"Sir, aapka Aadhaar profile system mein nahi hai."
"That's impossible. I've worked here for four years. My profile is —"
"System mein nahi hai. Matlab — aap registered nahi hain. Aadhaar number, biometric data, citizen record — kuch nahi hai."
"Check again."
She checked. Typed his Aadhaar number manually — he'd memorised it, as every citizen was required to. The system returned the same message: CITIZEN PROFILE: NOT FOUND.
"Sir, aapko nearest Aadhaar Seva Kendra jaana hoga. Yahan se hum kuch nahi kar sakte."
He left the Ministry. He walked — because the Metro wouldn't accept his Band, and auto-rickshaws in 2031 required Aadhaar verification for fare processing, and even the cycle-sharing stations needed a green pulse to release a bicycle. He walked three kilometres to the nearest Aadhaar Seva Kendra in Connaught Place, in the October heat, in his grey trousers and white shirt, and he felt — for the first time in his thirty-one years — the particular helplessness of a man whose existence depended on a database and whose database had decided he didn't exist.
---
The Aadhaar Seva Kendra was a glass-fronted building in the inner circle of CP, between a premium coffee chain and a holographic advertising display that was currently showing a smiling family under the slogan: "AADHAAR: YOUR IDENTITY, YOUR FUTURE, YOUR INDIA."
Inside: a waiting area with plastic chairs, a token dispensing machine, and the particular atmosphere of an Indian government office — a mixture of despair, patience, and the faint smell of photocopy ink that no amount of digitisation had managed to eliminate.
The token machine wouldn't accept his Band. Red pulse. Error 000.
He approached the counter directly. The official behind it — a middle-aged man with spectacles and the resigned expression of someone who dealt with identity crises for a living — listened to Karan's problem with the particular half-attention of a government employee on a Monday morning.
"Aadhaar number batayiye."
Karan recited it. The official typed. Waited. Typed again. Waited longer. Then he removed his spectacles, cleaned them on his shirt, and put them back — the universal Indian bureaucrat gesture for "this is beyond my pay grade."
"Sir, aapka Aadhaar number valid nahi hai."
"I've had it since I was twelve. It's been valid for nineteen years."
"System ke according, yeh number kabhi issue nahi hua. Kisi ko nahi diya gaya. Number exist nahi karta."
