Wednesday, March 7, 2007
INDIA'S CIVIL SERVICE
Where bureaucrats prefer to stick to the old ways
KEVIN RAFFERTY
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"Welcome to India's first fully computerised post office", say the signs at the Parliament Street head post office in New Delhi. Sure enough, there are clerks with their heads bent over computers in the back office; and computers are in reach of most of the counters dealing with such things as money orders, postal savings, provident fund, insurance and Speed Post.
The place is also much less chaotic than it used to be in the old days, when Parliament Street had more than 300 counters - each with its own rugby scrum of customers, and don't you dare stray into another scrum or you'll be sent to the back of the pack.
But there is still one thing that the Indian liberalising economists and politicians have failed to do - computerise the brains of the clerks, let alone dare to endow them with some capacity for thought.
Stamps, for example, are still necessary for sending letters, and stamps go back in India to 1852. But if you want stamps at Parliament Street, there are no machines or computers to dispense them. You have to apply to a person, and the person sometimes seems on his or her own planet.
There was no queue, but the two men on duty at the stamp counter were quite preoccupied with their own chitchat for five minutes until disturbed by a colleague. I presume he was a colleague because he reached over the counter and lodged his motorcycle helmet somewhere underneath while chatting to the two clerks on duty.
Then he disappeared behind an opaque glass screen, probably to do some more chatting before actually reporting for duty.
Finally, the clerks issuing stamps finished with their urgent personal matters and had time to spare for the customer. "I would like some stamps for sending postcards abroad: 10, please," I said. He took out some very humdrum-looking four- rupee stamps of a painted stork, and told me to attach two to each card.
I asked if he had any more interesting varieties, but he said no, that was the philatelic department - and he waved me vaguely somewhere round the corner.
I stuck the stamps on the cards and handed them over to the clerk who had sold them, hoping he would frank them. Franking had to be done elsewhere, he explained, pointing me to another counter.
There was no one on that counter, so I set off in search of the philately section - which turned out to be right next to the man who had sold me the stamps, with not even a flimsy partition between them.
But no one was there, and no sign said that this was the philately counter; or that the officer on duty was out to lunch, visiting the bathroom or on holiday - as post offices in any other country might inform you, out of courtesy.
After another 10 minutes of flitting between the empty franking counter and the empty philately counter, I saw a woman return to the latter. She proceeded to take an age to store her purse, pull her stamps out of a drawer and open another drawer to count her money. She looked quite cross when I had the temerity to ask if she had the newly issued rose stamps for Valentine's Day.
Instead, she presented me with a stamp of a carved elephant, emitting a heady smell of sandalwood. Only when I had bought it did she bring out the rose stamps, with their overpowering scent of roses. Two weeks later, the fragrance is still stunning, and has a calming effect.
I went back to the franking counter and the young man there duly franked the cards and handed them back to me. "No", I said, "please process them." He replied: "But I don't work here."
Spending a few extra minutes in the post office smelling the roses is hardly a hardship at all, but it is worrying in other places that the babus, or clerks, in charge continue in their own stubborn way.
Earlier in the day I went with an old Indian friend to the Home Ministry to try to discuss a visa issue. My friend has some influence, so we bypassed the initial queue where people take a number and wait for an hour or so to get a chance to explain the problem.
He talked to a mid-ranking official, who said that the matter was best discussed with a senior official - adding with pride that it was better to set aside a whole day for the wait. My friend was disgusted by that attitude, which essentially declared that "we are in charge and take pride in making you wait".
So he went, unannounced, to the house of the vice-president of India, an elected official, not an unelected babu, who kept him waiting for all of 15 minutes before they spent 45 minutes in discussions.
At the airport leaving India, it took 50 minutes to negotiate a security queue that Hong Kong airport would have disposed of in five minutes. The reason soon became clear - not one, but two khaki-uniformed security staff were checking bags. They were stopping the scanning machines for up to five minutes at a time to do the searches, plus time off for their own chitchat.
The person in front of me had her bag opened "because you have liquid in it" - which turned out to be a packet of tea. I had my bag opened "because you have metal in it" - yes, a camera. I groaned at why it took so long. "We have to make sure that everything is secure," the security detail said. "I would feel more secure if you were not so insecure," I replied.
India's economic take-off has brought impressive changes, but they would be more impressive still if the people running the mid-level bureaucracy could be reprogrammed to think - or at least to serve the customers - instead of stubbornly following their own, old rule book.
Kevin Rafferty is a political commentator.
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