BIJNOR/NAGINA: Mosques, madrasas and even mobile recharge centres across parts of UP have quietly become unofficial help centres, guiding residents as they fill out the Special Intensive Revision (SIR) forms — a voter list exercise that carries high stakes. These community spaces have taken the lead, helping people navigate documentation requirements, correct mismatches, and ensure their names stay on the rolls ahead of the 2027 assembly polls.
The azaan echoes as usual across Najibabad, the final note of the call to prayer still hanging in the air when the loudspeaker on the mosque minaret crackles again. The voice — measured, insistent — urges residents to gather their documents, fill out forms, and act before it’s too late, repeating a familiar phrase over the loudspeaker: “Der na karein, zaroori hai” — don’t wait, this matters.
Across Muslim-majority neighbourhoods, this new civic refrain has become familiar. Officials say it is a routine update ahead of the 2027 assembly elections. But in neighbourhoods bruised by anxieties around CAA and NRC, the exercise is filled with anxiety.
<p>Across Muslim-majority neighbourhoods, this new civic refrain has become familiar<br></p>
In Sherkot, Nagina, Dhampur and Najibabad, answers unfold in mosque courtyards, beside madrasa gates and under tents pitched along quiet lanes. Residents sit with plastic envelopes and documents, waiting for their names to be called. A sign tacked to a bamboo pole reads simply, “Form bharne mein madad yahan milegi” — help available here for those filling forms. For many, it is the only direction they trust.
Inside these makeshift camps, volunteers work in pairs — one with a phone, the other guiding a finger across each line of the form. Imam Mohammad Abrar says he never planned to become a civic announcer. “People came after prayer, confused. Some were afraid. That’s when I started speaking from the loudspeaker — explaining what this form is and what documents to bring. When a form affects someone’s identity, the mosque cannot stay silent.”
At a table near the back, Fatima, a widow in her 50s, holds a plastic envelope to her chest. Inside are birth certificates, school IDs, board marksheets and a yellowing land deed. “Zindagi bhar ke kaagaz hain isme,” she says, clutching the envelope — documents from a lifetime. “Bas dua hai ki kaafi ho,” she adds softly, hoping they are enough.
<p>Across Meerut and Muzaffarnagar, the pattern repeats<br></p>
Nadeem, a college student volunteering here, says the scale of the effort surprises him. “We thought we’d help a few neighbours. Now people are coming from five localities. Some don’t even know what form they’re here for — they just know it matters.”
That sense of uncertainty comes from memory, says Ejaz Ahmad, president of the
Uttar Pradesh Madrasa Education Association. “When identity documents are involved, people remember the past. NRC, Aadhaar, welfare cut-offs — these things leave a mark. People need someone who helps without asking too many questions. That’s why the mosque matters.”
After Friday prayers, imams repeat reminders. Madrasa students help residents scan QR codes, upload PDFs and correct spelling mismatches. In some camps, volunteers keep handwritten lists of common errors. Elsewhere, a single printer hums for hours, fed by donated paper and shared nervousness.
Across Meerut and Muzaffarnagar, the pattern repeats. In Meerapur, a retired Urdu teacher has turned his drawing room into a small help centre. Shelves of old registers and electoral slips line the walls. “I may not have a sarkari naukri,” he says, seated amid stacks of papers, “but I know how to read forms.” He has become the first stop for elderly residents and married women searching for pre-2003 records.
<p>Some residents want to retrieve their father’s voter ID; others need help with mismatched spellings<br></p>
Camps in cramped baithaks, shuttered shops, madrasa corridors and councillors’ verandas become steady help centres. Messages that once travelled through azaans now move via lane announcements and hurried phone calls — “Form bharwa lo, galti mat karna” — get the form done, and get it right.
In Muzaffarnagar’s Khatauli, shopkeeper Mohammad Aasif puts it simply: “When the mosque speaks, people listen.”
Some distance away in Nagina’s Zabtaganj, Islamia madrasa opens at 9am. Women walk in carrying folded identity slips and residence proofs. “We are held together by a common uncertainty,” says Faizan, an elderly man near the gate. “We want our papers intact. We want our votes counted.”
Inside, a desk supported by a local MLA stays crowded. Some residents want to retrieve their father’s voter ID; others need help with mismatched spellings. In one corner, a man with a rubber stamp verifies affidavits for people unsure which documents qualify.
BLO Salma Parveen, working in Bijnor’s Muglushah locality, says she has processed over 350 forms in three days. “Whitener mat lagana,” she warns — correction fluid could get the form rejected. She has been working since dawn, switching to a paper list after the online portal begins crashing in the afternoons. “People are scared, so they double-check every line,” she says. By evening, her pencil is worn down to a stub. Supervisors call for updates each night, and SDM and DM offices expect daily reports. On her street, she has become both a govt arm and neighbourly reassurance.
Elsewhere, informal helpers fill the gaps. In Bijnor’s Rampura, a narrow lane of barbers and butchers, a photocopy shop sees a constant queue. Javed, the owner, says he helps 200–250 people a day. “SIR is my deadline too. No vote, no voice." In Meerut, a mobile recharge shop now serves as a documentation corner, its printer whirring as residents ask about ward codes, father’s name spellings and missing records.
Certain problems repeat: women married after 2003 chasing parental documents; relatives hunting through old trunks for brittle papers; migrants facing language barriers. Nafisa, from Bengal and married into Najibabad, finally finds her father’s papers — in Bangla. A volunteer translates them line by line using a phone app. “We’re helping everyone, one by one,” says Ansar, a ward worker. “But one thing is constant: no one wants to be left out.”
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