When denied a passport for not having father’s name, a Dalit woman recounts her painful journey within a broken system that punishes those born outside patriarchal norms.
When denied a passport for not having father’s name, a Dalit woman recounts her painful journey within a broken system that punishes those born outside patriarchal norms.
How many times do I have to prove my existence?
How many forms do I have to fill out to explain why I don’t have a father’s name?
Why does this system punish us even while pretending to give us a future, when we were born outside the rules of patriarchy?
Since 2023, I have been humiliated while trying to get a passport, and in the process I have been caught in a trap of a question that haunts me daily: If the state does not acknowledge my existence, then who am I?
In that one moment, I was mocked for not having a father’s name, and something broke inside me.
I left that office defeated not just by the rejection of my passport application, but also crushed by the burden of being completely invisible. For the first time in my life, I felt erased. I cried uncontrollably on my way back—not for a piece of paper, but for the dignity that was taken away from me in that moment.
I am not alone. This is not just my individual battle—it is a reflection of the larger systemic failures that continue to oppress marginalized communities. A system that continues to erase people like me—Dalit women and their children—whose existence is inconvenient to the social order.
When I was selected for a PhD abroad, it was more than an academic achievement—it was a victory against a system that had long tried to silence people like me. I was ready to leave. But then the passport office stopped me. I was rejected not for lack of ability or merit, but because my mother, who was once a Devadasi, raised me alone.
The Devadasi system, which is rooted in caste-based oppression, has devastated thousands of women in Karnataka. My mother, like thousands of others, was dedicated to the temple as a child—an act that stripped her of her autonomy. She was pushed into a life of servitude, denied the right to marry, and forced to serve the gods through religious rituals. Yet, she raised me with dignity, strength, and rebellion—working as a laborer to send me to school. I saw her resist silently, not breaking under the same burden that crushed so many others.
The term Devadasi refers to an age-old practice where young girls were ‘married off’ to temples and forced to serve the deity. Though it was meant to honor the gods, over time the practice became exploitative. Devadasis faced poverty, sexual abuse, and social exclusion. Despite laws prohibiting the practice, more than 70,000 devadasis still survive in India today, according to a 2015 NHRC report. Research by Janshakti and NLSIU shows that more than 60% of their children drop out of school due to stigma, poverty, and bureaucratic neglect.
In April 2023, I applied for a passport in Delhi, thinking I had my documents in order. I carried everything I thought the system wanted—Aadhaar, voter ID, education certificates, and a government-issued certificate proving my mother’s devadasi status. I had been in Delhi for over a year, working in youth programs and leading research in public education. My passport application should have been a normal process. But what ensued was a nightmare.
The officer flipped through my file without much interest, until he reached the column for “father’s name.” She stared at him, then looked at me with disdain. “Everyone has a father,” she sneered. “Don’t talk like an illiterate.” People around me laughed. I stood silent, holding the proof of my existence and my mother’s struggle. The sting of their laughter was something I had never imagined.
I explained that I was raised by my mother alone. I mentioned the Maharashtra High Court ruling that allows the mother’s name alone to be used in official documents. But no one paid attention. The officer rejected my application. “You can try, but it may be rejected in police verification,” she said.
The verification officer, who initially seemed sympathetic, later reported a discrepancy—again, pointing to the blank column for father’s name. I appealed, sent emails, made rounds of offices. No one responded.
Hours of waiting, pleading, and explaining were met with humiliation. To the system, I was not a human being—I was a problem. The burden of caste and patriarchy turned me into an administrative inconvenience. Though the officer eventually processed my application, he warned: “At your own risk.” And he was right. It was rejected at police verification.
For the next two years, I physically and emotionally chased a document that was supposed to confirm my existence. I went to the Delhi PSK again and again, hoping someone would look beyond the blank column for father’s name and see a human being—one with credentials, purpose, and dreams. I filed appeals, wrote emails, made rounds of offices. Silence. After almost a year, I gave up and withdrew the application.
Still, I was not ready to give up.
In March 2025, I applied again in Bengaluru under the tatkal category. The last date to submit my scholarship documents was near, and without a passport, I would have lost my chance. This time, I was denied admission at the token counter itself.
The officer—whose sole job was to issue tokens—had sealed my fate even before I reached the verification desk. When I said I didn’t have a father’s name, people around me laughed. Without any sympathy, the officer looked me in the eyes and said, “You should know your father’s name. Don’t talk like an illiterate.” My blood froze.
The same laughter. The same shame. The same dismissal.
After pleading with the token officer without success, I gave up and sat in a corner and talked to my sister—both of them in tears, broken, helpless, not knowing what to do next.
I felt a deep, burning shame—not for who I am, but for expecting justice from a system designed to erase people like me. I held my mother’s certificate—her truth, my truth—while I watched my dreams dissolve into crumpled papers between those indifferent hands.
Still, I held on to a thread of hope and requested a meeting with the assistant passport officer, believing that maybe someone would finally understand the Devadasi practice and see me as more than a passing name. I presented my mother’s certificate from the Department of Women and Child Development—clear, legal proof of her status as a Devadasi. I also cited the Maharashtra High Court judgment, which clearly states that only the mother’s name is legally valid for official documents.
But once again, I was rejected.
The officials forced me to switch from the tatkal to the normal process, citing vague, arbitrary rules with no legal basis. I waited for hours, presented my case, explained everything. The assistant passport officer refused to consider my application.
My ID was not looked at—it was sorted, stamped, and pushed aside. Just another bureaucratic anomaly. Not a person. Not a citizen. Not eligible.
“Switch to the normal procedure!”
“This certificate is not enough!”
“Come back later!”
The voices echoed like judgements. And I walked out—carrying the burden of not just rejection, but also the feeling of being erased.
However, I changed my appointment from tatkal to normal and also changed the passport seva kendra from Bengaluru to Bellary, because there was awareness about the system. On May 1, 2025, I got my document verification done and submitted a written letter explaining my mother’s devadasi status and requesting a passport.
My years of education, my PhD acceptance, and a pile of official documents—none of it mattered. I was treated as if my very existence was a mistake. An anomaly that did not deserve recognition. But it is not just my fight anymore. Thousands of devadasi children face the same obstacles—most lose. They are denied passports, education, and dignity.
The Karnataka Devadasi (Prohibition) Act, 1982, and the 2018 Rehabilitation Bill—on which I worked as a research assistant—promised change. But seven years later, the bill has not been implemented. The silence in government offices is deafening.
Still, I am committed. Each failure has deepened my resolve. I have started a youth initiative that helps marginalized students navigate leadership and careers, so that no one else walks this path alone.
My experience is the inspiration for my activist career. Education gave me the language to dream and resist. As a first-generation Dalit learner, it helped me question injustice and imagine freedom. But education alone has not been enough. Discrimination continues through red tape, silent rooms, and closed doors.
Children from single-parent families—especially from Devadasi families—should not be forced to repeatedly prove their identity. Policies must clearly state that father’s name is not mandatory. Officials must be trained to understand and respect our realities. Even in urgent cases, children of Devadasis must get fair access, not ridicule.
To all those who are still fighting: your struggle is valid. You are not at fault. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for your birth.
This fight for dignity, justice and recognition will continue. Not just for us, but for every child the world refuses to see.
Nari Kamakshi is a researcher and social justice activist who works on education and youth empowerment. She is currently with CreateNet Education in Delhi. This article was originally published on The News Minute website.
Courtesy : Hindi News