Archive for the ‘irony’ Category

15 Feb

The perks…and quirks…of public office

Posted by vramani in government, irony. Tagged: , .

I do not offhand remember the name of the 1960s Hindi movie starring two great actors, Padmini and Pran, which I saw on Doordarshan in my student days. The girl, Padmini, is obviously not overjoyed at the prospect of being married to the villain rather than to her hero. Pran attempts to convince her by pointing out to her that her hero has no wealth while he (Pran) can provide her with “नौकर, चाकर, बंगला और गाड़ी” (servants, a palatial house and vehicles). Padmini may not have been convinced, but this argument holds a strong appeal for many who aspire to public office, whether in the political or administrative spheres. I am not for a moment suggesting that the perks of office are the sole, or even major, reason for aspiring to public office. But they are a definite added attraction, apart from the aspect of job security (not guaranteed, of course, for politicians) and the social prestige that comes attached, though often with a tinge of neighbours’ envy (sometimes masquerading as self-righteous attempts to knock these worthies off their high pedestals).

Let me (from my lengthy association with the bureaucracy) take the quintessential budding Indian Administrative Service (IAS) officer and his entry into the hallowed portals of the civil service. I deliberately use the gender-incorrect “his”, since the male of the species exhibits, in my opinion, many more quirks; also, there is a far greater sample size to draw on for examples. It begins with his rapid elevation in the marriage market sweepstakes. Even apart from the sordid issue of dowry payment levels, there is a lengthy line of parents of marriageable daughters for tying up alliances with the eligible bachelor. Feted in his social circles at home, the young man proceeds to the district for his initial training and subsequent posting. The perks start here, with a comfortable house (generally far from the madding crowd), domestic help at the residence, a Group D employee (literally preceding the young officer on his travels) and a jeep with a driver. The perks multiply very soon with his elevation to the district officer level, as the officer graduates to a much larger bungalow, a chauffeur-driven car and a whole retinue of domestic staff at his beck and call. While the perks are alluring, it is the quirks that command one’s attention more as an interesting object of socio-economic analysis: let us turn to them.

Among the visible prestige symbols that are the accoutrements of office, the flashing beacon on the vehicle (jeep or car) is one that catches the public’s attention. Though popularly known as the “लाल बत्ती” (red light), the district/sub-district officer’s vehicle actually sports an orange beacon. Acquisition of this symbol gains one access to areas not easily accessible to the public, a wave-through without payment at toll booths and an occasional salute from the roadside policeman. In more recent years, there is also the armed security person in the front seat of the car and the pennant fluttering on the car bonnet to testify to the status of the occupant. Equally fascinating to observe is the seating plan in the vehicle. When the officer has just a jeep, he occupies the left side front seat, next to the driver. The problem of two officers of equal rank travelling by the same vehicle is resolved by one of them taking the steering wheel. In the case of a car, the senior officer must occupy the rear left hand seat, so that his door opens directly in front of the porch of his office, residence or the guest house. After observing these phenomena, I have termed them “jeepocracy” and “carocracy”, signifying bureaucratic vehicular hierarchy in a people’s democracy. The hierarchy extends to the arrival and departure of vehicles at offices, guest houses and public functions; the last in (who is the top honcho in the hierarchy) is the first out (LIFO), quite unlike the normal (FIFO) inventory procedure.

Once in office, the impressive chair behind the large table testifies to the importance of its occupier. The first law of babudom states: the size of the table is directly proportional to the position of the officer in the bureaucratic hierarchy. There was great discomfort among the Petroleum Ministry babus when I opted for a table measuring three feet by two feet, discarded from the Secretary’s office after the transfer of the previous incumbent. I would not even have ruled out my subordinates feeling that their boss had reduced their standing in the eyes of their subordinates. The second law of babudom is: the occupier of the chair shall surrender it to his superior in the bureaucratic hierarchy, when the latter visits his office. This can have unpredictable fallouts, like the time we in the General Administration Department were called upon to adjudicate in a dispute between the District Collector and a Divisional Forest Officer. Matters had come to a head when the Forest Officer refused to vacate his chair when the Collector (who considered himself primus inter pares) came visiting his office. The contrast was provided by one of my bosses who, when visiting my office, would take a chair on the side of the desk, refusing the proffered (and preferred) chair with the remark “That chair is yours; I have not been appointed to your post.” The conflict can arise even when two district officers occupy rooms in the guest house — matters can be precipitated especially when they are from the IAS and the Indian Police Service (IPS), two services that share a strange love-hate relationship.

Official residential accommodation is another undisputed perk of a public job, especially in the higher echelons of the political and administrative hierarchy and top-level district officers. The old British habit of isolating the rulers from the natives is alive and kicking seven decades after independence. Allied with the provision of official vehicles, this effectively insulates the public official from his ostensible masters, the aam aurat/aadmi. Not surprisingly, two of independent India’s biggest problems — public housing and public transport — remain unresolved, since those entrusted with the task of solving them do not themselves use or need them. The realisation probably dawns on the politician/bureaucrat only when they are out of office, at which time their successors in office have no time or sympathy to listen to their problems.

Little wonder then that politicians and bureaucrats stick to public posts like limpets, well past their “sell by” dates. India’s gargantuan public sector and plethora of public institutions enable the accommodation of defeated (and unelectable) politicians, keeping intraparty dissent muted and enabling the politician in power to get on with her job. The bureaucrat relies on a whole host of post-retirement sinecures, ranging from administrative tribunals to governorships of states and diplomatic postings; the really enterprising few become politicians themselves, extending their perks well into the sunset years.

But the day of reckoning must come sooner or later. That day will dawn for the majority of politicians/bureaucrats when the trappings of office recede and they must rub shoulders with the common man. I still remember my office boy recounting how the Chairman of a large public sector company was a few places ahead of him in the morning queue at the milk booth, days after his retirement. Without being cynical, their position reminds me of Timon of Athens (refer to one William Shakespeare for more information on this Grecian tragic hero). It is probably appropriate to conclude with a stanza from the Bhaja Govindam, attributed to a disciple of Adi Sankaracharya:

अंगं गलितं पलितं मुण्डं दशनविहीनं जातं तुण्डम्

वृद्धो याति गृहीत्वा दण्डं तदपि न मुंच्यत्याशापिण्डम्

(Strength has left the old man’s body, his head has become bald, his gums toothless and he is leaning on crutches. Even then the attachment is strong and he clings firmly to fruitless desires)

 

 

 

 

 

15 Jun

Why marks do not matter — in the long run

Posted by vramani in irony, personal development.

A recent newspaper article by a highly successful author on why average marks in school need not imply the end of the road for a student set me thinking, especially at this time of the year, when the declaration of results leads to extreme despair in those who do not fare so well, leading even to the ultimate tragedy of taking one’s own life. The author advised his young, probably apprehensive readers to take it in their stride and realise that life was about far more than just getting great marks and a plum job. Fair enough advice, as it went, except that I want to present the perspective from the other side, of a so-called “high achiever” of whom a lot was always expected and what it meant for him as he dealt with the later years of his life. Yes sir, I am talking about yours truly, a product of an aspirational system where success was judged by your marks and by your visibility as a person who has made it, who is an object of envy for others.
I grew up in a middle class milieu in Delhi where the dream was to land a prized job in the civil services or qualify as a doctor or engineer, or move to academic pursuits in the USA/UK. Competition was tough even then for the best colleges and the most highly valued jobs. As it happened, I did more than well enough to land the college and the subject of my choice. I enjoyed my college life, participated in various extra-curricular activities and, apart from a hiccup or two, acquired two degrees in my five years in the university. That I had done well academically meant that there were great expectations about me, among family and friends, and everyone assumed that I would easily be able to enter the hallowed portals of India’s civil services. This too I managed rather comfortably, apparently to no one’s great surprise.
It was after I was posted to a rural district completely removed from my earlier Delhi life that the realisation hit home — buster, you are on your own! My performance in the civil services entrance examination initially got me some attention in the Indian Administrative Service circles in my state, but I very soon realised that you are in the position of the Indian bahu (daughter-in-law): after a very short honeymoon, you are landed with many duties, with very little sympathy for your plight. I struggled with that bugbear of bureaucratic functioning in India — the achievement of targets. Whatever I did, I was often not able to meet annual targets, whether for family planning cases (a euphemism for sterilisation), biogas plant construction, land revenue collection or small savings. Realising the meaninglessness of many of these achievements, I probably never really put my heart and soul into reaching these annual targets. Matters were not helped by the bright, ambitious young men and women who were my colleagues and who seemed so fired by the zest to not just reach, but surpass, the magic numbers set for their districts. I soon got inured to the pained look on my Commissioner’s face, when, after reviewing the success of four other districts, he had to handle under-performance in my district. Slowly, I reconciled myself to the apparent truth that I was not one of the dashing, dynamic officers that senior officers in the service would laud.
It was only after I moved to a Secretariat posting in Delhi that I finally found my métier. My above average abilities in drafting notes in the English language and my passion for the subject I was handling saw a lot of responsibilities being entrusted to me. The excellent annual assessments by my bosses stood me in good stead in subsequent postings; it was then that the realisation dawned on me that you are only as good as your last assignment. Added to that was my deliberate decision to keep as low a profile as I could, within the requirements of my job description. Over the next fifteen years, I was fortunate to get a number of interesting assignments and have a warm and supportive relationship with my political and bureaucratic bosses. But what I really value is the love and affection I got from a large cross-section of people: the public I interacted with, my peers and those I worked with in my different postings across a wide geographical area. These gave me a level of comfort and confidence that enabled me to withstand such criticism as came my way. When the failure to reach revenue targets in my administrative division led to reproachful remarks from my top boss (and even a mild rebuke from the then Chief Minister), I was secure in my belief that I was pursuing more important goals impacting the lives the lives of individuals rather than striving to achieve revenue targets.
Today, five years after I took early retirement from service, I realise that there are far more important things in life than just your academic performance or even your rise up the bureaucratic ladder. As you near the sixth decade of your life and look back on the last forty years or so of life, two things come to mind: firstly, you should try to excel in (and, more importantly, enjoy) whatever you do, without getting too tied up in planning where you want your career (or life) to take you and, secondly, the human relations you form in your years at work (including, most significantly, your family relationships) are far more important and rewarding than any material successes you may enjoy in your years on the job. Of course, those marks in school and college do matter, but only for a very limited period and to enable a climb up the next rung of the ladder. It is far more crucial to develop the awareness that one may be climbing up the wrong ladder, at the cost of relationships, contentment and one’s own integrity. Remember, Bill Gates and Steve Jobs never finished college. Equally, remember all those brilliant classmates of yours, with bright futures beckoning to them, who fizzled out in the University of Life and were never able to contribute meaningfully to the society of which they were a part and which had invested so much hope in them. So, by all means, participate in the marks race, but realise that it is ultimately a game where you win some and lose some. Winning over your own fears and insecurities is what will finally make you a complete human being.

15 May

The Tyranny of Trifles

Posted by vramani in irony, public affairs.

In his interesting book on his travels from Turkey to Pakistan, “Stranger to History”, Aatish Taseer has devoted one chapter titled “The Tyranny of Trifles” to the ways in which authoritarian regimes seek to maintain their hold on power. As he puts it “The emphasis on trifles, and the hypocrisies that came with it, had been institutionalised, turned into a form of control over the people…” This is not surprising in many countries to the west of India’s borders, where theocracies and terrorism have sought, with varying degrees of success, to impose their writ on the populace at large. It is far more surprising, not to say disturbing, when this obsession with trivia lodges itself in as vibrant and chaotic a democracy as India. And yet, events in India, in recent months and years, point in the direction of attempts to establish a monolithic society, through use of different instruments of the state and society.

Actually, this trend towards straight jacketing thought and action has its roots in historical events. We can hardly forget the treatment meted out to the celebrated artist, M. F. Husain, for his pictorial depictions of Hindu goddesses, leading to his flight from India and eventual death in exile. The longstanding prohibition regime in Gujarat state has exposed the hypocrisies of state action: if people want to drink, they can gain access to bootlegged liquor, often of the lethal variety. The only ones laughing all the way to the bank are the liquor suppliers and the arms of the state machinery in league with them.

But it is the recent efforts to dictate what the individual citizen should see, read, study, eat and create (through the written or visual medium) that give cause for concern about the encroachment on the freedoms guaranteed to each and every individual by the Indian Constitution. Let us first take the unsavoury furore over the screening of the documentary “India’s Daughter”. To display its masculine might, the Government of India applied its not-so-sensitive suasive powers to black out the documentary from social media. The law of unintended consequences kicked in here with a multiplier effect: the uproar drew public attention and led to probably a thousand fold or more increase in the number of Indians who, through one method or the other, viewed the documentary. A similar phenomenon was witnessed when, probably exhausted by a protracted court battle and recognising the harsh reality of a supportive social and political environment, a leading publishing house pulped the works on Hinduism of the scholar Wendy Doniger. To be honest, I, and probably 99.999% of all Indians, had never heard of her till the controversy blew up in public. The result: many more Indians, out of sheer curiosity if nothing else, acquired her books (till they were available) or googled to read more about her. Doniger should be grateful for the free publicity undertaken for her by obscurantist groups determined that only a particular view on the myths and legends of India should prevail.

The efforts to impose a particular world view on the educational system are part and parcel of this attempt at social engineering. We have already gone through the tamasha of the meaningless replacement of German by Sanskrit in the Kendriya Vidyalaya curriculum. As I observed in an earlier blog, this will neither help the students nor serve the cause of Sanskrit. Students will merely do what is required to secure good marks and forget about this language thereafter. To think that this step will promote Sanskrit scholarship in India is akin to chasing a mirage. The same argument applies to Yoga as well: Yoga goes far beyond mere physical training and involves complete development of the individual. Imposing it on school students, many of whom are unaware of and possibly also unwilling to follow its discipline will only devalue one of India’s major contributions to the world. Then again, the teaching of the Bhagavad Gita in schools represents a very unidimensional approach to promoting ethical values and the spirit of pluralism that characterises a multicultural society. There is no recognition of the lessons that other religions can contribute to the development of a tolerant, compassionate human character. Within the Hindu religion itself, there is no one accepted book; some follow the Upanishads, others the works of revered saints and seers, like the Thirukkural and the Ashtavakra Samhita, while many others follow oral traditions without reliance on any one book or treatise. Ditto for the efforts to rewrite history with a northern, Hindu perspective intended to eulogise India’s “glorious” past. Short shrift is given to Ashoka and Kanishka and the spread of Buddhism, the promotion of religious syncretism by enlightened rulers like Akbar and the magnificent kingdoms of the Chalukya and Vijayanagara empires in South India; revanchist history would have it that Hindu greatness died in the ninth or tenth century CE, never mind that the Vijayanagara kingdom fell only in 1565 CE.

My karmabhumi Maharashtra has not lagged behind in this obsession with trivia. We had policing of public morals in Mumbai with the ban on bar girls; not to be outdone by the previous government, the present one has intervened in the eating and entertainment habits of citizens. An almost two-decade old state legislation banning slaughter of bulls and bullocks was dusted off and given sanction recently by the central government, run by the same political party that did not see fit to give approval to this legislation when it was in power for six years at the turn of this century. Incomes and livelihoods of thousands of farmers, butchers and traders have been imperilled by this move, with grave consequences for social harmony. The law of unintended consequences (referred to earlier) will kick in here, with enormous rent-seeking powers being placed in the hands of the enforcement machinery in the police and municipalities. The compulsion on multiplexes in Mumbai to show Marathi movies in the primetime slot, since modified to a slot in the matinee and evening period, will benefit neither the multiplexes nor Marathi movies, if multiplexes run to poor audiences. How to make the Marathi film industry more robust and in tune with public tastes (a la Tamil cinema, never mind the quality) may yield better financial dividends for all concerned.

But it is in the arena of religion that one witnesses the greatest attempt at trivialisation of what ought to be one of humankind’s deepest experiences. The ghar vapsi (homecoming) campaign of some hard-line majority community groups has sought to make a big issue out of conversion of people born in the Hindu faith to other religions. Ignoring the fact that the Hindu religion has no provision for proselytisation, efforts are being made to reconvert people of other faiths (almost always from the lowest pecking order of Hindu society) to Hinduism. There are very serious issues of inequalities in Hindu society arising from the caste system, eloquently articulated by Dr. Ambedkar, which deserve introspection among all sections of Hindu society. Instead of focusing on what needs to be done to promote equality in Hindu society, attention is (probably deliberately) being drawn to the dangers of “minoritisation” of the majority community: yet another instance of seeking to preoccupy people’s minds with irrelevancies rather than getting them to confront (and change) uncomfortable truths.

So does all this give cause for concern? Yes, to the extent that it displays bigotry and a refusal to acknowledge the pluralistic nature of Indian society. And yet, in a chaotic, throbbing democracy like India (unlike its theocratic and autocratic confrères elsewhere), one can draw hope from a number of factors, borne out by the changes in Indian society and by recent history. India’s burgeoning middle class is irreverent in its treatment of the absurdities that too often characterise political and social discourse in India. Indeed, the foibles of political parties and “religious” outfits are grist to the mill for cartoonists, commentators and bloggers like me. With its innate capacity for jugaad, the Indian public will find ways to circumvent illogical and absurd governmental decisions. Wherever possible, the aam aadmi or aurat will blissfully ignore whatever executive fiats are hurled at her. Finally, if her patience is exhausted (which it will be if governments expend their time and energies on irrelevant issues rather than on crucial matters of governance), the Indian voter will exercise her prerogative in the exercise of her democratic rights: she will change the government without bloodshed at the next available opportunity (the most apt definition of democracy by the philosopher Karl Popper).

31 Jul

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose: The more things change, the more they stay the same

Posted by vramani in irony.

Damodar Penwale eased through the glass doors of the New Administrative Building after swiping his identity card and crossed the foyer towards the lifts. He smiled at the receptionist seated towards his right hand side. She was immersed in directing a visitor how he should proceed to meet the Commissioner of Industries. The visitor’s face seemed faintly familiar to Penwale; maybe it was some captain of industry who had come to discuss his new project with the Commissioner. Not that there were too many such visitors nowadays, he mused. The process of automatic online approvals for all industrial projects approved in 2010 had done away with the need for industrialists to visit government offices to get their proposals cleared. He still remembered how, as a young clerk newly recruited in government at that time, he had heard his wizened Under Secretary, Harihar Kamdar, grumble that the move spelt the death knell of the bureaucracy. Prophetic words indeed, he thought, as he eased into the lift and headed for the seventeenth floor. The lift was one of those superfast Otis lifts that seemed to cover the vertical distance to his office in seconds, a far cry from the lifts he remembered when he joined service. Then, it was often a wait for anywhere from ten to twenty minutes while the lift huffed and puffed its way up to the top and then, just as reluctantly, made its way down. Nowadays, one never had to wait for more than a couple of minutes before entering the lift. Probably, one should give twenty percent credit to the technologically advanced lift and eighty percent credit to the reduced stream of visitors, he surmised.
He stepped out on to the carpeted passageway and made his way towards his department, located to the left as one emerged from the lift. Approaching his work station (office was such a dated term to use in this day and age!), he smiled at his co-worker seated in the cubicle to the left and switched on his computer. Ever since the advent of the paperless office in 2015, there was no need to conduct any work using paper or to maintain any paper records. He pressed his right thumb on the fingerprint recognition panel on the computer to access his files. In fact, a message had already gone to his supervisor intimating her that Penwale was at his seat. No more of those days when you could enter the building and make a beeline for the canteen to enjoy a cup of hot tea, he wistfully mused. But then, the installation of the self-serve tea and coffee machines (two on each floor) enabled any employee to get her tea/coffee as and when she wished, at just one rupee for a cup of tea and two rupees for a cup of coffee.
There was an urgent email from one of the districts communicating the daily rainfall figures; Penwale frowned – the data should have been automatically uploaded by the district in the ready-made software. He made a note mentally to inform the district that emails transmitting such routine data would not be favourably viewed by his department. Oh, yes.. sending material by the old postal system was now considered almost a crime!
A buzz on his intercom awoke Penwale from his reverie. It was his superior, alerting him that the note for the cabinet had to be expedited. Cabinet notes, too, were no longer transcribed on paper: an electronic copy, after approval by the departmental Secretary & the Minister, went to the Chief Minister’s office via the Cabinet Secretary. Ministers could only scan the cabinet notes on computer monitors in their office; the software prevented printing of paper copies. Thank God, thought Penwale, at least they were spared the allegations of leakage of cabinet papers to the press before the cabinet meetings! Even at Cabinet meetings, the notes for each item on the agenda flashed on the consoles in front of each Minister, who was not allowed to carry any paper in or out of the Cabinet Room. Penwale had once cajoled his friend in the Cabinet Secretariat to allow him to take a peek at the Cabinet Room: the technology on show there had awed him, what with huge LED screens and dozens of computer monitors. There was even a provision for cabinet meetings to be conducted through videoconferencing, when no face to face discussions were felt necessary or when the Chief Minister needed to convene a meeting at short notice.
Penwale was just putting the finishing touches to the cabinet note when a message flashed on his computer screen, informing him that the Joint Secretary of the department would be videoconferencing in half an hours’ time with all the supervisors and assistants to review the action plan of the department and the items pending for action. There were now only four levels of officials in any department — the Secretary, Joint Secretary, Supervisor and Assistant. The Secretaries and Joint Secretaries were on five-year contractual appointments and the renewal of their contracts crucially depended on their achieving the action plan goals. Not that Supervisors and Assistants were any more secure, Penwale reflected; a perceived indifferent performance could cost them their jobs, as three of his colleagues had experienced recently.
It was almost 11 a.m. and Penwale calculated that he had just enough time to go down the corridor and grab a cup of coffee. As he made his way down the corridor, he exchanged pleasantries with a number of supervisors and assistants, who were moving purposefully in the same direction. Discussions around the tea-coffee machine ranged from the latest movie releases to India’s prospects in the upcoming World Cup cricket tournament. Sipping his coffee with relish and participating in the conversation around him, Penwale never noticed how time slipped by, till, glancing inadvertently at his watch, he realised, to his horror, that it was 11.27 a.m. and he had to be in his seat in two minutes to be in time for the videoconference with his martinet of a Joint Secretary. Crumpling his paper cup and turning sharply around, he lost his balance and collided with a portly supervisor standing just behind him…..
…..Penwale was jerked to wakefulness by a growing murmur of discontent from the employees milling around him, one of whom had accidentally bumped into him, throwing him off his balance. As Penwale’s consciousness returned to the present, he realised that both the lifts had stopped functioning. Many employees had been complaining for weeks about the weird noises and jerks emanating from the aged lifts as they went up and down on their daily business. Trust that crotchety Deputy Secretary in charge of building administration not to have cleared the file for annual maintenance of lifts, he thought resentfully, as he turned to the staircase and commenced the Sisyphean climb to his seventeenth floor office for the third time that week, past paan-stained walls.

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