Uma Vishnu
Posted: Sun Oct 09 2011, 00:16 hrs
Naam kya hai?” Chinnaponnu stares at the alphabet soup on the computer screen till her friend Hamsa hollers into her damaged ear, in Tamil, “Per solle...” Chinnaponnu. “Kya? Poora naam?” The man at the Aadhaar registration centre flips her election card and gets what he is looking for. The computer screen asks for a first name and a last name, so Chinnaponnu becomes ‘Chinn’ and ‘Punn’. A rather foreign name, but as long as that means an identity, another “pehchan patra” that she might need in a place so far away from her home in Tamil Nadu, Chinnaponnu can live with the official warp to her name. Just the way Hamsa is M Amsa.
Chinnaponnu and Hamsa, neighbours and friends. Going by their voters’ ID, Chinnaponnu is 43 and Hamsa is 37. They live on either side of a cramped alley in a block in Trilokpuri, a resettlement colony in east Delhi that came up during the Emergency as part of Sanjay Gandhi’s slum clearance drive.
Chinnaponnu and Hamsa, neighbours and friends. Going by their voters’ ID, Chinnaponnu is 43 and Hamsa is 37. They live on either side of a cramped alley in a block in Trilokpuri, a resettlement colony in east Delhi that came up during the Emergency as part of Sanjay Gandhi’s slum clearance drive.
Thousands of families were evicted from slums and unauthorised colonies in the city and transported to far-flung areas like Trilokpuri. As Delhi grew, Trilokpuri came closer to the city. It now stands on the fringes of Mayur Vihar Phase 1, a middle-class locality across the Yamuna with its DDA flats, apartments and hotels, and meets its demand for domestic helps, drivers and cleaners. Every morning at 6.30 a.m., Chinnaponnu and Hamsa walk the 30-minute distance to Mayur Vihar, where they work as domestic helps in an apartment complex, and walk back in the afternoon. “The rickshaw wallah asks for Rs 25. So we always walk down,” says Chinnaponnu.
But today, they have taken the day off for Amavasya, a day to pray for departed souls, and will combine that with the trip to the Aadhaar centre—Chinnaponnu, Hamsa and Hamsa’s son Shakti Murugan plan to register for Aadhaar. As Nandan Nilekani’s ambitious UID project rolls on with the promise of giving an identity to every Indian, for Chinnaponnu and Hamsa, it’s just another way to stay within the system, even if on the fringes.
“Why do I need it?
They tell me it’s another pehchan patra, that I can go anywhere with it. Maybe it will help. It was 20 years ago that I left my village in Tamil Nadu. I have been in Delhi ever since. But they keep asking for proof that I live here. What if they suddenly ask for another identity card?” says Hamsa.
On most evenings, Chinnaponnu and Hamsa sit on the steps leading to Chinnaponnu’s house and talk—Chinnaponnu about her once-wayward-now-reformed son who lives a few blocks away, her daughter Menaka and grandchildren who are her support system, her younger son Ilayaraja who lives with her and her youngest daughter Mekla in Bangalore. Hamsa would talk about her two sons, Shakti Vel and Shakti Murugan, and her strained relationship with her brother’s family who live a floor below theirs.
Chinnaponnu was about four years old when she first came to Trilokpuri with her father, his three wives and their 11 children. They had been relocated from a slum in Pant Nagar in Delhi where she was born. She never went to school and like the many girls she grew up with, she was married early to a relative in her hometown, Villupuram in Tamil Nadu. By the time she was 20, Chinnaponnu had been through the worst—she had just delivered her fourth child and her husband was seeing another woman. When she stood up to him, he slapped her so hard that it left her with a permanent hearing loss. “With my two youngest children, I took the train to Delhi, where I had some relatives,” she says, speaking in whispers, an intonation she unknowingly took to after that hard blow. “I later went back and got my other two children too. My husband stays alone in our village. He didn’t remarry. Now he won’t—he is too old,” she says, chuckling.
Chinnaponnu works in about eight households in Mayur Vihar and brings home nearly Rs 5,000 a month. Her younger son Ilayaraja does odd jobs—cleaning cars in Mayur Vihar, selling CDs. She doesn’t have a ration card. “When we moved in, the house-owner made us sign a letter saying we wouldn’t ask for recommendation to apply for a ration card. So I buy from the market,” she says. “But these days, with everything so expensive, I’ve cut down on my monthly daal, sugar and oil supplies.” She has a gas connection that she shares with her daughter and son, which means that she has to often buy cylinders in “black”—Rs 600 if it is filled to the brim or else, Rs 500. She has no way of checking, so almost always pays Rs 600. Chinnaponnu had a bank account, which she once opened with her election card, but the account lapsed because she had no money to deposit. She tried to open another account, but this time, they asked for her ration card, and she didn’t have one.
One of Aadhaar’s stated aims is “financial inclusion” or simply, the ability to open bank accounts with a UID number and little else. But till that gets off the ground, Chinnaponnu will have to wait.
“Except for my younger son, all my children are married. So now, after very long, life doesn’t feel all that tough. I pay Rs 3,000 as rent but I have a good house,” she says, showing us around her one-room, balcony-turned-kitchen house. The house is bare and neat and a wobbly cooler circulates the hot air inside the third-floor house.
Chinnaponnu’s son, in his 20s, is wary of the world—“why do you want to know so much, we don’t want to get into trouble here”. And Aadhaar? “I haven’t got it done yet. The government is doing this so that they can track people when they do something wrong,” he says. Exactly the fear critics of Aadhaar voice.
Will Chinnaponnu stay on in Delhi, the city she grew up in?
“Delhi can never be your home unless you have a house of your own or a job that gives you pension. I’ll have to leave the day I stop working—I have seen that happen to people like me who work in homes. Maybe Hamsa will stay on, her children are still in school and she has a house of her own.”
An electricity pole stands bang in front of the run-down three-storey building, where Hamsa lives on the third floor. The door on the ground floor leads to a flight of dank stairs. Two years ago, Hamsa’s father-in-law died when he rolled down the stairs and his neck got stuck in the gap between the pole and the threshold.
Hamsa brings home around Rs 5,000 from her work as a domestic help. Her husband is a driver. The family has an APL ration card, but the rice and wheat they get at the ration shop is never enough.
“Par yeh apna ghar hai,” says Hamsa, standing by the window on the stair landing that serves as her kitchen. “We will stay here as long as the children are studying,” she says.
A wooden shelf, cramped with school books, stands against one of the walls in the only room in the house. “I am very bad boy. I want you do not disturb,” reads a warning in neat capital letters on the shelf. “I wrote that when I was in class V, with a whitener,” says Shakti Murugan, Hamsa’s older son who is now in class XI and wants to be a journalist when he grows up.
A wooden shelf, cramped with school books, stands against one of the walls in the only room in the house. “I am very bad boy. I want you do not disturb,” reads a warning in neat capital letters on the shelf. “I wrote that when I was in class V, with a whitener,” says Shakti Murugan, Hamsa’s older son who is now in class XI and wants to be a journalist when he grows up.
Shakti Vel, Hamsa’s younger son, a spry 14-year-old, suddenly looks up from his art file that has calendar art drawings of gods and goddesses and says, “When it rains, electricity runs through the house. Can you do something about that pole in front of our house and have it removed, didi,” he asks.
Shakti Vel is in class IX—with his brother, he takes the school bus to the Delhi Tamil Education Association on Lodhi Road—and is learning fast. He knows it’s hard to work the system, “unless you know someone. No one is ever going to listen to us.”
Shakti Vel is in class IX—with his brother, he takes the school bus to the Delhi Tamil Education Association on Lodhi Road—and is learning fast. He knows it’s hard to work the system, “unless you know someone. No one is ever going to listen to us.”
Will the UID project change their lives in some, subtle way?
When Nilekani talks about Aadhaar improving the service delivery system, will Shakti Vel ever be able to stand in line and be heard? Aadhaar is no panacea—as Nilekani himself says—but for Shakti Vel’s sake, you hope the 12-digit number lives up to its promise.
A house in Himmatpuri, a locality abutting Trilokpuri, has been converted into an Aadhaar centre. It’s 10.30 a.m. and people crowd at the little gate and wait impatiently at the door that opens into a tube-lit room where the Aadhaar registration is on.
“Are you from the media? Everything happens in order. Nobody goes in out of turn. You see these people here? Some of them have been standing from 3 in the morning. They get a token number and a tentative time slot sometime in the afternoon. That’s when those with token numbers come to get their photographs clicked and biometrics done,” says Inder Pal, handing out a card that says, “Secretary, Himmatpuri Residents’ Welfare Association.” And then, putting an arm around Shakti Murugan says, “Come tomorrow at 4 in the morning.” And later, with a grand change of heart, “Or come in the afternoon. We’ll see how it goes.”
“We have to get it done today. We can’t afford to miss another day of work—sarkari kaam to nahin hai. They say it’s easier in kothis. They are richer so they don’t wait too long. But in Trilokpuri, it’s tough,” says Chinnaponnu.
Shakti Murugan lowers his voice and asks, “Didi, do you think you can help us? Maybe they will let us in soon,” he says. “Or should we not?”
They come back at noon. This time, Inderpal lets them in through a side door. No questions asked. “It’s okay, didi. Amma can’t skip another day of work. What’s wrong? Isn’t that how the system works everywhere,” asks Shakti Murugan.
The Aadhaar registration barely takes 10 minutes. Each of them, Shakti Murugan, Chinnaponnu and Hamsa, takes turns to press their palms for the biometric finger impression, peer into the darkness of the iris scanner and stare uneasily into a webcam for their photograph. The printer churns out receipts and a volunteer hands it to them, saying, “Keep this till you get your number.”
The Aadhaar registration barely takes 10 minutes. Each of them, Shakti Murugan, Chinnaponnu and Hamsa, takes turns to press their palms for the biometric finger impression, peer into the darkness of the iris scanner and stare uneasily into a webcam for their photograph. The printer churns out receipts and a volunteer hands it to them, saying, “Keep this till you get your number.”
Walking back from the Aadhaar centre, Shakti Vel sprints to catch up. “Last night, we filled out a form for another pehchan patra. Rahul Gandhi ke Yuva Congress ka koi form. People tell us it will be useful, kahin bhi ja sakte hain, kuch bhi kar sakte hain…What do you think, didi?”
Why Aadhaar
In a country that seeks multiple proofs of identification (ration card, election card, proof of telephone connection etc.), Aadhaar aims to be a nationally acceptable proof of identity. Which means, once a person has an Aadhaar (a 12-digit number, not a card), her basic identity is established through a biometric check. The premise is that by eliminating duplicates and fakes, governments will be able to strengthen their service delivery systems (PDS, healthcare, NREGS etc), remove fake names and expand benefits to eligible residents. Aadhaar aims to cover two shortcomings in the existing identity databases: fraud and duplication.
In a country that seeks multiple proofs of identification (ration card, election card, proof of telephone connection etc.), Aadhaar aims to be a nationally acceptable proof of identity. Which means, once a person has an Aadhaar (a 12-digit number, not a card), her basic identity is established through a biometric check. The premise is that by eliminating duplicates and fakes, governments will be able to strengthen their service delivery systems (PDS, healthcare, NREGS etc), remove fake names and expand benefits to eligible residents. Aadhaar aims to cover two shortcomings in the existing identity databases: fraud and duplication.
Who does the enrollment?
The Unique Identification Authority of India recognises registrars who enroll individuals on its behalf. Registrars are typically departments or agencies of the State Government/Union territory, public sector undertakings and other agencies and organisations who interact with residents, such as, banks, ration shops, insurance companies such as LIC etc. UIDAI has entered into MOUs with as many as 60 registrars.
The Unique Identification Authority of India recognises registrars who enroll individuals on its behalf. Registrars are typically departments or agencies of the State Government/Union territory, public sector undertakings and other agencies and organisations who interact with residents, such as, banks, ration shops, insurance companies such as LIC etc. UIDAI has entered into MOUs with as many as 60 registrars.
Will children get an Aadhaar?
Yes, but for children below five years, no biometrics will be captured; only a photograph will be taken. These children will have to be re-enrolled with biometrics of ten fingers, iris and facial photograph when they turn five. Their biometrics will be updated once they turn 15.
Yes, but for children below five years, no biometrics will be captured; only a photograph will be taken. These children will have to be re-enrolled with biometrics of ten fingers, iris and facial photograph when they turn five. Their biometrics will be updated once they turn 15.
Target
UIDAI plans to enroll 60 crore citizens by 2014. So far, 9 crore have been enrolled and another 4.14 crore have been issued Aadhaar numbers
UIDAI plans to enroll 60 crore citizens by 2014. So far, 9 crore have been enrolled and another 4.14 crore have been issued Aadhaar numbers
The Criticism
Privacy activists fear the project is just the first step of an elaborate surveillance programme by the State.
The office of the Registrar General of India is also collecting biometric data for its National Population Register. Since RGI is one of the registrars of UIDAI, the finance ministry had suggested that the UID should tag along with the national Census wherever possible.
The project’s cost has escalated many times since it was first conceived in February 2009. A single UID, earlier estimated to cost around Rs 31 per person, may now end up in the Rs 400-500 territory. But the UID says the high volume of iris devices and software that will be needed to cover India’s huge population will bring the price down.
