They are the
elite of India's elite: the brilliant men and women who belong to the
Indian Administrative Service (IAS), the top strata of civil
servants--numbering about 5,000--who in effect rule this country of more
than 1030 million people. At one time, many of these gilded bureaucrats
came from the high, priestly caste of Brahmins and were schooled in the
classics, philosophy and even the proper iron to use for a chip onto the
green. They were also given riding lessons since, it was assumed, anyone
who could handle a horse could govern a district. Thus aesthetically
armed, the young officers were dispatched across India and expected to
cope with famines, fend off man-eating tigers, put down revolts and build
irrigation canals.
Today's IAS officer is more likely to be
bouncing across his domain in an Indian-made jeep than on a horse. And
since a few harsh words in the vernacular can be remarkably more effective
in stopping a mob than a clever Latin quip, Ovid is off the curriculum at
the IAS training academy. Instead, the new generation of officers is
expected to learn a couple of India's 18 official languages. The IAS used
to be the exclusive preserve of India's most prominent families. But these
days, the sons and daughters of the urban, English-speaking elite prefer
going abroad to earn advanced degrees or taking high-paying jobs with one
of the many multinational companies elbowing into the Indian economy.
The shunning of the IAS by India's
brightest and snobbiest is beginning to change the fabric of the country's
entire 20-million-employee bureaucracy. For average Indians, the trend is
likely to mean dealing with an elite that is more aggressive--and hungrier
for a bribe. Says B.S. Baswan, director of the Lal Bahadur Shastri
National Academy of Administration, the IAS' two-year finishing school in
the Himalayan hill town of Mussoorie: "There has been a shift in the
social composition of the recruits. These people are more the upwardly
mobile crowd." Agrees Nazeem Dawood, a student: "These urban
types are not so interested in the service. But a rural chap sees the
official car with the red flashing lights and craves it."
In the eyes of some IAS officers, the new
egalitarianism is causing problems. As fewer officers are drawn from the
upper strata of Indian society, old-timers say, the service has become
increasingly politicized--and in some cases increasingly dishonest. In the
northern state of Bihar, for example, four IAS officers have been named in
a corruption scandal. At least 25 senior civil servants are under criminal
investigation in the southern state of Tamil Nadu. In Uttar Pradesh, some
honest IAS officers were so incensed by the swindling and bribe-taking of
their superiors that they tried to embarrass the culprits by polling
colleagues to select the three most corrupt and undesirable officials in
the state. The secret ballot was held last December, but the three worst
offenders have yet to be disclosed. Says S.S. Tinaiker, the former
municipal commissioner of Bombay: "There's a total demoralization of
the bureaucracy at the top level. Officers were supposed to be close to
the people. Now you find them hanging around ministers and party
bosses." The British, who set up this top tier of bureaucrats,
referred to it as a "steel frame" on which they constructed
their Indian empire. A young IAS officer in Bombay calls it instead
"a rubber frame." He explains: "We're bending all the time
before our political bosses." Since it is virtually impossible to
sack an IAS officer, politicians often use the threat of transfer to bend
administrators and even make them comply with unethical or downright
illegal orders.
The lure of corruption begins right at
the gates of the IAS academy. There, around 100 of the brightest recruits
are selected each year from among thousands of applicants and sent for two
years of administrative training. The list of new arrivals is keenly
awaited by industrialists, high-ranking civil servants and government
ministers. Explains Santosh Matthew, an academy teacher: "Bureaucracy
represents power, and these people all want to seek an alliance with this
power."
Such alliances often are sealed through
arranged marriages. Industrialists with an unhitched daughter or son might
try to make a match with one of the academy's students. According to an
alumnus, a promising young officer was hounded by his home state's chief
minister, demanding that he wed a senior minister's daughter. When the
officer refused to comply, the angry minister stalled his promotion. In
another case, a student had to be hidden by his friends from a squad of
police officers who were trying to pair him off with their boss's
daughter. Often parents of the would-be bride offer dowries of up to
$15,000, with the understanding that once the groom climbs up the
bureaucratic ladder, he will use his connections to line up government
contracts and favors for his in-laws. IAS grooms now rake in the highest
dowries on the marriage market, above doctors and engineers, and some
newspapers even run a column among the matrimonial ads devoted exclusively
to the academy's graduates.
As official corruption and other abuses
sap people's faith in the bureaucracy, the government is drawing up a code
of conduct. Activists are also campaigning for a Right to Information
bill, so that citizens can detect how much money allotted for development
ends up in civil servants' pockets. A few good men and women have survived
inside India's bureaucratic labyrinth. Anil Lakhina is one of them. As a
former district collector in Ahmednagar in Maharashtra state, he found it
difficult to locate documents among the 300,000 dossiers piled in his
office. Using an old British manual as a guide, Lakhina reorganized the
storage system so that any file could be readily found. His method of
bundling the folders together for swifter access was copied widely,
enhancing Maharashtra's reputation as one of the better administered
states in the country. Another bureaucrat who has made a difference is
S.R. Rao, who took over as municipal commissioner of Surat after a plague
epidemic struck this fetid, polluted city of more than 2 million people in
September 1994. He widened 100 km of roads, provided water and sewage to
the shantytowns and had the garbage collected from alleys that swarmed
with rats. He also took on a larger kind of rodent: the local real estate
mob. When an underworld chieftain tried to stop a demolition team from
tearing down his illegal, multi-story building on city land, Rao slapped
the gangster in the face, as thousands of incredulous citizens at the site
gaped. Once synonymous with plague and decay, Surat now is rated as one of
India's more livable cities.
For most Indians, who have every reason
to fear the country's octopus-armed bureaucracy, the scowling IAS officer
sitting at his grand desk is still someone to be approached with
trepidation--and, increasingly it seems, with a thick packet of rupees.
Still, the IAS officer may be losing his godly status. As senior officer
K.K. Sarma recently told students at the academy: "We were made to
feel that we have descended from the heavens, that we just had to sit in
the chair and snap our fingers. That's not true."
Reported by Faizan Ahmad/Patna, Meenakshi
Ganguly/Mussoorie and Maseeh Rahman/Surat
By Tim McGirk New Delhi
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