I do not remember the exact day I stopped believing that size guaranteed significance in banking. These shifts rarely announce themselves. They arrive quietly, through conversations that linger longer than expected, through moments that refuse to be forgotten.
I was reminded of one such moment recently while reading a LinkedIn post by my friend Mohammed Elqaq on relationship economics in corporate banking. His words reopened a door I had closed many years ago—not out of forgetfulness, but out of acceptance. Some lessons, once learned, no longer demand daily attention. They simply become part of how you see the world.
Early in my career, I was taught—implicitly, if not explicitly—that bigger was better. Larger exposures meant stronger relationships. Prestigious names meant safety, stability, and future opportunity. It was an elegant theory, supported by impressive numbers and confident presentations. For a long time, I believed in it.
Then came the moment when that belief began to fray.
At the very top of the corporate and sovereign hierarchy, scale warps perception. What stretches one bank’s balance sheet barely registers on another’s radar. You can spend months structuring a facility, arguing for pricing concessions, defending the relationship internally, and still remain invisible to the client in any meaningful sense.
The realization is rarely dramatic. It may come in the form of a delayed response, a missed call-back, or a casual remark that reveals your true position in the client’s ecosystem. Not hostility—just indifference. And indifference, in banking, is far more instructive than rejection.
That is when the uncomfortable question surfaces: Was this ever a relationship—or only an assumption?
The Comfort of Big Names
There is a peculiar comfort in lending to large, well-known institutions. Their names look reassuring in reports and presentations. Internally, they confer a sense of gravitas. Externally, they signal credibility. And so, over time, banks begin to confuse visibility with value.
I have seen balance sheets quietly stretched in pursuit of that comfort. Pricing softened. Limits nudged upward. Exceptions rationalized. All in the hope that proximity would eventually produce reciprocity.
Often, it does not.
In ecosystems dominated by global banks and massive balance sheets, only those who can consistently operate at that scale command reciprocity. Everyone else waits patiently—for deposits that never arrive, for fee income that remains theoretical, for introductions that are always just around the corner.
Where Banking Becomes Personal Again
The irony is that true relationship banking flourishes not at the summit, but slightly below it. In that middle terrain—where businesses are substantial but still attentive—banking feels human again.
Here, clients remember who returned their calls during difficult weeks. They notice who stayed through downturns. They value judgment as much as capacity. The balance sheet matters, but so does judgment, availability, and trust built over time. Reciprocity emerges not because it is negotiated, but because it feels natural.
These relationships do not make headlines. They do not flatter the ego. But they endure. And they pay their way.
Over time, I came to understand that the most valuable banking relationships are those where relevance is mutual. Where the client knows your name, not just your limit.
The Seduction of Reputation
And yet, experience also teaches nuance. Reputation does matter. There are moments when a large, respected name on the client list serves a strategic purpose—signaling capability, opening doors, lending credibility to an institution finding its footing.
But reputation is a fragile currency. It must be spent deliberately, not casually. When reputational relationships are mistaken for economic ones, they become silent drains on capital and attention. Prestige, I have learned, is a poor substitute for profitability.
Learning to Let Go
With years comes a certain peace about walking away. Or perhaps it is simply clarity. Not every large client belongs on every bank’s balance sheet. Not every relationship is meant to be deep. And not every “yes” strengthens an institution. Not every relationship needs to be justified by hope.
The strongest strategies I have seen were built not on ambition alone, but on restraint—on understanding where a bank truly mattered, and where it did not.
Closing the Chapter
Looking back, I realize that the most enduring lessons in banking are rarely taught in training rooms. They are learned in quiet rooms, after meetings end, when assumptions are stripped away and reality is allowed to speak. They taught us humility. They taught us scale. And, perhaps most importantly, they taught us that in relationship banking, being big is far less important than being relevant.
Mohammed’s post reminded me of that moment when size lost its meaning for me. When I stopped confusing exposure with importance. And when I began to understand that in banking—as in life—being present is not the same as being valued.
That understanding, once gained, never really leaves you.
Indrajit Roy Choudhury 