To say that the Indian state is digital would be an understatement. It has built an astounding infrastructure of data - a sprawling, intricate web of biometrics, instant transfers and cloud-based identities that has redefined the relationship between citizen and state. But recently, Jitu Munda, a resident of Binjharpur block of Odisha's Keonjhar, showed that while digital architecture may be sophisticated, it can be far from responsive or humane.
Last week, Munda walked into an Odisha Grameen Bank branch carrying a bag. Inside were the skeletal remains of his sister, Mani. In a world of biometrics and cloud computing, the bank insisted on death and legal heir certificates that didn't exist in any database, or with him in person. This meant he could not claim the ₹19,402 she had left behind.
India takes immense pride in its UPI reach and push for a paperless future. There is much to be proud of. But Munda's ordeal reveals a jagged reality: if you are marginalised, digital means delays or denials. Thousands of Jitu Mundas wait at government offices, banks and collectorates, wasting a day's wage, only to be turned back because of 'backend issues', or because they simply haven't been onboarded.
For the Indian state, their time and effort have little value. This disconnect is perfectly captured in the work of sociologist Javier Auyero, who studied the 'politics of waiting' in Buenos Aires, sitting in welfare offices, registration centres and shanties, observing how the urban poor are forced to endure endless queues, redundant paperwork and arbitrary delays to access basic rights.
In Patients of the State: The Politics of Waiting in Argentina, Auyero argues that making the poor wait is not a bureaucratic accident but a form of state control. By making people wait hours, days and months for basic rights, the state effectively teaches them that their time is worthless and their citizenship is conditional.
This 'politics of waiting' serves a dual purpose: it filters out those without physical or mental stamina to persist, and psychologically conditions the marginalised to accept that their time is worthless. By keeping people in a state of perpetual uncertainty, the state asserts its power, signalling that inclusion is a gift rather than a right.
This dynamic of conditional citizenship finds a striking parallel in the recent scholarship from Brazil, specifically in studies concerning the Bolsa Familia programme and its digital evolution. Researchers in Brazil have documented how 'digital-first' welfare creates a 'technological bottleneck' that operates as a silent gatekeeper.
In Brazil's peripheries, much like in rural Odisha, the state assumes a level of connectivity and digital literacy that simply does not exist for the poorest. When the system glitches, the burden of proof is shifted entirely onto the individual.
In Munda's case, the 'waiting' became so terminal that he felt forced to exhume the dead just to get a hearing. The state's demand for a specific digital credential became a wall that could only be scaled by a desperate, ghoulish act of proof. We often assume that because infrastructure exists, access is universal. But for those living in the shadows of our digital highways, a missing certificate isn't a bureaucratic hiccup. It's social erasure.
The state seems to have forgotten that Digital India is a tool, not a destination. If the tool cannot serve the last person, and there are no backup systems for those who cannot afford smartphones or the intermediaries who profit from digital gatekeeping, then the tool has failed. It becomes yet another efficient way to ignore the suffering of the poor, hidden behind the clean, sterile interface of a computer or phone screen.
When Munda's video went viral, the district administration gave him an additional ₹30,000, and ordered an inquiry. The state can, indeed, be agile and humane. But only, it seems, when shamed by a viral spectacle.
Last week, Munda walked into an Odisha Grameen Bank branch carrying a bag. Inside were the skeletal remains of his sister, Mani. In a world of biometrics and cloud computing, the bank insisted on death and legal heir certificates that didn't exist in any database, or with him in person. This meant he could not claim the ₹19,402 she had left behind.
India takes immense pride in its UPI reach and push for a paperless future. There is much to be proud of. But Munda's ordeal reveals a jagged reality: if you are marginalised, digital means delays or denials. Thousands of Jitu Mundas wait at government offices, banks and collectorates, wasting a day's wage, only to be turned back because of 'backend issues', or because they simply haven't been onboarded.
For the Indian state, their time and effort have little value. This disconnect is perfectly captured in the work of sociologist Javier Auyero, who studied the 'politics of waiting' in Buenos Aires, sitting in welfare offices, registration centres and shanties, observing how the urban poor are forced to endure endless queues, redundant paperwork and arbitrary delays to access basic rights.
In Patients of the State: The Politics of Waiting in Argentina, Auyero argues that making the poor wait is not a bureaucratic accident but a form of state control. By making people wait hours, days and months for basic rights, the state effectively teaches them that their time is worthless and their citizenship is conditional.
This 'politics of waiting' serves a dual purpose: it filters out those without physical or mental stamina to persist, and psychologically conditions the marginalised to accept that their time is worthless. By keeping people in a state of perpetual uncertainty, the state asserts its power, signalling that inclusion is a gift rather than a right.
This dynamic of conditional citizenship finds a striking parallel in the recent scholarship from Brazil, specifically in studies concerning the Bolsa Familia programme and its digital evolution. Researchers in Brazil have documented how 'digital-first' welfare creates a 'technological bottleneck' that operates as a silent gatekeeper.
In Brazil's peripheries, much like in rural Odisha, the state assumes a level of connectivity and digital literacy that simply does not exist for the poorest. When the system glitches, the burden of proof is shifted entirely onto the individual.
In Munda's case, the 'waiting' became so terminal that he felt forced to exhume the dead just to get a hearing. The state's demand for a specific digital credential became a wall that could only be scaled by a desperate, ghoulish act of proof. We often assume that because infrastructure exists, access is universal. But for those living in the shadows of our digital highways, a missing certificate isn't a bureaucratic hiccup. It's social erasure.
The state seems to have forgotten that Digital India is a tool, not a destination. If the tool cannot serve the last person, and there are no backup systems for those who cannot afford smartphones or the intermediaries who profit from digital gatekeeping, then the tool has failed. It becomes yet another efficient way to ignore the suffering of the poor, hidden behind the clean, sterile interface of a computer or phone screen.
When Munda's video went viral, the district administration gave him an additional ₹30,000, and ordered an inquiry. The state can, indeed, be agile and humane. But only, it seems, when shamed by a viral spectacle.
KumKum Dasgupta
Senior Editor