Suman K Sharma
I begin with the beginning. Government has recently issued a notification that the displaced families of 1947, 1965 and 1971 wars with Pakistan would each be given an amount of Rs 5.50 lakh through ADHAAR-based electronic transfer. I, a 68-year old man, represent one of such beneficiaries. Call it the chanciness of life, the day I collected the forms to claim the amount, I received an SMS from the Unique Identification Authority of India (UIDAI) to visit the nearest ADHAAR centre to have my biometrics in ADHAAR updated. That brought me face to face with the seamy side of the truth.
The first jolt was the realisation that the nearest ADHAAR centre, a kiosk dealing with all sorts of services from booking railway trips to photocopying, did this particular job only on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and that too, for two hours between 6 and 8 in the evening. The proprietor added a minor detail in passing: I was to pay Rs 250 for the privilege. Since it was a Wednesday, I returned home with the resolve to go to the proper office to have the images of my face, eyes, fingers and thumbs digitised for free (and why should I pay – it was the government seeking to map me, I didn’t ask for it in the first place!).
Now people of my age have their own little morning routines which they have necessarily to follow. So, on Wednesday, when I reached the haloed place in the late morning, there was a long queue of hopefuls before me. When my turn came, the young man sitting at the counter gave me one dismissive look before he pronounced dourly, “No ADHAAR work after 1 PM. Come tomorrow!” My watch showed there were still 6-7 minutes to go, but the sarkari functionary had said the time was up and that was that.
Trudging back dejectedly, I happened to see a signboard on a dingy sort of a shop declaring that the ADHAAR facility was available there. I went in. This time I received a friendly advice. “Go to the official outlet,” the man at the shop said gently, “it will save you from future trouble.”
Next day, pocketing the bitterness of the first experience, I walked up again to the ADHAAR office, skipping even the stimulating diet of the centre-spread of my favourite daily. I was well in time and the young man at the counter performed his job diligently, pressing my fingers on the glass-topped machine with such a force that my old phalanges ached.
The ordeal was over in a few minutes and I asked him when would I get my updated card. ‘It depends,’ he replied laconically. ‘Depends on what, bete?’ I ventured to ask. ‘Look, Uncle, the server is down. We can’t do anything unless it is active again. Your updated biometrics is with us. We will upload the file. It is then that your new card will be made. As soon it is ready, we will post it to you. You need not come here anymore.’
It is two weeks since I have been waiting for my updated ADHAAR card. Those who should know, tell me that it is sent by ordinary post, with all the uncertainties of time and space.
And I thought the internet – spurred on by Modi ji’s magic wand – would do away with all the delays in the upcoming achchhe din. That the intended benefit would be transferred directly to my bank account the moment the authorities verified my claim. Little did I imagine that I had grown so age-worn that the government got worried about updating my ADHAAR biometrics. And how silly of me, I should have thought of the hassles of the internet! We are living in India, not in some first world country.
Air is rife these days with the talk of bullet trains. As the things are on the ground, I won’t be surprised if the powerful engine of such a train merrily dashes off on its own, leaving the bogies stranded where they are.
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