This shabbily dressed thing drenched in sweat and stinking like a bin opens his big mouth full of an ugly reddish substance, lets wind out of his broken brown molars, and asks – kya naam hai, bhai? (What is your name, brother?) He flips loads of papers, all of them prominently brandishing the Ashoka emblem – relaying a ‘we are the authority here’ kind of message…
I revert: Who are you? Thora door hokar baat karo. (Stand at a distance and talk.)
Sweat-drenched apparition (movie police-type approach): Jan ganana kar rahein hain. Aapka naam bataayein aur kitne log hain ghar mein? (We are counting people for a census. Tell me your name and how many others live in your home.)
My Hindi hero-type response: Census is over. Who are you? I-card dikhao. (Prove your identity.)
He proves his identity and I have to believe that the government has employed him.
He says: Yeh jan jaati census hain. Aapki caste kya hain? (This census is about caste. What’s yours?)
Me: Caste? Woh kya hota hain? (What is it?)
Thing: Arre bhai, caste nahi samjhe? Kaun jaati ke ho? (Don’t you understand the meaning of caste? Which community do you belong to?)
Me: Mera koi caste jaati nahi hain, likh lo. Na hi koi dharma hain. Yeh bhi note karo. (I belong to no caste, creed or religion. Please note it down.)
Thing: Dekhiye, jaise main ek ‘brahmin hoon’, aapki bhi koi caste hogi. Chaliye, apna surname bata dijiye. (See, like I am a Brahmin, even you must be having some caste. All right, just tell
me your surname.)
Me: I tell him ****** is my surname, but that is of no significance for me.
Thing: Sarkar ke liye bahut zaroori hain. Aapke pita ka naam aur upnaam batayein. (It’s important for the government. What is your father’s name? )
Me: It’s *******.
Thing: Arre wah! Aap to meri tarah Brahmin huye, phir kyon nahi bata rahe the jaat? Thore na koyi neechi jaat hain. (Great! You are a Brahmin like me. Why weren’t you telling me about it? You are not of a lower caste, so why hide your caste?)
Me: Mera baap jo bhi hain, mera isse kya connection hain? Meri koyi jaat, caste nahi hai, and dare you write any on that sarkari paper of yours. (Whoever my father is, what do I have to do with that? I do not have to belong to the caste that he belongs to.)
Thing: Chaliye, nahi likhta. Aapki patni aur beti ka naam batayein. (All right, I’ll not write. Tell me your wife’s and daughter’s names.)
Me: Abc and xyz – beti ka surname decide nahi kiya hai abhi. (We have not decided her surname yet.)
Thing: Arre, woh to same rahega jo aapka hai, usme decide kya karna hai. Woh bhi to Brahmin hi hui. Bhai sahib, padi likhi uchh jaati ke hain hum log, to ise zor-shor se batana chahiye. Khoob izzat hoti hain hum logo ki. (Your daughter’s surname will be the same as yours. What is there to decide on that? We are from an educated and high caste, and must flaunt it to gain respect.)
(Me in mind: A*****e, will it be a crime to kick this thing down the stairs for subjecting me to 15 minutes of torture and laying his dose of political filth at my doorstep?)
Me
in reality: Jitna bola hai utna likh do, koi caste nahi hain aur na beti ka koi surname hain. Tumse baat karne ka time nahi hain.(Write only what has been told. There is neither any caste to declare, nor is there any surname for my daughter. I have no more time to spare.)
Thing:
Theek hai, mera kaam ho gaya. Kaun sa koi nuksaan ki baat bol rahan hoon! Kitna padhe hain aap? (I am almost done, and am only telling you things that can benefit you. How much have you read?)
Me: Usse kya farak padta hain caste census mein? Padhe likhe aadmi ki baat aap ko samajh hi nahi aa rahi. Likh do jo likhna hain, main to school bhi nahi gaya. (How does it matter in the
caste census? You may write that I haven’t gone to school.)
Thing: Nahi nahi, aap to padhe likhe honge. Postgraduate likh deta hoon. Apni misage (mrs.) ki qualification batayein. (No, no, you look like an educated person. I am writing postgraduate here. How much has your wife read?)
Me: Usne mujhse jyada kitaab ‘padhi’ hain. (She’s read more books than I have.)
Thing: Aap koi jawab theek se nahi de rahe, sahib. PG se kya jyada haon? Main to naukri kar raha hoon. Chaliye umar bata dijiye aap teeno ki. (You are not answering anything rightly. There is no qualification higher than postgraduation. Anyway, tell me your and family members’ ages.)
When I tell my wife’s age: Oh! Toh ye aap se umar mein badi hain, achha hain, aur… (she’s older than you, so…)
Me interrupting: Agar tumhara form ho gaya you can go, mere paas tumhari commentary ke liye time nahi hain… (You can go if your form is filled; I have no time for your commentary.)
Thing: Aap to bura hi maan rahein hain. Sarkari mulazim hoon, dhoop mein sadh rahan hoon kyunki sarkar jaanna chahti hain kitne scheduled caste logo ko free mein khana khilana padega. Hamari kyahaalat ho rahi, iski kissi ko chinta nahi hain. Khair, aap ko kya farak padta hain! (You’ve got annoyed, but you must understand that I am a government employee. I have been going door-to-door in this scorching sun because the government wants to know how many scheduled caste people will it have to feed. Nobody is bothered about our condition. Anyway, how does it matter to you…)
Interestingly, he provides me with an acknowledgement slip. It reads Socio-Economic and Caste Census 2011. Apparently, this thing did not ask me anything about my socio-economic status. His form had no column to enter my professional or income details. Now I am curious about what religion and caste they have entered in enrolment no. 0190700100850001 in the databank and which politician will lay claim on it as their vote bank.
I started thinking about what I was curious about, and then started writing about it, only to realize that it probably was a waste of time – as that thing had said, kisi ko kya farak padta hain.
