The rain was pouring steadily. A thin stream of water flowed on the street. The branch’s shutter was half-lowered. Inside, the white light of a tubelight flickered. A thin, wet old man stood at the door. His kurta stuck to his old bag in his hand. The guard held out an umbrella and said, “Uncle, time’s up. Come tomorrow. I need to withdraw Rs. 2,000,” the old man said softly. “For medicine.” They were standing in line. The guard also offered. “It was raining, so I’m a little late.” His voice trembled. The manager emerged from inside. A faint scent of perfume wafted from his suit. “What’s the matter?” The guard gestured. “You look like a beggar. You’ve come to withdraw money. I’m not a beggar.” The old man clutched his bag. “I have an account here.” The manager gave a dry laugh. “People tell stories every day about medicine. Come tomorrow.” Two customers inside stopped to watch. One tried to make a video with his phone. The old man cleared the fog from the window and said, “I’ll just fill out the prescription.” “Don’t you understand?” “Close.” The guard pushed him back. His foot slipped on the wet bricks of the sidewalk. The old paper in his hand fell to the ground. A name was written on the corner of the paper: Shridhar Prasad, and a number below: Emergency: Ankit Kumar, DM’s office. A thin boy came running from a nearby tea stall. “Baba, did you get hurt? Nothing, son.” The old man tried to get up. “It’s just that he’s very thirsty.” The boy picked up the fallen paper. He was startled when he read the number and “DM’s office.” “Baba, whose number is this? My son’s,” the old man exhaled. “He’s the DM of this very district.” The boy’s eyes widened. People standing inside the bank door also exchanged looks. The manager’s forehead sweated slightly, but his voice remained firm. “Stop the drama. Get out.” The rain intensified. The old man tried to protect his bag from getting wet. The boy took out his mobile phone and dialed the same number. The phone was on speaker. A calm, professional voice came from the other end. “DM’s office,” the boy said quickly. “Ma’am, an old man was kicked out of the bank here. His card has your number on it. Name: Shridhar Prasad.” There was silence for a few seconds. Then the same voice suddenly softened. Where are you? At the State Bank Civil Lines branch gate. The boy said, “It’s raining. Please stay there. We’re sending someone immediately.” The reply came from the other side. The boy hung up and put the old man under the umbrella. Baba, you sit here. Inside, the manager said to the guard, “Lower the shutter. Don’t let unnecessary crowds gather.” The guard released the chain. The shutter came down with a click. There was only a half-foot gap. Baba, your ATM card?” the boy asked. The old man took out an old bundle from the inner pocket of his bag. The card was there, but the chip was a little worn out at the edge. The passbook pages were sealed. The date was clear. After all, the entry was 2 months old. A clerk peeped in from inside and said, “Sir, the CCTV is being recorded. The manager got irritated. Let it be, no rules are being broken.” Hearing this, the boy leaned against the shutter. “If I have to make a video, I will,” he said softly. The guard glared at him. “Move away from here.” Within a minute, two scooters came gliding by. A representative of the District President Bankers’ Committee and a Deputy Tehsildar from the Tehsil office. He had Radha pick up the shutter. “Who is the manager?” The manager came forward. “I’m going to tell you everything,” he said. “According to the rules, in the case of senior citizen rain and branch closing, it’s in the banking instructions to issue a token and give priority the next day.” The representative simply asked, “Why didn’t you give me a token?” The manager was silent. Seeing the old man outside, drenched, his voice softened. The staff was sparse and crowded. The boy showed his passbook. “Your branch seal is on his passbook.” The Deputy Tehsildar pointed to the CCTV room. “The footage will be checked.” No siren yet, just a white car quietly pulled up. No show. A young woman, drenched, was standing.

She came, stepping carefully onto the sidewalk. She was accompanied by two staff members and a driver. The boy whispered, “It must be her.” The woman smiled and placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Baba, are you alright?” The old man nodded. “I’m fine, my daughter.” The manager folded his hands. “Madam, please clear the air.” I mean, it’s a small matter.” The woman looked up. “The matter would have been small if humanity had been greater.” Inside, they placed the passbook on the register table. The clerk read the name, “Sridhar Prasad.” “KYC updated pension account,” the woman looked at the manager. “I’m branch manager Rajiv Khanna,” he said. “The woman remained silent. My name is Ankita Kumar.” The boy held his breath. Some people whispered, “We’ll talk about DM protocol later.” Ankita said, “First, tell me this. An old, drenched man was asking for money for medicine. Why didn’t you give him a token? Why didn’t you open the counter?” The manager cleared his throat. “Madam, time was over.” Staff: “Which rule says a senior citizen drenched in rain should be pushed out the door?” His head was cold. The guard’s gaze lowered. “I just told the CCTV operator, ‘Play the footage from 09:58 to 10:55.’ Everything was clear on the screen. A push, a fall, the falling of paper, and faint laughter. The lobby fell silent. The sound of rain outside grew louder. Ankita gently took the old man’s hand. ‘Baba, please come in,’ she said to the cashier standing behind the counter. ‘This transaction will take place now. Madam, the manager stammered. ‘Rules aren’t made to stop humanity,’ Ankita said calmly. ‘But to give him way.’ The cashier filled out the slip. ‘How much do you want to withdraw?’ The old man hesitated and said, ‘Just 1,000 for the medicine.’ The boy smiled and took his bag, ‘I’ll bring it, Baba.’ Ankita looked at the manager. ‘Rajiv ji, how many years have you been in banking? 12 years,’ she said softly. ‘You must also know that every branch is required to provide a senior citizen help desk and a token facility in emergencies like rain.’ He said clearly, ‘What did you do?’ The manager remained silent. The staff inside slowly approached the old man. Someone offered a towel, someone offered hot water. The clerk pulled out a chair. “Baba, please sit here.” Ankita signed the register. “From today, three things will change. What? Separate counters and chairs for senior citizens. Two: Urgent tokens for seniors who arrive up to 15 minutes before closing time. Three: Customer conduct training for staff. They gave a piece of paper. This is a notice, photo proof of compliance.” By evening, the manager in my office was distraught. “Madam, I made a mistake, please forgive me,” Ankita said. “Apologies are not earned by words, but by correction.” Then the old man softly said, “Daughter, don’t be angry.” Ankita looked at him, her eyes moist. “It’s not anger, Baba, this is accountability.” There was a slow applause in the crowd. Then, slowly, everyone started clapping. The guard came forward. “Baba, it’s my mistake, I’m ashamed.” The old man placed his hand on hers. “I got wet. You’re drenched. Now, both of you will dry off,” the boy brought two glasses of tea. Ankita offered one to her father. “Baba, please drink something hot.” Surprise flashed across the faces of the people standing nearby. The whisper spread like wildfire. The manager was stunned. “Sir, you’re the DM’s father.” Ankita smiled. “Not the DM, but the DM, this madam, and her father.” An awkward silence descended on the room. Then, many eyes lowered in shame. “Baba never let me use his position to do my work,” Ankita said. “Even today, he came quietly to withdraw money. He didn’t tell anyone who I am.” The old man nodded. “I wanted to see how much humanity is left in this city.” He pulled an old, white photo from his bag. This same branch, on its opening day 15 years ago, with torn ribbons and smiling faces. “I was in the Panchayat then. He saw them, with a gentle laugh, laying the first brick in this place.” The staff’s eyes widened. Someone whispered, “Oh, I didn’t know.” Ankita told the manager, “Rajiv ji, your posting is about to be transferred. This incident will go on your record. But if you see a change in behavior here in the next 30 days, it will be proof of your improvement at your next branch.” The manager’s eyes filled with tears. I don’t try, I guarantee it. The boy smiled. “Baba, I’ll take my medicine now.” The old man stroked his head. “My biggest medicine today was that even in all this rain, some hearts were still warm.”