When Gulam Rasool was killed, the police put out a bulletin commonplace and everyday in Andhra Pradesh newspapers: ‘Naxalites killed in an encounter with police.’1 What do we feel when we read such a news item? Few of us take it at face value. Most of us know that ‘encounter’ is a euphemism for murder, and ‘Naxalite’ a smokescreen for anyone who dares to persistently question and probe vested interests. Despite this, most of us are lulled into looking at the matter with a combination of fear and self-preservation. When Shankar Guha Niyogi was eliminated, when Safdar Hashmi was murdered, many protested. But still the larger part of the mainstream looked the other way. What is it that perverts every question of human rights into a fear of anarchy? What translates it into abstract selfish fears of: will the road be blocked? Will there be lawlessness? Can I catch my train? How have we become so practised at turning a blind eye to loss of life and fundamental violations of our ethics?
When poor people die on pavements, thousands of tribals are rendered homeless, or when hunger, starvation and death affect large portions of humanity, it becomes only an aggregate in the metropolitan dailies. An issue to discuss over a rich breakfast or in well furnished office rooms. In our more private moments, some of us may even ask ourselves where we went wrong. Many of us have raised these questions. It is perhaps one of the reasons why some of us are here today. But our questions have been eschewed in the grand stampede for upward mobility. We want money, no matter from where or how it comes. We want greater security, without a thought for those who have none. And we want our own ‘development’, regardless of its cost to others.
Our society also throws up conflicted role models. Feudal social relations revive Sati and Hindutva. An apparently coveted civil service—every parent’s dream for their children—turns upon its own people, infected by a colonial mindset. Most often, by the time we realize the hollowness and perversity of it all, we have been sucked into its mindless fabric. Rationalization becomes second nature.
I passed the IAS exam in 1968 at the age of 22, and my future seemed assured. My reasons for opting for the service were however fairly ordinary. As a woman, I wanted to work and not get married and pass into the limbo of passivity.
I was trained in Tamil Nadu, though I belonged to the Union Territories Cadre. Since I was Tamil-speaking the government decided to send me there. I had my first exposure to rural India. In every village we were met by the village sarpanch and drank innumerable glasses of Horlicks, the drink given to ‘officers’! We attracted a crowd wherever we went. I was convinced that we were meeting the poor and that their voices were being heard.
During the district training I gradually discovered how little I actually knew about rural realities. The real fears of responsibility for action and redressal began to weigh heavily on me. I was drawn into the role of arbiter and judge, but I was ill-equipped to guarantee justice. The level of information rose steadily, along with the growing realization that my first two years as SDM would be important years to do something that could make a difference. I knew at the same time that the Tehsildar and the BDO, middle-aged, experienced officials, could mislead me. Did I really have the time to understand them and their motives?
One enters the IAS with the feeling that being a civil servant will provide the opportunity for working effectively for social justice, within a strictly legal framework. Though already corrupt, the institutional framework offered at least a structure within which it was possible to try and make the system function better. There was scope also, it seemed, to fight the nexus of patronage that exists within the government, or at least to make it deliver some justice. There also seemed to be space within the legal, institutional framework to influence both policy and implementation. We were encouraged to believe that the IAS is the chosen elite that is going to set the country on its feet, and show up corruption and nepotism. But the district training, quickly and effectively, ripped that illusion apart. The knots are twisted and baffling. Unfamiliarity with the law makes it impossible to act without local guidance, and the local officials know this. It takes the better part of a posting to sit on the problem, and one is faced not only with the paralysis of officialdom. The local power group has also learnt to influence and manipulate the office. It is seldom that the really poor or oppressed have access to the officer. They are victims of the system and tradition, where contact with officers has always been through brokers. To clear a straight path is not easy.
To unravel the intricacies of local politics is even more difficult. Which political leader pleads for whom and why? What are the relationships that exist between the powerful and the dependent voters? What is the nature of the specific divide between groups? These are questions that need time and humility to understand. If the first is in short supply because of the nature of the posting, the latter is sure to be eradicated by the year in the Academy. ‘You are members of an elite service.’ ‘You are the ones who will direct policy, give direction to the political masters.’ ‘You are the brains of the country’ and other such arrogant maxims render learning difficult. Even if there was humility, lack of familiarity often leads the junior, well meaning IAS officer to trust the wrong person, and fall victim to misinformation. But the impossible position of accepting one’s mistake! The IAS officer can do no wrong in the eyes of the public.
The civil service like the educational system is still controlled by a decadent colonial spirit. The deep suspicions of the people, the need to separate the officer from the community, the notion of privacy (including palatial residential accommodation) are all colonial concepts. Such concepts have bred and continue to breed separation and alienation as a matter of principle and pride. The repeated fear of every sub-divisional officer is of the ‘mob’—a description of a group of people who may go to meet the officer more than ten in number. There is a fear of facing the people alone. The police very often have to stand around to give the officer any self-confidence. This is as true if women go in large numbers to meet them, unarmed and harmless. ‘Please send in a delegation,’ is the oft-repeated command. It would be very surprising to the members of the ‘mob’, if they could overhear post-lunch conversations in the Delhi Administration wherein were related detailed and repeated anecdotes of how these officers ordered firings and controlled ‘mobs’. The IAS presumption of valour shows itself in these anecdotes where the vanquished are their own people asking for their rights, protesting against injustice. I was filled on such occasions with great unease and disquiet. How could such an inflexible position foster social justice and change?
Even for a good bureaucrat the limitations are very often crippling. The duration of the posting determines the nature of the work. But inevitably the work done is reversed by the person who follows. There is no change guaranteed unless there is a strong political will that backs and supports the policy and ensures continuity even with a change of officer.
But the feudal trappings remain unchanged, including the numbers of hangers on who continue to applaud every act and utterance, like the courtiers of old. There is no system of genuine feedback and review. Any real attempt at change would lead to a direct confrontation with politicians and senior civil servants. It would most definitely mean a transfer. Those officers at the sub-divisional level who have attempted genuine land reform, have had to face tremendous odds. There are innumerable examples. The IAS only allows the odds of innovation in the softer areas of development—literacy, family planning, women’s education, health and social welfare. In other areas any attempt even to implement the law is viewed negatively and the consequences are writ large on the wall for everyone to see. This has led in most cases to working within the narrow framework of conventionally accepted positions. I did not see the point of continuing to work in a system where I had only notional power and unmerited trappings. I could not really even begin to talk about fairness in inter-relationships amongst the elite, let alone genuine change. I took the decision to leave the IAS in 1975, but I still had a number of unanswered questions. What
brings about social change? How does collective action come about? Why is the mainstream so divorced from this other, greater reality?
The democratic political system, with a vote for every citizen, has got embroiled in feudal caste relations. What appears before us now is an Emperor who stands naked and a people who see him being stripped with every fresh scam, but who are nevertheless reluctant to acknowledge his nudity. If they should say so, they are not sure of what the consequences may be. In self-protection they keep quiet, just as they did when Gulam Rasool was taken away, when Shankar Guha Niyogi was shot, when Safdar Hashmi was battered to death by political goons, when the poor are plundered, raped, and looted without a murmur of protest.
Even where there is no reason to be afraid, tremendous apathy, a moral paralysis and helplessness grips those who could do something. A feeling that nothing can come out of anything, becomes a continual refrain. For some, this refrain is a means of auto-suggestion to forestall the despair of being unable to find answers. For many others it is a convenient position from which to pursue their careers and self-interest without a sense of guilt.
Something has to be done to break this apathy, this overwhelming noisy silence where Star TV cricket scores sponsored by Pepsi and McDowells distracts us from the unease of our failing courage. Every now and then when some solitary or collective voices protest, and are silenced, agony grips us for a moment.
A state gets violent. Its henchmen cause death. Commissions of enquiry are set up to preserve the illusion that the state still functions. But can the state condemn itself? Can real justice be expected from a system that is essentially unjust? Even greater cause for concern is that all this is done evoking the Constitution, the laws of the land and democratic principles.
That is why it is important to learn why the second part of the T.L.N. Reddy Commission report was not made public. It is important that we all collectively demand state accountability, that we assert our right to question and put to the test the democratic façade and platitudes. We have to struggle to ensure our own rights on our own terms. The institutions set up to rule can no longer pull the wool over the eyes of an innocent and trusting electorate, as they did fifty years ago.
What is encouraging is that there are Gulam Rasools in this country: good citizens who feel that someone must uncover the truth. They are people who realized that uncovering and peeling off the layers of deception is an essential prerequisite to motivating change. They do not espouse a cause, but create circumstances whereby the people can judge. Some are celebrated, and many remain unsung. It is in their memory today, that the battle for information and transparency gains strength and hope.
There has always been the strong individual who has fought battles on behalf of society. There have also been collective struggles against state hypocrisy and its false assurances. I would like to spend some time today in exploring with all of you the potential of using the people’s Right to Information to initiate a shift from representative to participatory forms of democracy. And to suggest that this seemingly academic issue is an intrinsic part of struggles for livelihood and survival. Implicit in this is a basic faith in the ability of people to decide what is best for themselves, and the premise that uncompromising openness is vital to the health of a society. The points I raise today are drawn from the lessons and questions thrown up by a fledgling campaign on The Peoples’ Right to Information. Its efforts to uncover the contradictions, and put before the people the dual and split-personality of the state, has already caused great discomfort to ruling power structures. More important however is the glimmer of hope breaking through the despair and cynicism of those who have been even peripherally involved. One of the most fundamental pillars of democratic functioning is the recognition of an inalienable Right to the Freedom of Expression. While the freedom of speech is its most obvious manifestation, it is important to realize that the concept encompasses much more. An exploration of the right to speak and express dissent will lead us to the understanding that it must be accompanied by the explicit right to ask questions and demand answers.
We are faced in this country by the firmly established culture of secrecy and silence. Western patenting is a crude method of appropriating knowledge when compared with the mystification, seclusion, and exclusion moulded into caste hierarchies in India. It has reached the point where it has become self-defeating. Today, Indian systems of knowledge have become so exclusive, that it has been lost to its own custodians. Also well developed is a culture of silence. We are sullen, unhappy, comprehending, suffering; but silent. That is our collective ethos, developed by others but shared today by all. We are never encouraged to ask and we never demand an answer.
In this campaign the analysis and paradigm of struggle has been defined organically and collectively by a group of ordinary people, many of whom live from day to day, seeking for daily wage work. These are people for whom abstractions like ‘rights’ mean nothing and who can only define their existence in the context of hunger or lack of it, illness or good health, work and unemployment. They have in this struggle defined their livelihood and their right to live in terms of their organic relationship with the state, and their birthright to hold it accountable. The relationship between a citizen and the state does not end with IRDP lists and JRY programmes. The people have a right to know, a right to question, and a collective constitutional right to receive an answer.
There are some very important factors that contributed to making the Right to Information a people’s issue in Rajasthan. The first was the recognition of the fact that there is much that the people already know. The oppressed certainly know the reasons for their exploitation. It is a part of their daily existence. The figures are the statistical story of their oppression, and the mechanics provide irrefutable clues about the source of affluence of many others. Unfortunately, the literate world is not interested in recognizing such information. Does one need to wonder why? Who after all is interested in the detailed examination of the story of their ill-gotten wealth? The most convenient solution is to ignore and label irrelevant any such information.
It is, therefore, of vital importance to provide recognition to such information. To force reality upon a world practiced in self-deception. This of course is easier said than done. It involves a process of gathering, collating and collectively analysing the information so that the internal contradictions and bare-faced lies of the rulers stand exposed. It requires setting one set of facts against another, one set of statistics against another, and contrasting one stated reality with another. This is not an academic battle, but the foundation on which competing ideologies are built. If we are to work towards the construction of a peoples’ ideology, this process is imperative. The movement for the Right to Information was born from one such collective understanding of ordinary people in Rajasthan. The simple but straightforward demand of access to detailed records of development works, including bills, vouchers, and muster-rolls has snowballed into a statewide debate on transparency and accountability. How was this demand formulated?
Some of the roots lie in a struggling group’s collective understanding of relationships and power equations in a changing socio-political scenario. Village people have known what their reality is. But for any kind of socio-politico change, comprehension of their own reality has not been enough. They have had to comprehend the mechanics of power and the idiom of a so-called democratic polity. Since authority is vested in structures that span a large canvas, and their comprehension of their own small, specific reality has been dismissed often as trivial or insignificant.
The government has thrived on a culture of secrecy and silence—an inheritance from its colonial past. Occasionally, the pressures of democracy have forced them to reveal information under duress. But this information is so general, that no clarity or benefit may be derived from it. In focusing on the muster-rolls, bills, and vouchers a nerve end has been exposed. A beginning has been made to fight for the state’s accountability to its own people. It has c
onfronted them with fundamental questions of transparency of functioning and democratic sharing of power and responsibility.
Enough has been said about people’s knowledge not to have to redefine it. But it would be interesting to see it in the context of the present struggle. Whenever working village women and men in Rajasthan have got together, they have always brought with them a wealth of information about their work and development. There are detailed accounts of work sites: who worked, how they were cheated, what materials arrived and to whom they went (very often not to the work site). These accounts are sometimes coloured by biases, but always minute in detail and interrelated with many other happenings. Evening chats in rural Rajasthan are dotted with exchanges of this sort. Working people have also tried to use this method of collecting information, mainly culled through the oral tradition, in their interaction with modem structures like the panchayats. They could never succeed, however, in substantiating non-payments of minimum wages or vicious cheating by overseers, because officialdom was always ready to counter with ‘but the papers do not say so.’ Semi-literate and literate workers began noting down the information in their little diaries—one was even flaunted in public view in Beawar as the equivalent in essence and substance to the notorious Jain diaries of the Hawala scandal! Nevertheless official documentary evidence always went contrary to what people knew was right.
So a demand for transparency began. To ask was the first step. The visual black humour of a ‘mate’ running away with a muster-roll under his arm was matched only by stories of cows consuming muster rolls! Once the importance of access to a muster-roll began to be defined in people’s minds, the permutations of corruption which its exclusivity made possible also became clearer. Muster-rolls filled but gone; major discrepancies between kucha muster-rolls filled on site and official muster-rolls submitted for payment; totally fraudulent muster rolls, filled only to make money. A whole variety of methods were being employed to cause huge amounts of money to vanish without a trace. Recent reports of the MP muster-roll scam just go to prove what people have always known.
The Great Speeches of Modern India Page 41
