These were the same seniors who, when I had fractured my right hand, would sit around me during lunchtime and literally feed me. Awful and awesome, right? Why should one judge another by just their words? That’s why I remember these moments with fondness, not hurt.

Later, when I performed well in some of the banking exams, these same seniors were genuinely appreciative and happy for me. As I grew within the organization, they all became good friends.

During a stint at a rural branch, I was forced by necessity to learn to ride a motorbike. The organization always bought the heaviest one: the Bullet. Picture a bee on an elephant—that’s what it looked like when I rode it. But somehow, I managed to drive during the daytime. Fortunately, all my staff could drive too, so the responsibility of riding was often shared. However, on one occasion, I made the most basic, unthinking, and careless error of trying to drive at night. Maybe two or three minutes in, I stopped, got down, and handed the bike over to my staff member who was with me. He was thankful because, in his words, I had saved his life. It wasn’t a moment of embarrassment, but one of realization.

Life continued, and I was on the verge of taking voluntary retirement. The Chief of the office where I was working was a peer and a good friend of mine. In our official capacities, we had frequent meetings. On at least a couple of occasions, when he offered me coffee, I managed to spill the entire contents, soiling all the papers lying around. Being my friend, the Chief had to digest—not the coffee—but my clumsiness. But within a few months, I learned to my shock that it wasn’t carelessness; it was glaucoma that was the hidden culprit.

And it was the same glaucoma—how could it be different? —preceded by cataracts and followed by retinal detachment and bleeding, that created even funnier situations as time went on.

To be continued in Part 4.