In the bustling world of finance, where rules are written in stone and targets are set in concrete, there emerges occasionally a maverick, challenging conventions and rewriting the norms. This is the story of Hari Prasad, a man who dared to think beyond the ordinary, transforming lives and banking itself.

It all began in 1986 when Hari Prasad, a fresh-faced probationary officer, found himself in the quaint setting of Meerut Cantonment. Tasked with doubling deposits in his department to secure confirmation in service, Hari faced a seemingly insurmountable challenge. However, it was his unconventional approach and empathy that set him apart.

Hari Prasad joined a nationalized bank in 1985 and was posted as a probationary officer at the Meerut Cantonment branch. There were three probationary officers posted there–one each from Chennai, Bangalore, and rural Andhra Pradesh (AP).

The day they joined, two events took place. The manager, a six-foot-four guy from Punjab, looked down on us shorties menacingly and allocated departments for us to take charge of. Hari was given the savings bank section, the Bangalorean was given fixed deposits, and the AP guy was given current accounts. The manager then went on to tell us that if they wanted to be confirmed as assistant managers in the services of the bank, they had to double the deposits in their respective departments.

They came out of his cabin, which had tinted glass all around it — he rarely came out of the cabin, except to go to the toilet. The local staff then pounced on them and asked for their names and the typical Indian question “What is your native place?” was thrown at them, of course, in Hindi.

For the benefit of non-Indians, “native place” is the Indian way of saying hometown. It was a bit complicated for Hari, having one parent from Kerala and another from Tamil Nadu, but in the end, it boiled down to “Where were you born?” Hari had the advantage over the other two because his name could be pronounced by the locals, and when they learned that he was born in Nainital, the response was “Arre yaar, tum toh apna aadmi hai! Khaane ke liye hamaare saath baith ja.” (You are our guy! Sit with us when it is time to eat). Officers generally ate with the manager inside his cabin, but Hari was the maverick who bucked the trend and ate with the clerical staff and the peon.

They then wanted to know what the man in the cabin told them. They never used to call him “manager.” They had only contempt for him and used to call him “damager.” “Kya bola paagal damager?” (What did the mad damager tell you?) So they told them that he asked them to double the deposits, and they all looked at one another and agreed that he was indeed crazy. How is it possible, they asked, to double the deposits when the customers were all army people who only maintained a minimum balance in their accounts?

In a community where bonds were stronger than bureaucracy, Hari found kinship with the local staff, bridging the gap between ranks. Embraced as one of their own, Hari embarked on a journey that would redefine the role of a banker.

The peon (or messenger as they call them) became pally with Hari when he came to know that he was a Nainital-born guy. He said he was from Dehradun, and that made them “Pahari” (hills) brothers. “Hum paharhi log ek saath rehna chahiye!” (The people from the hills ought to stick together!).

The lone Sikh in the branch said he was from Hemkunt Sahib and immediately started calling Hari “Paaji.” (Elder brother). The Bangalorean and the AP guy were astonished at how the locals embraced Hari and wanted to know what he did. He said it was merely the accident of him being born in the right place. He just happened to be born in the right town — at least as far as the locals were concerned.

That evening, Hari sat down with the peon for evening sundowners; Old Monk was the facilitator. Hari told him again about what the “damager” said. The response was predictable. “Damager paagal hai.” (The manager is mad). And then he threw in this statement. “Aaj kal kiske paas paisa hai? Sirf rundee ke paas paisa hai! Sach ya jhoot?” (Who has money these days? Only hookers have money! True or false?) And he agreed.

That night, Hari pondered over this profound statement of the peon. Even during the worst of times, hookers always had money. Inspired by a chance encounter and a profound observation, Hari envisioned a future where even the marginalized could find a place in the formal financial system. Recognizing the resilience of those often overlooked by society, Hari saw potential where others saw only obstacles.

On the next day, he again asked the peon out for drinks. Hari told him they should open bank accounts for hookers. He was horrified at first, but after a couple of pegs, he became more rational and started thinking clearly. He said he would take Hari to the “red light area” but Hari would have to do all the talking himself.

Hari explained that these women were excluded from the formal financial system due to various reasons such as low income and lack of access to banks. We should bring them to the bank and provide them access to the banking facilities. The peon thought for a while but appreciated the idea.

India is home to some of the oldest cultures in the world with over 5,000 years of history. Formal and informal savings and credit systems are deeply intertwined in society. Ancient texts of the Vedas dating back to 2000 BCE reference lending and usury, and letters of credit and bills of exchange for business lending are cited in historical accounts from the Mauryan Kingdom since the third century BCE and the medieval period of the Mughal era.

Financial inclusion refers to the process of providing access to financial services and products such as savings accounts, credit, insurance, and payment services to individuals and businesses who are excluded from the formal financial system due to various reasons such as low income, lack of documentation, and limited access to financial institutions. Financial inclusion was still in its early stages during the 1980s in India, with only a few initiatives being taken by the government and banks to provide banking services to the unbanked population.

They took Peon’s old Lambretta scooter and went to the “red light area,” which was called Kabaarhi Bazaar. These areas are often characterized by poverty, violence, and exploitation. Many women who work in these areas are marginalized and lack access to basic social services. Venturing into the heart of the red light district, Hari and his unlikely ally, the peon, sought to empower a community shrouded in stigma.

They went to the biggest whorehouse, and these women were peeping out from windows and inviting them in. The peon and Hari nonchalantly walked in and one of the hookers propositioned them. They said they only wanted to talk. She asked what about. They told her they were from a nationalized bank, and they wanted to talk to them about investing money for their future.

A crowd of about 50 hookers collected; they all sat on the ground around Hari and the peon, and Hari gave them possibly the finest speech he had ever given in all his years of varied work experience. They should save for the rainy days, Hari told them. They were in this profession because of a lack of opportunities elsewhere, Hari told them. Those with kids should educate them, and those with elderly parents should send money to their parents and take care of them. With compassion as their currency, they offered not just banking services but a pathway to dignity and economic independence.

Without access to basic financial services, these women were vulnerable to exploitation by pimps and other intermediaries who charged exorbitant fees for their services. They were also unable to save money or invest in their future, making it difficult for them to escape from poverty and exploitation.

They said nobody had ever approached them so far. Hari said that he had come to know about it and went to them to introduce them to basic banking services and showed them his ID. All they needed was identification which was a ration card photocopy and a photograph. They all had valid IDs. Some even said their names were on the voters’ list.

The response was overwhelming. Women who had been invisible to the banking world now had a voice and a means to secure their futures. Through education and empowerment, Hari shattered stereotypes and transformed lives, one account at a time.

The peon was still doubtful. He asked Hari, sotto voce, whether it was against the rules of banking. Hari asked him why if a person could vote and have a ration card, why she couldn’t have a bank account. That clinched it. They pulled out the account opening forms and started raking in the moolah.

The only glitch was that all the names were Rita, Sita, Anita, Sheila, or Gita and none of them gave their husband’s name or father’s name; one column in the account opening form was left blank. On the first day, they collected 25,000, on the second day 50,000, and on the third day it was 100,000.

But as with any revolution, there were challenges to overcome. In a world bound by bureaucracy, Hari’s methods raised eyebrows and questioned tradition. Yet, it was his unwavering belief in the power of inclusion that ultimately prevailed.

The bank’s clerical staff members were all aghast when garishly painted women with swaying hips and musical anklets entered the branch. The manager in his cabin was blissfully unaware of what was happening outside. The branch union secretary was informed by the peon, and he said “Arre Bhai! Yeh kya kar diya tumne?” (What have you done, Brother?)

Hari told him that nowhere in the rules does it say that a hooker cannot have a bank account and he had better accept their hard-earned money. Even the government had started taking steps to provide access to financial services and products such as savings accounts, credit, and payment services to those who were excluded from the formal financial system. The left-oriented union leader agreed and assured Hari of full support.

A system was adopted whereby one hooker would collect the money from all the others and deposit it on their behalf. Unlike politicians, hookers are honest. Sheila and Gita were selected to deposit the money on alternate days. The guys in the bank immediately started calling Sheila “Mona Darling.” Sheila had a heart of gold. She would sashay up to Hari’s desk and smile at him whenever she came to the bank.

The army men, all separated from their families, who had accounts were thrilled. All they had to do was come to the bank to book a hooker. They would withdraw money from their accounts, pay it to the hooker who came to deposit the combined earnings of the others, and the hookers would deposit that money right back into the bank. It was a foolproof method of ensuring that money never left the bank!

Deposits doubled in 45 days. The manager rang his bell one day and the peon went to answer it. The peon came out and said to Hari “Boss, damager tumhe bula raha hai.” (Boss, the manager is calling you). By that time, most staff members had adopted the honorific “boss” for Hari, except the Sikh who stuck to “paaji.” Hari had no problem with it. If Sheila could be “Mona Darling,” why couldn’t he be “Boss?” The rationale given for calling him “boss” was that this was the first time they had come across somebody who organized hookers, took money from them, and tried to assist them by investing that money for them.

The manager was very happy. “Great job, Hari! I just saw the statements and you have doubled the deposits. You are confirmed in the services of the bank. Try to help the other officers also. Teach them how to achieve their targets.” Hari murmured an okay and left his cabin.

As deposits doubled and lives were transformed, Hari’s legacy was cemented not in numbers but in the faces of those he had touched. From the corridors of power to the streets of Meerut, his name became synonymous with change and compassion.

A couple of months passed. Regular inspection time came up. A Tamilian officer from Chennai came for the regular annual inspection. He didn’t know a word of Hindi. He asked for the savings bank account opening forms and sure enough, discovered that many lady customers had not given their husband’s name or father’s name. Hari had, in the meanwhile, been transferred to the fixed deposits department, and the AP guy was in charge of the savings bank. He immediately said that he was not responsible for this error of omission and that all these accounts were opened by Hari.

The inspector asked Hari why the husband’s name/father’s name column was blank. Hari said the ladies refused to divulge the details and everything else was there, like, ID proof, photograph, et al. The inspector was a stickler for detail and said that he would go strictly by the rule book. The Sikh came to Hari’s rescue. He told the inspector that some of these customers would come to the bank themselves and that he, the inspector, could ask them for the missing details.

The bank staff members were now eagerly waiting because they knew it was Mona Darling’s time to come to the bank. She walked in and every pen in the bank dropped. The Sikh walked up to the inspector and told him that this was one of the customers who had not given her husband’s name.

The inspector, who had by then been given a short primer on a few Hindi words and phrases, walked up to the counter and said “Madam, idhar aao.” (Madam, come here). Mona Darling’s eyebrows shot up. Nobody had ever called her “madam” before. She says “Ek minut, sahib. Paisa jamaa karke aaoongi.” (One minute, sir. I will deposit the money and then come.) She put her hand into her blouse, pulled out a sheaf of notes, and deposited it.

She then sashayed up to his desk and said “Haanji. Bolo.” (Yes, Sir. Tell me) He said “Tumhaara pati ka naam kya hai?” (What is your husband’s name?) And he pointed to the blank space in the account opening form. Everybody had stopped working by now and the silence was deafening. The army guys and the bank staff were all waiting to hear the answer.

Sheila looked at Hari, grinned broadly, and winked. She then rearranged the pallu of her sari to display a generous amount of cleavage, put her hands down on the desk, leaned, and smiled at the inspector. The inspector’s lower jaw dropped; he could see nothing but cleavage. She then uttered these unforgettable words, “Babuji, tumhaaraa naam hi likh lo na!” (Sir, write your own name there!).

The branch erupted and Sheila walked up to Hari’s desk, fiddled with the collar of his shirt and said “Waqt miley toh shaam ko aa jaana. Baat karna hai” (If you have the time, come in the evening. They have to talk). She then walked out regally, anklets clinking musically, and hips swaying in the most suggestive manner possible.

The inspector sat with his head in his hands. And so, as the dust settled and the ink dried on the ledger, Hari Prasad emerged not just as a banker but as a beacon of hope in a world too often defined by division. In his hands, banking became more than just a transaction; it became a tool for empowerment and a testament to the power of one individual to make a difference. Sometimes, it takes a maverick to show us the true meaning of inclusion.