Inside an RRB Branch: A Daily Battle Against Decay, Disregard and Targets

Welcome to the Regional Rural Banks (RRBs) of India, where dreams come to die and washrooms are a luxury reserved for the imagination.

The Theatre of the Absurd

Picture, if you will, a branch that could charitably be described as "structurally ambitious." The walls, adorned with peeling paint and the faint aroma of administrative neglect, lean inward as if contemplating their own collapse: a sentiment with which the staff can deeply sympathize. The washroom? Well, that's a fascinating concept. In some branches, it doubles as a storage room. In others, it simply doesn't exist because apparently bodily functions are considered an unnecessary indulgence for bankers who should be too busy selling insurance policies to require such frivolities.

We are two soldiers manning the fort, just two in areas where even the local constabulary hesitates to venture past five in the evening. No security guard, naturally. Guards cost money, and money, we're constantly reminded, must be reserved for the “strategic initiatives” dreamt up by individuals whose closest encounter with a rural branch was perhaps glimpsing one from a speeding car on the highway.

Our official working hours are seven. The reality? Nine, ten, sometimes eleven hours of what can only be described as performance theatre designed by Kafka and directed by someone with a particular vendetta against human happiness. We arrive as bankers; we leave as insurance sales people, social security scheme peddlers and occasionally, if time permits, something vaguely resembling financial service providers.

The Gospel According to the Back Office

Every Monday morning arrives with the reliability of a liturgical ritual: a new campaign.

Last week: 100 PMSBY enrolments in a single day.
This week: 50 APYs.
Next week: Maybe recruitment for a pyramid scheme.

The back office, those hallowed halls where the truly enlightened dwell operates on a fascinating principle: branch staff are not human beings but rather deities blessed with multiple arms, infinite patience and the superhuman ability to bend the space-time continuum. How else could we possibly accomplish the incomprehensible targets they bestow upon us with the casual indifference of gods casting lots?

“Why haven’t you completed 100 insurance policies today?”
Because we were busy doing quaint things like banking.

Deposits, Advances, Recovery, Customer service. These used to be “core functions” until someone decided we were actually insurance conglomerates with bank branches as side projects.

The Art of Consensual Enrollment

Let me share a little secret from the trenches, a glimpse behind the curtain of those impressive statistics that make their way into board presentations and government reports. When the back office declares that 100 PMSBY enrollments must materialize by close of business or else we'll be enjoying their delightful company until 8 PM, something magical happens.

We don't question. We don't protest. We don't dare suggest that perhaps, just perhaps, the target might be slightly divorced from ground reality. No, we simply manufacture compliance. Forms are filled, thumbprints are obtained and somewhere in the metaphysical ether, the concept of “informed consent” weeps silently.

This is how data gets “massaged.” This is how numbers get “optimised.” This is how employees with mortgages and children's school fees transform from professionals into desperate conjurers, pulling rabbits from hats and enrollments from thin air. The Chinese labor laws you've heard about? They're practically Club Med compared to the tender mercies of our internal regime.

The Privilege of Leave

Casual leave in our organisation is treated with the solemnity typically reserved for papal dispensations. One doesn't simply take leave; one petitions for it, genuflects appropriately and waits with bated breath whilst the powers that be deliberate whether one's need for rest meets their exacting standards.

Privileged leave? That mythical creature exists primarily in the employee handbook, much like unicorns exist in medieval bestiaries; acknowledged theoretically but notably absent in practice. “Can you not make a cut?” they suggest the diplomatic delicacy of a sledgehammer. “The branch cannot function without you”, a statement rich with irony given that the branch is barely functioning with us, thanks to their studied commitment to keeping us perpetually understaffed.

Meanwhile, a blessed cohort; let's call them the Chosen Ones glide through their careers in a state of perpetual grace. Never transferred to rural outposts. Never relocated beyond their hometown postcode. Ensconced in back offices since time immemorial, ascending promotional scales whilst we mortals toil in branches where the evening shadows bring with them a frisson of genuine danger.

Ask why? Go on, ask. The answer you'll receive will be a masterclass in circular reasoning: “Because that's how it's always been.” The favoritism isn't even subtle anymore; it's practically codified, as official as the Reserve Bank guidelines and twice as ironclad.

(Disclaimer: The views expressed in this article are those of the author.)