Answer / umesh

STORY:

Take it, babu, take it! Give me twenty rupees and take it!
How long am I going to sit and watch over this one fish?
Tying the roe-filled kurhi with a tine strip of tender
bamboo, Doiboki wound up her wares with deft hands. She
called across to Mano and her friends at the other end o f
the bazaar, “Are you there, Mano?” but there was no
response. They must have gone home. Now she was on her own,
with the descending darkness. But then, how could she have
sold such fine fish for the price of water? The traders who
used to pay her a fir price had suddenly turned stingy,
behaving as if they were parting with their own flesh.
Apparently, they had to pay someone a huge amount of money.
Doiboki put a tamul, a piece of betel nut, into her mouth
and cursed them roundly. “Bloody mekhela wearers!
Swallowers of their own sputum! They want my fish free!
Damned, miserable, low caste specimens of humanity whose
corpses are consumed by vultures!” Doiboki felt a little
better after her outburst.

Candles and small kerosene lamps lit up the bazaar.
Doiboki’s neighbour Raghubir, the patato and onion seller,
had stuck two candles in his net arched piles of onions and
potatoes. He looked at the candles, his hands folded in a
silent prayer, then turned towards Doiboki. “What’s the
matter, DoibokiBai?? Aren’t you going home today?” Doiboki
slapped her thighs in disgust. “Why, would you like me to
stay and admire your beautiful face instead?”

Mekhela and sador:- the traditional dress worn by Assamese
women.

Through the story, there are references to several
varieties of fish. These are- Kurhi: medium sized
freshwater fish; Kawoi: small fish which lives in tanks,
water bodies, flooded fields but not in running water;
Darikana: a small freshwater fish; Singi: a small fish
which lives in muddy waters and has sharp bones near it’s
mouth; Magur: a scaleless, dark fish, which lives in still,
muddy waters; Kandhuli: medium sized, flat, scaly fish of
silvery colour which lives in freshwater; Barali: big,
scaleless, freshwater fish found in rivers, large tanks and
water bodies; Sang: small fish living in muddy holes;
Puthi: very small, reddish, still water fish with scales;
Pabha: flat, scaleless, white-skinned, freshwater fish;
Mirika: big scaly, silver coloured, freshwater fish; Goroi:
a big freshwater fish of the carp family.

She looked around her. As usual, Jaduram had arranged his
greens and vegetables in neat little piles and was
sprinkling water on them. It was time for the babus of the
town to arrive. Ganesh, the masala dealer who usually sat
between Raghubir and Jaduram had filled up the vacant space
with his lemons arranged in order of size and hue. He had
spent the entire day playing around with his vegetables,
arranging and rearranging them like a child with its toys,
Doiboki thought. A scathing comment rose to her tongue but
she swallowed it in time. “What’s happened to Ganesh today,
oi?” she asked instead.

Raking the small heap of ridge gourds, Jaduram
whispered, “How could he come after the death of all those
army men? When the bomb exploded on the bridge, Ganesh’s
Village was instantly overrun by the military. Life has
become impossible for them.”

A sudden shiver ran through Doiboki. She had heard
similar stories.

It was growing darker inside the bazaar. Doiboki
began to feel a little uneasy. Had the trader bought her
basket of fish, she would have been home by now and lying
on her cane mat, after an evening meal of rice. Mano and
her friends had asked her if she wanted to go home with
them but she had refused, hoping to earn a little more
money. Luckily, it had not been a total loss. She would
have some money left over even after buying her rations. If
she could save a little more money, she would cut open her
bamboo saving box and then she would be able to take her
mother-in-law to the town hospital to get her cataract
removed. Doiboki was already late today. Perhaps the old
woman was trying to cook the evening meal, groping for
things because of her dim eyes. Luckily, Doiboki’s eldest
daughter was there to help the blind woman.

Doiboki bought half a kilo of potatoes. She had been
lucky today, otherwise when did one buy potatoes? The old
woman liked to have mashed potato with salt and mustard oil
mixed in. Yes, it had been a lucky day. She had bought two
kilos of rice; there were some three or four kilos at home
as well. And her son must have caught some fish.

Doiboki made her way out of the bazaar carrying her
bundle of rice and potatoes. Transferring the money from
the tucked-in ends of her mekhela to her blouse, she took
long, rapid strides. The old woman must be nagging the
children at home- Has your mother come? I wonder where
she’s gone and died. The children troubled their
grandmother a great deal, Doiboki thought, her heart
quickening with tenderness.

The streetlights had been on for a long time. The
shops were ablaze with light. Stepping into the glare,
after having been in the weak flickering light of the oil
lamps in the bazaar for such a long time, made Doiboki feel
as if she was being stripped, exposed. There were two
buttons missing from her blouse, and her mekhela, held up
by a single knot, barely covered her thighs. The
inadequate, narrow sador appeared to shift every now and
then, as if to deliberately expose the blouse with its
missing buttons. Doiboki felt as if all the men were gaping
at her and …. did someone whistle at her? She moved the
basket under her arms to her head along with the bundle of
rice and potatoes. Then, crouching in the shadow cast but
the basket, she started walking quickly- her head bent low,
her mekhela slapping against her legs, satap, satap!

Soon she was outside the town, walking on the kuccha
road that led to the riverside village at its southern end.
There were fewer people now and not much light. The rice
fields on either side of the road were wet and dark and
glow worms, clustering like shoals of small darikana,
winked in the dark. Somewhere a pack of jackals howled. A
young rikshawalla sang his way towards the town, his empty
riksha rattling down the road. Doiboki lifted her head to
the sky. It was swollen with darkness like a pregnant river
during the monsoons, with not a hint of light anywhere. The
night was hot and sultry and after some time she took off
her blouse. Weakened with sweat, the fabric gave way.
Irritated, she tossed it into the basket, pulled her
mekhela up over her breasts and carefully tucked the money
back into its folds. The cool breeze soothed her body.

Cars and other vehicles seldom plied on that road at
night. A little ahead lay the naamghar, the village prayer
house. Doiboki had first seen the naamghar when she was a
child-ruing wild without a stitch on.

It sat in a large compound with two vast tanks- Ganga
and Jamuna-in front of it. These tanks never dried up,
whatever the season. People traveled long distances to
collect water from them to keep near their thaponas, their
altars, at home. Right at the centre of the compound was an
immense banyan tree. In these water lived two gigantic
algae-covered turtles- Doiboki and Jashoda. When morsels of
food were thrown into the water and the turtles called out
to, they would appear on the bamboo platform that led down
to the tank. Doiboki had heard about these turtles but
never seen them. How could she? Dark-skinned people whose
skins smelt of fish were forbidden to enter the naamghar.
Her friends used to tease her incessantly, calling her “The
turtle of the great tank”. Had her mother named her after
one of the turtles? As children, Doiboki and her friends
went to the naamghar at least once every day. People would
sometimes offer the scampering bunch of urchins mah-prasad.
But it had not been the lure of the mah-prasad alone that
led them there. They were curious-What was it that lay
inside the great house, surrounded by trees and tanks, to
whip passersby bowed so reverentially?

Doiboki quickened her pace. Beyond the naamghar, near
the sharp bend of the river, was the bridge that led to the
village. Nets billowed in the breeze here, ad the place
reeked of fish. Once she set foot on the bridge she would
be safe, I her village, with its familiar comforting sounds-
brawls, blustering drunkards, crying babies, the curses of
battered wives.

A creeper of lighting shot across the sky. In the
sudden flash she saw a black and yellow striped bakraj
snake slither across t he road just as three trucks loaded
with army men appeared, scattering the quiet darkness.
Doiboki stepped to one side. She clearly saw the back wheel
of the truck crush the snake. The skies rumbled once more
and lightning flashed. The sight of the mangled snake
pierced Doiboki like a singi, sharp and painful.
Thefearless woman was suddenly gripped by a strange terror.
Had her husband been alive today, would she have had to
step out at night, for such a lousy little sum? Remembering
the sturdy man who had passed away after only a week’s
fever and diarrhea, hot tears rolled down her cheeks like
drops of water slithering down the slippery surface of a
magur.

The naamghar was surrounded by vast, open stretches
of land. There were huge fields in front of it, and passing
by the place, even in daylight, a timid person would find
his heart pounding. Usually when Doiboki and her friends
approached the nammghar they would see the ladies sitting
in front of it, singing their naam and bhajans. No woman
was allowed to set foot inside the nammghar. The sorais and
sakis offered by them were taken inside by the naamgharia
while the well dressed women knelt and prayed at the steps
by the entrance. In summer, Doiboki and her friends would
stretch out under the shade of the banyan tree near the
naamghar, hoping that one of the women, after finishing her
naam, would give them a plantain leaf filled with mah-
prasad. Once in a while, one of them might call
out, “Doiboki, my daughter and son-in-law have come. Could
you bring over some good fish?”

Now, as Doiboki neared the naamghar, even the faint
steady glow of the oil lamps in the distant huts seemed to
disappear. There was darkness everywhere. Doiboki took out
a tamul and thrust it into her mouth, remembering how once
she would cross this same bridge with friends. In the light
of the setting sun, their skin would glisten like ripe
jamuns.

She had never been out so late before. Blast those
traders! If they had only paid her a fair price as before,
she would have had no problems. Doiboki’s head throbbed at
the thought of the price they had offered for the live, roe-
filled kurhi. About to spit out a heartfelt curse with the
betelnut juice, she stopped. In the field opposite the
naamghar she could see some sharp beams of light bobbing up
and down like silvery kandhulis somersaulting in shallow
waters. Doiboki quickly, quietly, sank to the ground. The
thunder and lightning seemed to grow fiercer. Looking
beseechingly at the naamghar, Doiboki folded her hands,
praying…. “Hei Bhagwan, what is this?” In the flashes of
lightning Doiboki could clearly see some soldiers wading in
the water, like villagers chasing fish towards enclosures
with their fishing gear. A great barali seemed to wriggle
in their hold. She heard cries of pain- as if someone was
being tortured. Doiboki shivered helplessly, images o f the
mangled bakraj enveloping her. The beams of light had once
more turned into somersaulting kandhuli.

The barrier, sustained by years of tradition,
suddenly snapped. She rested her hand on the gate of the
naamghar. The crowd of men were coming, under cover of
darkness, towards the road. But even as she was about to
push open the gate, Doiboki hesitated one last time, fear
tripping trough her body. What was she doing? Could she
enter the temple of the Lord? She saw the bamboo fencing in
front of her. Like a wall of stone. She knew all about the
golden boat that floated on the water of Ganga and Jamuna
at night. Whoever saw the boat vomited blood, and died.
But……if anything were to happen to her now, the old woman
and the children…..Doiboki pushed the gate open, ran in
blindly. She stumbled and fell under the peepal tree.

The military men were on the road. A sudden beam of
light licked her body. A stern, harsh voice floated up to
her, “Kaun hain?” Doiboki crawled into the furrow. Boots
clip-clopped on the road. Jeeps roared to life. For a
moment, as the many vehicles sped off towards the town, it
was as busy as day.

There was an anthill somewhere inside the furrow of
the peepal. Her fall had disturbed the ants and some came
crawling out now. They stung. Doiboki quickly moved out of
the hollow, shaking her sador briskly, the smell of the
lack ants and their eggs fillingher seses. Lighting danced
on the waters. Intense fear, combined with the heat of the
night, made her feel as if her skin had been roasted. She
looked around for water to slake her thirst. If she
couldn’t get a drink of water now, she knew her heart would
burst. Even so, she told herself, she didn’t dare drink
from Ganga and Jamuna.

Yet she saw herself moving slowly towards Ganga.

There was a sudden noise in the water, which was soon
lost in a sharp rustle somewhere near the edge of Jamuna.
Doioki’s heart was pounding. She remembered Pado Kaity’s
brother who, while returning to the village one night, had
heard the two turtles splashing around, khalap khalap, and
had walked in impulsively to take a look. On that moonlit
night, Doiboki and Jashoda appeared near the bamboo
platform when he called out to them. But as soon as he
threw some of the roasted gram he had on him, Pado Kaity’s
brother had turned blue, as if from the poison of the
revered one around Siva’s neck.

The rustle from inside the hollow had died down. What
could there be in the hollow where she had left behind her
fish smell to mingle with the odour of the ants? It was
said that everyone was afraid to touch Pado’s brother’s
dead body. What happened to his corpse? Had the crows and
vultures gorged on the stale flesh? She had never asked.

Doiboki pressed her arms around her body and found it
soaked with perspiration. She wiped her face with her palm.
It reeked or roe-filled kurhi. Carrying this odour, she had
dared to……She licked dry lips. Desperately, she looked
around for some water to drink. She walked down the steps
of the bamboo platform to the water’s edge and bent down to
cup her hands. But she just could not bring herself to do
it. How could she use these hands, polluted as they were
with the smell of fish to….

Doiboki sank down on the platform, the cool waters
lapping at her feet. Then, like sang suddenly springing
free of the fishing line, Doiboki’s hand shot out and
brought up some water. She drank thirstily and even
sprinkled some on her head, “Bhagwan, forgive me if I have
sinned.” Then she stood up abruptly, her feet creating
small ripples on the waters that lapped the bamboo
platform.

There was not a sound anywhere. The thunder had
stopped. The sky was a heavy black, the colour of her body.
The trees and leaves were absolutely still.

And in that silence, a sudden splash in the water.
Salap salap. Doiboki strained her ears. This was not the
sound of fish beating their tails against the waters. She
shivered. Who had told her the story? Where had she first
heard it? Sometimes in the middle of the night, a golden
boat floated on the waters of the tanks of the naamghar.
Two great, green-backed turtles always swam by its side,
guarding it like sentries.

People said that the sudden death of her sturdy
husband was a mysterious affair. On a dark, moonless night,
dripping with rain, the reckless man had gone out of the
house, oblivious to all warnings. The fields opposite the
naamghar had been inundated with shoals of kawoi. When he
returned in the morning, his basket was laden with fresh
red, glinting kawoi, each the size of a man’s palm. That
was the first day the man had shat blood nonstop. People
had whispered that he had seen the golden boat on the
waters of Ganga and Jamuna on that moonless night. How else
could a healthy man be reduced to such a state, in the
space of one night?

Seeing the blobs of blood in the courtyard, his
mother had beaten her breasts and cried, “Gluttony, it was
sheer gluttony! Oh, why did he go out on that moonless
night, on his father’s death anniversary, to fish in that
haunted field? So what if it had been flooded with fish?”
Doiboki seemed to her mother-in-law’s voice breaking out of
the silence, distorted by pain and grief. “Greed, sheer
greed!” Her mother-in-law had hurled veiled taunts at her.
And now, with the money tucked in the folds of her mekhela
burning her like red hot cinders, clawing at her like sorat
leaves, Doiboki told herself she had been greedy too.

The noise in the water grew louder. Drops of water
splashed on to her feet. Her eyes had grown accustomed to
the darkness and she could clearly see a huge turtle
waiting near the bamboo platform. Like a kawoi jumping out
of a bamboo basket, Doiboki bounced back on to the bank.
Trembling, her eyes fixed on the pond, she knelt down. The
turtle continued to wade in the ankle-deep water on the
platform.

Tears blinded Doiboki. She was afraid to look at the
tank. Was the golden boat floating in, unmanned and
rudderless, a cursed sight that made people vomit blood and
die? The sound of another splash…..Two great, algae-covered
turtles would be guarding the golden boat.

She ran towards the naamghar without pausing to look
back, but stopped at the door. Even the ladies sang their
naams from the steps- the ladies who were as beautiful as
the vermilion-coloured senduriputhi, as fair as the smooth
milky white pabha, whose clothes glittered like the shining
scales of a mirika-they too said their prayers here.
Doiboki had seen them since she was a child.

She sank to the ground, her headburied between her
knees. The noise the water had ceased. She looked
reluctantly towards the naamghar. A crowd of glow worms
winked within it in the dark.

Doiboki started walking away, slowly. The wind had
whipped up by now and the rain that had been threatening to
descend came down in a great deluge. The large trees began
to sway and Doiboki was forced to retrace her steps. She
stood at the spot where the ladies sang their naams, soaked
to the skin. The tin roof of the naamghar rattled.
Hailstones the size of lemons began to pelt her. She knew
that a part of the naamghar near the entrance was kept
open; only the sacred area, the monikut, was locked. When
she could not bear the assault of the hailstorm any longer,
she took a small step inside, but came out immediately to
stand under the hail that threatened to crush her. Finally,
her exhausted body could take no more. She crept into the
naamghar.

Inside there was not a drop of rain, only a
refreshingly cold breeze that washed over her. She squeezed
the water out of her clothes. Instantly, the smell of raw
fish filled the place. And then she heard it, the rustling
sound once again, this time from inside the monikut. The
thing must be out looking for her!

She stared at the monikut. There was a huge lock o
its iron grill. Through the grill she could see the floral
gamosa on the thapona. By its side, two wicks flickered in
the oil lamp that must have been lit that evening. In this
light, soft as two glow worms, Doiboki was the many flowers
made of gold and silver placed onn it. She went down on her
knees before the thapona.

Suddenly, a lamp that burnt on a mound of earth
outside the monikut, guttered out. There was a muffled
noise, as though something had jumped off the roof on to
the huge drum in one corner of the naamghar. Doiboki
shivered. She could hear, once again, the rustling sound of
the revered one near the drum.

She tried to concentrate on the many smells that
floated in the naamghar-the mild sweet fragrance of the
incense sticks and camphor, that of mustard oil, the smell
of burnt-out cotton wicks in ancient oil lamps mixed with
the fresh smell of the mopped mud floor, the smell of the
soaked gram and moong Prasad-but for her only the stench of
raw fish stayed, overpowering all else. Her rain soaked
basket reeked of fish.

Doiboki’s heart started to pound. What had she done?
She had spread the odour of fish in that holy place which
barred its doors even to those women, fair and fragrant
like the gardenia. She flinched like a magur on which salt
had been sprinkled. Her head reeled. She had left home at
the crack of dawn, after a meal of leftover rice soaked in
water. Now suddenly, without warning, she retched, then
began to throw up noisily. Hastily, she mopped up the
slimy, sour smelling vomit with her sador, afraid even to
look at it. Surely there was blood, clots of blood, yes,
certainly there was blood. Wearily, she lay down on the
floor and, in her semiconscious state, she heard the same
rustling sound. She saw two green-backed turtles splashing
around a golden boat that floated on the waters. Then
everything blurred. Only blotches of blood and a sador
soaked in blood, unfolding to its full length………..

“She’s breathing.”

“She’s moving, she’s moving.”

“She’s not dead, not dead.”

“She’s sitting up. The woman is sitting up.”

Doiboki woke up to a babble of female voices. She
rubbed her eyes and looked around her. She was right in the
middle of the great naamghar, a crowd of women peering at
her from outside. The hailstones that had pelted her had
disappeared. Where was the sador soaked in blood? She
looked at the crumpled sador on her body. It was stained
with huge patches of dried vomit. Where were the gigantic
turtles and the golden boat, the long one that rustled
around? And the gold and silver flowers glittering in the
soft light of the oil lamps?

Doiboki rubbed her eyes and looked at the monikut.
The gold and silver flowers, the brass oil lamp, the big
sorais of bell metal glittered reassuringly in the
daylight. She fell to her knees, her head touching the
ground reverentially in prayer. Then, arranging her sador,
she came out of the naamghar. Her head was throbbing. Still
unsteady, she reached the spot where the women sang their
bhajans and slumped heavily to the ground, just a little
distance from the monikut.

“Isn’t this Doiboki the fisher woman?” one of the
women, who was as beautiful as the vermilion-coloured
senduriputhi, cried out in astonishment. The men folk were
to have a meeting at the naamghar that evening, so the
ladies had come in for their daily prayer in the morning
instead of the afternoon. And the sight of an unconscious
woman in front of the monikut created a stir among them.

What were they to do? The women were not allowed to
enter the naamghar and the namgharia lived quite some
distance away and would take time to arrive. A messenger
was sent off to inform him. And the new- A fisherwoman had
entered the hallowed, jagroto naamghar- spread like wild
fire. People stormed the naamghar to stare at the
fisherwoman who was indeed sitting at the entrance to the
holy place, her head between her knees.

“I often buy fish from this fisherwoman.”

“She liver in that village.” Someone pointed to the
village at the other end of the bridge.

“How did she enter the naamghar?” The question was
asked by many, in many different words. “Why won’t out
country be destroyed by fire? A lowly fisherwoman has
entered God’s holy temple?”

“There will be disaster. Our country will surely
burn,” old Banamali Sharma wailed, beating his chest.

“Even the women who share our beds are not allowed to
set foot in the holy place, and now this fisherwoman has……”
spluttered Krishna Mahanta.

“Were you not afraid to enter the naamghar with a
woman’s impure body?” Baruani’s voice quivered with a
strange dread.

“She will die. She will surely throw up blood and
die!” cursed Saikiani, snapping her fingers.

Doiboki tried to get up but sat down again. Her head
was spinning. She could feel the bile rise in her empty
stomach. Pressing her forehead with one hand, she suddenly
threw up. The floor was soaked with the foul smelling,
yellow vomit. And finally, when the pain in her stomach
subsided and her body felt lighter, she stood up with
folded hands and tried to say, “The army, the hailstorm….”
But as she stood up a hundred rupee note, a fifty rupee
note and several ten rupee notes fell out from the folds of
her mekhela.

“Where did she get all that money?” shouted
Mahantani, who had never had even a hundred rupees of her
own to spend, nor earned a single rupee in her life. “She
must have surely stolen the money and taken refuge inside
the naamghar.”

“Who knows if the gold and silver
flowers….Naamgharia, why don’t you take a look and see if
anything is missing.”

“Yes, how does one trust these low caste people? She
must have had some ulterior motive for entering the
naamghar.”

Doiboki picked up the notes. Someone spoke up in
slightly jocular tones, “Ladies, why don’t you feel her
body? See if she has hidden anything anywhere.”

The throng laughed.

Doiboki’s fulsome, dark, magur-like body peeped out
of her disheveled clothes. The eyes of the men seemed to
lick her skin. Baruani, thin and flat as a bamboo strip on
a weaving look, suddenly saw her husband staring intently
at Doiboki’s ill-covered bosom. She pounced on Doiboki,
grabbing her by her hair. “How can anyone trust a woman
with no sindoor, no conch bangles? Who knows what lover she
may have brought in with her?”

“You are right. Whatever her motive, she must
certainly have been accompanied by someone.”

“Come on, spit it out! Who was with you?”

“Where has he gone?”

The abuses hit Doiboki harder than the lemon sized
hailstones. The sharp-tongued fisherwoman was reduced to
silence. Suddenly she saw a small dark-skinned boy on the
bamboo bridge at the entrance to the naamghar. At the sight
of his sturdy limbs, she felt her heart break. Everybody
said that the boy was the image of his father. The child
took one look at his mother and stared running across the
bridge.

Holding her nose with one had, one of the ladies
rummaged through Doiboki’s basket of rice and
potatoes. “What have you got here?”

Doiboki’s head throbbed. How dare they call her a
thief; her hard earned money, spoils; and accuse her of
stealing the potatoes and rice she had bought for the blind
old woman. Doiboki bristled. She stretched out her hands
like the sharp fins of a magur about to be trapped. Her
dark body empowered by the poison of the singi, she pushed
away the woman rifling through her bundle.

And then…..a familiar odour wafted up to her in the
breeze. She looked up. The people were looking over their
shoulders, at the bridge on the river.

Their dark bodies glistening in the sun, groups of
people were storming towards the great naamghar, clustered
together like a nest of goroi fingerlings.

Coming into her own, Doiboki slapped her thigh in her
customary fashion, “Yes, I’m a woman. We’re impure. We
menstruate. We give birth to babies. I fish for a living.
I’ve sinned by entering the great naamghar. But I’m not a
thief. Last night in fear of the army, the hailstorm….”

Her words were cut short by the blows that began to
rain on her, her dark body blackened by the shadows of the
people-those very people who would abuse her if her shadow
so much as fell on their paddy spread out to dry.

The dark, sturdy little boy came running into the
naamghar, shouting, “Ma, Ma!” Somebody gave him a push. And
from the dark depths of the crowd, Doiboki let out a heart-
rending scream. “Don’t kill me, oi….the old woman, the
children….”

Like a fishing line descending on a nest of goroi
fingerlings the scream wound its way towards the dark-
skinned people clustered on the bamboo bridge at the
entrance to the naamghar. And like tiny kawoi emptied on to
the ground, they poured into the naamghar from which they
had been barred since the days of their forefathers.

The blind old woman, holding on to this one and that,
groped her way in the direction of Doiboki’s
screams, “Doiboki, oi, let’s see someone harm you. You are
my child, as good as a son. This blind old woman who in her
prime could stop a fully grown rohu with a swipe of her
pole, is not yet dead, Doiboki, not yet dead!”

Answer / saurabh

it is going to very tough according to my information they
are prefferring experienced and the guys haing some
financial qualification they are aiming person who will
able in marketing also it is not only the job clerk sbi is
going in new era the are going for major change and going
to start a revolution in public sectobank. prepare your
self carefully .................

i wana know any one attend the interview for state bank of patiala.plzz answer me at your earlist on my mail id- bychance86@gmail.com

0 Answers  

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When will SBI declare results for SBI CLERK INTERVIEW 2010 Any Idea Please answer? ATUL KASHIPUR (UTTRAKHAND)

18 Answers   State Bank Of India SBI,

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The aspirants for SBI CLERK (exam held on 2009 November) Share your views here? ATUL KASHIPUR (UTTRAKHAND)

0 Answers   State Bank Of India SBI,

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am preparing Railways Recruitment board ECRC, Goods Guard Exam. Previous or Model Exam papers please send my e-mail id: umaa_2008@rediffmail.com

2 Answers   RRB, Syndicate Bank,

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Hi. I'm rekha. I've been shortlisted for the interview for the post of clerks in union bank. I've just now completed my Bsc Computer Science What are the questions likely to be asked? Pls help!

1 Answers  

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hi frnds i m neha i have dn mca my sbi int is on 20 oct plz tell me being a comp. studnt wht ques could be asked 4 digit no on cal lettr is rank is this rank is all india wise or cicle wise or state wise i got 2990 plz frnds reply soon waiting for ur reply good night

32 Answers   State Bank Of India SBI,

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i have attend interview on March for clerk post.when final result will be announce by bank?

7 Answers   LVB, RRB, State Bank Of India SBI,

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Hi, I have been shortlisted for IOB Clerical Interview. They have given a biodata format. So i take printout of that biodata and fill it manually or with that format i can prepare my new own biodata. Kindly reply ASAP.

3 Answers   IBM, Indian Overseas Bank,

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what is the criteria 4 posting the selected candidates in banks ??????

1 Answers   State Bank Of India SBI,

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difference between private and public bank ?

0 Answers   State Bank Of India SBI,

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hii, I am vikas pandey from jaipur. I have cleared sbi clerk exam 2009. I want to know what questions are asked in Interview. If you have some details please mail me at vikas_pandey25@yahoo.com

0 Answers   State Bank Of India SBI,

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when will be the result of SBI declared..... getting tensed day by day....

2 Answers   State Bank Of India SBI,

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