They Don't Really Care About Us
EVEN the usually benevolent sun god seemed irked. Else, he wouldn’t have beaten down on me and the many hapless souls queued up ahead of and behind me. The mission ahead of us was common. We have been exercising unity in diversity all through the three-and-a-half hours spent under the hot sun. The almighty shining bright up above us would have thought we all deserved his prickly hot rays in good number. Of course, he had a reason – or a handful of them in fact.
Akin to those hapless flies to the wanton boys out there, we were there, all queued up, to be heard and approved by the masters that be, so that we could be granted a piece of laminated paper slab that would proclaim we are all Indians. Indians we would be, only if we have an electoral ID, we have been made to believe.
All talk of a single UID had given me faith in the system, as I was made to believe that a UID card would be more than enough to prove I am Indian. Now, with a voter ID, a card to be issued soon by the census bosses, a UID, a Passport if I decide to apply for one, a ration card which I should have to flaunt if my kitchen needs to see a burner lit (a gas connection needs a ration card, weren’t we told so?) and then driving license, secondary school leaving certificate and a host of other identity-proving documents would try and make sure I’m Indian. Goddamit, I may have to buy a new big wallet to keep all these cards securely close to my self so that I can display them the moment some babu out there asks me to prove my identity. I would have to go shopping for a nice big one that would fit into my bum pocket and not look my bottoms look weird too.
The electoral card queue has been seldom moving forward, as the 10am-5pm officers deployed by the state seemed determined to put the proverbial snail to shame. As I wait impatiently, thinking of the work pending in office, a high-decibel reception committee got into action mode on the other side of the wall, deafening the whole locality around. On one side were the honking monsters rushing back home from the technology park yonder, and on another side were another batch of smoke-spewing speedsters rushing to make it to the airport before check in time. (Have always wondered why check in time at airports is always a couple of hours before the flight takes off). The din climbed to a zenith with drums and the metal claps riding a crescendo. As the reception committee ran up to hysteric levels, in walked a minister accompanied by a bunch of cronies sporting their inimitable plastic-stamped smiles. It was a government-sponsored public function on the other side of the wall. The minister got into his act with not much of a delay, and right on this side, we stood hapless, desperately waiting to get hold of our voters’ card before the clock struck five.
The minister got into the mood in full glare of television cameras and scribes who were happily jotting down the verbal diarrhea, accompanied by the same amount of saliva spurts. Lo, and then something that he uttered then sent me into a tizzy. The translated version could read something like this. “The people are clamoring for newly-laid roads, they are clamoring for water. They think the government is here to satisfy all their demands in no time.”
Isn’t the government that thrives on the many taxes paid by me and my fellow countrymen obliged to do that, I just wonder. Coming from a minister who people like you and I had voted to power, the words make me writhe in shame. To think I have been waiting in this long line under the hot sun for hours together, is nothing short of disrespect to the self. Beat down on me, sun almighty, with all your might. For, I know what I’m doing. And, to think I’m doing it even after I know what I’m doing, calls for punishment. Beat down on me, with all your furious might. Have no mercy.
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