Big Brother's laughing
Life in an Aadhaar application centre
'Sir, it's not working. We can't file your returns without an Aadhaar card number or at least the application number.' The diligent man who works for my CA is sounding stressed - I'm guessing I'm not the only client who needs the situation explained.
Dark words flit through my mind - Kafkaesque, Catch-22, back-door fascism, Big Brotherism crossed with devious desi jugaad, and so on.
Even as the Supreme Court mulls over the issues around the Aadhaar card, whether a citizen is obliged to get one, and if so to what degree must the card be linked to an individual's various information clusters, Arun Jaitley's Income-Tax Kommandantur has taken its own, unilateral step: if you don't have an Aadhaar card or application number the IT website's software will just not allow you to upload your tax returns.
If you don't file your taxes you will be in breach of the law and liable for fines.
Whatever the honourable Supreme Court's decision, this is Indian Bureaucracy meri jaan, so good luck arguing later that you shouldn't be penalized for not acceding to an as yet unlawful demand. Bingo, Jai Shri Aachhe Din, Sabki Marammat, Sabka Vinash.
I have several issues with handing over my personal data and biometrics to the chaotic miasma of a technically inept, easy-to-hack, easy-to-purchase bureaucratic machinery of the Indian State. I would have these objections even if the government in power was run by the most honest and benign people imaginable; given that the opposite is the case, that we are ruled by a tiny, cynical cabal of regressive RSS puppets, my objections multiply a thousand times.
With one click of some mouse, a person could be digitally obliterated, disabled like an unplugged home appliance, no matter whether the mouse is clicked accidentally, because of monetary corruption, or by some unter-sanghchalak's targeted chalaki.
Besides the practical misgivings there is also the matter of principle - how much should the government and State know about an individual in a democracy? Why should anyone but the income-tax authorities know how much I have in my bank account? Why should anyone but a security agency with a legally acquired warrant know my phone number or what I'm doing on my phone?
Why should anyone without checks or balances be able to map my past and present movements, or potentially sell that information for profit?
'Naa sir, hobey na. Aapni application-ta just koriye nin (No, sir, it won't work, please just do the application.)'
I've tried to explore a way around the trap for about two weeks and now my CA's man is sounding desperate; on the phone I can hear his hair turning grey. I weigh the pros and cons of applying for an A-card. The money in the bank isn't enough to interest anyone; my political views are openly displayed in print every week; my activity on the phone is unremarkable (okay, I regret clicking on that YouTube link, the one of Lionel Messi's 78 nutmeggings of top flight goal-keepers, not good optics for a vociferous supporter of Brazil like myself, but what to do?); my health data are, happily, still boring; ergo, there is nothing, ostensibly, to steal or manipulate.
On the other hand, when the Supreme Court finishes with its deliberations, this government and its tame bureaucrats are bound to subvert both the letter and the spirit of any adverse judgment; so having already jumped into the pit might make things easier in the long run. So why not just get it done and over with?
I locate a bank near my house that's processing A-card applications and I present myself at 10 am sharp. The guard outside starts laughing, almost falling down the steps to the entrance. He points to the long queue that I thought was for the ATM. 'Twenty people a day, dada, and we are done for today!'
'Okay, where does one get the form for tomorrow then?' I ask briskly. The man laughs even louder and waves the sheaf of filled forms in his hand. 'We are also done for tomorrow and day after. Come the next day by 8 am and you might have a chance.' Two days later, I get there by 7.30 am, form all filled, documents ready, and manage to sneak in just under the wire. I'm number 18 and feeling good about it. For the next two hours, people come, circle around sniffing for a gap in the queue, and then leave.
School students stand in line doing their homework; girlfriends give real-time updates to boyfriends; mothers open tiffins for their small ones; two people come to check for wheelchair access and we all laugh at them - workers have begun to dig open the paving at two ends of the sidewalk in front of the bank; the nice blue and white railings block access to the road in front; forget about wheelchairs, the bank is being sealed off from any ingress whatsoever.
When I message a friend in Delhi to tell her what I'm doing, she replies to say that somebody she knows had to take their dying 94-year-old mother to get her Aadhaar made. 'Otherwise you'll have a problem getting the death certificate,' her children had been warned.
At 10.15, the guard tells us the Aadhaar link is down and we'll have to wait. Just before noon, our forms are taken in exchange of tokens and we are told to come back the next day. I wonder about the death certificates of the people who are putting us through this. I go back for the next three days but the link stays down, not just in this bank but in the whole area. 'This is deliberate,' says one gent, grimly, 'this is a punishment for not getting it done earlier, and now they will sabotage the link and collect mass fines, you just watch!'
As the March-end deadline ticks closer, I try and find other centres. Many have been shut down. The links keep dropping in others. Finally, I hit jackpot. Another bank nearby has opened up a station. I rush there, jumping through deadly traffic, ready to be disappointed. No, it's true, they are processing applications, 'yes, the link is working, please fill out a form and wait'. After a small fist pump, I find a chair and settle down. I've brought my stuff with me and I take them out: a book, a notebook, pens, pencils, three untouched Sudoku puzzles (Diabolical), a bottle of water. I wish I'd thought of bringing a sandwich as well, but never mind, at least the bank has air-conditioning.
For the next three hours, I watch the strange ritual being repeated. The officer sits at one terminal, the victim at an adjacent screen. First, the 3-D glasses; 'Chokh khola raakhben!' Don't blink! Then the four-finger piano exercise, right hand, then left hand. Then the two thumbs on the fighter plane gun-buttons, rat-a-tat-tat! Bullseye, that's a kill!
Congratulations, you've just shot your privacy to smithereens! Please check if all your details are correct, correcting them later will be difficult.
At one point there is great fun - a young mother in a burqa is trying to get her cute two-year-old to do the needful and the kid just loves the game, first the funny goggles, which he peeks into and pushes away, again and again, then the finger-press game which lasts a long time because the scanner doesn't register his delicate prints, then ammi nearly breaks his thumbs because he's being uncooperative and he howls in rage. Then huge laughter as he's carried away by the exasperated parent, leaving bank staff smiling all around. 'This happens,' explains the bank officer doing the scanning, 'if you're very small or over, say, fifty-five, the prints don't register easily.'
When my turn comes the same thing happens, either because my whorls are over fifty-five or my digits have more self-respect than me. I verify my details and depart, leaving behind two crumpled Sudokus that have stumped me at the last moment. When I send my CA a close-up photo of the application number, his man calls me back. 'Sir, please send a photo of the whole document, they also need the exact time of the application.'
