, I responded, “Absolutely, sir.” The words came out with a confidence I wasn’t entirely sure I had, but I wasn’t about to back down from a challenge. The Chief Manager seemed relieved, and Mr. Rawat, the department head, thrilled that he could take leave without worry, was all too happy to approve it.

In the blink of an eye, I, a mere Management Trainee, was entrusted with running the Foreign Exchange department for a whole week. It was unheard of, a rare opportunity, and one that shut down any plans my detractors might have had. They were forced to watch as I stepped into a role that they couldn’t undermine. It was a triumph of luck and timing, but more than that, it was a testament to the importance of seizing opportunities when they present themselves.

Mukesh Malhotra: The Unlikely Harmony

Throughout this, Mukesh played his part without a fuss. His steady nature complemented my chaotic approach to life. He kept things grounded while I flitted through them. Together, we made an unlikely but effective duo—he kept things steady while I embraced the unpredictable.

And though we had our differences—his methodical approach to work and my penchant for spontaneity—I knew that we both wanted the same thing: to make the most of our time, to learn, and to succeed in the complex world of banking. We may have followed different paths, but in the end, we arrived at the same destination: an experience that shaped us and taught us lessons we would carry with us for the rest of our careers.

The Farewell: A Moment of Gratitude

As our training came to an end, we were given a farewell by our senior direct officers, Rawat ji and Revaji, on March 28th. It wasn’t a grand affair, but it was deeply personal. Revaji had even asked Rawat ji to get us packets of Dehradun’s special atta biscuits—a small gesture, but one that spoke volumes about the bond we had formed during our time together. That simple farewell marked the close of one chapter in our lives, but its impact would echo through the years.

When I shared this story in our WhatsApp group, Mukesh’s response came swiftly: “Well, I did not remember this sweet and little mischievous tactics adopted by you at Paltan Bazar.” His words were a reminder that, despite the years that had passed, those early days of friendship and fun still held a special place in both our hearts.

Lessons from Paltan Bazar

Looking back, it wasn’t just the training that shaped us. It was the laughter, the adventures, and the lessons learned in the fleeting days at Sukhsadan. From tea-stall chats to cinematic escapes, from dodging clerical work to running a department, those months taught us resilience, camaraderie, and the courage to embrace the unexpected. Here’s to Paltan Bazar, where I learned to balance mischief with ambition, and where friendships and memories were forged that still shine bright today.