Passport Renewal Nightmare: “If This Can Happen to Me, It Can Happen to Any Indian”
For more than three decades, R. Rajagopal helped shape India’s public discourse as one of the country’s most respected editors. As Editor of The Telegraph, he was known for fearless journalism, sharp editorial judgment, and headlines that often defined the national conversation.
Today, however, Rajagopal finds himself at the centre of a bureaucratic battle unlike anything he reported during his long journalistic career. His name was deleted from the electoral rolls, preventing him from voting in the West Bengal Assembly elections. His passport renewal was subsequently held up, forcing him to miss the possibility of attending his daughter’s wedding in the United States despite possessing a valid long-term U.S. visa. Now, he spends his days searching for decades-old records of his parents in an effort to prove his identity.
In this conversation with The Probe, Rajagopal recounts his experience, reflects on journalism, democracy and citizenship, and raises larger questions about the systems governing identity in India.
Passport Renewal Becomes an Unexpected Battle
Prema Sridevi:Mr. Rajagopal, thank you for taking the time to speak with The Probe.
Before we get into the larger issues surrounding your case, I’d like you to begin with the basic facts. You held a valid passport that was nearing expiry, and you applied for a routine passport renewal. The timing was particularly important because you wanted the option of attending your daughter’s wedding in the United States.
Also Read: Exclusive: Government’s Own Documents Call Passport Citizenship Proof
Could you walk us through exactly what happened? How did what should have been a routine administrative process become such a prolonged ordeal for you and your family?
R. Rajagopal:Thank you. I am speaking to you from Kolkata, where I have lived for many years. My first passport was issued in 2005 from this very address after the required police verification was completed.
Ten years later, in 2015, I renewed the passport from the same address. Once again, the police verification was carried out without any issues.
My passport expired in October 2025. At that time, I was in Kerala. I returned to Kolkata in February and applied for passport renewal. Nothing had changed—not my address, not my personal details.
The initial process was remarkably smooth. Biometrics took barely twenty to twenty-five minutes.
The very next day, my application was forwarded to the Ballygunge Police Station for police verification. In the past, the police had always visited my residence for verification. This time, however, I received a call asking me to come to the police station instead.
I assumed the police were under considerable pressure because the West Bengal Assembly elections were approaching. I didn’t want to insist that they visit my home, so I went to the station.
Before I went, the officer asked me to bring my voter identity card.
I asked why it was required.
He told me they needed it to generate a one-time password for verification of my antecedents.
I explained that while I could physically bring the voter card, it would not serve any purpose because my name had already been deleted from the electoral rolls on 29 March because of the SIR process.
The officer seemed momentarily unsure about how to proceed. He then asked me to bring other documents instead—my matriculation certificate, my father’s death certificate, Aadhaar card, PAN card, and utility bills establishing my residence.
I took all the original documents to the police station. The officers examined them carefully, took photocopies, and informed me that the passport renewal process would continue.
At that point, I was not worried in the slightest.
I had absolutely no idea that there was any connection whatsoever between deletion from the electoral rolls and passport renewal.
As far as I was concerned, the deletion from the voters’ list appeared to be because of some logical discrepancy—perhaps a spelling mismatch or some similar issue. I was confident that whenever the appellate authority called me, I would be able to establish my credentials without difficulty.
After all, you don’t expect someone to suddenly tell you that you are not Indian.
So I assumed it was simply a procedural glitch.
Also Watch: Passport IS Citizenship Proof: Government Documents Expose the Truth
Meanwhile, Bengal was in the middle of election season. I attended campaign events in Khardah where a friend was contesting. I remained occupied and never imagined that my passport renewal would become a serious issue.
I had every reason to believe it would be completed quickly.
In fact, when my daughter’s passport had been renewed earlier, the police had been extremely cooperative and the entire process had taken less than two weeks.
There seemed to be ample time before my daughter’s wedding.
To be fair, I had not yet finalised my own travel plans to the United States. My wife was definitely going. I had not completely decided whether I would accompany her. So it would not be accurate to say that I missed the wedding solely because my passport was delayed.
However, the fact remains that even if I had wanted to travel, I simply could not have done so because the passport renewal had not been completed.
The Police Verification Takes an Unexpected Turn
R. Rajagopal:As time passed, I became slightly concerned because the passport had still not arrived. I called the police station. They told me that the file has been sent. Since I remained completely confident, I assumed they meant it had been forwarded to the Passport Office. I thanked them and disconnected the call.
I genuinely believed the passport would now be printed and delivered shortly. A few days later, however, I realised nothing had happened. So I called again. This time I was told something entirely different.
The officer clarified that when they had earlier said the file had been “sent,” they meant it had been forwarded not to the Passport Office but to the Security Control Organisation, which functions under the Kolkata Police Special Branch.
I knew what that meant. Normally, applications reach the Security Control Organisation only when the local police station has reservations or doubts regarding police verification.
So I was asked to visit the Security Control Organisation. When I went there, I was categorically informed that my police verification would not be cleared unless my name was restored to the electoral rolls. That came as a complete shock. I immediately asked the officer under what law this decision had been taken. I asked whether there was any government notification, circular or official order linking electoral roll deletion with passport renewal. I said that such a significant policy decision could not have escaped public attention if it had indeed been issued. Could they please show me the government order? Instead of answering, they simply stonewalled me.
They repeatedly said they didn’t know anything beyond the fact that this was what they had been instructed to do.
So I returned home. Then, on 17 June, the Regional Passport Office officially informed me that the police had submitted an adverse verification report, specifically citing my deletion from the electoral rolls.
At that point, there was no room for speculation. The reason had been officially recorded in writing. Nothing else had been cited.
The Passport Office then gave me an appointment to appear before them on 17 July. That is where the matter presently stands.
When Routine Delay Begins to Raise Questions
Prema Sridevi:You mentioned that throughout the initial stages you remained confident that your passport would eventually be renewed. But journalists develop instincts over the years. At some point, did you begin to feel that this was no longer an ordinary bureaucratic delay. Normally, when officials realise that the applicant is an established journalist with a long professional record, things tend to move faster rather than slower.
Did it ever occur to you that you might actually be facing something more than routine administrative delay?
R. Rajagopal:Not initially. To be honest, I thought it was simply routine bureaucracy. Most of my interactions were with junior-level officials. They were uniformly courteous and polite. None of them behaved in a hostile manner. I never got the impression that they were personally targeting me during the passport renewal process.
The point at which I became genuinely worried was 20 May, when I was told quite bluntly that my verification simply “could not be done.” The Bengali expression they used was “Hobena.” That is a very final expression. It means, “It cannot be done.” When I heard those words, I was deeply shaken. I returned home and wrote an email addressed to the Kolkata Police Commissioner using the official email address listed on the Kolkata Police website. To this day, I don’t know whether that email ever reached him. I never received even an acknowledgement. That silence worried me.
I expected that if the Commissioner’s office had received the complaint, someone—if not the Commissioner himself—would at least acknowledge it. That never happened.
Later, I also approached the National Human Rights Commission. They acknowledged receipt of my representation. Beyond that, I have no idea what became of it.
That was when I slowly began to feel anxious. But even today, I do not possess any evidence that I was personally singled out or deliberately targeted.
Electoral Roll Deletion and a Father’s Legacy
Prema Sridevi:You mentioned earlier that your passport renewal issue eventually became intertwined with your deletion from the electoral rolls. The explanation given to you was that your name and your father’s name—could not be traced to the 2002 electoral rolls.
Before we discuss that process, I’d like to know a little more about your father. I read the article you wrote about him. You described him as a Gandhian. Could you tell us about him? And could you also explain how someone who has voted in election after election suddenly finds his name missing from the electoral rolls?
R. Rajagopal:To be fair, I was not surprised that my own name was not present in the 2002 electoral rolls. At that time, my wife and I were raising a young family, and my career required frequent transfers. I worked first in Delhi, then Mumbai, then Kolkata, then back to Mumbai, and again to Delhi. We were essentially a floating family. It was only during the early 2000s that we finally decided to settle permanently in Kolkata.
There was another reason as well, which younger journalists today may find rather unusual. In those days, journalism placed an enormous premium on neutrality. We were constantly told that journalists must never be seen as taking sides. The principle was taken so seriously that journalists working for business newspapers were discouraged from investing in companies they covered.
If you covered Reliance or ACC, for example, you were expected not to own shares in those companies because that might compromise your independence.
A similar philosophy existed in political journalism. There was a belief among many journalists that even voting could compromise neutrality. The argument was that if you voted for a political party, you were, in some sense, taking a political position. I wasn’t a political reporter—I largely worked on the desk—but that philosophy influenced many journalists of my generation.
As a result, I did not seriously participate in elections until around 2010. From 2010 onwards, however, I became a regular voter after enrolling in Ballygunge.
“My Father Never Missed an Election”
R. Rajagopal:My father was very different. He was an economics professor. After retiring from government service in Kerala, he became deeply involved in social work. He served as Secretary of the Gandhi Smarak Nidhi. He actively participated in prohibition campaigns because Kerala had—and continues to have—serious concerns regarding alcohol abuse. He also worked for communal harmony during periods of tension in northern Kerala. That entire generation believed deeply in public service.
I remember him as an extraordinarily conscientious voter. He never missed an election. So I was genuinely surprised when we could not locate his name in the electoral rolls.
Later, my brother suggested that there had been a period—around eleven months perhaps—when my father had temporarily shifted residence while repairs were being carried out at his home. We searched the electoral rolls for that address as well. His name wasn’t there either. It is also possible that the problem arose because of spelling variations.
His name was Ramadas. That name can be written in several different ways—Ramadas, Ramdas, and other variations. We simply don’t know. The bottom line is that we could not locate his name. That was why I was placed in the SIR adjudication process.
Also Read: The CAG Cannot Audit Ram Mandir. Its Officer Is on the Trust.
The Matriculation Certificate Was Rejected
Prema Sridevi:When your father’s name couldn’t be found, what happened next?
R. Rajagopal:Even then, I wasn’t especially worried. The procedure was quite clear. If your name entered adjudication, you were required to submit one of the 11 to 12 documents prescribed by the Election Commission.
I submitted my matriculation certificate issued by the Government of Kerala. To my surprise, it was rejected. I believe that happened because of what they called “logical discrepancies.” In India, names often have multiple accepted spellings. “Kumar,” for instance, can be written in many different ways. So I suspect there were spelling mismatches between my current documents and older records. There was also another possibility. Some of us wondered whether these records were being matched through automated systems.
If a human being had examined them carefully, small spelling variations would probably have been recognised as harmless. Machines, however, operate differently. If they are programmed to detect exact matches, they naturally flag discrepancies.
At present, the matter is before the appellate tribunal. When I receive my hearing, I hope to establish my case there.
That, in itself, was the SIR issue. What I had never anticipated was that the passport verification process and the electoral roll issue would suddenly merge into one. That was the last thing I expected. After all, this was merely a passport renewal. It had already been issued once. It had already been renewed once. The address had remained unchanged.
As far as I know, I have no criminal case or any adverse record against me. So I had every reason to believe the renewal would be routine.
“Journalists Never Want to Become the Story”
Prema Sridevi:I know that you’ve said before that you don’t want to be seen as a victim. Journalists generally don’t want to become the story. They want to report the story. I understand that completely. But there is another reason we wanted to bring your experience into public view.
If this can happen to someone with your professional standing, your public profile and your credentials, then it can happen to anyone.
It is important not only for ordinary citizens but also for the bureaucracy to recognise that if someone like R. Rajagopal can be made to prove his citizenship repeatedly, something may be fundamentally wrong with the system.
For viewers watching this interview, could you explain how all of this has affected you personally? You couldn’t vote. Your passport renewal stalled. Every morning now seems to involve chasing documents and checking portals. How has all of this changed your daily life?
“I Suddenly Felt Like Half a Citizen”
R. Rajagopal:It has been deeply frustrating. The moment my name disappeared from the electoral rolls, I kept trying to reassure myself that the process wasn’t over. There was still an appeal pending. The law provided a mechanism. Yet something fundamental had already changed. I had voted in this constituency for several elections.
I had always regarded voting as an ordinary civic responsibility. People often say, “If you miss one election, you can vote in the next.” That sounds simple. But until you actually lose the right to vote, you don’t realise how precious that right really is. When it was taken away, I suddenly felt incomplete. Almost like a half-citizen. I found myself wondering why I was being denied something that every other citizen around me continued to enjoy. It created a strange psychological effect.
I would attend gatherings where everyone discussed politics. Normally, I am an extremely talkative person—as journalists usually are. We tend to offer opinions whether anyone asks for them or not. But after this happened, I found myself remaining silent.
Whenever someone asked why I wasn’t participating in the discussion, I would simply say: “This election doesn’t belong to me.” I no longer felt entitled to discuss it.
In fact, I even recorded a small video for some friends joking that perhaps we should discuss municipal elections in Italy, or elections in Timbuktu, or Nicaragua. For me, the Bengal election had become just as distant because I had not been allowed to participate in it. That was emotionally devastating.
A Daily Search Through the Past
Prema Sridevi:You mentioned that every morning now begins with a set of tasks that have become almost ritualistic—checking the tribunal portal, tracking your passport application and writing to schools and colleges.
How are you coping with all of this? What exactly does your day look like now?
R. Rajagopal:It has become a routine now. Every morning, the first thing I do is check whether the tribunal has assigned me a hearing date. Before I go to sleep each night, I check it again, hoping that something has changed. Realistically, I know that a hearing is unlikely to be assigned overnight, but I still check. Without doing that, I find it difficult to sleep.
The second thing I check every day is the status of my passport application. These two things have become part of my daily routine. After that, I spend my time writing letters—to schools, colleges and government offices. Some institutions have been very responsive. Others take time.
But almost every enquiry involves explaining my entire story from the beginning.
Searching for His Mother’s Records
Prema Sridevi:When you say you are writing to schools and colleges, what exactly are you looking for?
R. Rajagopal:I am trying to reconstruct my family’s paper trail. For example, my mother taught at a college in Thiruvananthapuram in 1965. I discovered that year only because I came across a photograph from her postgraduate convocation ceremony. Once I identified the college, I found its email address and wrote to them. They responded by giving me a contact number. When I called, I had to explain everything from the beginning.
You have to understand that this is not a normal request.
Someone calls from Kolkata and asks whether the college has any record showing that his mother taught there in 1965. Naturally, people are puzzled. Sometimes you call again the next day and a different person answers the phone. Then you have to narrate the entire story all over again.
Eventually, the college informed me that they no longer had records dating back to 1965. However, the school where my mother had studied was able to locate an old register from 1959 containing her name. From that register I was able to discover her date of birth—a detail I myself did not know.
My mother passed away in 1978, when I was only ten years old. You cannot expect a ten-year-old child to remember dates of birth and similar details. So every small piece of information I recover now feels significant.
Correcting His Birth Certificate
R. Rajagopal:The next complication concerns my own birth certificate. On my birth certificate, my mother’s name has been recorded as Radha Bai. Her actual name was Radha Devi. It appears to be a small difference, but officially it has to be corrected. The authorities have told me that they need her matriculation certificate before the correction can be made. That means I now have to locate her school records from 1959.
The Kerala Pareeksha Bhavan maintains examination records. However, because my mother is no longer alive, I cannot apply directly. The application has to be made through the school. That, in turn, requires further documentation. So it becomes a chain of paperwork.
Once I obtain the matriculation certificate, I can request a correction on my birth certificate. Only then will I have what can reasonably be called a fully corrected birth certificate. I don’t blame the officials handling these records.
In fact, considering that I was born in 1968—and registration of births and deaths became mandatory in India only from April 1, 1970—it is remarkable that these records still exist. Kerala has done a commendable job digitising old records. My birth record is available. The issue is that my mother’s name now needs to be corrected.
I have no idea how long that process will take. It is a surreal experience. Here I am, sitting in Kolkata in 2026, spending my days researching documents from 1959. I never imagined that this would become my life.
“I Have Been Reduced to a Voteless, Passport-less Person”
Prema Sridevi:You have spent decades building one of the most respected careers in Indian journalism. You have edited one of the country’s leading newspapers.
Yet today you find yourself searching through records from the 1950s simply to establish your own identity. How does that feel?
R. Rajagopal:It feels as though everything I have done in my life belongs to another world. Today, I have been reduced to what I can only describe as a voteless, passport-less person.
Every day I move from one government portal to another, searching for evidence—not merely about myself, but about my parents and my family. That is what my life has become.
Looking Back on a Career in Journalism
Prema Sridevi:I also want viewers to understand who is telling them this story. For over thirty-five years, you have been a journalist. Much of that time was spent at The Telegraph, a newspaper whose front pages were read across the country and whose headlines often shaped public debate.
Tell us about the work you are most proud of. For those who question your Indianness today, what would you want them to know about your contribution to Indian journalism?
R. Rajagopal:The Telegraph has always been known for its headlines. That reputation existed long before I became Editor. I did not reinvent the wheel. The paper already had a remarkable editorial tradition.
Our founder-editor, M.J. Akbar, established that culture. For example, when former Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was assassinated, The Telegraph carried the unforgettable headline:
“Indira Assassinated. Nation Wounded.”
People still remember it. So the newspaper always had a distinctive voice. What changed during my tenure was the arrival of social media.
Earlier, The Telegraph was largely regarded as an eastern Indian newspaper. Copies reached Delhi in the evening and other cities like Mumbai and Thiruvananthapuram even later. There was no online edition in those days.
With social media, however, our front pages began travelling instantly across the country. That expanded our reach enormously. It was not because we had suddenly become more innovative. Technology simply amplified our work.
Standing With Students During the JNU Controversy
R. Rajagopal:If there is one period I remember most vividly, it would be the events surrounding Jawaharlal Nehru University. When students were attacked and beaten, we realised that journalism could not simply remain an exercise in recording statements from opposing sides. There are moments when a newspaper has to stand with constitutional values. We concluded that this was one of those moments.
It reminded me of the atmosphere surrounding American universities during the Nixon years. We believed we could not remain mere spectators. That was when we consciously moved away from what I earlier described as “neutrality.” There is one front page that remains deeply etched in my memory.
When Kanhaiya Kumar and others were produced before a court, one of their supporters was brutally assaulted by a group of lawyers. The images were horrifying. The young man looked as though he had been hunted down. Later it emerged that he was the son-in-law of a well-known Bengali political figure. Those were difficult days. They were not pleasant stories to edit. But we believed they deserved to be reported prominently.
During the COVID-19 pandemic as well, despite our limited resources, we tried to do whatever journalism we could.
“It Was Never About One Headline”
R. Rajagopal:People often ask me which headline or which front page I consider my finest. I don’t think about journalism that way. For me, it was about the editorial choices we made over time. The Telegraph had traditionally devoted considerable space to sports. During certain periods, however, sports virtually disappeared from Page One.
Politics occupied that space instead because we believed the country was going through events that demanded sustained public attention. We changed our priorities because the times required it. I was also fortunate to work with an exceptionally strong editorial team. Many members of that team were willing to disagree with me. They would tell me when they believed I was making the wrong decision.
There were occasions when I accepted their arguments and corrected myself. That, to me, was healthy journalism. Of course, there were difficult periods as well. We had to make painful decisions. At times, we had to let colleagues go. Those are decisions I still regret. I cannot fully defend them even today.
But at the time, I believed those decisions were necessary to keep the newspaper alive.
Journalism is never simply about writing memorable headlines. It also involves carrying the burden of difficult choices.
“Journalism Cannot Become Stenography”
R. Rajagopal:In fact, the current controversy itself provides a good illustration. Recently, I came across a news report about a woman who had been in Dubai when the Special Intensive Revision (SIR) process was taking place. Because she was abroad, she did not submit the required form. When she returned to Kolkata, she realised that her passport would soon need renewal.
Someone apparently told her that because her name had been deleted during the SIR exercise, her passport would not be renewed. Now, that information may or may not have been correct. The newspaper simply reported her statement exactly as she made it. That, in my view, is an example of what I call neutered journalism.
Surely it is the responsibility of journalists to contact the police, the Passport Office or the government and ask a simple question:
“Is this correct?” If deletion from the electoral rolls can affect passport renewal, the public deserves to know. Even if the authorities refuse to answer, that refusal itself becomes part of the story.
Instead, if journalists merely reproduce what one person says without verifying it, they are doing little more than stenography.
That is not journalism. Journalism must go beyond recording statements. It must explain what is happening. That is what I meant when I criticised neutral—or rather neutered—journalism.
Journalism Must Evolve
Prema Sridevi:I completely understand what you mean. In many ways, newspapers once served as platforms for official statements. Political parties, governments and corporations relied on newspapers to communicate with the public. Today, that has fundamentally changed. Politicians have their own social media handles. Corporations have their own communication channels.
If the Prime Minister wants to address the country, he no longer depends on newspapers or television. He can communicate directly with millions of people. The same applies to companies like Reliance or virtually any major organisation.
So journalism also has to evolve. Today we have artificial intelligence, social media and instant access to information. People no longer need newspapers merely to know what someone has said. What AI cannot do, however, is stand on the ground, ask difficult questions, challenge official narratives and investigate facts. That remains the role of journalists. If we stop doing that, I don’t think people will continue to need us.
R. Rajagopal:Exactly. That is the essential point.
Prema Sridevi:At The Probe, we recently examined the government’s position that a passport is merely a travel document. We reviewed several official documents issued by the Ministry of External Affairs, the Ministry of Home Affairs, the Citizenship Rules and OCI guidelines. Many of those government documents clearly describe an Indian passport as evidence of citizenship. That raises an obvious question. If the government’s own documents treat a passport as proof of citizenship, how should citizens understand statements suggesting otherwise?
Coming back to your case—you were denied passport renewal because your name had been removed from the electoral rolls. Then the country was told that a passport itself does not establish citizenship. If a passport is not proof, then what is? How does an ordinary Indian establish that he or she is an Indian citizen? What, in your view, should be the way forward?
“Why Do We Need a Citizenship Certificate at All?”
R. Rajagopal:At present, India does not issue a universal citizenship certificate. The only people who receive such certificates are those who acquire Indian citizenship through naturalisation. For most Indians born in this country, there is no single document officially called a citizenship certificate.
My question therefore is a different one. Why do we need one? A passport serves its purpose for international travel. Birth certificates serve their purpose. Educational records serve theirs. Why should every citizen constantly be required to prove citizenship through some additional document? The argument often made is that India faces the problem of illegal infiltration. If someone has violated the law, then of course the law must deal with that person.
But if someone wishes to live in India peacefully, I believe India should have the confidence to see that as a tribute rather than a threat. India is a large, civilisational nation. It should behave like one. We should not behave like a frightened or insecure power.
Historically, India’s strength has always been its openness and pluralism. We became a great civilisation because we accommodated diversity. Attempts to make everything uniform—one language, one identity, one way of thinking—risk weakening that diversity.
That diversity is our greatest strength.
Personally, I do not believe we need a separate citizenship certificate for every individual. If someone genuinely belongs here and lives here, that itself should matter.
The Larger Question: Is It the Process or the Intent?
Prema Sridevi:The government justified the Special Intensive Revision exercise by saying it was necessary to identify illegal infiltrators. However, after lakhs of names were deleted from the electoral rolls in West Bengal, very few cases of actual infiltrators appear to have been established.
You have spent decades reporting on West Bengal and national politics. Looking at the larger picture, what do you believe is actually broken here? Is it the process, or do you think the problem lies in the government’s intent?
“Citizens Are Being Kept in a Constant State of Flux”
R. Rajagopal:In the absence of concrete evidence that individual officials are deliberately breaking the process, I would have to say that the issue lies with the intent behind the policy. If you look back over the past several years—from demonetisation onwards—you notice a pattern. Citizens are constantly being kept on their toes. They are never allowed to settle into a sense of certainty.
It reminds me of military training. In the army, soldiers are constantly kept moving because they are not meant to become comfortable.
Similarly, citizens today seem to be kept in a permanent state of administrative uncertainty.
When people are constantly worrying about whether they are still recognised as citizens, whether their documents are valid, whether they will be allowed to vote, or whether they will have to prove themselves yet again, they stop asking larger questions. They stop asking whether the government has performed well. They stop asking whether their children will find employment.
They stop asking about climate change, clean air, drinking water or the quality of education. Instead, they spend their time digging through old records, tracing their family histories and worrying about whether they possess the right documents.
At the same time, we are constantly encouraged to look backwards—to celebrate what happened hundreds or thousands of years ago. We become obsessed with the past rather than focusing on either the present or the future. That, to me, is one of the biggest problems.
If the objective is to keep citizens permanently occupied with proving themselves, then this constant state of uncertainty begins to make sense.
“Demand Clarity From Your Representatives”
Prema Sridevi:For someone who does not enjoy the visibility that you do—someone without public recognition or influence—what would your advice be if they found themselves facing the same situation?
R. Rajagopal:Honestly, I feel rather helpless when I try to answer that question. The only practical advice I can offer is this: Citizens must immediately approach their elected representatives. Whether it is their councillor, MLA or Member of Parliament, they must insist on clarity. They must ask their representatives to obtain clear answers from the government. We often judge our elected representatives primarily on roads, bridges or infrastructure projects. Those things matter. But there are issues that are even more fundamental. Civil rights. Voting rights. The security of one’s identity.
These are the questions representatives should be helping citizens resolve. If those rights become uncertain, then all the other achievements lose some of their meaning. I wish I had a better answer. Unfortunately, I don’t.
Can Journalism Still Hold Power Accountable?
Prema Sridevi:After nearly thirty-five years in journalism, do you still believe Indian journalism can hold power accountable? Or do you think something important has been lost?
R. Rajagopal:I absolutely believe journalism can still hold power accountable. There are many outstanding journalists and independent news organisations doing excellent work today. Online journalism, in particular, has produced some remarkable reporting. If, however, you are asking me whether I still have faith in India’s mainstream media, then my answer is no. I have very little faith in it at present.
Perhaps that will change if another political party comes to power. Perhaps then the mainstream media will suddenly rediscover its mojo and begin asking difficult questions again. But under the present circumstances, I do not expect mainstream journalism to perform that role. Fortunately, independent journalists continue to do important work. That gives me hope.
Prema Sridevi:When your passport is eventually renewed—and I sincerely hope it will be—what would you like to say to the bureaucracy that made you prove your own citizenship?
R. Rajagopal:I don’t really have anything I wish to say to the bureaucracy. My concern is much larger than my own passport. What I want is clarity. The government needs to answer one simple question: If someone’s name has been deleted from the electoral rolls during the SIR process, are they eligible for passport renewal or not?
People deserve a clear answer. I am not in any particular hurry to travel abroad. That is not the issue. The issue is that millions of people deserve to know where they stand. The Ministry of External Affairs could clarify this in a matter of minutes. A simple statement would suffice.
Either say that electoral roll deletion has no bearing on passport renewal, or say that it does. But the present uncertainty serves no one. As for me, I don’t wish to engage in arguments with bureaucrats. I have spent nearly a hundred days trying to explain my situation. They did not listen then. I don’t expect them to listen now.
Prema Sridevi:Mr. Rajagopal, thank you for speaking with The Probe. We sincerely hope your case is resolved at the earliest and that the system addresses the questions your experience has raised.
Your passport may eventually be renewed. Your name may eventually return to the electoral rolls.
But there are lakhs of ordinary Indians who do not have a public platform, whose voices are rarely heard, and who may be facing the same uncertainty without anyone speaking on their behalf.
The government says that a passport is not proof of citizenship. Electoral rolls can erase a citizen’s name overnight. Until there is a clear answer to a simple but fundamental question, we will continue asking it: In this country, what truly proves that an Indian belongs?
I’m Prema Sridevi, Editor-in-Chief of The Probe.
Thank you for watching.
Disclaimer : This story is auto aggregated by a computer programme and has not been created or edited by DOWNTHENEWS. Publisher: theprobe.in
