Geetanjali Krishna: Suchitra's identity crisis

Last Sunday was the final chance for people to get their voter ID cards and enter their names on the electoral rolls. The government school not far from my house was abuzz with people busy filling forms and attaching photocopied documents. Nearby, I spotted a young girl sitting forlornly on the pavement. A man was running around for her, going from window to window with queries. Something about her countenance made me stop to see what was happening. The man returned shaking his head. "They're saying you can't get your card made," he said. "They need proof of your identity as well as address - without those they aren't even willing to entertain your case!"
 

Having eavesdropped shamelessly already, I decided to see if I could help the couple. The girl, Suchitra, was about 20 years old, belonged to Jharkhand but had lived in Delhi all her life. I asked if she had a birth certificate. She said that her four elder sisters and she had been orphaned at an early age. "We didn't even know what birth certificates were. And since we were too poor for my sisters to send me to school, I didn't get a school certificate either," she said. "We didn't think they were so important."

It was only when she started earning that she realised the importance of having identity proof. "Then someone suggested I open a bank account," she said. But when she applied, she was told that she needed address and identity proofs to open an account. "I was stuck in a vicious circle in which I had to have ID proof to get an ID proof..." she said. Eventually, an employer with some influence in a local bank pulled strings and helped her open an account. "I was thrilled! Finally, I had an official document in my hands," she said.

Armed with her bank passbook, Suchitra set out to apply for a ration card. "When I went to give my form, I grandly gave them a photocopy of my passbook. But they also wanted some ID proof as well," she said. When I said I didn't have any, they asked if she had an old ration card. "I could have cried with frustration!" she said. "Around me, many women who'd migrated to Delhi from villages were in the same boat... but somehow, it didn't bother them as much as it did to me!"

When Aadhaar cards were launched, Suchitra saw a ray of hope. "The official told me that if I didn't have any identity proof, I could get a certificate of identity signed and attested by a government officer," she narrated. "I thought, how difficult can that be?" But none of the officers she approached would sign the certificate until they had seen, you guessed it, some ID proof. Sadly, nobody told her at that time that she could have taken the assistance of introducers supposed to be present in every Aadhaar centre. "So I didn't manage to get the Aadhaar card either even though the drive happened in our neighbourhood," she said ruefully.

As we chatted on that pavement, Suchitra introduced me to her husband. They'd been recently married, she said. On questioning, I realised that he had all his papers in order. I advised him to apply for a ration card showing his papers, and she, as his wife, would be able to use it to get her voter ID. The couple scratched their heads and admitted the idea held promise. Suchitra smiled wryly and said, "when I was getting married, my elder sisters told me that my new life would begin now. I didn't know that it could possibly give me what I've wanted for so long "proof that I really am Suchitra!"