I tried to change my Aadhaar address.
Five times.

Each attempt was rejected with the quiet precision of a sarkari stamp.
No explanation. Just that eternal, smug line:
“Document not accepted. Kindly upload correct document.”

It was supposed to be a simple task.
Update my present address so I could get my passport.
Instead, it became a full-blown digital pilgrimage—
a spiritual obstacle course disguised as a government service.

You Do Not Simply Update Your Aadhaar

You submit a document.
It’s rejected.
You compress the file.
Rejected again.
You call customer care. They recite from memory:
“Please visit your nearest Seva Kendra.”

You realize you are no longer in control.
You are being processed, not processing.

This is not an update. This is a rite of passage.
Aadhaar doesn’t change for you.
You change for Aadhaar.

Where the Button Judges You Before You Click It

The site looks modern—on the surface.
But every dropdown menu moves like it’s doing sandhyavandanam.
Every form loads like it’s consulting with your ancestors.

You click Submit with reverence.
You wait.
Nothing happens.
You click again.
Everything disappears.

Even your identity briefly goes offline.

We Built the Future. But It Runs on a Hamster Wheel

This is the digital India we were promised— cashless payments, paperless offices, biometric everything. And yet, here I am, watching my high-speed internet struggle to upload a PDF smaller than a selfie.

The apps look sleek, but they all smell faintly of ration shops and laminated hope.

It’s like streaming a blockbuster movie on a 4K screen, only to realize the projector is powered by a hamster. With asthma.

The Paperless Revolution Comes With a Filing Cabinet

Identity here isn’t a line on a form.
It’s a story of Seva Kendra appointments and moral exhortations.
Of gas bills blessed with signatures.
Of utility documents that must align across timelines.

We may have moved to cloud servers, but we never left the cloud of doubt.
You submit. You wait.
You become humble.
Because that’s what India does best—
She doesn’t just digitize.
She philosophizes.

The Scent That Refuses to Modernize

Somewhere between the loading screens and the circular logic, you start to smell it.

Not code. Not silicon.

But Mysore Sandal Soap.
That familiar, comforting scent of an India that refuses to rush.
It lathers slow. It lingers long.
Like the background scent in a government office with plastic chairs and tube lights that flicker like moral dilemmas.

Because even at the speed of light,
India carries her scent with her.

And on those days when everything crashes—
when the captcha mocks you,
when the OTP never arrives,
when your passport dreams fade behind a “Server Unavailable” error…

She no longer smells like sandalwood.

She smells, unmistakably,
of Gokul Santol.