1. The Promise That Was Never Real
There is a special kind of cruelty in telling a person with a disability that a building is designed for them, only to watch them struggle at the doorstep. This is exactly what appears to have happened at the National Highways Authority of India’s Regional Office in Jaipur. For years, people with disabilities from across Rajasthan have been required to visit this office in Shyam Nagar to access a critical service: the free FASTag facility meant to make their travel on national highways smoother. The FASTag device, which allows for electronic toll payments, is a small piece of convenience for most people, but for many disabled individuals, it is a lifeline for independence, enabling them to drive, commute to medical appointments, or travel for work without unnecessary obstacles. Yet the very office that is supposed to deliver this service has allegedly become a symbol of official indifference. When a citizen, acting out of genuine frustration, filed a Right to Information application asking what disability-friendly facilities existed at the office, the authorities responded with confidence. They claimed that ramps, accessible entrances, reserved parking, accessible toilets, and wheelchair access were all available. It was a hopeful, reassuring picture. But when a team from Dainik Bhaskar visited the site to verify these claims, the official narrative collapsed into a painful reality. The building, housed in a small residential property, has high steps at every entry point, no reserved parking, no accessible toilet, no usable wheelchair space, and a basement FASTag counter that can only be reached by climbing down a steep and unforgiving staircase. What makes this story so devastating is the gap between what the law promises and what life actually delivers. The Rights of Persons with Disabilities Act, 2016, is supposed to guarantee accessibility and dignity. But in Jaipur, a government office has become a place where even the first step toward that dignity—simply entering the building—becomes an ordeal.
2. A Service That Turns Compassion into a Burden
To understand the full weight of this issue, one must understand the context of the FASTag program for people with disabilities. The government of India has offered this facility free of charge to eligible persons with disabilities as a gesture of inclusion, allowing them to pass through toll plazas without the usual fees and with greater ease. In Rajasthan, however, the process of accessing this benefit is centralized. People with disabilities from distant towns and villages are forced to travel to the NHAI Regional Office in Jaipur, often with family members or paid helpers, because there is no other way to complete the paperwork, collect the FASTag, or resolve technical issues. For a wheelchair user, this journey is not simply a matter of reaching a counter. It involves arranging transport, finding a caregiver, navigating unknown streets, and then discovering, upon arrival, that the building itself is almost hostile to people with mobility limitations. Several individuals who had made this exhausting trip shared their experiences with the Dainik Bhaskar team. They described the impossible situation in clear, weary terms: even reaching the FASTag counter in the basement required a helper, and without that physical support, the door was effectively closed to them. Their complaints did not seem to reach the officials, or perhaps the officials did not feel compelled to listen. It was only when these citizens decided to formally demand answers under the Right to Information Act that the office was forced to put something in writing. The RTI application asked a simple, reasonable question: What facilities are available for people with disabilities at this office? The response, signed by the Public Information Officer, was a statement of compliant perfection. Ramps, accessible entrances, reserved parking, accessible toilets, wheelchair access—all of it was there, according to the officials. But documents were about to meet their reality check.
3. The First Two Claims: Doors, Steps, and Empty Promises
The NHAI Regional Office in Jaipur operates out of a residential house in Shyam Nagar, a fact that perhaps explains a great deal of the problem. Residential buildings are not designed with public accessibility standards in mind, and converting them into government offices without major renovation only invites the kind of problems that people with disabilities have been describing for years. When the Dainik Bhaskar team arrived at the office, they found two doors leading into the main office area from the compound. Beneath those doors, and across both entry points, were steps. Not small, gradual steps—but steps high enough to make the entrance effectively impossible for a wheelchair user to pass through without lifting the chair manually or being physically carried. There was no standard ramp, no sloped pathway, no smooth and gradual transition, no handrail assistance. The authorities had claimed in their RTI response that a ramp and easy access were available. The only ramp-like feature was the one in the official’s imagination. The building’s main gate opens into a small courtyard, but the transition from the gate to the office floor is broken by vertical stretches that speak of architectural thoughtlessness. For anyone using a walker, a cane, or a wheelchair, these steps are not merely inconvenient—they are barriers that transform a routine administrative visit into a test of endurance and physical strength. And then there was the question of reserved parking. The RTI response said reserved parking was available for people with disabilities. The reality was far simpler: there was no designated parking at all. What existed was a small inner area that could accommodate perhaps one or two cars or a few motorcycles, and this space was already occupied by the vehicles of officers and employees. No signboard marked a reserved spot for disabled visitors. No painted lines, no disability symbol, no space kept open for someone arriving with a blue badge and a desperate need to park near the entrance. The overflow vehicles from the office were parked along the roadside outside, adding to the chaos. For a person with a disability, parking far from the entrance is not a minor inconvenience; it is often the difference between being able to access a service and not being able to access it at all.
4. The Hidden Horror of the Toilet and the Missing Wheelchair
Perhaps the most troubling part of the official response was the claim that accessible toilets were available for people with disabilities. Access to a safe, usable toilet is a basic human need, and for many people with disabilities, it is also a determining factor in whether they can leave their homes at all. When the reporter from Dainik Bhaskar inspected the toilet at the NHAI Regional Office, what they found was a standard, unmodified restroom. There were no grab bars installed near the toilet for support. The washbasin was at a standard height, not the lowered height needed for wheelchair users. There was no evidence of anti-skid flooring. In short, this was an ordinary toilet, exactly the kind of space that would be difficult, dangerous, and humiliating for a person with a mobility impairment to use independently. But the story did not end there. The RTI response had also claimed that a wheelchair was available for people with disabilities. When the reporter looked at the office corridor and entrance area, they found those spaces cluttered and blocked in ways that made it impossible to maneuver a wheelchair. Even if a wheelchair existed somewhere in the building, it would hardly be able to move through the narrow, obstacle-filled paths. The steps at the entrance, the steep stairs to the basement, the cramped corridors—none of these were compatible with wheelchair access. The claim of wheelchair availability was, in effect, another item on the list of false reassurances. Inaccessible toilets and blocked corridors are not just individual failures; they are messages to people with disabilities that they were never truly considered. Every time a person with a disability is forced to hold their basic bodily needs, or choose between drinking water and using a bathroom, the state’s commitment to inclusion is revealed as hollow. The office was not designed with accessibility in mind; it was merely operated with the assumption that disabled people would somehow manage, or that they would bring someone to help them.
5. The Basement Irony: Where the FASTag Counter Sits Beyond Reach
The full contradiction of the NHAI’s claims became visible when the reporter asked about the FASTag facility specifically for people with disabilities. Employees at the office directed the reporter to the building’s basement, where this service is provided. To reach that basement, one must descend a steep staircase. There is no lift. There is no ramp. There is no mechanical stair lift. There is nothing but a narrow, intimidating flight of steps that would be challenging even for an able-bodied person carrying a bag, and nearly impossible for a person using crutches, a walker, or a wheelchair. The basement is where people with disabilities are supposed to receive their free FASTag. The very demographic the service is meant to help has to descend a perilous staircase just to reach the counter. And once they are down there, they must later climb back up, a task requiring strength, balance, and assistance. For a person who lives with chronic pain, a spinal injury, or limited limb function, this staircase is not merely inconvenient—it is a cruel obstacle course placed directly in the path of a government service that was supposed to be a gift of inclusion. The irony is almost unbearable. The authorities had claimed in their RTI response that ramps and easy facilities were available for people with disabilities. Yet the only facility actually designated for them, the FASTag counter, sat beyond catacombs of concrete stairs, unreachable by design. This is the kind of situation that makes government services feel like punishment. A person with a disability should not have to bring a helper, risk injury, or depend on the kindness of strangers simply to collect a device that should make their lives easier. The people who came to this office for help did not ask for luxurious infrastructure; they asked only to be treated like citizens. What they received instead was a test of their physical endurance and a validation of their fears that the system does not care.
6. The Law, the Silence, and the Need for Human Dignity
Despite the weight of the evidence, the NHAI’s written response to the RTI application remained assertively false. This raises an uncomfortable question: what happens when public officials knowingly provide wrong information in response to a legal request for transparency? The answer lies, at least in theory, in the Right to Information Act itself. According to expert Vaibhav Bhandari, there are strict legal provisions for officials who deliberately give false, misleading, or incomplete information. Under Section 20(1) of the RTI Act, a Public Information Officer who provides incorrect information can be penalized ₹250 per day, with a maximum fine of ₹25,000. The Information Commission can also recommend departmental and disciplinary action against the official. And an aggrieved applicant can file a complaint directly with the Information Commission under Section 18 of the Act. These provisions exist to protect the integrity of public information and to hold officials accountable when they choose deception over disclosure. But the real punishment, the one that matters most to the people who depend on these services, is the daily experience of a government that excludes them. No fine can undo the moment a wheelchair user sits at the bottom of a stairway wondering how to get to the FASTag counter. No departmental inquiry can erase the indignity of a person with a disability waiting for a toilet that does not exist. The NHAI office in Jaipur is not just a problem of infrastructure; it is a problem of culture, of official habits that treat disabled citizens as invisible. The Right to Information Act can expose lies, as it did here, but only public shame and civic pressure can force change. What is needed now is not another paper promise, but a genuine commitment to transform the built environment and the administrative mindset. Ramps must be installed. Parking spots must be reserved. Toilets must be modified. The basement must be made accessible, or the service must be moved to the ground floor. More importantly, officials must internalize the idea that accessibility is not a favor to a minority but a right of all people. Until then, the free FASTag, with all its good intentions, will remain a hollow offering, a symbol of a state that offers help with one hand and blocks it with the other. The people of Rajasthan deserve better. So does every person with a disability who was promised a world that would welcome them—only to find a locked door, a steep stair, and a long, humiliating walk back to where they started.