Despite GO, 300 panchayat secretaries retain posts for a decade in Thoothukudi
Thoothukudi has 403 village panchayats spread across 12 blocks. While the G.O 113 dated September 13, 2023, delegated powers to Block Development Officers (BDOs) to transfer secretaries within unions, and higher authorities for inter-union and inter-district transfers, the subsequent instructions to conduct counselling in April this year have not been acted upon.
Social activist S M Gandhimathinathan alleged that the long-standing presence of secretaries in the same villages has led to increased corruption, especially after elected panchayat bodies were dissolved in January. 'With rural bodies now under special officers, panchayat secretaries are misusing power and colluding with local politicians to encroach Porambokku lands,' he claimed.
Another activist pointed out that bribery complaints from the public have increased, citing that transfers once every three years are essential for transparent governance.
In a letter dated April 22, Collector Elambahavath directed BDOs to conduct counselling for secretaries who have overstayed or requested transfers due to health or seniority. The note stated that transfers would enhance administrative efficiency. However, no such counselling has been held so far.
A senior officer from the Tamil Nadu Government Employees Association admitted that regular transfers have never been implemented. Meanwhile, Tamil Nadu Rural Development Officers Association district secretary Anto told TNIE that transfers of a government employee for every three years is a general norm, however, keeping secretaries in the same village does offer some benefits.
Elambahavath stated that panchayat secretaries are being transferred on a need basis, in response to complaints or administrative requirements. However, a comprehensive counselling process has not yet been planned and will require further instructions from the Rural Development Department, he added.
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Indian Express
31-07-2025
- Indian Express
Bihar electoral roll revision: As next phase starts, EC may deploy its officers to help voters get documents
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In addition, land ownership records, or khatiyan, will be used to issue residence or identity certificates for entire families. Caste certificates are among the 11 documents listed by the EC that electors can submit to prove their eligibility (age and citizenship) for inclusion in the final electoral roll. While the residence certificate is not listed by the EC, Booth Level Officers have been asking electors to have them made for the SIR drive. The EC order says the list is indicative, not exhaustive. Camps will be held at the offices of Block Development Officers (BDOs) to facilitate electors in getting documents made using existing records, according to EC and state government officials who spoke on condition of anonymity. Apart from that, the EC has already announced that volunteers would be deployed to help electors obtain the documents. According to sources, the EC expects that of the 7.23 crore people who have submitted enumeration forms, about half will fall under the exemption granted to electors listed on the 2003 electoral roll. Under this exemption, voters who figured on the 2003 rolls are not required to submit documentary proof of eligibility and their children can submit that extract as proof for their parents, but would have to submit a document for themselves. The year 2003 has been designated in Bihar as 'probative evidence of eligibility', meaning those on the roll that year, when the last intensive revision was conducted, will be presumed to be Indian citizens unless proven otherwise. For the remaining applicants, the EC hopes to include them in the final electoral roll — scheduled to be published on September 30 — through these special measures being planned to expedite the issuance of documents. In a message to Bihar electors shared on social media on Thursday, Chief Election Commissioner Gyanesh Kumar said the draft roll would be published online and given to all recognised parties on Friday. 'The CEO of Bihar and 243 EROs will also be inviting any elector of that Assembly constituency or any recognised political party in Bihar to come forward and give claims and objections from August 1 to September 1, 2025, for adding names of any missing eligible elector, removing names of any ineligible elector or correction of any entry in the draft electoral rolls,' he said. On June 24, the EC had passed an order to conduct a Special Intensive Revision for the country, starting with Bihar, where Assembly elections are due by November. As opposed to the usual annual Special Summary Revision and pre-election revisions, this time the EC ordered the rolls to be prepared afresh — all existing 7.89 crore electors were required to submit new enumeration forms by July 25 in order to make it to the draft roll. For those who became electors after January 1, 2003, when the last intensive revision was carried out, the EC has asked for additional documents from a list of 11 to establish the date and/ or place of birth of the electors and one or both of their parents, for those born after July 1, 1987. For those on the 2003 electoral roll, an extract of that roll would suffice as proof. For those added after 2003, if their parents were on the 2003 roll, they can submit that extract as proof for their parents but would have to submit a document for themselves. The 11 documents listed by the EC include birth certificate, caste certificate, passport, educational certificate, family register, and land/ house allotment certificate issued by the government. The SIR order has been challenged in the Supreme Court through a batch of petitions filed by activists and Opposition leaders. The court had asked the EC to consider allowing Aadhaar, ration card, and its own Voter ID card as documentary proof, but the Commission has not accepted the suggestion. The matter is scheduled to be heard on August 12 and 13, after the publication of the draft roll but before the scheduled publication of the final roll on September 30. At the close of the first phase of the SIR, the EC said on July 27 that 7.23 crore forms had been received out of the total 7.89 crore electors and around 65 lakh names were set to be removed from the rolls, as the electors were found to have died, permanently shifted, registered in more than one place, or untraceable. 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Hans India
27-07-2025
- Hans India
Bengal LoP accuses Mamata govt of appointing temporary employees as BLOs
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India Today
23-07-2025
- India Today
Abandoned, unheard: Women without papers victims of Bihar's voter revision
In Seemanchal, Bihar, a woman's identity is no longer her own—it is a shadow tethered to a husband who may have left, remarried, or simply vanished. In the bureaucratic storm of the Special Intensive Revision (SIR) process, women are the ones caught in its deadliest undertow—women without papers, without husbands, without lineage records, now running pillar to post to prove they belong to a country they have never left. They are not just trying to get names on a list. They are trying to anchor their lives to a state that is suddenly asking questions it never prepared them to answer: Who are you without a husband's surname? Without a father's electoral trace from 2003? Without a village elder willing to vouch? For many of them, identity is a fractured thing. They carry surnames that don't match their dialects, appearances that don't match administrative assumptions, and stories that don't fit neatly into columns. And in this corner of Bihar, where suspicion has become systemic and scrutiny often wears the face of bias, their womanhood becomes both their greatest vulnerability and their most enduring was nearly ten days since I landed in Bihar, navigating the thick, bureaucratic fog of the Special Intensive Revision process — locally dubbed the voter revision prakriya. The national conversation focused squarely on how this would impact communities at large, how entire demographics might find themselves disenfranchised in one stroke. But my lens zoomed in differently. Beneath the political thunder and policy jargon, there was another story breathing — subtle, ignored, the urban nooks of Bihar, BLOs (Booth Level Officers) seemed energetic, going door-to-door, taking down enumeration forms even without documents, connecting voters to the 2003 rolls with urgency and care. In these city corners, the fear was not seen. But as I moved into rural Bihar, especially into districts untouched by the 'infiltrator' stereotype, the contrast was stark. Villagers scrambled around dusty Panchayat offices, flipping through the 2007 parivarik suchi(family register), trying to craft vanshavalis (genealogies). BLOs being absent from door to door was the only complaint, but officials were cooperative in helping those without a document by tending to panchayat lists. Forms were being checked behind closed doors. And yet, the real chaos brewed in one specific OVERCAST WITH SHADOW OF INFILTRATION In Seemanchal, suspicion isn't just a sentiment -- it's infrastructure. The districts here, particularly Kishanganj, had been unofficially placed on alert. Villages were flagged, booths labelled 'suspicious,' and Block Development Officers (BDOs) were quietly instructing BLOs on who to watch and who to list. The criteria? Simple, yet terrifying: "local intelligence" combined with an inability to trace one's parents to the 2003 electoral rolls meant that your very existence was now under whispers were louder than any press conference. District Magistrates were being texted by self-styled local whistleblowers, BDOs avoided eye contact, and a quiet freeze had been imposed on issuing new 'niwas' (residence) certificates. Corruption, too, was thriving alongside a steady stream of complaints to District Magistrates about bribes being taken in exchange for new niwas certificates. One whistleblower even shared screenshots of his conversation with the DM, where he alleged that officials were demanding money to issue documents.I began tracking down these 'flagged' booths. In three such locations, I met people who held nothing but Aadhar or voter ID cards, some of whom claimed they were born here but didn't know where their parents hailed from. In one area, I met young adults—between 20 to 25 years old—without any form of government ID, completely disconnected from the system that now threatened to erase MUKHIYA'S OFFICE AND THE PROOF HE PROMISEDadvertisementThe trail led me to Rasundangi village in Dighalbank block, where a 32-year-old Mukhiya (village head) had asked me to meet him. He had earlier promised to show 'proof'—three Bangladeshi women, he claimed, had turned up at his Panchayat office that morning.I wasn't hopeful. Over the last several days, I had visited countless localities and found no one who directly identified themselves as immigrants or could be conclusively called one. Most lived in quiet panic, too unsure or uninformed to even know they were under I walked into his dimly lit office, I found the Mukhiya seated confidently behind a table, and in front of him sat three Muslim women, all in their mid-30s. They spoke a dialect of Bengali I recognized—common in Murshidabad and Malda, yet viewed with suspicion here in WITHOUT PAPERS, LIVES WITHOUT PROOF A few minutes into the conversation, it became clear that two of the women were widows, there to apply for widow pension certificates. The third explained her husband was mentally unwell; she had mostly come to seek financial help and accompany the others. None of them had anything except photocopies of their husbands' Aadhar cards. No death certificates, no marriage registration, no vanshavali Bengali myself, I eased into their dialect. They opened woman said her husband had died eight years ago. The other, nearly ten. Both had been left by their husbands, who remarried—common in their community, as they told me. When I asked why they waited this long, they had no answers. The Mukhiya, stern and exasperated, told them without official proof, death certificates, affidavits, or old entries in the Panchayat register, he wouldn't process their one woman pleaded softly, 'Kardijiye jitna paisa lagega de denge' (We'll pay whatever it takes). The Mukhiya leaned forward: 'Ghush de rahe ho? Yahan yeh sab nahi chalta.' (You're offering a bribe? That doesn't work here.)He told them to identify their husbands' names in the 2007 parivarik suchi, which they couldn't find, let alone prove MUKHIYA, THE KAZI, AND A LAYERED IDENTITYThe Mukhiya remained unmoved—firm, methodical, and known in the area as a taskmaster who often helped locals navigate government processes. He was affiliated with the BJP, but he didn't fit the mould of a hardened right-wing ideologue. My first encounter with him had taken place at his residence, where I happened to witness a telling exchange that would later shape how I perceived day, a local Kazi had come to see him with a complaint—its specifics were unclear to me—but what followed was a revealing conversation. The Mukhiya told the Kazi he was willing to support his case, but only on the condition that he maintained a proper marriage register. He emphasised the need to verify ages to prevent underage marriages. The Kazi pushed back, saying, 'Aise toh humare dharam mein shaadi nahi hoga'—such a requirement didn't align with religious Mukhiya didn't flinch. 'Main aapke shariat mein dakhal nahi dena chahta,' he said calmly. 'Aap jo karna hai kijiye, par agar marriage register mein underage shaadi likhoge, toh woh register nahi hoga. Yeh Bharat ka kanoon hai, yahi chalega [I don't want to interfere in your Shariat law. You do what you have to—but if you register an underage marriage, it won't be accepted. This is Indian law, and that will apply].In a political climate where we often see Hindutva hardliners downplay reformist movements like the abolition of Sati, he instead invoked Raja Ram Mohan Roy. 'Hindu dharm ne bhi samay ke saath sudhaar kiya hai. Islam ko bhi karna chahiye,' he had said. (Hinduism reformed with time. Islam must too.)advertisementThat conversation lingered with me. It showed a man who was conservative, yes—but also pragmatic, rooted in law, and willing to challenge regressive traditions without weaponizing identity. It left me convinced that while he might carry the political weight of his party, he wasn't someone who led with prejudice alone."TUMI SOI KORE DAO" — THE DESPERATION OF BEING STATELESSRealising that their case was going nowhere with the Mukhiya, one of the three women turned to me and subtly gestured for me to step outside. Though we spoke in different dialects, they were merely different shades of the same language—Bengali—and that small linguistic familiarity seemed to bring her some comfort. Her eyes, tired but hopeful, met mine as she softly repeated her request: 'Bahaar aaiye na, didi.' I followed them moment we stepped away from the Panchayat Bhawan, her composure broke. She began to cry, folding her hands before me. 'Aap mere behen jaise ho, please madad kardo.' (You're like my sister, please help me.)Then came the full story. Her husband had married her from Nepal and brought her to India, where they had started a life together. Eventually, he abandoned her and went back across the border to marry someone else. She had heard, through neighbours and distant contacts, that he had died. But there was no certificate to prove it. No documentation. Nothing she could present to the Mukhiya, the administration, or anyone else who might I gently asked her where her husband was originally from, she hesitated. Her silence lingered. Then, as if pleading, she whispered, 'Please amar problem ta bojho didi Mukhiya soi korbena Tumi soi kore dao.'(Please understand my problem, sister. The Mukhiya won't sign my case. You sign it for me.)She reached for my hand. I held hers, trying to steady her trembling fingers, and told her softly that my signature had no official weight. It wouldn't change anything. Her desperation didn't end woman—the second widow—stepped forward. Her voice was low, resigned, but no less desperate. 'Amar-o same case, didi. Bor chere chole dilo Ekhon amake proman korte hobe je ami ekhankar. Please help kore dao. (Mine is the same, sister. My husband left me. Now I have to prove I belong here. Please help me).Here they were—three women, caught in the crosshairs of a sweeping bureaucratic process, grasping at invisible threads of identity. They had no death certificates, no marriage records, no niwas or lineage documents. Their only hope of legitimising their existence rested on links to husbands who had either died or disappeared, often after marrying again. The Special Intensive Revision process demanded proof they simply could not of them bore clearly Mongoloid features but had a Muslim surname — yet another complication in Kishanganj, a border district where identities blur, dialects bleed into one another, and suspicion often outweighs facts. It's a region where borders have long since become porous, and people have crossed over for decades, not always by choice. In this fog of overlapping identities, yes—foreign nationals have indeed found their way onto voter rolls—but these women were not infiltrators. They were casualties of abandonment, poverty, and a system that never accounted for them to begin were unaware that one day, their entire existence would be put on trial—not in a courtroom, but through a form, a certificate, a name in an old register. They hadn't anticipated that proving their husband's identity, and by extension their own, would become a bureaucratic impossibility.I asked how they survived—how they managed day to day. 'Kichu korey khai [We somehow get by],' one this—this looming erasure—was unlike anything they had faced before. They weren't just being denied pensions. They were now at risk of being denied recognition—denied the right to belong to a country they believed was their that moment, I felt helpless. I wasn't a government official, nor a lawyer. But I was a witness. And if nothing else, I owed them their story—because in the scramble to filter out illegality, it is these women, forgotten by their families, ignored by the state, and sidelined by a process that knows no nuance, who pay the quietest, heaviest HUMAN COST OF A NATIONAL CONCERNI don't deny the importance of identifying illegal immigration. But here, we weren't dealing with infiltration alone. We were dealing with women who were once wives and daughters-in-law, who now carried the double burden of abandonment and statelessness. They didn't anticipate that one day, they'd be running from office to office, trying to prove their worth to a system they never fully were forgotten not just by their husbands but also by families and a system that seeks to cleanse itself of outsiders. In this process of cleansing, humanity becomes is the unseen, unspoken cost of the SIR. The cost that women, widowed and invisible, are now forced to bear.- EndsMust Watch
