Mohd Shamim Akhter, son of Mohd Motiur Rahman, son of Hakim Mohd Suleman, son of Yaad Ali.
I am shaped from the fragrance of that soil which the world calls India. It is this very land that gave me birth—this blessed earth, often likened to paradise; it taught me how to walk, gave direction to my steps, and bestowed wings upon my dreams, allowing them to soar into the vastness of the skies.
My village, Bhatura, in the district of Madhubani, Bihar, may not shine brightly on the world map, yet for me, it is an entire universe—my identity, my roots, my very existence. The laughter of my childhood lies buried in its soil, and the prayers of my ancestors still breathe in its air. Whenever I close my eyes, those same unpaved lanes, that earthy fragrance, and those simple, innocent faces come alive before me—the ones who shaped me into a human being, who taught me how to live, and who grounded me in humility.
That is why, whenever the scent of my village calls out to me, I find myself returning—if not in body, then in memory and emotion—and a couplet rises unbidden from the depths of my heart: Where will you go, far from your homeland? Whenever longing rises, you will return here.
From Bihar to Saharanpur: Building a Life Through Calligraphy
I remember my student days—books in my hands and a restless fire in my heart. It was as though I was determined to become something, driven by a passion to carve my destiny with my own hands. During those years, I was studying at a large madrasa in a town in Saharanpur, Uttar Pradesh. Alongside my studies, I would practice calligraphy whenever time allowed—earning a few rupees with the labor of my own hands. Sometimes my fingers would be stained with ink, sometimes my eyes would grow weary, but a quiet light within me kept burning—the realization that I was learning to live with dignity through my own effort.
From those modest earnings, I would spend a little on myself and save the rest quietly. What seemed insignificant to the world was, for me, the first brick of my dreams. One day, I placed those savings in my father’s hands, so that the walls of our home could rise—so that my dreams could take a tangible form.
Under my grandfather’s supervision, I began building our house. Those bricks were not merely forming walls—they were giving shape to my dreams, breathing life into my hopes, laying the foundation of my future. At that time, concrete houses were rare in my village, and mine becoming one of them felt like a monumental achievement. When it was completed, it stood as a living testament to my labor, my youth, my resolve, and my dreams. Later, I saved more money and gave it to my father again, with the wish that a water tap could be installed at home, so my mother would no longer have to go door to door in search of water. This was not merely money; it was my love and my sense of responsibility.
The Aligarh Years: A Scholar’s Struggle for Academic Excellence
My father was always close to my heart, yet life kept us apart. A modest job in a distant place separated him from us. Meetings became rare, waiting grew longer, and conversations were confined to letters—letters that sometimes carried the firmness of advice, sometimes the gentleness of prayers, and sometimes a love so profound that words could scarcely contain it. I lived within those letters; in them, I sought the presence of my father.
As the eldest son—somewhat mischievous, somewhat stubborn—I still carried within me a glowing flame of responsibility. The dreams reflected in my parents’ eyes would not let me rest. Perhaps that is why I eventually reached Aligarh to pursue my Master’s degree—a city of knowledge where dreams gather the courage to become reality.
But life never offered an easy path. Sometimes my pockets were empty, sometimes my heart heavy, sometimes circumstances unforgiving. I would spend my days immersed in the silence of the library, and by evening, I would take my bicycle and set out—writing essays for others, doing calligraphy, or exchanging knowledge for a few coins. Even in those difficult days, despite my limited income, I made it a point to send some money every month for my brothers’ education, hoping to ease my father’s burden. That amount may have been small, but it carried my sincerity and my silent sacrifice.
Then came another phase of life—in the year 2000, I got married. Responsibilities grew, and a young son entered my world. When he was old enough to walk, I enrolled him in a school in Aligarh. It was a beautiful sight—the father a student, and the son a student too. He would go to school, and I to the university.
The PhD Milestone and the Call of Aliah University in Kolkata
Time passed, and in 2007, I finally earned my PhD. That moment felt as though years of struggle, sacrifice, tears, and perseverance had finally borne fruit. I was the first person from my village to achieve this distinction, and later I secured a respectable government position. This was not just my success—it was the honor of my village and the reward of my parents’ prayers.
Then Kolkata called me. Aliah University opened a new door—a new chapter of life. In 2011, I appeared for an interview and succeeded, but a change in government halted my appointment. It felt like a shattered dream. Later that year, the position was advertised again. I applied, appeared once more, and this time destiny stood by me. In May 2012, I joined as an Assistant Professor.
Over time, I continued teaching, served twice as Head of the Department, and today I hold the position of Associate Professor as well as Head of the Department. I have taught thousands of students—not just academic knowledge, but values of life, truth, and humanity. I made Kolkata my home and began to dream of a future here. In 2016, I became a registered voter here, then my wife, then my son. I believed I was no longer just living in this city; I had become a part of it.
After moving here, I was blessed with three more sons. My eldest son—whose name has now been erased from the voter list of Bengal—is an MBBS student, training to save lives. My other three sons are still in school, nurturing dreams in their young eyes. But perhaps fate had other plans.
The 2026 SIR Crisis: When Citizenship Becomes a Question Mark
2026 arrived as a catastrophe. A Bengal electoral roll under Special Intensive Revision (SIR) was published, and beside my name, there appeared a single word: “Deleted.”
Just one word… yet it was not merely a word—it was a verdict. Against my identity. Against my existence. Against my entire life. I kept staring at it, as if it were asking me: Who are you? Am I not the one born on this very soil? Am I not the one who dedicated his youth to building this nation? Am I not the one who now educates its children? Then why was my name erased? Am I not a citizen of India?
Not just mine—my son’s name too was removed, even though he had duly registered just a year ago. A young boy, whose world is still confined to books and medical aspirations, has been pushed into this darkness of uncertainty. And as if this pain were not enough, there is another silent suffering within my home. My wife has been battling a severe illness—ILD—since 2021, living on 24-hour oxygen support. This mental distress has not only shaken me but has also affected her fragile condition.
Most painful, and utterly inexplicable, is this: within the same household—myself, my wife, and my son—our names were all included. Yet in this opaque process, both father and son were deleted, while the mother’s name remained intact. What kind of criteria is this? What kind of scrutiny is this? The same foundation, the same documents—then why this contradiction? On what principles is the Election Commission functioning? Or have principles themselves ceased to exist—replaced only by unchecked authority?
Mass Disenfranchisement in Bengal: A Systematic Failure of Policy
When I looked deeper into this process, my heart sank further. What is happening in Bengal under the name of SIR does not reflect transparency or fairness. It resembles a systematic irregularity, a deep indifference. Lakhs of names have been erased as though those people never belonged to this nation. This is not a mere error; it is a silent brutality.
And most distressing of all, the Supreme Court, our last hope for justice, has yet to take a decisive step that reassures the common citizen that their fundamental rights are secure. Has justice itself lost its meaning in delay? Will a citizen’s identity now remain entangled in files and dates? I ask the Supreme Court, every responsible institution, and every awakened conscience—not as a plea, but as a challenge: Has the Constitution become a shield only for the powerful? Does justice collapse before reaching the weak?
I am not alone. There are lakhs like me—broken, scattered, yet still standing—fighting to reclaim their identity. If today a teacher, a worker, or a medical student can be rendered doubtful in their own homeland, then who is safe? Who can be certain they will not be next?
Reclaiming the Narrative: Hope as a Form of Resistance
I am a teacher. I have always taught my students the values of truth, justice, and hope. But today, I myself have become a question. Can a single word erase an entire identity? Can a list invalidate a whole lifetime? I am not broken—but I am wounded. I have not stopped—but the path has grown uncertain.
Yet somewhere within me, a ray of hope still remains—the same hope that has always sustained me: Do not complain of fate—keep testing your destiny; Do not fear the distance—keep moving forward. But now, this hope is no longer just personal strength—it has become a question, a protest, a call.
The time has come to break this silence and to remind the system of its constitutional duty—otherwise, the day is not far when history will write, beside all our names, with ruthless finality:
“Deleted.”
