As West Bengal hums with the activity of the State Intensive Revision (SIR) of electoral rolls, Booth Level Officers (BLOs) move tirelessly from door to door, enumeration forms in hand. Conversations about inclusion and exclusion ripple through tea stalls, local trains, and busy marketplaces — “Whose name will stay, and whose will vanish?” Yet, in one quiet corner of West Burdwan’s Asansol, far from this electoral frenzy, a group of elderly citizens sits untouched by the excitement — and largely forgotten by society.
Inside the Dhakeshwari Old Age Home in Suryanagar, Hirapur, once a grand residence of the Dhakeswari Cotton Mill, 22 aged residents live lives of quiet endurance. The walls of the decaying mansion echo not with the sound of political debate, but with memories of homes abandoned, and families that no longer visit.
“I used to vote in Mominpur, Kolkata. I’ve been here for nine years now,” says Vandana Bose, 78, her voice sharp with fatigue and irony. “I don’t remember my old booth number. There’s no one to look for me. How will the BLO find my name? Maybe they’ll just strike me out. Throw me out of the country, perhaps.”
Her frustration is not unique. Bani Bagchi, once the wife of a doctor, now spends her days in the same home, half-remembering her past life between Jharkhand and Durgapur. “I have my voter card, my Aadhaar card,” she murmurs, adding, “But who will trace where I voted last? If SIR can be done with these, fine. Otherwise, who will find me now?”
In another room sits Maya Mukherjee, 106 years old. Her hearing has faded, but her mind, neighbours say, is still bright. “She talks of her sorrows often,” says Kalu Das, a resident of the area who visits occasionally. “Her family calls maybe once in six months. She doesn’t know where her documents are. How will her SIR be done?”
Outside the gate, Neelkanth Mallick, another local, speaks bluntly: “People abandon their parents here and forget them. If their names disappear from the voter list, it’s only fitting— they’ve already been erased from their children’s lives.”
A similar story unfolds at an old age home in Khandara, in the Durgapur subdivision. About 36 residents live there, most unable to recall where they last voted or where their documents lie. “Even if the BLO comes, I won’t know,” one resident confesses. “Even if I fill the form, who knows if it will reach? I don’t know what will become of my name.” Yet another, with cautious faith, adds, “If the government has brought this, they will surely think of us too.”
For these elderly citizens, the SIR is not merely a bureaucratic process — it is a test of remembrance, of existence. To be counted on the voter list is, for them, a fragile thread connecting them to a society that has long moved on.
Thankfully, the administration has begun to take notice. Asansol Subdivision Officer Biswajit Bhattacharya confirmed that camps would be organized in old age homes and shelters. “We do not want anyone left out. Every valid voter’s name must be there. We will take necessary steps,” he said.
But for the frail residents of these homes, steps taken now may come too late. Their wrinkles hold the memory of a nation they once built, a democracy they once believed in — yet their names, like their voices, risk fading into silence.
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