A NAGA SCHOLAR’S STRUGGLE FOR A TATKAAL PASSPORT
I am from Nagaland, and my identity often precedes my nationality. I write this not as a grievance but as a lived reality—one that has shaken me deeply in recent weeks. As a Naga, an academic, and someone proudly representing India on global platforms, I found myself blocked by a bureaucracy that questioned my eligibility for something as basic as a Tatkaal passport renewal.
Despite holding a valid Indian passport, Aadhaar, and every other document required of me, I was abruptly informed that, as a resident of Nagaland, I fall under a “non-eligible” category for Tatkaal services. No clear explanation. No recourse— just a cold, faceless rejection that left me feeling invisible in the country I call home. This is not just about a passport. This is about what it feels like to be a Naga—often overlooked, often excluded, and still struggling for equal footing in our own country. It is about the mental toll of constantly having to prove your ‘Indianness’, your identity, your loyalty, in spaces where others walk through unquestioned.
Many of us from Northeast India grow up with dual consciousness—Indian by law but often treated like the “other” in practice. I have always believed in representing the richness of Indian culture, in contributing to national and international academic spaces, and in forging dialogue between the margins and the centre. Yet today, I find myself stuck in a system that fails to recognise me as an equal citizen. Where is the urgency when it comes to the rights of people from the Northeast? Why must we accept delays, loopholes, and “technical issues” as excuses, when our peers in other Indian states face no such barriers?
The Tatkaal service is meant for urgencies—work travel, academic conferences, health emergencies and death of family members living abroad. Denying this to an entire state or region is not just an inconvenience—it’s systemic exclusion. And for someone like me, whose academic commitments abroad depend on timely renewals, it becomes a professional and personal crisis.
Some might counter that I should have been more mindful of my passport’s validity. But is this expectation of constant vigilance placed only on residents of Nagaland and other so-called ‘sensitive’ regions? Shouldn’t the same standard of awareness apply equally to all citizens of India? I know of colleagues from other states who received their renewed passports within just two days through the Tatkaal process—an option not available to the Nagas. This disparity raises questions about equal access to services, rather than individual responsibility alone.
This experience must prompt deeper reflection. We must ask why such policies exist in the first place, and who they serve. Why are the Nagas subjected to added scrutiny, vague rules, and second-class treatment? To be a Naga is to carry centuries of resilience. But resilience should not be mistaken for tolerance of injustice. I speak up today not only for myself, but for every young Naga scholar, sportsperson, artist, and citizen who faces the weight of a system that has long refused to see us fully.
India is vast, diverse, and complex. And unity must be reflected not in slogans, but in services. If the promise of equality is to mean anything, then it must begin with the right to access the same institutions, the same urgency, and the same respect as every other Indian. I am not asking for privilege. I am only asking for fairness.
As an anthropologist invited to convene World Archaeology Congress 2025 in Australia this June, the expedited service was not a luxury—it was the only way to honour an international commitment made on India’s behalf. As academics, our ability to accept invitations to international platforms often hinges on the availability of travel grants, funding, or sponsorships. Participation decisions are frequently made as soon as funding is confirmed. This already tight timeline becomes even more stressful when expedited services like Tatkaal passport renewal are not accessible to us, adding an additional layer of uncertainty to an already complex process.
A pattern, not an accident
For many in India, a passport is a document; for many in the Northeast, it is a proving ground. The exclusion I faced is baked into an internal circular that treats Nagaland (along with another “sensitive” region) as a security risk requiring exhaustive police verification every single time. The circular bears no public rationale, no sunset clause, and certainly no consultation with the very citizens it targets. The rule might appear “neutral,” but its impact is disproportionately borne by students, scholars, nurses, sportspersons, and entrepreneurs from the region—precisely the people India claims to champion abroad.
What cost do we assign to lost opportunities, eroded confidence, and the creeping sense of being a guest in our own country? Every delay is a reminder that patriotism in Nagaland is still placed on probation, subject to indefinite renewal. We grow up reciting the same pledge—“all Indians are my brothers and sisters”—yet bear an invisible asterisk: unless urgency is required.
The Wider Stakes
The denial of Tatkaal passport services to Nagaland carries far-reaching consequences beyond individual inconvenience. First, it deepens the brain drain from the Northeast. India invests substantial public funds in higher education across the region, yet scholars often find themselves blocked at the very moment international opportunities arise. Cancelled conference presentations, missed fellowship deadlines, and procedural delays only widen the already concerning gap between the periphery and the centre. Second, this reflects a troubling policy incoherence. While the Ministry of External Affairs champions initiatives such as the Scholarship Programme for Diaspora Children and the Study in India campaign to project India’s soft power, these efforts are undermined when urgent services like passport renewals are withheld from deserving citizens. Third, there are constitutional implications. Article 14 of the Indian Constitution guarantees equality before the law. Yet, when entire states are categorically labelled as “non-eligible” for expedited services, the spirit of that promise is called into question—particularly in the international arenas where India seeks to present itself as a pluralistic democracy.
A Modest Proposal
I am not a policy expert, but I would like to propose few based on my personal experience—and the shared frustrations of many others in similar situation. First, an academic and sports fast-track should be introduced—like the existing medical fast-track—supported by transparent timelines and accountable police verification. Second, a Passport Seva Kendra should include a Northeast Citizens’ Liaison Desk staffed by officers fluent in at least one Tibeto-Burman language, dedicated to following up on unresolved cases beyond 15 days. Finally, the Ministry of External Affairs should commission an independent audit of its risk-based classification system, with meaningful input from civil society groups in the Northeast. These are not radical demands—they are modest, reasonable steps to ensure equal citizenship and administrative justice for all Indians, including those at the margins.
I believe these proposals are not grand or unrealistic; they are modest, reasonable steps grounded in fairness. At the very least, they can keep the ball rolling and push us toward a system that treats all citizens—no matter where they come from—with the dignity and urgency they deserve. Because equal citizenship should not be conditional. It should not depend on your pin code.
Why this matters to every Indian
Today it is Nagaland; tomorrow it could be any district pigeon-holed by a shifting security lens. Bureaucracy views us through risk matrices; a republic must view us through rights. In an era when India’s G20 mantra is “One Earth, One Family, One Future,” it is indefensible that some family members are kept waiting in a different queue.
A final plea
I will likely receive my ordinary-speed passport in time—barely—thanks to phone calls, letters, and, frankly, privilege. But for other Nagaland residents who cannot escalate, they remain unseen, unheard, and grounded. A nation that clips the wings of its own citizens cannot hope to soar on the world stage. My appeal, therefore, is simple: renew not just my passport, but the covenant of equal citizenship.
Alino Sumi
Alino Sumi is an anthropologist and an adjunct lecturer at Flinders University, South Australia. Her work explores Indigenous communities, (im)material heritage and identity.