In a small village in India, where fields stretch endlessly and homes are built with mud and hope, lived a girl named Ruhi. She was five years old, full of mischief, always running barefoot across the dusty lanes, her laughter echoing in the warm air. But one day, her laughter faded. Her body grew frail, her stomach remained empty, and her mother’s eyes filled with helplessness.
Ruhi did not die in an accident. She did not succumb to disease. She died of hunger—hunger caused not by a drought or a failed harvest, but by a spelling mistake.
For 21 months, her family had been denied ration because their Aadhaar ID—their digital proof of existence—was not linked to their ration card. The reason? A clerical error in her father’s name. The spelling in one document did not match the other. The machine at the ration shop refused to verify them. The computer had spoken.
Her mother begged the ration officer, “But you know us! We have been coming here for years.”
The officer shook his head. “Rules are rules. Without the link, the system will not approve your food.”
And so, Ruhi’s family walked back home with empty hands. Day after day. Until one day, Ruhi did not wake up.
This is not just a bureaucratic error. This is death by data. This is death by digital governance that does not account for human lives.
When the internet is governed, life is governed. When the internet is shut, life is shut. When access is restricted, so is survival.
In today’s world, where everything is moving online, those without digital access are left behind—not just in education or opportunities, but in the most basic need of all: food.
Governments claim digital systems reduce corruption. But who do these systems actually serve? The ones who create them, or the ones who need them the most?
Ruhi’s family had never owned a smartphone. They had never used the internet. Yet their lives were dictated by digital governance—by a system they could not access, let alone understand.
This is the irony of our time: the internet does not belong only to those who use it. It governs even those who do not.
Consider another story, one that plays out in countless villages every day.
Ramesh, a daily wage worker, stood in line at the employment guarantee scheme office. He had worked for three weeks but when his wages arrived, he had received payment only for two weeks. Surprised, he asked the officer.
The officer smirked. “That is what the machine says. The biometric system has already processed your fingerprint. Nothing can be changed now.”
What Ramesh did not know was that his fingerprint had been used thrice. The officer took his fingerprints three times to process the payment. When Ramesh placed his thumb on the scanner, the machine was supposed to beep, confirming his identity. But the officer had muted the sound the third time but still recorded Ramesh’s fingerprint, then took the money himself. He instructed Ramesh to return the following week to collect his payment for the third week.
When Ramesh returned to claim his overdue payment, the officer demanded proof and asked him to provide the receipt. However, since the receipt displayed three entries, the officer refused to give him the payment because officially there should be only one entry per week.
Ramesh walked away, unaware that he had just been robbed by technology.
Across India, many elderly people depend on government pensions to survive. But what happens when fraud seeps into the system?
The minimum age for old age pension is 65 years. Those younger than this do not qualify. But a workaround exists: change the date of birth on an Aadhaar card, take a colour printout, and apply. The altered document is accepted without verification and the pension is disbursed. A system designed for support is instead manipulated, exploiting gaps in digital identity checks.
For those seeking a disability pension, a government-issued SADAREM certificate is required, proving at least 41% disability. But the process to obtain one legally is rigorous.
A black market solution exists: pay Rs 4,000-5,000, acquire a genuine certificate, scan it in colour, and modify the name using Photoshop. The fraudulently altered certificate can then be submitted, and the pension is granted. The loopholes in digital verification enable individuals to misuse a scheme meant for those truly in need.
Three decades after its inception, the internet was meant to bring opportunity, freedom, and justice. Instead, it has become a tool of control—by governments that throttle access, by corporations that trade data for profit, and by bureaucracies that treat digital IDs as more real than the people they represent.
The misuse of Aadhaar and biometric authentication highlights systemic vulnerabilities in India’s digital identity framework. Apart from the examples of fraud mentioned earlier, exploitation occurs in widow and labour pensions, particularly among bidi workers. These instances expose the urgent need for stronger safeguards, accountability measures, and oversight to prevent digital identity fraud and ensure equitable access to welfare benefits.
If internet governance continues in this direction, the question is no longer about access—it is about survival.
Who gets to eat?
Who gets to work?
Who gets to exist?
History has shown us that governance can be reimagined. Environmental laws such as Precautionary Principles and the Convention on Biodiversity have created safeguards against exploitation. These models prove that global norms can work—if they are built on fairness and inclusion.
Governments, digital experts, social scientists, IT professionals, and policymakers must work together to ensure universal digital access as a fundamental right, preventing exclusion due to clerical errors in digital identities. Tech corporations must be held accountable to prevent profiteering at the cost of public harm, while governments should not exploit the internet to suppress dissent or control populations. Additionally, global internet governance must be inclusive, ensuring that policies are shaped by diverse voices rather than being dominated by powerful governments and corporations.
Ruhi’s mother still keeps her old clothes folded in a wooden box. Every morning, she sits by the door, staring at the road that leads to the ration shop. Maybe, just maybe, the system will change. Maybe the next time she goes, the machine will recognise her. Maybe this time she will return with food.
But should survival be a game of maybe?
The internet should not be a gatekeeper of life and death. It should be a tool for justice, dignity, and equal opportunity. If we fail to build a digital world that works for all, we are not just failing the present—we are erasing the future.
Instead of moving fast and breaking things, we must move slowly and take everyone forward. Only then can we build a world where technology serves humanity—not the other way around.
Osama Manzar is founder-director of the Digital Empowerment Foundation and Dr Arpita Kanjilal leads the Just AI – Data and Algorithms for Communities initiative in the Research & Advocacy division at the Digital Empowerment Foundation.
Views expressed are the authors’ own.