CB BureauThis 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 kya
haalat 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.