Superstar India

by Shobhaa De

  Poverty is trotted out as the official excuse. But I refuse to buy that theory. This is to say that every poor person is a potential pickpocket. Not true. It is something else… and it troubles me. Farmers in Maharashtra's Vidharbha district have been committing suicide, unable to pay off small debts. They were not pickpockets. They didn't beg. And they certainly didn't steal. The cities that tolerate, even encourage, pickpockets are cities generally run by corrupt officials, who in turn report to corrupt political bosses. It's a food chain that's hard to break. Everybody is, in some way, part of the rot. So, who is left to stem it?

  India's rating in the list of the World's Most Corrupt Countries fluctuates each year. But its place in the Top Ten is guaranteed! Corruption continues to be India's numero uno speed-breaker. And yet, it seems like an invincible, indestructible ogre nobody is willing to take on. India boasts of some of the world's smartest bureaucrats. It's hard to top the young officers who emerge from Mussoorie's prestigious Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy of Administration. Just 310 candidates qualified for the 81st Foundation Course in 2007. These IAS, IPS, IFS, IFOS, IRS, etc. represent the créme de la créme of India's academics. The competitive examination attracts students in the thousands, and is considered one of the toughest exams to clear in the world. If one talks to any bureaucrat who has emerged from this crack academy, it becomes instantly clear just how rigorous the training has been. What happens to the same people when they actually run India? Where do those early ideals disappear? When does the ‘C-word’ (compromise) get into the picture? What makes them succumb?

  For the past few months, the media has carried quite a few stories involving venal police and revenue officers, besides district collectors and others with equally greasy palms. The average citizen has become completely numb to such stories now. There is no horror, outrage or even o anger. One reads reports and flips the pages or switches channels. Corruption has become totally institutionalized —a part of the system. It is ‘news’ if one comes across a person who has turned down a juicy bribe. And sadly enough, people laugh at such a person. The scorn has to do with cynicism of the worst kind. ‘Arrey—pagal hai kya?’ is the immediate response. Commercial cinema, always the first to reflect popular sentiments, adds to the apathy by depicting stereotypically corrupt babudom in movie after movie. Cops-on-the-take, politico-rapists, gangster-minister nexuses form the staple of films that claim to reflect the common man's concerns. Unfortunately, this has not led to a demand for more transparency or even a widespread clean-up.

  On the contrary, people shrug indifferently and conclude nothing is going to change since the netas are uniformly tainted and rapaciously greedy, particularly those with megabucks—the same bucks that are recycled during elections to fund vote banks in the sprawling urban slums surrounding the poshest localities in the metros. Canny, often illiterate, slum-dwellers display remarkably savvy negotiating skills when the politicians or their agents come a-calling. Overnight, these filthy tracts of shanty-land are given municipal water, electricity and most importantly, legitimacy. Identity papers are promptly issued to dubious characters of no known origin. Armed with these, they can't be dislodged by any power on earth. Once entrenched, they are there to stay. Whether or not they end up casting their precious votes for the benefactor remains a mystery even to the neta, whose touts have worked tirelessly with those folks for months.

  But with promises given of more ‘development’ to follow the candidate's win, slum-dwellers turn up in the thousands on voting day. They queue alongside the barra saabs of the area (Anil Ambani shows up early and takes his place beside a group of ragpickers from nearby Moorthi Nagar, at the Cuffe Parade voting booth close to where I live). Press photographers go ga-ga shooting the mighty with the lumpen, their pix appearing with front-page headlines like, ‘Democracy Thrives: Tycoons and Tangawallahs Vote Together.’ But the shabby state of those slums degenerates further, despite the influx of vote bank funds. Token raids are conducted periodically to flush out potential trouble-makers, especially immigrants from Bangladesh. But nothing of consequence is achieved, even as everyone in the area discusses how these slums are acting as hotbeds of terrorism by harbouring anti-social elements from neighbouring countries. Token demolitions take place, too, with a battery of lensmen recording the proceedings. Women with naked infants on the hip wail on cue, while the menfolk make belligerent gestures into the rapidly-clicking cameras. It is quite a performance, for everybody is a part of the act, the cops included. It's a well-written script replete with clichés. The chief minister mews the next day that all the displaced will be provided with alternate housing. A week later, the ‘displaced’ are busy brazenly rebuilding their demolished homes. It's back to business. As usual.

  Corruption Corrodes

  And total corruption corrodes totally. Corruption rules! We expect and accept corruption. To me, it's the saddest aspect of our lives. We no longer fight something that is obviously all-pervasive. It has gone beyond mere resignation. Even young kids talk lightly about giving fifty bucks to a cop if caught dodging a traffic light. They see their parents greasing palms and bribing their way through the trickiest, or worse, the simplest situations! When in doubt—bribe! That's the awful message.

  Talk to the young and they exclaim, ‘But everybody does it!’ The popular belief is that there's nothing that can't be ‘fixed’ if you know which person to buy over. India is a land of very adhesive palms! Have money, will khilao paisa.

  Kids think little of ‘tipping’ drivers to keep their mouth shut when the babalog want to take Pappaji's gaddi for a spin! Underage, drunken drivers take many lives in our cities—and get away with it. A brash bloke in Mumbai called Pereira ran over some people in Bandra and was let off initially by cops who'd ‘fixed’ the case neatly. It was only public outrage that finally worked. But, as Bandra residents often pinpoint, if a Salman Khan is still out there, having the best time of his life, and if the ‘Nanda Boy’ notorious for the BMW-case killings, is getting richer and chubbier with each passing year—who really gives a damn about justice? Let's ask Sanjay Dutt!

  The rich are better insulated, better protected. They are seen as being above and beyond the law—it's their prerogative. It's of little comfort to be told the system is no different in Brazil. Or Thailand. Who cares? The system sucks! Nobody believes our billionaires could have made their big bucks without bending rules and bribing government officials.

  Isn't that sad? No wonder the rich continue to generate hostility, envy. They may be regarded as icons of today's India. Our romance with a capitalistic economy may ensure their presence on Power Lists drawn up by equally corrupt media houses looking for their advertising support. But the average Indian remains suspicious. India has 53 ‘official’ billionaires. Hurrah! But take a look at another statistic: The wealth of India's super rich equals 31 per cent of our GDP! Russia with 87 billionaires beats us to it, with their representing 36 per cent of the GDP

  Scary.

  As my father used to say, ‘What is happening to the country? Most unfortunate… most unfortunate…’ This is a story that's replicated all over India in some form or the other. It is one story that makes me long for China and the Chinese way of sorting out similar issues! On a more serious level, unless the nexus between politicians, slum lords, underworld bosses and the powerful builders' lobby is broken (fat chance!), we shall have to endure these periodic onslaughts and stay mum, since nobody is interested enough to address the root cause of the situation.

  ‘Most unfortunate’ could well be the refrain of anybody who has had a takkar with babudom. Not a day goes by without some reference to corruption in high places. And yet, the same rascals are fawned over by society at large. Mumbai, which for decades has dealt with gang wars and organized crime, is now coming to grips with the latest phenomenon—members of the same family turning their guns on one another, generally over property disputes. Sons shoot old mothers who refuse to die on schedule. Brothers shoot brothers who aren't being ‘co
-operative’, and sons-in-law hire killers to browbeat their wives' kith-and-kin—again, over a piece of real estate. There seem to be many Pravin Mahajans in our midst all of a sudden. And a lot of trigger-happy individuals going around settling scores themselves, unlike in the old days when, for a measly sum of five thousand rupees, one could hire a supari killer to do the dirty work.

  All these developments suggest India is not exactly the peace-loving, non-violent nation it is projected to be. Never was, actually. But it is a favourite myth that is frequently trotted out by politicians of any and every hue, when the nation is deemed to be in a suitably pious frame of mind, and in need of a quick shanti fix. It's pretty easy to manipulate the gullible, if those who so decide use the services of smart image-fixers.

  Fortunately, irreverence is not completely dead so far, as is evident from the audacious skits, take-offs and comedy shows ruling television of late. Nobody is spared—from Manmohan Singh and Sonia Gandhi to Sachin Tendulkar and Amitabh Bachchan. One has to hand it to the creative brains who come up with the hilarious lines and gags that lampoon just about anybody who asks for it. My personal favourite is Laloo Prasad Yadav's alter-ego, who has mastered the wily fox of a politician's specific Bihari accent, and goes to town with Laloo impersonations. Given Laloo's distinct thatch of white hair, and his alarming lack of self-consciousness (which other pot-bellied politico would bathe in front of cameras wearing nothing more modest than a diaphanous dhoti?), Laloo is a natural for send-ups. But the popularity of these shows displays something important—India's readiness to laugh at itself and to take such shows in its stride, without hyperventilating. This wouldn't have happened even five years ago, when the high and mighty bristled at the mildest criticism and demanded elaborate apologies—or else!

  ‘Has Anyone Seen a Policeman? Anyone?’

  Despite the new ‘openness’, bureaucratic bungling and plain stupidity still dominate routine procedures. I have been to the cop station at least three times for a standard passport verification. Due to clerical errors, my youngest daughter's name (Anandita) was misspelt on her ration card. The cops put me through the entire drill, recounting at length how a top cop's son was not allowed to leave the country because his initials were scrambled up in a key document. He was forced to give up a seat in an American medical school on account of this clerical goof-up, but the authorities remained unmoved and unrelenting, all because of a wrongly typed initial. How was I meant to react to the story? With applause?

  While I cooled my heels at the cop station, I watched newly-arrested pickpockets being produced in front of a surly, burly officer. Handcuffed and sporting hangdog expressions, the men were roughly pushed into temporary cells at the back of the station. ‘We round up anti-social elements before any major festival,’ the cop-in-charge informed me cheerfully. ‘Where are the women officers who used to handle the help line and the special women's cell?’ I asked. The man smiled, ‘We do it ourselves these days. The men in the slum close by come home drunk every evening and beat up their wives, who rush to the station and create a scene. If we were to spend all our time sorting out domestic quarrels…’

  Then he went on to tell me despairingly that our teeming megapolises were alarmingly short of numbers when it came to the police force. ‘The shortfall is as high as 35 per cent,’ he said, as a beat cop waited his turn to ask about the number of revolvers/holsters available in case of trouble (it was the eve of Ganpati Utsav, Mumbai's most important Hindu festival).

  ‘Are you expecting trouble?’ I asked the big boss. He shrugged, ‘Look at those slums across the street—anything can happen, with these people. We've tried to track the movements within the bustee, but often even our plainclothesmen find it difficult to penetrate those congested gallis. The special thing about this particular chowki is the contrast—the richest and poorest people in India live within a one-mile radius.’

  We could hear cries of ‘Ganpatibappa, Morya,’ from the busy, narrow street outside. Worshippers were bringing their beloved deity home, on handcarts and trucks. Smaller images were cradled like infants in strong arms, as the processionists headed towards hovels precariously perched above open drains. The bustee was strung with fairy lights as improvised stalls spilt over right onto the overcrowded road. It was going to be a busy ten days for the cops. But they seemed geared for the demanding job ahead.

  A soft-spoken, grey-haired senior cop told me about a training programme he'd attended in Yugoslavia. ‘There are great systems in place there—the minute the population of any precinct goes up by 1,000, an additional cop is put on the beat to take care of the extra numbers. Collective decisions are taken at all levels. Civic administrators work closely with the police, and pass orders really fast when there is a community issue involved. It's exactly the reverse here. We spend most of our time in wrangles with vested interests, mainly stooges of political bosses. A brand-new concrete, unauthorized road has come up in that slum across our chowki. The orders came from Delhi. There was nothing we could do…’

  His frustration is entirely understandable. It is not as if there are no good men left in our police force. But the few who hang in there eventually give up the fight and merely discharge their duties like automatons. The dreaded word, ‘Delhi’, makes most bureaucrats shut up and change the topic. ‘Delhi’ itself has become a Medusa-like creature. A hydra-headed monster, to boot. Delhi is a sinister destination that remote-controls the rest of India. Those who live there by choice have their reputations tainted by outsiders who refuse to trust them. Everybody is supposed to be on the take. Everybody is on some shadowy politician's payroll. Delhi is a symbol of the corruption and rot that have destroyed the image of India. Today, it's impossible to demand transparency, basic honesty from sarkari babus anywhere, for they all have a convenient alibi—Delhi.

  ‘People in the capital talk with their guns,’ commented a retired army officer, while reading a report on yet another shoot-out. ‘Citizens are supposed to register their weapons at the nearest police station. But nobody does it,’ he added. ‘Delhi is becoming a lawless, frightening city,’ shuddered a resident of Gurgaon, pointing out the manner in which trigger-happy youngsters threaten neighbours and unwary motorists. Women professionals from other metros hate going to Delhi for this very reason. ‘The streets are dimly-lit and deserted. There is hardly any public transport. Gangs of men stalk any woman they can locate, making lewd comments and frequently molesting her in public view. Nobody protests, since one never knows whether guns come into play in such a scenario.’

  Delhi is notorious for such shoot-outs. Often, the villains are sons of senior bureaucrats or prominent politicians. They are smug and certain in their knowledge that nothing will happen to them, even if a police case gets registered. All evidence can be easily manipulated or destroyed. And eye-witnesses are easy to buy over. Files go missing and mysterious disappearances of individuals linked to the crime are not unknown. As a result, nobody wants to get involved. We, in Mumbai, used to feel somewhat superior in this regard, and brag about how terrific this city is for women professionals commuting on local trains after a late-night shift. Or even girl gangs going out for a night on the town. Till five years ago, this was largely true. But illegal guns are beginning to surface in Mumbai, too, much to the consternation of concerned parents of young daughters (me!). Again, cops insist it's a social problem that must be addressed by society at large. They confirmed that there were far many more unlicensed guns in the city these days, but didn't see it as a major issue.

  Even though I am entirely pro-free movement, and condemn balkanization of any kind, maybe Raj Thackeray had a point. Pity he didn't make it convincingly enough. In the bargain, he triggered off a national debate on ‘outsiders in our midst’. Raj became a hero in the eyes of his supporters but a villain for the rest of India. ‘Dogs and outsiders not allowed’, is a commonly spotted sign outside fancy housing societies. Soon, Mumbai itself might have to erect one—that is, if the metropolis doesn't implode before that ha
ppens. As for Raj—he has made it. In marketing parlance, this sort of a phenomenon is described as ‘brand recognition’. The use of the word ‘outsiders’ has radically changed the delicate equation between the ‘real’ Marathi manoos and those who throng to Mumbai in search of jobs.

  Take the small example of co-operative building societies that employ private security guards to look after the safety of residents. Police insist office-bearers do not co-operate when it comes to registering these guards. Security agencies are expected to acquire licences before operating their business. Most agencies don't bother to. Just as they don't care who gets employed. Antecedents are rarely checked. Employees manage to squeeze in relatives from villages back home. These young men arrive in Mumbai and are instantly hired by careless employers looking for cheap labour. No verification is done, as these illiterate villagers in their early twenties are shoved into uniforms and posted at posh buildings. With no training and zero exposure to life in a big city, these ‘security’ men are incapable of defending themselves against an energetic dog, forget burglars. They are the first to run away at any sign of trouble. They admit they are ignorant, scared, hungry and sleep-deprived. Employers make them put their thumb prints on salary slips that say they're being paid 10,000 rupees a month. But what they're given is a paltry 1,000. The rest is pocketed by the owner of the agency. Unable to survive on such a miserable amount, these poor chaps end up doing two shifts a day, in different buildings. Living in squalid conditions, with no sleep and very little food, they grow unfit and pose an actual threat to residents, especially during an emergency. They don't know the language or the names of anybody residing in the apartment block. Worse, they are in a state of shock when faced with the vast cultural differences they encounter in Mumbai.