The Quest for Integrity

By Jaswinder

As Purshottam diligently works to improve performance and raise morale at the Bank of the Nation's Amlawar branch, his attempts are hindered by a conspiracy of trade union officials, politicians, and even some of the bank's senior officers whose ambitions are threatened.

Among those who align against the reformer is Neki Lal, whose rise from a life of poverty to become a union leader and vicious attack on Purshottam vividly illustrates how success all-too-often comes to be valued above ethics and morality in Indian society.

Another engaging character is Ramesh Trivedi. An ambitious bank officer who owes his allegiance to Lal, Trivedi is tempted into collaboration with powerful Public Party leader Gulshan Kumar. But when his conscience brings a change of heart, the results are shocking.

A riveting tale of power, corruption, and the need for social change, The Quest for Integrity is about the confrontation between confusion and clarity, shining a light on the culture of corruption and illuminating a path toward healing this terrible scourge on the human soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781528959476

Jaswinder

Jaswinder holds a master's degree in Mass Communication and Journalism, and currently lives in Canada. Having worked in senior management of a bank in India for over eighteen years, Jaswinder had the opportunity to interact with different sections of people all over India and abroad, and was deeply affected by victims of misrepresentations, lying, faking, and cheating everywhere. Jaswinder sees it as a disease of human society that dishonesty is accepted as a necessary value for living comfortably. This novel expresses the strong view that we must stop considering corruption as a value and recognize that through it, we are only torturing each other.

Book preview

Resolution

About the Author

Jaswinder holds a master’s degree in Mass Communication and Journalism, and currently lives in Canada.

Having worked in senior management of a bank in India for over eighteen years, Jaswinder had the opportunity to interact with different sections of people all over India and abroad, and was deeply affected by victims of misrepresentations, lying, faking, and cheating everywhere.

Jaswinder sees it as a disease of human society that dishonesty is accepted as a necessary value for living comfortably. This novel expresses the strong view that we must stop considering corruption as a value and recognize that through it, we are only torturing each other.

About the Book

As Purshottam diligently works to improve performance and raise morale at the Bank of the Nation’s Amlawar branch, his attempts are hindered by a conspiracy of trade union officials, politicians, and even some of the bank’s senior officers whose ambitions are threatened.

Among those who align against the reformer is Neki Lal, whose rise from a life of poverty to become a union leader and vicious attack on Purshottam vividly illustrates how success all-too-often comes to be valued above ethics and morality in Indian society.

Another engaging character is Ramesh Trivedi. An ambitious bank officer who owes his allegiance to Lal, Trivedi is tempted into collaboration with powerful Public Party leader Gulshan Kumar. But when his conscience brings a change of heart, the results are shocking.

A riveting tale of power, corruption, and the need for social change, The Quest for Integrity is about the confrontation between confusion and clarity, shining a light on the culture of corruption and illuminating a path toward healing this terrible scourge on the human soul. 

Dedication

We are not living in harmony on this planet and too often hurt each other. This book is dedicated to all those noble people who struggle to eradicate pain from human relations and endeavor to make this world a beautiful place to live.

Copyright Information

Copyright © Jaswinder (2019)

The right of Jaswinder to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528910095 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528959476 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogues are products of author’s imagination and are not to be considered as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Chapter 1

Amlawar City

October 1990

A crowd milled around in the shade of the tin roof over Platform One at Amlawar City’s railway station. Some of the men wore business suits; others were dressed in T-shirts and knee-length shorts or Western-style casual clothes. Several wore turbans of ruby red, ochre, saffron, or other striking colors. Women in bright saris and scarves or Western fashions, some expensive, some not, waited in the afternoon heat while mothers craned their necks to keep restless children in sight.

Little groups, either seeing off or waiting for relatives, chatted animatedly while teenage girls flocked to the bookseller’s stall to amuse themselves with the Times of India. Some travelers paced around, and a handful peered anxiously down the track, as if to will the train into view. The few wooden benches fixed to the platform held small clusters of tired women and elderly or handicapped people, some with canes, one man with crutches.

A ragged beggar sat in a corner, an alms bowl set in front of him and his fingerless hands held up to all who passed by. He loudly blessed each person who dropped coins into his bowl. Nearby, a group of coolies in red, tunic-like kurtas sat on the ground, ready to spring up and hawk their porter services.

The crowd hushed for the announcement that the Shatabdi Express from Delhi to Udyog Shaher was arriving on Platform One. The coolies sprang into action and rushed to the incoming or the outgoing luggage. At exactly four o’clock, the train pulled into the station and trumpeted its arrival with a loud whistle. Tea sellers chanted Chai, Biscuit, and Double roti. Coolies rushed into the train ahead of the passengers.

The executive compartment of the train was next to the railway engine. Perhaps a third of the passengers in that compartment came from Delhi, and Purshottam Gill was one of them.

Men in business suits were the first targets for the coolies, and one with a hopeful face ran to the tall, well-dressed man, who nodded politely, pointed to his bag and briefcase, and then indicated the taxi stand. He hailed a black Ambassador cab to take him to the City View Hotel, where Room 305 was already booked.

The room was fairly large, neat and clean, with a blue rug on the floor. A bunch of fresh roses, half white and half red, nestled among green leaves in a china vase on the table at the center of the room

Purshottam retrieved his toiletries and took a hot shower to ease his tension and his aching back. Refreshed, he dressed himself in a white cotton kurta pajama, the knee-length tunic pulled over loose pants cuffed at the ankle. He ordered tea over the intercom and finally began to relax. In a few minutes, tea in hand, he went up to the roof of the hotel for a look at his surroundings.

People flowed in all directions. The bazaar below looked like a painting, with its immense display of colorful produce and other foods. To one side of the hotel, huge buildings were inhabited by the rich and elite, and elegant chauffeur-driven luxury cars moved along those roads. The other side of the hotel overlooked mud houses of slum dwellers. Barefoot children in shabby clothes played marbles beside a garbage heap. A woman at the side of the road bathed under the municipal-corporation water tap, her body covered by a dirty sari for the sake of modesty.

Amlawar City is a large commercial hub of India; the population of the city at that time was slightly more than one million. The inhabitants of Amlawar, like any other place in the country, ranged from the very rich to the very poor. Some enjoyed good fortune, good health, and good looks. Others, victims of poor education, poverty, and disease, could hardly make ends meet. There were those who had drivers for their luxury cars and there were those who couldn’t afford a bicycle and had to walk the miles between their homes and workplaces every day.

The city connected to the rest of the world by way of an airport, a railway line, and a national highway. A forest bordered it to the north, and the other sides were hemmed by agricultural fields. Farmers in the small villages provided the city people with milk, vegetables, and other foods, while the city provided consumer goods, machinery, and other services to the villagers. The villagers came to the city for shopping, to settle their disputes, for higher-education facilities, and for medical treatment

Purshottam mused about the crowd below. Well-dressed people shopped in the bazaar − rich people got proper nourishment, good medical facilities, and a good education. They were active and intelligent and therefore more productive. They aspired to and achieved success.

The industrialists of Amlawar were well known in the commercial circles of the country and their products, primarily hosiery, bicycles, machine tools, and machinery parts had a reputation for high quality all over the world. Chartered accountants, company secretaries, and engineers contributed greatly to the growth and prosperity of this industrial city.

He’d always taken an interest in Amlawar and had spent two years in the city during his college days, fifteen years earlier, when he’d received his master’s degree in English from Government College. Back then, he’d lived in a rented room along with a fellow student.

Looking down on the city now, Purshottam thought back to the time he’d once spent in this city and contemplated his future in Amlawar − to spend the next several years here among the fortunate and unfortunate, the good and the bad, the workers, preachers, saints, pickpockets, and armed dacoit thugs.

I am now part of this city and all its diversity. I must share my life with people who have different sets of values, who believe in different religions and worship different gods. I will live with and interact with these people, happy or sad, high or low. I am now part of the crowd

Lost in his thoughts, he went back to his room and switched on the TV. A few minutes later, he heard a knock at the door, opened it, and beckoned the visitor inside.

A dark man, frail and wrinkled, stepped into the room. Sahib, I am your room servant. I have come to tell you that whenever you need anything, press this button. He pointed to a switch on the wall near the head of the bed. I will immediately come to serve you, sahib.

Purshottam switched off the TV and asked, What is your name?

Ram Chander, sahib.

Ram Chander, where are you from?

I am from Ayodhya, sahib. It is in the Uttar Pradesh state.

How long have you been in Amlawar?

I have been in Amlawar for the last thirty years, sahib. I was sixteen years old when I first came to this place and started to work as a casual laborer. After ten years, I began pulling a rickshaw. I pulled the rickshaw for eighteen years before I fell ill and it became difficult for me. By God’s grace, I got this job. It is very comfortable. God is very kind, and I am happy now. Pulling a rickshaw is also very nice, sahib, but now my body does not cooperate with me enough to pull it. I worked very hard and made a lot of money by rickshaw.

Surprised, Purshottam quickly did the math. If the man had come to the city at age sixteen and that was thirty years ago, he must be forty-six. From Ram Chander’s appearance, Purshottam would have guessed seventy. He suppressed a sigh.

What did you do with that money? Purshottam asked.

Sahib, I go to home almost every year and take so many gifts for my children. A spark of excitement lit up Ram Chander’s face, and he gave Purshottam a wide smile. One time I bought a radio for them, the next time a bicycle, and then a watch. I gave them so many things, sahib. This city of Amlawar has given me so much money. All these thirty years, I have been supporting my family. Now they have a bicycle, a radio, and a watch. God willing, I will buy a TV for them one day.

Though his eyes rested on Ram Chander’s beaming face, for a moment Purshottam pictured a stooped gardener he’d known here during his college days. About ten migrant laborers lived near his room then, and Purshottam often sat and talked with them in the evening. After a year’s hard work, a migrant laborer would be overjoyed when it came time to go back home on vacation. He’d dress in his best clothes and spend his entire year’s savings on gifts for the family. Bicycles, radios, and watches were important possessions and made the families happy, at least for a while. All workers aspired to buy at least one such treasure after a year of hard work.

During a recent business trip to California, Purshottam had come across some Mexican laborers who worked in the strawberry fields. They earned more than a hundred dollars a day, at a time when the cost of a decent brand-new bicycle was $139.99. An ordinary day laborer could buy a bicycle, a radio, or a watch from two days’ pay. What was the difference between laborers in the United States and these laborers? Was it a difference in productivity, or could it be some kind of exploitation? Or was it merely fate?

After Ram Chander left, Purshottam turned the TV on again and channel-hopped but found nothing of interest. He tried reading a book but couldn’t get interested in that, either. He went to bed, then found it difficult to sleep.

The sun finally rose, and the birds began to chirp with a symphony of voices − music to early risers but irritating noise to those who treasured their last few minutes of sleep. Flocks of crows left the thick trees where they’d spent the night and flapped away to search for food.

The city awakened, and people began to leave their homes, full of hopes and aspirations for love and life.

Purshottam rose and took a glass of water out to a chair on the veranda and the freshness of the new day. He had his own hopes and aspirations.

Ram Chander came out with a cup of tea. Purshottam wanted someone to talk to, so he asked, Ram Chander, how are you today?

I am well, sahib. He smiled and waited patiently by the tea tray.

Do you live alone in Amlawar?

My family is at Ayodhya, and I am living with four other people from my village. We have rented a room in Janta Colony.

How many children do you have?

I have three sons and one daughter, sahib. Ram Chander’s eyes brightened. The eldest son, Bhoj, is twenty-five years old. He is looking after my small land-holdings and taking care of the family in Ayodhya. He pulled a worn snapshot from his shirt pocket; it looked grubby from handling. These are my children, sahib. You can see how cute the younger ones are.

You keep this photo in your pocket all the time?

Yes, sahib. Whenever I have a strong desire to see my children, I look at this photo.

A twinge of compassion touched Purshottam. The little ones are very cute, he said, and Bhoj is a handsome young man. I’m sorry that you have to live apart from the family you love so much.

Sahib, we cannot get everything in life that we desire. We have to sacrifice something for earning a living, sahib. Ram Chandler looked at Purshottam with a smile and an expression like that of an innocent child.

You have no problems in Amlawar?

Yes, sahib, no problems. I am quite happy. My work is quite easy, and I am provided with good food in the hotel, as much as I want. By the grace of God, we have a good life.

After Ram Chander left, Purshottam thought about him for a while. He was impressed by the man’s contentment with his life. Still pondering, Purshottam went out for a brief walk before he got ready to report for duty at the Amlawar Clock Tower branch of the Bank of the Nation. He’d been sent from Delhi to take charge as branch manager.

Chapter 2

Bank of the Nation

October 1990

Ramesh Trivedi had managed the Amlawar Clock Tower Branch of the Bank of the Nation from January 1981 until mid-December 1984. Business operations of the branch remained stagnant during that period although employee relations were good. Over the next four years, the bank went through four managers who failed to control it. The most recent manager, Shyam Arora, had taken charge of the branch in January 1989. Now Purshottam Gill was about to undertake the challenge.

A white Ambassador sedan brought Sameer Bedi, chief vigilance officer of the Bank of the Nation, and Ranjit Rai, the regional manager, to Amlawar at nine o’clock in the morning. They were here to resolve serious problems that the branch auditors had reported to the head office, as well as to meet Purshottam. About two hundred yards before they reached the branch, the car slowed at a group of people shouting protest slogans in front of another bank. The only words they could make out were zindabad (‘long live’) and murdabad (‘down with’ or ‘death to’). They continued past the demonstrators to their own bank’s branch and went straight to the manager’s empty office, where they were offered seats on a comfortable couch and then served tea.

Bedi spoke first. There is great unrest among the staff of banks in Amlawar. When I come here, I always see people demonstrating in front of one bank or another, sometimes several. It looks as though agitation is chronic in this city.

Ranjit said, That isn’t the case in Amlawar alone; it’s everywhere in India. These are simply pressure tactics by the unions. As soon as their demands are accepted, they make others. It goes on forever. Amlawar is an industrial city, and its unions are stronger than in other cities, so the problem’s more acute here.

It looks odd to me when I see people dressed in expensive suits and ties shouting slogans as if they were exploited workmen.

They have to comply with the union directives. Most of them don’t even know what the issues against management are.

But what can local management do to meet their demands?

Ranjit said, I know that local managers of public-sector banks are not vested with power to increase salaries or benefits for employees. After all, any increase in benefits to employees would also be in the interest of the local managers, because they get a proportional increase.

Bedi lifted his hands in a gesture of frustration. But these agitators make it hard for local managers to do their job.

That’s called politics, my friend, which isn’t easy to understand. In politics . . . Ranjit left his sentence unfinished as a tall man entered the office. He looked pleased to see the newcomer. It’s good you’ve arrived, Purshottam. We’ve been waiting for you.

I came as you asked, sir. Purshottam shook hands with them.

Ranjit waved Purshottam to a chair beside him and continued, This branch is out of control. No one cares about the rules and regulations of the bank. As a result, fraud has taken place. Everything is in a mess; there’s no increase in business, and the branch shows losses. The result of that is that management decided to replace the branch manager with a competent officer who can deliver results. After considerable deliberation at top-management level, and keeping in view your excellent past record, you have been selected to head this branch. It’s a challenging assignment, but we’re confident that you’ll bring the branch back to normal operation very soon.

I’m happy to hear that you have confidence in me, sir. I will be happier still if I’m able to prove myself worthy of it, Purshottam said.

We’ll discuss the irregularities with you in detail, and I’ll guide you in the ways they can be rectified, Bedi said.

Ranjit added, If you encounter any problems, please feel free to call me, but first, we must brief you on the current situation.

Purshottam nodded in agreement.

At ten minutes to ten, Arora arrived. Ranjit looked at him and said, How are you, Arora?

Arora didn’t look at him. Shamefaced, he dropped his gaze to the floor and replied in a low voice, You know, sir, how I am.

While they talked, four employees − three men and a pleasant-faced woman around thirty who walked with a limp − came in to meet the officers. Ranjit introduced them. This is Gulzar, the branch-level secretary of the employees’ union; Mahesh, who works at the savings bank counter; Chanchal, our cashier; and Rita, a clerk-typist. He swept a hand toward Purshottam. And this is your new manager, Purshottam Gill.

Purshottam nodded a greeting, and they responded with the traditional folded-hands tribute − palms flat together − then left to attend to their work.

Arora. Ranjit’s tone was stern. I regret that you could not keep things under control, which resulted in this situation. The heavy losses in this branch indicate negligence on your part. It has been decided to place you under suspension, and we have now posted Purshottam to head the branch. You will please hand over the keys, important documents, and the charge of branch administrative matters to Purshottam.

Sad-faced, Arora handed over the keys and informed Purshottam of the most-pending matters.

By ten-fifteen, about thirty of the fifty staff members had arrived for work. Some wished a good morning to the officers sitting in the manager’s office.

Should I take Purshottam and introduce him to the staff? Arora asked.

Ranjit nodded.

While they toured the banking hall, Arora told Purshottam that the Amlawar Clock Tower branch was one of the oldest branches of the bank. It maintains around eight thousand accounts of different types of customers. There are twelve officers, thirty-three clerks, two armed guards, and three messengers or other subordinate workers, peons, at this branch.

Arora then introduced the new manager to the staff one by one.

The main floor of the banking hall handled deposits, collection, and remittances. An L-shaped counter accommodated fifteen clerical counters and four cash counters. Six tables for the officers were behind the counters, while loans, foreign exchange, and government business were conducted on the second floor. There were no computers − the entire work of the bank was carried out manually, including balancing accounts and daybook entries, as well as calculating interest on deposits and advances.

Arora led him to different counters, where Purshottam saw signs of carelessness and disarray. An empty bottle of glue lay on one counter, a dried-out inkpad on another. Paper clips were scattered here and there. Some old registers and newspapers had been tossed onto a table with a broken leg. He looked into the bathroom; the toilets were stinking and in urgent need of maintenance. A broom had been left on the dirty floor.

When the two returned to the banking hall, a customer was shouting at a counter clerk. Today is the fourth time I have come to get my passbook updated! Tell me once and for all, when can you update it? If you do not want my account, tell me so, and I will move to some other bank.

Another customer waiting behind the irate man murmured, "Go to