Lost in Saral Sanchar

Licence Migration or A Bureaucratic Trap?

All my regular work collapsed the moment I saw that Department of Telecommunication Office Memorandum. It landed like a brick on my desk two weeks ago. I had my deadlines set, my plans neat and clear, but this notice pulled the plug. Suddenly my life was not about writing or work, but about surviving the Saral Sanchar portal.

The memorandum, dated 11 March 2025, ordered all licensed ham operators to migrate their certificates to this sparkling new online system before 15 September 2025. A clean digital push, they said. In reality, it was like asking us to wade through a swamp with leeches tied to our legs.

I saw the circular in a WhatsApp ham group. Oddly enough, the discussions there were muted. Maybe people were already too tired to rant.

Ham radio is no joke. It has been a lifeline in floods, quakes, cyclones. When phones die and networks collapse, ham operators keep authorities connected. No money, no perks. Pure service. And now, the very community that serves in crisis is itself in crisis,  thanks to a half-baked portal.

I logged in. Made an account. Took a quick glance at the migration tab. It looked like a puzzle dumped on a child. I still tried. Failed. Then flagged my frustration to fellow hams. Messages poured in. Some confused, some angry, some downright hilarious. “Why migrate at all?” one asked. “It’s tedious, I won't migrate,” groaned another. Someone said they managed to upload but were told to resubmit. Another gem: “Only Aadhaar needs attestation by a gazetted officer.”

Then came the manuals. One was 20 pages, the other 39. So apparently, to move my licence from one digital shelf to another, I must first pass an exam in patience and eyesight.

It wasn’t just me. Many were shaken, stuck, lost. Some tried helping others through remote screen-sharing. Some behaved like self-appointed WPC officers, flaunting their “cheat sheets” on WhatsApp. They were helpful until arrogance starts. A comedy show, but with more tears than laughs.

I reached out to the help desk. Their replies were slower than snail mail. And useless. Templates copied and pasted. Nothing addressed my problem. The portal itself was clunky, cryptic, allergic to common sense. No tooltips, no guidance, just endless trial and error. At one point, I begged them to delete my account so I could restart.

And then came the monster called attestation. Out of nowhere, hams were told to run behind gazetted officers to stamp Aadhaar cards. When the government itself says self-attestation is fine, why this madness? Why drag us back to the days of stamps and seals? To prove we exist, again and again?

Anyone who has tried approaching a gazetted officer knows the drill. Excuses, delays, smirks. I even recalled an old story. Years ago, when MTNL asked for attested IDs, I approached my uncle, a senior government officer. His reply? “How do I know you’re not a criminal?” I shot back: “I didn’t come for a character certificate. Your job is to match photocopy with the original and sign.” He finally did, after the drama. That’s what attestation culture looks like. Power, not purpose.

Meanwhile, other government services are years ahead. When I renewed my driving licence in Delhi, Aadhaar OTP was enough. Fast, simple, painless. Yet for ham radio migration, we are forced to perform clerical duties that WPC staff should be doing.

Office Memorandum: Typically meant for internal govt communication, not public dissemination. Yet, used here to coerce compliance via WhatsApp groups.

There’s also the strange legal twist. The 11 March 2025 note was an Office Memorandum, meant as an internal instruction. Not even a circular for public circulation. Yet hams are being coerced into compliance. And not a single direct email or SMS to licence holders, even though WPC has our details. Instead, whispers in WhatsApp groups. A mess created out of thin air.

At one point, I almost thought of quitting amateur radio altogether. The frustration was that heavy. A hobby rooted in freedom and service is now buried under paperwork, passwords, and pointless hurdles.

Saral Sanchar was supposed to make life easier. It has only made life smaller. A portal where time dies, humour struggles to stay alive, and passion for radio drowns in bureaucracy.

I’ll keep documenting this circus. Maybe one day someone in power will read, laugh nervously, and fix it. Until then, migration feels less like a system update and more like punishment for being a ham in India.

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