Making Them Wait, & Wait, & …: The Politics of Waiting in India’s Digital State
To say that the Indian state is digital would be an understatement. It has built an astounding infrastructure of data—a sprawling, intricate web of biometrics, instant transfers and cloud-based identities that has redefined the relationship between citizen and state. But recently Jitu Munda, a resident of Binjharpur block of Odisha’s Keonjhar, showed that while digital architecture may be sophisticated, it can be far from responsive or humane. Last week, Munda walked into an Odisha Grameen Bank branch carrying a bag. Inside were the skeletal remains of his sister, Mani. In a world of biometrics and cloud computing, the bank insisted on death and legal heir certificates that didn’t exist in any database, or with him in person. This meant he could not claim the ₹19,402 she had left behind. India takes immense pride in its UPI reach and push for a paperless future. There is much to be proud of. But Munda’s ordeal reveals a jagged reality: if you are marginalised, digital means delays or denials. Thousands of Jitu Mundas wait at government offices, banks and collectorates, wasting a day’s wage, only to be turned back because of ‘backend issues’, or because they simply haven’t been onboarded. For the Indian state, their time and effort have little value.
The Politics of Waiting: A Form of State Control
This disconnect is perfectly captured in the work of sociologist Javier Auyero, who studied the ‘politics of waiting’ in Buenos Aires, sitting in welfare offices, registration centres and shanties, observing how the urban poor are forced to endure endless queues, redundant paperwork and arbitrary delays to access basic rights. In Patients of the State: The Politics of Waiting in Argentina, Auyero argues that making the poor wait is not a bureaucratic accident but a form of state control. By making people wait hours, days and months for basic rights, the state effectively teaches them that their time is worthless and their citizenship is conditional.
This ‘politics of waiting’ serves a dual purpose: it filters out those without physical or mental stamina to persist, and psychologically conditions the marginalised to accept that their time is worthless. By keeping people in a state of perpetual uncertainty, the state asserts its power, signalling that inclusion is a gift rather than a right. The waiting itself becomes a mechanism of governance. Those who can afford to wait—in terms of time, money, and mental resilience—are eventually served. Those who cannot are filtered out. The system does not explicitly exclude; it merely makes exclusion the natural consequence of impatience, poverty, or lack of documentation.
In Munda’s case, the ‘waiting’ became so terminal that he felt forced to exhume the dead just to get a hearing. The state’s demand for a specific digital credential became a wall that could only be scaled by a desperate, ghoulish act of proof. He had to carry his sister’s bones to the bank because no digital record existed of her death, and no paper certificate was available. The bank’s computer system required a document that did not exist. The human beings at the bank could not override the system. The machine was the master.
The Digital Bottleneck: A Silent Gatekeeper
This dynamic of conditional citizenship finds a striking parallel in recent scholarship from Brazil, specifically in studies concerning the Bolsa Família programme and its digital evolution. Researchers in Brazil have documented how ‘digital-first’ welfare creates a ‘technological bottleneck’ that operates as a silent gatekeeper. In Brazil’s peripheries, much like in rural Odisha, the state assumes a level of connectivity and digital literacy that simply does not exist for the poorest. When the system glitches, the burden of proof is shifted entirely onto the individual.
The digital welfare state promises efficiency, transparency, and convenience. But for the marginalised, it often delivers the opposite. A farmer who cannot read English cannot navigate a government portal. A labourer who cannot afford a smartphone cannot download a required app. A widow who has no digital literacy cannot upload a death certificate. The system, designed by the educated for the educated, assumes a baseline of resources, skills, and connectivity that the poorest do not have.
In India, the JAM trinity—Jan Dhan accounts, Aadhaar, and Mobile numbers—has enabled direct benefit transfers (DBT) that have saved the government billions by eliminating leakages. But it has also created new forms of exclusion. Aadhaar authentication failures are common in remote areas with poor connectivity. Bank accounts are opened but remain inactive because the account holder cannot remember the PIN or does not have a mobile phone linked to the account. Subsidies are transferred but cannot be withdrawn because the nearest bank branch is 20 kilometres away, and the ATM has no cash.
We often assume that because infrastructure exists, access is universal. But for those living in the shadows of our digital highways, a missing certificate isn’t a bureaucratic hiccup. It’s social erasure. The digital state can see them in the database, but cannot reach them. Or it can reach them, but only to demand proofs they cannot produce. The state’s vision is 20/20 for the connected; it is legally blind for the left-behind.
The Spectacle of Shame: When the State Responds
When Munda’s video went viral, the district administration gave him an additional ₹30,000 and ordered an inquiry. The state can, indeed, be agile and humane. But only it seems, when shamed by a viral spectacle. The viral video—shared on social media, picked up by news outlets, trending for a day—triggered a response that the bank’s internal procedures could not. A man carrying his sister’s bones was not enough; the spectacle of a man carrying his sister’s bones had to be witnessed by thousands to move the system.
This is not justice; it is voyeuristic accountability. The state responds not to the grievance but to the publicity. The poor person without a smartphone or a social media account has no such recourse. Their suffering remains invisible, and the machine grinds on.
The district administration’s response was welcome, but it was also reactive, ad hoc, and unsustainable. There will always be more viral videos. But the system should not require viral videos to function. It should function because it is designed to function, not because it is shamed into functioning.
The Erosion of Human Discretion
The deeper problem is the erosion of human discretion. In the pre-digital era, a bank manager could use judgment. A bank manager could know a customer. A bank manager could bend the rules, within limits, to help a poor person. Today, the system is designed to eliminate discretion. The computer says yes or no. The computer demands a document number. The computer freezes the account if the authentication fails. The human is reduced to a data entry operator, and the citizen is reduced to a data point.
This is efficient for routine transactions. But life is not routine. Death is not routine. Grief is not routine. The system has no space for grief. It has no space for a man carrying his sister’s bones because he cannot prove she died. The system’s inhumanity is not a bug; it is a feature. It is the natural consequence of a design philosophy that prioritises data integrity over human dignity.
The Way Forward: Designing for the Margins
The state seems to have forgotten that Digital India is a tool, not a destination. If the tool cannot serve the last person, and there are no backup systems for those who cannot afford smartphones or the intermediaries who profit from digital gatekeeping, then the tool has failed. It becomes yet another efficient way to ignore the suffering of the poor, hidden behind the clean, sterile interface of a computer or phone screen.
What is to be done? First, the state must build in fail-safes. Aadhaar authentication should not be the only way to prove identity. Bank branches should have the discretion to accept alternative documentation, especially for the elderly, the illiterate, and the poor. Second, the state must invest in digital literacy. This is not a one-time training programme; it is a sustained effort to ensure that every citizen can use the digital tools that the state provides. Third, the state must maintain physical infrastructure. For every online portal, there should be a physical counter where those without digital access can be served. Fourth, the state must reform its grievance redressal mechanisms. A complaint should not have to go viral to be heard. Fifth, the state must recognise that waiting is a cost. The time of the poor is not worthless. The state should compensate for excessive delays, not as charity but as a right.
Conclusion: Beyond the Digital Mirage
Munda’s ordeal is not an exception; it is a revelation. It reveals what is hidden behind the glossy success stories of Digital India. It reveals that the digital revolution has left millions behind. It reveals that the state’s bureaucrats, trained to follow procedures rather than to serve citizens, are comfortable with that exclusion. It reveals that the politics of waiting is alive and well, now with a digital interface.
India should be proud of its digital achievements. But pride should not become complacency. The digital state must be constantly improved, constantly audited, and constantly held accountable. It must be designed for the poor, not for the convenience of the rich. It must be human-centric, not data-centric. It must recognise that a death certificate is not just a document; it is a recognition of a life. And a skeleton in a bag is not just a problem to be solved; it is a human tragedy to be mourned.
The state gave Jitu Munda an additional ₹30,000 and ordered an inquiry. That is good. But the inquiry must ask the right questions: Why did the bank not have the discretion to help? Why was there no backup process? Why did it take a viral video to move the system? And most importantly, how many other Jitu Mundas are out there, waiting, carrying their own burdens, without a viral video to save them?
Q&A: The Politics of Waiting in India’s Digital State
Q1: What happened to Jitu Munda, and what does his ordeal reveal about India’s digital governance?
A1: Jitu Munda, a resident of Odisha’s Keonjhar district, walked into an Odisha Grameen Bank branch carrying a bag containing the skeletal remains of his sister, Mani. The bank insisted on death and legal heir certificates that did not exist in any database or with him, so he could not claim the ₹19,402 she had left behind. His ordeal “reveals a jagged reality: if you are marginalised, digital means delays or denials.” When his video went viral, the district administration gave him an additional ₹30,000 and ordered an inquiry—demonstrating that the state “can, indeed, be agile and humane. But only it seems, when shamed by a viral spectacle.”
Q2: What is the “politics of waiting” as theorised by sociologist Javier Auyero, and how does it apply to India?
A2: Javier Auyero, in Patients of the State: The Politics of Waiting in Argentina, argues that “making the poor wait is not a bureaucratic accident but a form of state control.” By making people wait hours, days, and months for basic rights, the state “teaches them that their time is worthless and their citizenship is conditional.” This “politics of waiting” serves a dual purpose: it “filters out those without physical or mental stamina to persist” and “psychologically conditions the marginalised to accept that their time is worthless.” In India, thousands of “Jitu Mundas wait at government offices, banks and collectorates, wasting a day’s wage, only to be turned back because of ‘backend issues’.” For the Indian state, “their time and effort have little value.”
Q3: What is the “digital bottleneck” or “technological gatekeeper” that marginalised citizens face?
A3: Researchers in Brazil (studying Bolsa Família) have documented how “digital-first” welfare creates a “technological bottleneck” that operates as a “silent gatekeeper.” The state assumes “a level of connectivity and digital literacy that simply does not exist for the poorest.” When the system glitches, “the burden of proof is shifted entirely onto the individual.” In India, a farmer cannot read English to navigate a portal; a labourer cannot afford a smartphone to download an app; a widow has no digital literacy to upload a death certificate. The article states: “The system, designed by the educated for the educated, assumes a baseline of resources, skills, and connectivity that the poorest do not have.” A missing certificate becomes “social erasure.”
Q4: What is the deeper problem of the erosion of human discretion in digital governance?
A4: In the pre-digital era, “a bank manager could use judgment… could bend the rules, within limits, to help a poor person.” Today, “the system is designed to eliminate discretion. The computer says yes or no.” The human is reduced to a data entry operator, and the citizen is reduced to a data point. This is efficient for routine transactions, but “life is not routine. Death is not routine. Grief is not routine.” The system has “no space for a man carrying his sister’s bones because he cannot prove she died.” The article argues that “the system’s inhumanity is not a bug; it is a feature… the natural consequence of a design philosophy that prioritises data integrity over human dignity.”
Q5: What reforms does the article recommend to make digital governance more humane and inclusive?
A5: The article recommends five reforms:
-
Build in fail-safes: Aadhaar authentication should not be the only way to prove identity. Bank branches should have “discretion to accept alternative documentation, especially for the elderly, the illiterate, and the poor.”
-
Invest in digital literacy: A “sustained effort to ensure that every citizen can use the digital tools that the state provides.”
-
Maintain physical infrastructure: For every online portal, there should be a “physical counter where those without digital access can be served.”
-
Reform grievance redressal mechanisms: A complaint should not have to go viral to be heard.
-
Recognise that waiting is a cost: The state should “compensate for excessive delays, not as charity but as a right.”
The article concludes: “Digital India is a tool, not a destination. If the tool cannot serve the last person… then the tool has failed. It becomes yet another efficient way to ignore the suffering of the poor, hidden behind the clean, sterile interface of a computer or phone screen.” The state must be “human-centric, not data-centric.”
