SIR
30-06-2026, Midday
“How Do I Get to Your House?”
The call I had been waiting for since nine in the
morning yesterday finally came at noon.
“You said you were near the NTR statue, right?
Look in the direction the NTR statue is pointing. You will see the RBI
quarters. It will take four minutes on foot, and less than a minute on a
motorcycle. There is a Hanuman temple next to our house. That is the landmark.”
Even after I gave him such detailed directions,
he arrived half an hour later, carrying a bag in each hand.
He had come in the scorching heat. When I placed a can of Coke in front of
him and asked him to have a cold drink, he politely declined, saying he had a
sore throat.
As soon as I gave him my EPIC (Electors Photo
Identity Card) number, he switched on his mobile and was about to check it when
a call came in. As soon as he answered that call, another one came. For the
next fifteen minutes, he was busy answering a stream of calls.
“You saw that, right? All these calls are from
voters like you. I have been going from one doorstep to another all morning. I
left early, and I haven't even covered three houses yet.”
As he said this, his phone rang again.
“I am somewhere nearby,” he said, giving the name
of our apartment complex. “It is my superior. He is checking whether I am
actually working.”
Before my own voting status could even be sorted
out, his superior arrived at our house with another person. The person
accompanying him took photographs of all of us with a camera. He probably
uploaded them too, as proof that they are on their job.
The superior handed the junior a list and sternly
said, “This many households are still pending. When are you going to finish all
of them?”
Meanwhile, the superior received a call from his superior,
who told him to come immediately for a review meeting.
As soon as they left, the junior who had come
first also placed two papers in my hands. While packing his bags, he said,
“Fill these out and keep them ready. I will come back after three days and
collect them.”
When I asked, “What about the photograph?” he
hurriedly picked up his bags and said, “The black-and-white photograph is fine,
isn't it? You need a new one only if the photograph isn't clear.”
When I
asked, “What about my daughter-in-law?” he replied, “Next time,” and hurried
out.
He works as a supervisor overseeing municipal
sanitation staff. Yet, thanks to this unexpected additional duty for SIR
(Special Intensive Revision of Voters), he has to go door to door from Ameerpet
to Krishna Nagar.
They had been there for more than forty minutes.
Answering phone calls alone seemed to keep them occupied. At this rate, who
knows when this whole exercise will ever be completed! The cups of green tea
that I had asked our watchman to bring and prepare for them, and they are lying
on the table, in a completely cold state.
After they left, I calmly took out the papers and
looked at them.
Both belonged to me. At the top, they carried my
black-and-white photograph, the same one on my voter card, along with some
details, my address, the name of my constituency, my part number, and so on.
I thought it would all be over after one round,
but apparently there is another round.
Still, watching the difficulties they were going
through, I felt sorry for them. If their hard work produces the results it
deserves, what more could one ask for? Instead of complaining that this was not
their job, they were doing the work. That deserves appreciation.
I had thought I would sit and talk with them for
a while, draw out some details, and write something that might prove useful to
others. I even took photographs with the people who came to my house, hoping to
write a few worthwhile lines. But I myself do not know whether my own work has
actually been completed.
Now, however, I feel it would be better to keep
their names and photographs confidential.
He said he would come back after three days to
collect the completed form. Looking at the workload they are carrying, I wonder
how long these papers will have to take rest in our house.
Postscript:
I thought they would remain here for at least
three nights. In fact, the bundle of papers stayed in our house for many more days, even after the draft electoral roll
was published, like the weapons of the Pandavas hidden in a jammi tree.
While they remained there, one day the junior
officer came to our house and said, “You have to submit another form. For that,
you have to come to such-and-such place at such-and-such time.”
Seeing my exhausted condition and noticing that I
was eighty plus years old, he took pity
on me.
He spoke to his superior, took my signature on a
form, photographed himself receiving it from me, and left happily.
So, it seems this serial is still continuing. But
I did understand one thing, at least vaguely. Ever since I became eligible to
vote, I have voted in every election up to the last one, except for the five
years I spent in Moscow. I may not have that opportunity in the elections to
come. I may not get the great opportunity to take a selfie with the black mark
the polling officer puts on my fingernail and post it on Facebook. Looking at
the slow pace of this SIR process, it seems increasingly likely that my prediction
may come true.
(To be continued)
