By Satish Aparajit
I made my customary monthly pilgrimage to the CSD Canteen to buy groceries and, more importantly, replenish the “medicinal” stock. As always, the shelves looked as though they had just survived a locust attack.
Before venturing further, I asked the gentleman at the billing counter, “Could you please check whether my CSD Smart Card is still valid? More importantly, am I still recognised as a veteran?”
He looked mildly puzzled, tapped away on his computer, smiled and declared, “Yes, Sir. Your card is valid. Please buy whatever you want.” What a relief! At least one card in my wallet still acknowledges my existence.
That got me thinking.
If tomorrow I fly to the UK, as I often do, will immigration ask, “Excuse me, Sir, are you actually an Indian citizen? Kindly prove it.”
I was born in 1952, an era when computers didn’t exist, birth records were often handwritten, and dates of birth were occasionally works of fiction. Parents frequently adjusted a child’s age to suit school admissions. Many of my generation ended up celebrating two birthdays—one blessed by the Almighty and the other certified by the headmaster.
The real embarrassment came in school when the teacher cheerfully announced your “birthday” and the class burst into Happy Birthday. One stood there smiling awkwardly, knowing perfectly well that your mother celebrated your real birthday months earlier.
Eventually, the school leaving certificate became the ultimate proof of age. Railways accepted it. Colleges accepted it. Employers accepted it. Even the government accepted it. Until, apparently, it didn’t.
The pre-census mapping exercise gave me another opportunity to contemplate my citizenship. Two officials arrived at my house with admirable enthusiasm.
“How many rooms?”
“How many attached bathrooms?”
“How many family members?”
“What do they do?”
Then came the blockbuster.
“Caste?”
“Unfortunately,” I replied, “I was born a Brahmin.”
The young man froze.
“So was I, Sir!”
Ice broken.
Next question.
“What food do you eat?”
“Anything that doesn’t eat me first.”
He looked unconvinced.
“Vegetarian or non-vegetarian?”
“If beef is available, certainly. Otherwise, I’ll settle for almost anything.”
His expression suggested I had just withdrawn from civilisation.
Then came the knockout punch.
“Where were your parents in 2003? Where did they vote?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to reserve two seats in Heaven if you’d like to ask them.”
For the first time, he laughed.
The rest of the interview became surprisingly pleasant.
Before they left, I asked what I thought was a simple question.
“If my Voter ID isn’t conclusive proof of citizenship, and neither is my passport, PAN card, Aadhaar, or any other card I possess, which magical card finally certifies that I belong to this country?”
He promised to find out. I’m still waiting.
One understands the government’s desire to maintain an accurate electoral roll and identify ineligible entries. That is a legitimate objective. But ordinary citizens can hardly be blamed for feeling bewildered when, after decades of voting, paying taxes, travelling on Indian passports and living law-abiding lives, they are suddenly left wondering what exactly proves they are citizens.
A friend offered much-needed comic relief.
“You know,” he said, “a marriage certificate merely proves that you attended your own wedding.”
I nearly choked laughing. Come to think of it, quite a few husbands may wish even that document had an expiry date.
The discussion then drifted to delimitation, expanding Parliament, census exercises and electoral arithmetic, subjects guaranteed to raise blood pressure faster than cholesterol.
As for me, I’m shortly leaving for the United Kingdom. My only prayer is that when I return, neither country asks the other, “Would you mind taking him back? We’re still trying to establish where he belongs.”
As I was leaving, my friend delivered the final one-liner.
“If you really want lifelong proof that you’re a citizen, just become an RSS member.”
Whether that is political wisdom or merely excellent satire, I’ll leave entirely to the reader.
Jai Hind
(Satish Aparajit is a retired IAF Wing Commander and Shaurya Chakra awardee.)
