The city had just begun to stir when the first light of dawn kissed the glass towers that defined its skyline. Life moved at an unrelenting pace here — cars honked impatiently, street vendors shouted their morning greetings, and people hurried past one another, lost in their own thoughts. Yet among the endless rush, few noticed the quiet old man who walked every morning past the crowded intersection near the central bank.
His name was Ramprasad, though few knew it. To most, he was simply “that old man” — a frail figure in faded clothes who carried a small cloth bag and walked with deliberate, unhurried steps. His hair, silver and untamed, fluttered in the breeze as he made his way toward the same building each day: The Imperial City Bank, one of the most prestigious financial institutions in town.
Inside, marble floors gleamed, perfume and polish mingled in the air, and people in tailored suits moved briskly between counters. The atmosphere spoke of wealth, precision, and order — yet beneath it all, there existed an invisible wall that separated the “important” from the “ordinary.”
That morning, as the clock neared 11, the security guard at the gate noticed Ramprasad standing outside once again. His clothes were simple — a worn kurta and sandals that had clearly seen better days. In his hands, he held an envelope that looked aged but carefully preserved. The guard frowned slightly.
“Baba, where are you going again?” he asked, his tone polite but distant.
“To meet the manager,” Ramprasad replied softly, his voice carrying the calm confidence of someone used to being ignored.