This is not the happiest note to end the year on. But the year has not been kind to me, or anyone, either. One of the most debilitating experiences in the last few months has been my encounter with the System, which is now Authority upgraded to the Network. It is not a coincidence that the Network is often called the System, but here I am talking about State machinery. The System is invisible, but reveals itself to you when you approach it through an institution. The more vulnerable you are, the more terrifying it is.

It holds absolute power over you, and during the pandemic, absolute+. The System eliminated my mother, for a while, even though she was right there, breathing, living, talking, in front of it. Her experience was particularly hurtful, since she has been paralyzed for years and cannot move on her own.

I had wanted my mother’s bank to issue her life certificate for the continuation of her pension. She cannot sign her name any more and uses her left thumb impression. She could not get an Aadhaar card because the System then could not organize a home visit by officials for her. Technology does not improve access. Not then, not now. Technology, for her, bars access.

A number of phone calls made to the branch where my mother banks did not produce any answer. An online search led me to no other number and I called the bank helpline. I do not think the young lady I spoke to had any intention of understanding my mother’s problem. When other banks are organizing video calls for their senior customers, I was told that my mother had to visit her bank in person.

So I bundled her off in my car to the bank. She sat in the car, as it is not possible to carry her inside, and I went in. But I was told that she cannot submit her life certificate application as her details were no longer there in the System: both her photograph and her thumb impression had been erased. She would have to submit all her ID papers and a doctor’s certificate saying that she is only capable of using her left thumb impression for her account to get reactivated. “It is the System,” the official said.

But could the bank not see that she was alive? She was there, she was disabled and great pains had been taken to bring her to the bank. She was in pain because she was alive. I hurt, therefore I exist? “It is the System,” the official said. It would not recognise her till Ireturned with the doctor’s certificate. Certainly not her problems. The System has no room for disability.

But the official could just come out and collect her thumb impression and take her photograph on behalf of the bank? No, the System did not permit it.

Random thoughts crossed through my mind. Was the Unknowable, All-Powerful System the same as the one manifesting itself on the small screen in front of the official? How — quite inappropriate and morbid though this was — Behula and Sabitri must have felt carrying the bodies of Lakhindar and Satyaban respectively. Even more morbid — how my mother’s situation was like that of Kadambini, the young woman in Tagore’s short story, who had to die to prove that she had been alive.

Because she could not walk, come to the bank herself and sign her name, Ma had fallen through the cracks of the System and disappeared. She did not exist any more. Only perfect paperwork could revive her, but nothing was promised clearly. I had no idea how long this would go on and how many more visits Ma would have to make.

I must have been looking terrible by this time, because of the mixture of rage and helplessness at my inability to explain to the bank the fact of my mother’s life. The official underwent a change of mind, went out with me, and collected Ma’s thumb impression. The life certificate application was accepted.

She was not able to withdraw any money. For that the paperwork would have to come through. But at least I had been able to prove she was alive.