Ambika Rai
With the arrival of the new government in West Bengal in 2026, the OBC ‘A’ and OBC ‘B’ categories were suddenly cancelled, rendering old certificates meaningless. Overnight, what had once been proof of identity and entitlement became little more than paper relics, without any use. For many, the loss of their OBC status felt like a door shut, and for others, inclusion in the new list brought only confusion, as it involved understanding new rules and navigating the government offices. I belong to the latter, unwillingly drawn into this whirlwind of document hunts and bureaucratic chaos to validate my certificate.
My OBC ‘B’ certificate was issued on 4 February 2016. Like other caste documents, the certificate I hold is a manual one. With the recent drive to digitise older records, this certificate too required digitisation. Thus, ten years after obtaining my manual OBC ‘B’ certificate, I found myself moving from one government office to another to re-validate my old certificate. The thought of the process itself was overwhelming, as I was certain that a single visit to any government office would not suffice. I felt both prepared and unprepared for what lay ahead. With some anticipation, and after gathering some information, I started the process.
First, I went to the SDO office with my parents’ income certificates, my residential certificate (obtained from the panchayat) and my worn manual OBC ‘B’ certificate. On enquiring at the office, I was instructed to digitise my manual certificate first, then proceed with re‑validation. After queuing for nearly two hours, I was sent to fill in the form at a café outside because their system was down. However, within a fortnight, I received a digitised OBC certificate number via their website.
Once I had the digital number, I was told to fill out another form for re‑validation, and this was to be submitted at the BDO office. Since I could not go myself, a family member submitted the documents. There, I was asked to provide income and residential certificates from the BDO office and was told that the re‑validation form was not required. This contradicted the SDO’s instructions, leaving the process even more confusing.
Nearly a month after beginning the re‑validation process, I reached the BDO office to clarify the issue. I was then asked to submit documents like my Aadhaar card, voter ID, and my parents’ documents. Interestingly these documents were not ‘enough’, and I was further instructed to produce a government document bearing my paternal grandfather’s name, dated 1993 or older than that. Already exhausted from running between offices, this new demand left me anxious, as I was certain no such documents existed in my family.
When I further enquired what kind of documents were acceptable, the officer suggested an electricity bill from 1993 or earlier. My immediate thought was whether my grandparents’ house even had electricity then? The answer was ‘NO’ as they only received a formal connection in 1996, after my grandfather had passed away. The officer then suggested a school certificate, but my grandfather had never received formal education. Finally, they asked for my father’s OBC certificate, which I could not produce as I am the first in my family to hold one. Each option was impossible, and I felt all avenues were closing, with no chance of upgrading my old certificate.
Then, I was told there remained one possibility: if I could find my grandfather’s name in the old voter list, most likely between 1971 and 1993, the certificate could be re‑validated. For this, I was directed to the DM’s office in Darjeeling or was told to search online. Without his name on the list, there would be no way forward.
In this quest, my uncle (father’s younger brother) managed to retrieve two very old documents. The first was a record of sukha khet (dry, non‑cultivable land) from 1981, but my grandfather’s name had been misspelt, a common occurrence in those days, rendering it unusable. His name was Ram Bahadur Rai, which in the said document appeared as Ramey Rai. I am certain that many in our society have experienced similar discrepancies, with their grandparents’ names appearing differently across documents. Such misspelling was not just a clerical slip but almost a cultural pattern in our region. With limited education, villagers often relied on government officers or primary school teachers to put names into official records, and these officials would casually inscribe whatever nickname they heard in daily use. As a result, generations grew up with documents that carried nicknames instead of formal names.
The second document was a manual voter list from 1994, which was also of no use. Thus, with no other option left, I visited the DM’s office and eventually found my grandfather’s name in the 1993 voter list. Though relieved, I remained anxious after the month‑long ordeal of searching for old documents. I was being asked to prove not only my own and my father’s citizenship, but that of my grandfather, who passed away thirty‑one years ago.
My personal struggle with OBC ‘B’ certificate revalidation is linked with the larger legal and political developments in West Bengal, where recently the Calcutta High Court has abolished the OBC‑A and OBC‑B categories, and has come up with a single ‘OBC’ category. Around 100 caste groups previously recognised under OBC‑A and OBC‑B have effectively lost their reservation status. From 179 sub-castes, the number has gone down to only 66, and the reservation in the state will now be 7% instead of 17%. This has largely affected those who belong to the Muslim category.
However, the demand for outdated documents dated 1993 or earlier indicates that the process is not merely about caste certification or revalidation but about proving citizenship and identity across generations. Added to this, the confusing process of revalidating the older documents also creates immense problems, as without proper direction and a channel, one must go from door to door to every other government office that exists. This not only creates anxiety about proving one’s citizenship but also depletes resources (time, energy, and money), as one must travel from one office to another, fill an enormous number of forms, and make photocopies of endless documents. However, even after submitting every other required document, there is no guarantee that your work will be done, as the rules might change at any time (that is happening as I write this piece), and we would be required to produce some other documents that do not exist.
All this process made me think more about how these bureaucratic procedures intertwine with questions of identity, citizenship, and belonging. What began as a simple administrative task became a prolonged struggle across offices, and the quest to find older documents which my family did not possess. The constant shifting of rules and requirements places an unfair burden on ordinary citizens, who must repeatedly prove their legitimacy. My experience is not just about a certificate re-validation. It reflects the larger uncertainty faced by thousands like me whose social and legal recognition now hangs on fragile, outdated records.
