Beyond Financial Inclusion
(This is a representative story inspired by experiences and observations from rural India. The characters and certain details have been adapted to illustrate broader social realities.)
Khurshid Ahmad Akhoon
One winter evening, Janki Nath returned home with a smile that seemed almost foreign to a face weathered by years of struggle. His house stood at the edge of a village—a modest mud dwelling surrounded by a few strips of land, a small kitchen garden and a solitary cow. It was not much, but it was his world. That evening, however, he felt unusually fortunate. He had attended a bank outreach camp where a senior official, the General Manager, had spoken of opportunity, credit and financial inclusion. Before leaving, the official had shaken hands with him. The gesture lasted only a few seconds. Yet for Janki Nath, it was a moment of recognition. The following day, his young son proudly told other children in the village, “My father shook hands with the General Manager of the bank.” To many, such excitement may appear insignificant. To those who live on the margins, dignity often arrives in the smallest moments.
Yet this story is not about a handshake. It is about the long and often painful road that lies between a poor citizen and the promise of financial inclusion. Months before that camp, Janki Nath had travelled to town to open a bank account. He carried only one hundred rupees in his pocket. He spent hours waiting in crowded queues. By the time he received an application form, he was told to provide photographs and copies of identity documents. Unable to read or write, he moved from desk to desk seeking assistance in completing the paperwork. Nobody had the time. When the lunch break began, he found himself sitting outside the branch in the afternoon sun. A nearby shop agreed to help. By the end of the day, his hundred rupees had disappeared in photographs, photocopies, transport and other small expenses. When he returned to the bank, the doors had already closed. He walked (on foot)nearly ten kilometres back home.
The next day he was directed to the local Banking Correspondent (BC). At one stage of the process, Janki Nath even spent a day working in the BC’s kitchen garden while waiting for his paperwork to move forward. Eventually, he received a passbook. He examined it repeatedly. Not because it contained money. But because it carried his name and photograph.For perhaps the first time, he felt visible within a system that had always appeared distant and inaccessible.
Then came the promise of credit. At the outreach camp, villagers were informed that loans would be available to support small farmers and improve livelihoods. Like many others, Janki Nath believed that a new chapter might finally be beginning. Instead, another struggle began. He was informed that he would need land-related documents and a guarantor (Govt employee) before his application could proceed. For policymakers, these may appear to be routine requirements. For many poor farmers, they become formidable barriers.
The search for land records took Janki Nath from one office to another. Repeated visits, prolonged waiting and dependence on local officials consumed both time and money. Across Jammu and Kashmir, farmers frequently speak of the difficulties associated with obtaining revenue documents and land records. What appears to be a simple administrative requirement often becomes a test of endurance. Janki Nath encountered the same reality. Days turned into weeks. The promised loan remained beyond reach. According to the narrative, he eventually found himself compelled to arrange money merely to get the required work completed. For a man of limited means, even a few thousand rupees represented a heavy burden. Ironically, before receiving institutional credit, he first had to borrow money in order to overcome the obstacles standing in its path.
The guarantor requirement presented another challenge. Many people declined outright. Some feared future liabilities. Others simply preferred not to become involved. Eventually, a man named Ashok Kumar agreed. But agreement came at a price. Faced with mounting pressure and few alternatives, Janki Nath accepted the terms placed before him. By the time ₹2.25 lakh was finally credited to his account, a significant portion of the benefit had already been diminished by the process of obtaining it.
Nevertheless, he persisted. With the funds, he improved his small farm, purchased agricultural inputs and constructed a shed for his cow. The harvest improved. Instalments were paid regularly. For a brief period, hope appeared stronger than hardship. Then illness entered the household. Complications during his wife’s childbirth generated expenses that the family could not absorb. Hospital visits multiplied. Medicines became unavoidable. Savings disappeared. Loan repayments stopped. Notices began arriving. Pressure increased.
As the account slipped into default, the burden spread to the guarantor as well. According to the narrative, a recovery was made from the guarantor’s account without prior notice. Feeling aggrieved, the guarantor confronted Janki Nath and took away the family’s cow—the very asset that represented their most dependable source of income. For Janki Nath, the loss was devastating. He watched silently as the animal was led away. It was not merely a cow. It was security. It was livelihood. It was hope. Soon thereafter, the loan account was classified as a Non-Performing Asset (NPA), pushing Janki Nath into a cycle of debt, uncertainty and legal complications from which escape seemed increasingly difficult.
Today, Janki Nath continues to navigate a system he once believed would liberate him. The cow that represented security is gone. The optimism that accompanied the General Manager’s handshake has faded. Only the burden remains.
Yet Janki Nath is not merely an individual. He represents countless citizens whose experience of financial inclusion differs sharply from the language found in policy documents and official reports. India has made remarkable progress in expanding banking services. Millions of accounts have been opened. Digital platforms have transformed financial transactions. Credit outreach has extended into regions once considered inaccessible. These achievements deserve recognition. But the true measure of financial inclusion is not how many accounts are opened or how many loans are sanctioned. Its real test lies elsewhere. It lies in whether the poorest citizens can access financial services with dignity. It lies in whether a farmer must spend weeks chasing documents before receiving assistance. It lies in whether the path to credit strengthens livelihoods—or merely exhausts them. Governments often speak of financial inclusion as a promise that no citizen will be left behind. The question that remains is simple: Are the poor truly included—or merely counted? For sometimes the greatest cost of a loan is not measured in rupees. It is measured in dignity.
(STRAIGHT TALK COMMUNICATIONS EXCLUSIVE)
