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Want election I-card?Think over!: The Times of India
New Delhi, Jan 21: Talk about an identity crisis. That ticket to limitless access, the voter I-card, does not come easy, even for the bonafide resident Indian.
New Delhi, Jan 21: Talk about an identity crisis. That ticket to limitless access, the voter I-card, does not come easy, even for the bonafide resident Indian.
The journey begins virtually, at a website that promises all but free home delivery. A voter I-card shall be handed to you within half-an-hour. The venue is listed alongside, open all weekdays. Please note you will not be able to vote hereafter without furnishing a voter I-card.
An old victim of government functioning, you play safe and take a day off to complete the important task of identity seeking. For Kasturba Nagar constituency, the centre is a short drive to bustling Lajpat Nagar. At Shaheed Hemu Kalani Sarvodya Bal Vidyalaya.
The impressive name does not lend itself to the surroundings. Beyond the school gates the decrepit building inspires little confidence. The children have just vacated the classrooms for the day, but you wouldn't know it, had you not seen them leave.
The dusty floor is littered with bird droppings, paper and plastic. The rickety wooden benches have given way in parts, replaced by large moulded plastic chairs in an incongruous fading green. A cold draught sweeps in through the broken windowpanes.
"In the hall", a helpful soul eggs you on, pointing across a large courtyard, where more plastic chairs await their turn to be recycled as benches. For now they have been dumped in an unsightly pile. The walk across to the "hall" is over more dust and dirt. Pigeons live where the roof has ceased to exist.
The hall is a place that has clearly been given up for dead by even this school. In the huge, dank emptiness it is difficult to tell who or what constitutes the I-card dispensing mechanism. As the eye adjusts to the darkness, you spot two dismal figures behind tiny wooden tables.
"A little primitive" intones a phlegmatic gentleman, resolutely resisting the urge to follow his wife who has retired in a paroxysm of coughing behind a silk handkerchief. He is understating. The hi-tech world of computers that urged you to get your I-card without a hitch has passed this place by. In fact, even electricity is at a premium, explains the apologetic, young woman who wearily hands out a form.
"Are you on the electoral rolls?" she asks. "Well I have been voting for 14 years", you say cheerily. The effort is wasted. She looks at you suspiciously and thumbs her way through several worn-out lists before taking back her form and informing that you shall be served at the other table.
This entails a walk through the hall. Countless steel almirahs of indeterminate vintage have been condemned here, used ingeniously by the new occupants to mark out an area for the photographs to be taken. The photographer sits wanly in his designated space waiting for electricity. More plastic chairs connive with bits of wood to trip you.
At the other table, a middle-aged man furnishes the same form. And carefully turns the pages of another moth-eaten list of voters. Are you that old, you wonder.
The right address found there is another predicament. You are listed as your father's wife. Curious. Your mother is also listed as your father's wife, so is his mother, your grandmother.
An old victim of government functioning, you play safe and take a day off to complete the important task of identity seeking. For Kasturba Nagar constituency, the centre is a short drive to bustling Lajpat Nagar. At Shaheed Hemu Kalani Sarvodya Bal Vidyalaya.
The impressive name does not lend itself to the surroundings. Beyond the school gates the decrepit building inspires little confidence. The children have just vacated the classrooms for the day, but you wouldn't know it, had you not seen them leave.
The dusty floor is littered with bird droppings, paper and plastic. The rickety wooden benches have given way in parts, replaced by large moulded plastic chairs in an incongruous fading green. A cold draught sweeps in through the broken windowpanes.
"In the hall", a helpful soul eggs you on, pointing across a large courtyard, where more plastic chairs await their turn to be recycled as benches. For now they have been dumped in an unsightly pile. The walk across to the "hall" is over more dust and dirt. Pigeons live where the roof has ceased to exist.
The hall is a place that has clearly been given up for dead by even this school. In the huge, dank emptiness it is difficult to tell who or what constitutes the I-card dispensing mechanism. As the eye adjusts to the darkness, you spot two dismal figures behind tiny wooden tables.
"A little primitive" intones a phlegmatic gentleman, resolutely resisting the urge to follow his wife who has retired in a paroxysm of coughing behind a silk handkerchief. He is understating. The hi-tech world of computers that urged you to get your I-card without a hitch has passed this place by. In fact, even electricity is at a premium, explains the apologetic, young woman who wearily hands out a form.
"Are you on the electoral rolls?" she asks. "Well I have been voting for 14 years", you say cheerily. The effort is wasted. She looks at you suspiciously and thumbs her way through several worn-out lists before taking back her form and informing that you shall be served at the other table.
This entails a walk through the hall. Countless steel almirahs of indeterminate vintage have been condemned here, used ingeniously by the new occupants to mark out an area for the photographs to be taken. The photographer sits wanly in his designated space waiting for electricity. More plastic chairs connive with bits of wood to trip you.
At the other table, a middle-aged man furnishes the same form. And carefully turns the pages of another moth-eaten list of voters. Are you that old, you wonder.
The right address found there is another predicament. You are listed as your father's wife. Curious. Your mother is also listed as your father's wife, so is his mother, your grandmother.