Opinion: If a passport isn’t proof of citizenship… then what is?

A completely unofficial citizenship test that isn’t hidden in legal documents but is hiding in plain sight—in the everyday habits, quirks and contradictions that truly prove you’re Indian

By Venkat Parthasarathy

The government says a passport is merely a travel document. Aadhaar, we’re told, isn’t proof of citizenship either. Fair enough. Which raises perhaps the most important constitutional question of our times: Then what exactly makes an Indian citizen?

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Relax. The answer isn’t hidden in legal documents. It’s hiding in plain sight.

Definitive Test

After years of highly scientific “field research” conducted at traffic signals, railway stations, cricket stadiums, airports, weddings, WhatsApp groups, government offices and neighbourhood tea stalls, we present the definitive test. If a person displays at least a dozen of the following behaviours, citizenship may safely be presumed.

An Indian’s relationship with rules is beautifully philosophical. Traffic signals are suggestions, lane discipline is optional, and indicators reveal far too much strategy. Many firmly believe that relentless honking can persuade a red light to turn green. Bonus points if you overtake an ambulance and later complain about the country’s healthcare system.

Footpaths, meanwhile, have long been liberated from the burden of accommodating pedestrians. They now serve as premium parking spaces, while pedestrians are encouraged to build resilience by walking on the road.

Queues are another uniquely Indian experience. They begin as orderly lines before evolving into semicircles, rugby scrums and debates over who was “already here.” Somewhere, someone always appears directly in front of you with the immortal words, “Bhaiya… bas ek minute.” It is, of course, never one minute.

Personal space is widely regarded as an unnecessary Western luxury. At railway stations, airport security, ATMs and elevators, someone will inevitably stand close enough to know your bank balance before your bank does.

Cleanliness follows an equally fascinating principle. Wrappers, tea cups and plastic bottles are confidently thrown out of moving vehicles, yet the very same citizen marvels at the spotless streets of Singapore or Japan and wonders why India can never be like that.

If there is one quality that truly defines us, it is our remarkable ability to be both offender and victim at the same time. If we break rules, the system forced us to. If someone else does, the country is clearly falling apart

Cricket brings out another national trait. Thousands happily spend a fortune on tickets, then celebrate by throwing water bottles onto the field, stopping play, before demanding refunds because play has stopped.

Travel, unsurprisingly, offers another opportunity for us to showcase our national character. Airports produce one of India’s greatest personality transformations. At home, every queue is too slow and every procedure inefficient. The moment we land abroad, the very same systems become shining examples of discipline. Apparently, immigration stamps behavioural upgrades into the passport.

Technology, too, is expected to respond to confidence. Elevator buttons are pressed repeatedly because everyone knows the lift arrives faster if the button senses determination.

Every Indian also possesses extraordinary expertise in medicine, economics, artificial intelligence, geopolitics, defence strategy, parenting, constitutional law and the IPL auction.

We passionately complain that “people in this country have no civic sense” moments before spitting on the pavement, jumping a queue or parking across two spaces. Consistency has never been allowed to interfere with conviction.

Patriotism follows its own operating system. Criticise India and outrage is guaranteed. Ignore potholes, litter streets or evade taxes, and those are merely practical adjustments. We demand world-class infrastructure while objecting to paying for it.

Deep inside every Indian lives a dormant VIP waiting to emerge with phrases like, “Do you know who I am?”, “My uncle knows someone,” or the timeless “Can you adjust?”

Debates obey one universal law: volume determines correctness. The loudest voice automatically becomes the smartest person in the room.

Our greatest educational institution remains WhatsApp University, where every message ends with the peer-reviewed phrase, “Forwarded as received.”

Other Unmistakable Signs

There are countless other unmistakable signs. Standing up the moment an aircraft lands while the seatbelt sign is still glowing. Reserving seats with a handkerchief. Saying “I’m just coming” while still taking a shower. Calling someone at 10.30 pm to ask, “Were you sleeping?” Asking every graduate, “Beta… what package?” Bargaining fiercely over Rs 30 with a vegetable vendor before happily paying Rs 400 for popcorn.

But if there is one quality that truly defines us, it is our remarkable ability to be both offender and victim at the same time. If we break rules, the system forced us to. If someone else breaks them, the country has no future. Accountability, like many public services, has been successfully outsourced. We complain endlessly about “these people,” conveniently forgetting that these people include us.

And yet, the same Indian who refuses to stand in a queue for five minutes will stand for hours to donate blood after a natural disaster.

Perhaps nowhere are our contradictions more visible than in the way we treat strangers. We can strike up a heartfelt conversation on a train, share homemade food, exchange life stories and part like old friends. Yet, when an accident happens, too many instinctively reach for their phones before extending a hand. And still, this same country repeatedly produces ordinary people who rush strangers to hospitals, donate blood without hesitation and quietly disappear before anyone learns their names. Compassion and indifference often coexist, sometimes within the very same person.

Whenever someone is caught parking illegally, driving on the wrong side or ignoring every conceivable rule, the defence remains timeless: “Everyone does it.”

Our hospitality carries its own contradictions. Guests are welcomed with endless food before being asked whether they’ve put on weight, grown darker, remained unmarried or still haven’t had children. Concern, in India, has never required filters.

Money occupies an equally curious place in our social fabric. We admire wealth and often measure success by it, yet the richest meal frequently comes from the poorest home, where the host insists, “Have one more roti,” long after you’ve politely declined three times.

Real Certificate

Perhaps that’s why no document can truly certify an Indian citizen. Not a passport. Not Aadhaar. Not even a birth certificate. The real certificate is invisible.

It’s dreaming of Switzerland while negotiating traffic like it’s a multiplayer video game. It’s touching your parents’ feet in the morning and arguing with them on WhatsApp by evening. It’s turning strangers into friends over a cup of chai… and neighbours into enemies over a parking space. It’s complaining about queue-jumpers while quietly looking for someone who can “adjust” yours. It’s condemning corruption… and then asking, “Bhaiya… kuch adjustment ho sakta hai?”

We are loud. Emotional. Impatient. Generous. Resourceful. Contradictory. We drive each other crazy. But when someone outside criticises India…somehow we become one family. And somehow… that’s proof enough.

Congratulations. No passport required. You’re an Indian citizen.

(The author is a blogger and a cricket analyst)