Multiple Identities.

            Years ago, on a long-distance train journey, I saw two young men greeting each other after what appeared to be a long time.

“Kelvinator?” one asked the other, pointing a finger in recognition, smiling widely.

“Videocon!!” was the immediate response. “Tu phir se iss route par?”

These white-goods salespeople knew each other by face and company. I’m sure they had exchanged visiting cards, but names on those would not be remembered, would matter only beyond a certain designation.

I sometimes end up being nameless as well.

Whilst filling up any form, I carefully, legibly write the name, age and sex (some call it ‘gender’) as indicated. Address and other details follow. The first three are meant to identify me. These bits of information don’t always work for me, though I believe my name isn’t the kind that is easily duplicated. You may have a dozen Bharat Shahs or Marie Douzas at any given time at the Bombay/ Goa airport, and fifty such at any railway station; but you’d have to search hard through all the continents to find someone with my name and of the same age. It’s an easily split, simple four syllable name, not hard to remember. Not like Chaturbhujini Papadkhar or something. Right? 

            Wrong.

Time and again, I’ve discovered that my identity changes in spite of details provided.

First example, my hospital experiences. In spite of correctly taking down spellings and numbers, as soon as I turned away from the reception counter, I heard the staff telling the doctor over the phone: “Sir, haanv left ankle lateral view’k bhitar dhaadtaa.” I looked around. There was no one else in the room. I was being talked about. I was ‘Left Ankle Lateral View’. I raised my eye-brows in query. The staff responded, nodded in confirmation, looking at me and indicating that I could limp inside. In an instant I became no different from the “road accident trauma” and “renal calculi” that had gone inside before me.

Another time. Hospital staff: “Bai, tu dental exam kaay ENT consultation?” Being neither, and being flustered (I get nervous in hospitals, something to do with the smell, the flapping uniforms and enigmatic behaviour of the inmates), I thrust the voucher or receipt or some paper at the enquirer to make sure there was no mistake. I was guided to the ENT area where further probing continued: “Tu tonsillitis kaay hearing loss?” As patient I ceased to be a person even before I greeted the doctor. I had turned into a symptom.

New-name-situations are common in healthcare venues. Green-robed/  white-coated folk walk up and ask, “Are you USG-abdomen?” When you don’t respond, there’s a bit of confusion. The nurse on duty gets hassled, the technician grumbles that he’s running against time, the ward-boys can’t find the ‘patients’… I know, because it happened to me. I was ‘missing’ once, because I didn’t respond to: “Blood test! Blood test! All blood tests come this way.”

Later, when my reports were being located by a busy girl digging through a pile of envelopes behind a glass screen I was asked: “Madam, tu fasting blood sugar, nee? Are you also urine routine?” Turned out that I was thyroid and creatinine as well. Impressive persona, what say?

In hotels, the staff is polite, correct in tone and use ‘by-hearted’ phrases. One hotel incident. I was greeted typically: “Good evening ma’am, hope you had a nice day, here are your keys.” The same person turned around and introduced me to a house-keeping colleague as “Room 101. Extra blanket.”

At the place where I get my car serviced, everyone recognizes me as grey-gaadi-4848.

The gas-cylinder delivery man and the courier chap are the only ones who know my name. The pizza-delivery people know me by the last five digits of my mobile phone connection. Sometimes, if I’ve called them from the landline, I clearly say: “… haanv 08952 ulaytaa..”. They punch the numbers into their system and recount my address instantly.

Mia culpa for destroying others’ identities: my mobile-phone data has numbers saved against names like: “Plumber” or “Micro-repair” and “Mapusa dry-cleaner”. I’ve no idea what their names are.

On a flight I’d taken, there was an announcement that “D-4” hadn’t handed over the boarding card token. The uniformed chap kept scowling directly at me thundering, “D-4”.  I was expected to respond to a seat number.

Now that the Aadhar cards aren’t valid, my election card is valuable. Other than my passport and driving licence it’s the only thing that is ‘proof of identity’: the only thing that can tell me who I really am. 

Happy voting !!

(feedback: sheelajaywant@yahoo.co.in)