In search of an identity

The controversy over the special intensive revision of electoral rolls in Bihar triggered some thoughts on my own identity — something I have been desperately searching for at least over the past four decades.

I have lived an extremely peripatetic existence over my over 62 years on this planet, because of which the concept of permanent residence is something which is wholly foreign to me. I know that I am from Bihar, but my locational identity stops there. My father was in a transferable job and so was his father. And to carry the family tradition a little farther, I have a tendency of not only getting transferred but also occasionally switching jobs or remaining jobless. The result is that there is nowhere that I can call my home town.

When I was much younger, a vague sense of identity was provided by referring to a remote village in Bihar which I had never visited. My grandfather had left this village some time in the early 1900s, never to return to live there, though contact was maintained during his and my father’s lifetime. None of my relatives — near or distant — lived there during the time I was growing up (have I stopped growing up now?). Much later, I finally had the proud distinction of having visited “my” village once — but that is a different story altogether.

Then for a long time, “home” used to be my mother’s house in Varanasi where she settled down after my father’s demise. But with her death, that option was no more available. Since the house, electricity connection, phone connection, and municipal taxes receipts were in her name, I could not show it as proof of “my” residential identity. The irony being that most of these expenses were borne by me.

I did not lack many of the numerous pieces of paper and plastic which defines a person’s existence in India. But unfortunately, all of them did not add up to any kind of real identification. I had a passport which gave the address of the rented flat in Bangalore which I had vacated a long time ago. I had a driving licence which was issued in Chapra and renewed in Hyderabad and carried the address of another rented flat. My PAN card did not have an address. I had a few bank accounts — each mentioned the address of the place where I lived at when I had opened the account. But I, along with life, have moved on with time from each of these addresses. I did not have a fixed telephone line in India. And I don’t remember ever having that fixer of all problems — a ration card. I did not have a voter ID card (though I had once registered as a voter in Bangalore and also voted in a Lok Sabha election). I had hoped that thanks to Aadhaar, I would finally have an identity as an Indian with a permanent address. I was proven wrong. Initially, it carried my address in Bangalore which caused all kinds of problems. The address changed when I moved out of that lovely city.

I currently live in Hyderabad. I have an Aadhaar card and voter card, both giving my local Hyderabad address. But I can’t speak or understand a single word of Telugu. Moreover, with my thick Bihari-accented Hindi, there is no way I can pass off as a Hyderabadi. I can only take comfort from the fact that folks from my community have migrated and settled in Hyderabad for over 400 years and once constituted the equivalent of the “steel frame” for the Nizam’s administrative structure.

No doubt, Hyderabad is a lovely place, but I think it is high time I moved on. The issue is where.

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