I of the storm

When I was in college it was the done thing to have an identity crisis. It was like wearing black banlon shirts, drinking coffee without milk and carrying wherever you went a conspicuously large copy of Sartre's Being and Nothingness (the corner turned down on page 723). Who am I? That was the question we repeatedly asked ourselves and each other. Fortunately for us — or unfortunately — there didn't seem to be anyone around to give a short, succinct answer which would have paid to that question once and for all: I'll tell you who you are — a silly git suffering from a terminal case of pretentiousness.So black-clad Hamlets of our own psychodrama, we exuded existential angst, our Weltschmerz summed up by those three words: Who am I? Just three short words. But with a shift in emphasis capable of nuanced shades of metaphysical meaning. For instance, Who am I? was distinctly different from Who am I?, which in turn could no wise be confused with Who am I? Who am I? A mantra which conjured up a shimmering, magical mirror into which we could stare with narcissistic adoration for hours on end. The Indian state did its bit to promote this not disagreeable lightness of being. In those days, few people had a passport which would give them an official stamp of identity. Birth certificates too were rare, at least in Calcutta, thanks to a largely dysfunctional municipal corporation. True, people had ration cards, which proved not only their generic existence but also their existence as a specific someone. But for some reason my family never had any ration cards. Far from seeing this as a disadvantage, I took it as a cachet which enhanced my quest for elusive identity. Who was this fascinating fellow who didn't even have a ration card which would call him its own? This engagingly enigmatic state of affairs was too good to last. Somewhere along the line I misplaced my copy of Being and Nothingness (still flagged down at page 723). In its lieu I acquired a passport. The current one is numbered E7495241, and includes a valid US visa (No 91047810003) and one for the UK (No 8048430). I also possess — or am possessed by — a PAN card (AAAPS3589G) and a voter's ID card (HVV2499200). I also have two credit cards (no, no offence meant but I'd rather not tell you their numbers) and a driving licence, though, luckily, that has expired. But I've been given a ration card, the first one in my life. From my earlier lack of identity I now find I've a superabundance of the stuff. No longer can I ask myself that tantalising question: Who am I? What a dumb-ass thing to ask. Any immigration officer worth his rubber stamp will tell me I'm E7495241. Or 91047810003, or 8048430, as the case may be. Similarly, the CEC will certify that in fact I am HVV2499200, whereas my ITO will with equal certitude identify me as AAAPS3589G. I am any and all of these things, like one of those all-pervasive earth-spirits animists believe in. I don't know about earth-spirits. But I do know that I'm not a big chap, physically or in any other sense, and I'm beginning to wonder if I'm constitutionally capable of bearing such a load of multiple identities. My neighbour, J P Singh, sees a sinister design in this enumeration of our selves. He says the Nazis would not have been able to round up the Jews with such chilling efficiency had it not been for the meticulous records of all citizens maintained by the German bureaucracy. So am I, much tabulated as I am, to expect a midnight knock on the door? Let it come. For the raiding party will soon discover that finding me under my sheaf of identities is like looking for a needle in a haystack. And if they do finally find me, it'll be educative at long last to learn who or what I am. Provided, of course, I am at all.