Oh, Aadhaar! You were supposed to be the golden ticket to India’s bureaucratic chocolate factory!

When you strutted onto the scene in 2009, you were heralded as the harbinger of inclusive governance—a biometric marvel that would sweep every Indian, from the poshest penthouse dweller to the humblest villager, into the warm embrace of formal recognition.

The moment Ranjna Sadashiv Sonwane of Nandurbar, Maharashtra, clutched the first Aadhaar card in September 2010, it felt like India had finally cracked the code to universal identity.

Passports? Ration cards? They would be quicker and easier to access. Aadhaar was the great equaliser, promising to level the playing field with a flourish of fingerprints and iris scans.

The Unique Identification Authority of India (UIDAI) deserves a tip of the hat for sheer ambition.

Collecting biometric data from over a billion people? In a country where electricity and internet connectivity are sometimes as reliable as a desi neta’s election promise? That was the kind of audacity that could sustain its very own Bollywood masala movie.

And, as any media student will tell you, in a drama, after the hero is introduced , the antagonists kick in.

Privacy advocates clutched their pearls, warning that Aadhaar’s treasure trove of personal data could turn into a hacker’s piñata. Legal battles ensued, and it wasn’t until 2016, with the Aadhaar Act’s belated arrival, that the scheme got a proper legislative backbone.

For a while, Aadhaar was the key to everything. Need a bank account? Flash your Aadhaar. Want a SIM card? Aadhaar. School admission? Aadhaar. Government benefits? You’d better have that 12-digit number tattooed on your soul.

For the poor and undocumented, it was more than a card—it was a badge of dignity, a whispered assurance that India saw them.

But then, like a plot twist in a low-budget soap opera, the truth emerged: Aadhaar wasn’t proof of citizenship. Not even close. Foreign nationals could get one!

Suddenly, that shiny card felt less, Aadhaar was taking on the hue of a glorified library card.

The confusion didn’t stop there.

Some institutions got cheeky and started accepting Aadhaar as proof of age—until the Supreme Court swooped in like a stern headmaster, clarifying that Aadhaar wasn’t valid for that either.

And now, the Union government has delivered the final blow: Aadhaar, alongside PAN and ration cards, is officially not proof of Indian citizenship.

The fallout has been swift.

In Delhi, police have waved this clarification like a magic wand while deporting Rohingya and Bangladeshi migrants.

In Bihar, the Election Commission is giving Aadhaar the cold shoulder during voter roll revisions.

Even the Prime Minister’s security team, bless their cautious hearts, prefers voter IDs and driving licences over Aadhaar’s biometric bluster.

So, what’s left for our once-mighty Aadhaar?

It’s still handy for booking train tickets, checking into hotels, or proving you’re not a robot at the airport. But its grand promise—to be the passport to full participation in India’s national life—has been reduced to a nostalgic footnote.

Aadhaar, you’re not the transformative hero we were promised. You’re more like a well-meaning sidekick, useful in a pinch but woefully miscast as the star of the show.

Perhaps it’s time to rewrite the script—or at least give you a better supporting role.

  Aadhar, Frank Krishner, humour, Media, naked truth, UIDAI