Rumours of my death are greatly exaggerated

I like a story that shows a human triumph over adversity and this is a great one about how focusing a feeling of helplessness and injustice can give great strength for the benefit of others in the same predicamant. Lal Bihari was presented with a coveted IgNoble Award back in 2003 for his persistence and refusal to believe that he was dead.

Here it is.

Lal Bihari, founder of the Association of Dead People, first learned he was deceased when he applied for a bank loan in 1975.

Proof of identity was required for the transaction. But when Mr. Bihari came to Azamgarh, the district capital of Uttar Pradesh, India he was told that he could no longer be who he said he was. Official records now listed him as dead, something that had allowed his uncle to inherit Mr. Bihari's share of the family's ancestral farmland.

''Take a look for yourself,'' insisted the lekhpal, the low-level bureaucrat who kept the appropriate books, Mr. Bihari recalled. ''It is all written here in the registry.''

Death was a disconcerting change of circumstance, and Mr. Bihari was especially annoyed to hear of it from the lekhpal, a man he knew well and with whom he had recently had tea.

Indian bureaucrats often work in strange ways, when they work at all. If they had certified his demise, Mr. Bihari might need a lifetime to prove he was not dead.

Fortunately, his story has not turned out to be so dreary. His legal resurrection was accomplished in a mere 19 years, and in the process, Mr. Bihari, a poorly educated merchant, found his mission in life: championing the cause of the similarly expunged,

In July, a High Court judge became aghast after learning that there were dozens -- and perhaps hundreds -- of such cases of bogus mortality. He ordered the government of Uttar Pradesh to publish ads, seeking out the living dead, and then to revive them in the state's public records. The National Human Rights Commission has also convened hearings on the matter.

''As the bureaucrats once feared the devil, they now fear the Association of Dead People,'' said Mr. Bihari, 45, who clearly enjoys the stir caused by his tireless agitation.

It is still too early to make an accurate estimate of how many of the legally dead are biologically alive, but the known cases most often involve intra-family fraud, and the reason for the infighting is a severe shortage of land.

India's population now tops one billion, and as property has gotten subdivided repeatedly among ever more heirs, some farmers are now left to eke out a living with plots no bigger than a tennis court.

Declaring someone dead to inherit his land may seem a preposterous ruse, especially if the dearly departed is decidedly evident. But slippery deeds often require nothing more than a greased palm. Corruption is rampant in India, and while crooked politicians get most of the attention, the dishonesty at the top is built on a solid foundation of dishonesty at the bottom. Bribes are required to conduct almost any public business, whether it is getting electricity turned on or filing a court case.

Mr. Bihari said he later learned that his phony demise had cost his uncle about $25, not an inconsiderable sum. A hit man could have been hired for half that. ''I contacted lawyers, and they told me that that what had happened was nothing unusual, but that to fight it in court would take a long, long time,'' he said.

Mr. Bihari faced his predicament with a potent combination of outrage and humour. He no longer lived in Khalilabad, his ancestral village, and his income did not depend on the contested plot of land, which was less than an acre. He added the Hindi word ''mritak,'' or dead, to his name. He began his ''association'' and printed up stationery.

But mostly, he schemed. Mr. Bihari believed that artifice could force the government to acknowledge his continuing existence. He tried to get arrested; he ran for office; he sued people -- anything to get his real name on the public record. In a bit of reverse psychology, he had his wife apply for widow's benefits, but the same officials who insisted he was dead refused to allow him to profit from his passing.

Finally, the preservation of his death simply became too much of a nuisance for the powerful to maintain. Mr. Bihari was a prolific pamphleteer. He and his loosely affiliated group even held a mock funeral for themselves in Lucknow, the state capital. By 1994 officialdom took steps to end this ankle-biting. The land revenue records were corrected, and Mr. Bihari's good name was fetched from oblivion.

''In pursuing my battle, I had developed quite an identity,'' he recalls proudly. ''I became the leader of a movement. I knew I had other dead people to save.''

Mr. Bihari now lives in the village of Amilon, which like his native Khalilabad is in the grassy flatlands of southeastern Uttar Pradesh. These days, he can be quite an unusual tour guide, introducing visitors to the spuriously dead throughout the area.

In Mubarakpur there is Bhagwan Prashad Mishra, a spry man at 80, who has been officially deceased since 1979. Mr. Mishra said he had lost his land to conniving nephews.

''In my case, I own five pieces of property, but I am only considered dead on the records for one,'' he said testily. ''After so much time, how can this continue to be?''

Ansar Ahmed, 48, lives with his widowed mother in Madhnapar. He was recorded as dead in 1982, when his brother took control of the family's small rice paddy.

Madhnapar, home to 90 families, is a place of mud-brick dwellings surrounded by open fields and scum-laden ponds. Villagers have been split by this matter of life or death in their midst, with those favouring the former position giving shelter to Mr. Ahmed and his mother and those supporting the latter treating him as an invisible spectre.

Recently, because of pressure from the High Court, a magistrate went to Madhnapar and, after a quick inquiry, brought Mr. Ahmed back to life. Criminal charges have been filed against his brother, Nabi Sarwar Khan, who is quite grouchy about this change of fortune.

''These are only allegations,'' Mr. Khan said gruffly in his own defence.

As various cases are investigated, several treacherous relatives and the venal officials who abetted them have likewise been charged.

The conspiratorial kinfolk of Mr. Bihari, though, have escaped prosecution. His uncle is now dead, on paper and otherwise. And his uncle's sons, who have been farming the disputed land, have been allowed to keep it by Mr. Bihari, who says making them feel guilty provides him with enough satisfaction.

One recent morning, Mr. Bihari returned to Khalilabad, where many of those who long pretended he was dead now treat him with demonstrative respect. The ancestral village is a long walk from the road through pathways of brilliant green. His family's house is made of mud and straw, with a sloping roof laid across branches of bamboo.

Pati Ram, Mr. Bihari's cousin, warmly greeted the man whose death was once part of his family's mythology. ''We have done him a great injustice,'' he said meekly.

The two cousins sat on a cot under the shade of a tree. The sky above was blue, the air sweet, the breezes serene. It was good to be alive.

Taken just about word for word from an article in the New York Times in 2000 by correspondent, Barry Bearak.