Category Archives: Corruption

corruption in Indian police

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I completed my tour guide training in December, and my license was printed in January. Soon after, the Ministry of Tourism office in Delhi asked me to submit a police verification certificate from my local police station. This certificate is supposed to confirm that there are no legal cases against me. The Ministry even provided a standard form, and I was told I simply had to get it stamped at my local police station. When I went there with the form, the officer refused to stamp it. Instead, he told me to go to the DIG office and apply for a character certificate.

By mistake, I went to a different police office. I explained my situation to an officer there, but after learning I was a tour guide, he mocked me, saying: “Oh, so your job is to fool tourists and exploit them.” I was furious but held my calm. After a few more questions, he finally directed me to the correct DIG office. The DIG office was in terrible condition—dark, dusty, and neglected. The officer responsible gave me a form, which I filled out and submitted with my documents. I had been warned by my local police station that I would need to “take care” of him, so I handed over ₹100 as a bribe. He told me to follow up with my local police station in two days.

Back at my local station, they confirmed my application had arrived but demanded a domicile certificate from the court—something that would take over 15 days. I had already provided my passport, which was proof enough. Thankfully, an advocate present at the time intervened, insisting that a passport was equivalent to a domicile certificate. Only then did the officer reluctantly accept my documents. Even then, he said they would send someone to verify my residence in a week. I understood what he really meant.

When I asked if I was supposed to “give something,” he bluntly said: “Such work doesn’t happen without money.” My friends had told me ₹500 was enough, so I offered that. But the officer said there were five or six people to share the money with, and it wasn’t enough. We finally settled on ₹700. After taking the money, he gave me an unexpected “lesson.” He explained how to bribe properly: always look around to see who is in the office, offer money when there aren’t many people, and never mention a bribe to another officer. He even warned me never to admit I had bribed his colleague at the DIG office. After this “training,” he promised my documents would be forwarded the same evening.

From there, my file went to the LIU (Local Intelligence Unit). At their office, the same cycle began. They said they would verify my residence but then hinted that a payment would speed things up. One officer casually asked for ₹500, saying that if I paid, nobody would need to visit my home and my file would move forward the same day. I paid. Something absurd happened while I was there: I received a call about my guest house business. The officer overheard and asked if I had a restaurant. When I said no, he looked disappointed and said he would have liked to come for a meal—especially if there was “hot chicken with whiskey.” I was shocked at how openly he said this.

From LIU, my papers went to the CO office (a regional police office). There, an officer told me: “We know your daytime character, but we don’t know about your nighttime character—how many women or prostitutes you sleep with, or how many bars you visit at night.” He repeated this in front of other officers, and they all laughed. I was stunned by the humiliation. Finally, I asked how much money he wanted. He said, “Give anything.” I paid ₹200, and suddenly there was no need to check my “nighttime character” anymore. My file was forwarded to the SP (Superintendent of Police) office.

At the SP office, I had to wait an hour before being presented to the SP himself. He looked at me briefly, asked why I needed the certificate, and signed the papers. That was it. His PA later asked me to come back if I wanted to “make sure things moved quickly.” I returned a few days later, and luckily my documents had already been forwarded to the DIG office. Finally, back at the DIG office, I was told that another senior officer still needed to sign my papers. I waited for three hours in the heat until that officer finally arrived. The DIG officer then took my documents to him, got them signed, and finally issued me the character certificate.

The certificate itself was laughably unimpressive—a small piece of paper stating that no legal cases were registered against me. They hadn’t even updated the forms for 2010; it was printed as 2009 and corrected by hand with a pen. In total, I had spent nearly a month of running from office to office—DIG → Local Police → DIG → LIU → CO → SP → DIG again—and paid around ₹1,700 in bribes just to get this single piece of paper. What hurts most is not the time or the money, but the way I was treated. I was mocked for being a tour guide, accused of sleeping with prostitutes, and humiliated by people who were supposed to serve the public.

In the end, I got my police verification certificate, submitted it to the Ministry of Tourism in Delhi, and finally received my license. But every time I look at that piece of paper, I can’t help but feel that my character certificate was issued by the most characterless people I have ever met.

Finally received Indian passport

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I finally received my passport, and believe me, it took more than eleven months. I applied for it last February and only received it this January. The entire process was marred by bureaucratic red tape and corruption. From purchasing the application to finally holding the passport in my hands, it was a constant ordeal of bribery and inefficiency. The police were supposed to verify my documents by visiting my home and meeting me in person, but instead, I had to go to the police station, where they demanded Rs. 600 and never followed up with a home visit.

Similarly, the Local Intelligence Unit (LIU), known for its propensity to ask for bribes and its lack of genuine efficiency, was also supposed to verify my documents. I ended up meeting the officer in a hospital room where his wife was admitted. It was quite absurd: I received a call from an LIU officer who said he had my passport documents and wanted to meet me. When I inquired about the time he would visit my home, he told me his wife was ill and in the hospital, so he provided me with the hospital address and asked me to meet him there.

At the hospital, this officer took me to the room where his wife was lying in bed. She had the typical appearance of someone whose spouse is involved in corrupt practices. The officer briefly reviewed my documents and then demanded Rs. 600 as a bribe. My friends had advised me to offer only Rs. 300, so I tried to negotiate, but he insisted that the Rs. 600 would be distributed among all the officers at the LIU office. Reluctantly, I paid him the full amount.

Adding to the absurdity, the officer then asked me to teach him English. I couldn’t help but laugh at the request and didn’t know how to respond. I suggested a few language schools and quickly left the hospital. During our conversation, he revealed something troubling: when I asked why he didn’t come to my home for verification, he mentioned that they were primarily concerned with people who have beards, implying a focus on Muslims.I understand that one particular group is involved in the majority of terrorist activities around the world and may be viewed with suspicion. However, as an officer working for the LIU, he should have visited my place and conducted a thorough check regardless.

The inefficiency and bias of institutions like the LIU seem to contribute to the problem rather than address it effectively. It’s disheartening to see how these institutions operate, especially given the significant impact of terrorism on our society.

Winning a television

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Today, while watching the news on India TV, I was reminded of a memorable experience from three years ago when I won their “Best Video of the Day” contest. At that time, Lane and I had visited Nagwa, Varanasi, to document untreated sewage discharge into the Ganga. Lane used his digital camera to capture footage of this issue. I sent the video to India TV, and it was selected as the “Best Video of the Day,” earning me a prize: a color TV. I was thrilled about the prize, especially since I didn’t own a TV and couldn’t afford one. However, India TV requested a bank draft of Rs. 2300 as a tax on the lottery winnings.

Eager to claim my prize, I sent the money. They then sent me a letter on Sansui’s letterhead (as Sansui sponsored the program) stating that I could collect the TV at the nearest Sansui store. Upon visiting the address listed on the letterhead, I discovered that the office had closed a year earlier. I reached out to India TV, who instructed me to contact Sansui’s Mumbai office. Mumbai redirected me to their Lucknow office, which then told me to wait a week. After a week, Lucknow informed me that no local dealer had the TV model I had won, and I would need to wait further. The same story persisted with each follow-up.

When I complained to India TV, they stated that their only role was to collect the money and forward it to Sansui, leaving the responsibility of delivering the TV to Sansui. Shocked by their response, I threatened to involve the police, but they dismissed my concerns. Despite continuous efforts to resolve the issue through Sansui’s Mumbai and Lucknow offices, as well as local dealers, no solution was forthcoming. Eventually, I decided to file a complaint with the police to document my attempts to resolve the issue. However, the police at my local station were unhelpful and informed me that they couldn’t register my complaint without connections at a larger station. This response was disheartening.

Ultimately, after over six months of persistence, I received my prize by traveling to Lucknow overnight. I spent more than Rs. 1500 on phone calls and the trip, which diminished my excitement about the TV. While I was initially thrilled to win, the experience of retrieving the prize was fraught with challenges. Since then, I’ve created several videos but have refrained from sending them to India TV due to their inadequate support and handling of the situation. My experience with India TV, Sansui, and the police was deeply frustrating and disappointing.

Driving License in India

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I got my driving license about eight years ago, but a conversation with a friend today about applying for a license reminded me of my experience at the RTO (Road Transport Office). I decided to share what happened. I was 20 years old when I applied for my driving license, which was about seven years ago. The RTO office was located 25 kilometers outside the city, and given the chaotic state of city transport, I asked my friend to take his motorbike so we could get there. Upon arriving, the RTO office was as chaotic as any other Indian government office.

The office was overcrowded, filled with people and even animals like dogs and cows wandering around. There was paan spit everywhere, making the floor look red. Touts were roaming about, looking for confused faces like mine. One of them approached me and offered to help me get a driving license, but he wanted money for his services. Although my friends had advised me to avoid the RTO office and instead buy a fake license from the market, I wanted to do things legally. I had also consulted an advocate who told me that money was key at the RTO office—spend it, and you get what you want; otherwise, you get nothing. However, I decided to navigate the process at the RTO office myself.

I declined the tout’s offer, but he persistently asked if I needed his help. I repeatedly said no. There was no clear information center, so I asked someone in the crowd about the procedure. They directed me to get a form first. We queued at the form counter, where I was surprised to see a blind person handling the forms. Despite the unconventional situation, the blind man managed the forms efficiently. I requested a form for a learning license, which costs Rs. 10, though the printed price was Rs. 2. When I returned to query the discrepancy, the blind man explained he had given me the wrong form and refunded my money, stating the correct forms were sold out.

The tout reappeared, insisting that the form was indeed Rs. 10, and I had no choice but to pay. Eventually, my friend stood in line to get the form for me. After filling it out, we proceeded to another counter to pay the fee. Although the counter was supposed to close at 2 PM, it was already closed at 1:15 PM. A lady behind the counter, munching on something, insisted her clock showed 2:15 PM. I showed her a Rs. 20 note, and she reopened the counter, allowing me to deposit the fee. Next was the written exam, which concerned me as Varanasi lacks proper traffic rule enforcement.

I saw others offering bribes to the examiner, but I decided to take the exam first and offer money if needed. The exam was manageable, and I was confident I passed. When I asked the examiner if I had passed, he confirmed I did after I indicated I hadn’t paid a bribe yet. He asked me to return in three days to check the results. When I went back after three days, I was informed that I had passed. The fee for the learning license was Rs. 100, but I bargained and paid Rs. 50. After two or three months, I returned to get my permanent license. They put me through an interview with basic questions about my vehicle registration and other details.

Although a practical driving test was supposed to be part of the process, it was not conducted. After the interview, I was told to return a week later to collect my license. When I did, I encountered another officer who asked if I was a Brahmin. After confirming, he mentioned he was also a Brahmin and lived near my home. He requested a bribe of Rs. 150, claiming he usually charged Rs. 200 but was offering me a discount due to our shared caste. I didn’t want to pay that much, so I bargained and eventually paid Rs. 75, which he accepted reluctantly, warning me not to disclose the lower amount.

While I am happy to have my license, I still think about the blind man, the counter lady, and the officer who gave me a discount because of our shared caste. Sometimes I wonder if I should have just given money to my advocate and avoided the RTO hassle. However, navigating the RTO taught me a lot about dealing with government officers in India. Despite my resolve not to bribe, I often find myself compelled to do so to get things done. I hope that technology will eventually change this system, though it may not happen in my lifetime.

Widows in Varanasi

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I worked with a student named Irine from the University of Venice who wanted to study widows in Varanasi, focusing specifically on the issue of prostitution among widows in widow ashrams. She explained that her interest was sparked by the film *Water*. Although I found the subject compelling, I was initially uncertain about finding widows to interview about prostitution. Nevertheless, the topic intrigued me, so I agreed to collaborate with her. I conducted some research and discovered a government-run widow ashram near my home.

Upon visiting, we found about 18 widows living at the ashram. The facility was in poor condition: while there was a garden and open space, the building itself appeared to be from the early 1900s and was not well maintained. An office staff member informed us that a wealthy pilgrim from Kolkata had once visited Varanasi, met a widow at a ghat, and was moved by her story. This encounter led him to fund the construction of the ashram, which was later handed over to the government. It is currently managed by the Department of Women Welfare for Uttar Pradesh.

This is the only government-run widow ashram in the entire state of Uttar Pradesh. The woman in charge of the office was receptive to Irine’s project and allowed us to interview the widows. The ashram is divided into two sections: one for widows who are able to care for themselves and another for those who are physically unfit. Each widow receives only Rs. 550 (US$ 12) per month from the government. We were told by both the widows and the office in charge that no government funds had been received for the past three months, leaving the widows without any financial support.

The office in charge mentioned that local donors, who regularly contribute to the ashram, are essential for the widows’ survival. Without these donations, the government stipend alone would be insufficient. It is difficult to imagine how one could survive on Rs. 550 a month. The widows who are capable of managing on their own live on the ground floor, while those who are older or in poor health reside on the first floor. The government provides each widow with a small gas stove for cooking, but they must prepare their own meals. The ashram has a kitchen where food is prepared for those who cannot cook for themselves, with the cooking done by office staff. There is also a washing machine for laundry, though I am unsure who operates it.

The rooms are spacious, with four beds in each. Irine was particularly interested in exploring the issue of prostitution among widows, but I was uncertain how to approach this sensitive topic with women who were all over 65, with some over 80. We decided to visit the ashram multiple times, building rapport with the widows and staff to see if any information might emerge. We also inquired about other widow ashrams in Varanasi and were directed to two additional locations. One was very close to my place, called Mata Anandmayi Ashram.

At Mata Anandmayi Ashram, we discovered that it primarily functions as a religious school for girls. The peon mentioned that there were over 20 widows there as well, but the manager was extremely uncooperative. He denied that they housed any widows, which was puzzling. We were unable to speak with anyone other than the rude manager and peon. We then visited Birla Ashram at Chowk, Varanasi, which was established by the Birla family. There were around 20 widows residing there, but we couldn’t speak with any of them on our first visit.

We encountered a woman who was not a widow but was staying there thanks to her IAS officer husband, who had arranged a room for her due to her religious interests. She was uncooperative and prevented us from speaking with the widows. She asked us to return after a few days as she wanted to consult someone in Kolkata first. We returned after a few days and fortunately, the woman was not present. We managed to speak with a widow, but she was busy at the time. She told us that most of the widows at Birla Ashram work as cooks in various households and that the ashram only provides them with a room.

The disparity in support and conditions between the ashrams was striking. Some widows, particularly those who were unable to work, seemed to receive little more than a place to stay. When a widow dies, the ashram informs the family; if no one comes, the body is cremated, sometimes traditionally and sometimes using an electric burner. The stories of the widows were both heartbreaking and enlightening. Many were forced to leave their homes due to harsh circumstances: some were expelled by their own children or daughters-in-law, while others chose to leave to avoid being a burden. A common thread among them was early marriage, with some married as young as 6 or 7 years old.

I met several women married at such a young age, and many lost their husbands by the time they were only 10, never having lived with them. One remarkable woman from Chennai, who was the most educated and articulate of all the widows we met, shared a particularly poignant story. Married at seven, she spent four years living with her parents before moving in with her husband at eleven, only to be separated from him for a year due to family traditions. After her husband’s death, she lived with her parents and later with her sister. Feeling like a burden, she initially came to Varanasi to commit suicide but was saved by a boat rower and sent to the ashram. Her story was deeply moving and highlighted her resilience.

She described South Indian widow traditions, which differ somewhat from North Indian practices. For instance, after a husband’s death, a South Indian widow’s head is shaved, and she is separated from others while sarees are thrown at her from a distance. In South India, widows are permitted to wear either white or red sarees, whereas in North India, only white is allowed. The practice of throwing sarees is not something I have heard of in North India, but considering the conditions faced by widows, it’s not entirely inconceivable.

When we asked all the widows why someone becomes a widow, they all agreed with the belief that it is due to some sin from their past life. However, they felt that the sins of widowers are not as severe. Widows are expected to follow stringent rules, such as abstaining from tasty food, not interacting with men, not going out, not wearing colorful clothes, and avoiding celebrations. Most widows believed these restrictions were necessary to atone for their sins and avoid punishment in the afterlife.

Regarding remarriage, only a few widows felt it was acceptable; most viewed contemporary widows who remarry or dress in colorful clothes negatively. The general sentiment was that widows should adhere strictly to traditional practices. The prevailing view among the widows was that they were marginalized and discriminated against, particularly in Varanasi. They are often excluded from weddings and considered bad luck. It is disheartening to see such practices, which seem disconnected from the core values of Hinduism, which I believe should emphasize equality and respect for all individuals.

This experience has taught me a great deal. The systemic issues and historical practices that have contributed to the plight of women in India are profound. While education is crucial for addressing these problems, the current state of educational and social reform suggests that change may be slow. It is clear that addressing these deep-seated issues requires not only better education but also comprehensive social and policy reforms.

Coca-Cola research for book

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I worked with the American writer Mr. Michael Blanding as his translator and local assistant for two days, on June 14th and 15th, in Mehndiganj. Mr. Blanding is writing a book titled *Coke Machine*, which explores the Coca-Cola issue and will be published by Penguin Publications, USA. I first met him on June 14th at the Lok Samiti’s office in Mehndiganj. While Michael has previously written articles about the Coca-Cola issue in Colombia, this book will also address problems in India, Colombia, and Mexico. One of his notable articles is “Coke: The New Nike?”

Broken pipes of Rain harvesting system at Mirjamuraj Police station

Before working with Michael, I was aware of the issues in India and Colombia but did not know that Mexico was also affected. Michael informed me that Mexico is the largest market for Coca-Cola products, and now faces severe problems with obesity and other health issues. Obesity was not prevalent in Mexico a few years ago, but with the increased sales of Coca-Cola products, the obesity rates have also risen. He also mentioned that Coca-Cola and Pepsi are planning to introduce coconut water in India, which struck me as odd. I doubt they will be able to offer a truly natural product, as it will likely be mixed with chemicals.

We interviewed about ten people, visited Coca-Cola’s rainwater harvesting sites at various locations, and examined their wastewater discharge system. I had hoped for improvements, but the situation remains unchanged. We visited two rainwater harvesting sites: one on the rooftop of the Agriculture Research Center in Kallipur village and another on the rooftop of the Mijramurad Police Station. Neither site was operational, with most pipes either broken or jammed. At the Agriculture Research Center, staff reported that Coca-Cola had set up the site about two years ago to create a positive impression.

 

However, it ceased functioning within a few months, and despite notifying Coca-Cola officials, no repairs were made. The rooftop now overflows, and the rainwater harvesting system is entirely nonfunctional. The well, intended to capture and recharge groundwater, was completely dry, and residents said they had never seen water in it due to jammed pipes. The situation at the Mijramurad Police Station was similar. Most pipes were broken or jammed, and local residents, including a journalist and police officers, confirmed that the site stopped working a few months after its installation, with no subsequent maintenance from Coca-Cola.

Residents near the Coca-Cola plant reported significant water shortages, blaming the company for their problems. They noted that water scarcity was not an issue before Coca-Cola arrived in Mehndiganj. Many showed us their dry wells and nonfunctional hand pumps. Farmers now purchase water for irrigation because their bore wells no longer work. Wealthier individuals with submersible pumps sell water to poorer farmers. We visited two ponds dug by the village committee, which are different from Coca-Cola’s sites. The committee had chosen land with lime-rich soil to filter the water effectively.

They connected nearby villages to the pond through pipes, allowing rainwater to flow into the pond and recharge groundwater. It appeared that the village committee’s efforts were far more effective than Coca-Cola’s. Nandlal Master, President of Lok Samiti, mentioned that Coca-Cola had conducted groundwater testing through an agency called TERI (Tata Environmental Research Institute), which recommended that the company leave Mehndiganj. Based on my observations over the past three years, I agree that Coca-Cola should exit Mehndiganj. I am eager for Michael’s book to be published and hope it will support the people of Mehndiganj in their struggle.

 

Elections in India

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It was election day in Delhi yesterday. Mr. Naveen Chawla, The Chief of Election Commission of India also went to vote and found that his name was not in the list. His name was in the deleted list. It became news and all the TV channels started talking about it. The employees of Election Commission did something and finally Mr. Naveen Chawla voted. It has always been a issue for general people that they go to vote and find that their name is not present in the voting list. How can this happen that they forget the name of the Chief of the Election Commission of India?

Later Mr. Chawla said that there was some confusion because he had changed his apartment a few months ago and that is why his name was also shifted to the other list. But everybody knows that it was only an excuse. Media people were saying that they had seen the list and his name was in the deleted list. Well, whatever the reason was, the Election Commission of India should not say anymore that they can organize elections well. Now it is good evidence for the world that proves the quality of elections in India.

Treatment of Cancer at BHU for Prabhu

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A few days ago, my friend Prabhu fell seriously ill with severe stomach pain. He was rushed to the emergency ward at BHU (Benares Hindu University) Hospital. The doctors diagnosed him with a serious condition but were reluctant to admit him, citing a lack of available beds in the emergency ward. They directed Prabhu’s family to check the general ward, which also had no vacant beds. Despite Prabhu’s intense pain and distress, the doctors refused to attend to him. Desperate, his family decided to take him to another hospital, Mata Anandmayi Hospital in Bhadaini, but faced the same issue—no available beds. Prabhu was in agony, nearly fainting, and when they returned to BHU, the doctors displayed a concerning lack of compassion, refusing to even start treatment.

Prabhu’s father pleaded with the doctors, even touching their feet to request treatment, but was met with a cold response. The doctors continued to insist there were no beds available. Frustrated, Prabhu’s family sought help from a contact who knew the former president of the BHU student union. After the former president intervened, BHU finally arranged a bed for Prabhu at around 11 PM. Tests and treatment began, but the doctors recommended transferring Prabhu to PGI, Lucknow for surgery. When Prabhu’s family arrived at PGI, they encountered the same problem—no beds available. Prabhu’s brother reached out to a well-known figure in Lucknow, who made a call to the hospital. Following this intervention, PGI managed to provide a bed for Prabhu.

At PGI, after a brief examination and review of his previous reports, the doctors diagnosed Prabhu with colon cancer. They recommended surgery but warned that there was no guarantee he would survive even ten days. The cost of the surgery was Rs. 1,25,000 ($2,500). Fearing the worst, Prabhu requested to be brought back to Benares, preferring to face his fate there. The news of Prabhu’s condition spread quickly in our neighborhood, and everyone was deeply saddened. I suggested to Prabhu’s family that they seek a second opinion at the renowned TATA Memorial Center in Mumbai. I contacted my friend Alok in Mumbai, who arranged an appointment and forwarded Prabhu’s medical reports to TATA Memorial.

The doctors at TATA Memorial reviewed the reports and concluded that there was no evidence of cancer. They indicated that the diagnosis from PGI was incorrect. I relayed this hopeful news to Prabhu and his family, who were overwhelmed with relief and joy. Prabhu was admitted to a private hospital where he underwent successful treatment and is now recovering well. Meanwhile, I had a distressing experience at BHU when my baby fell from a chair and suffered a head injury. We rushed to BHU’s emergency ward, only to find that the registration counter had already closed. After receiving instructions from security guards, I entered the registration room from the back door and saw staff preoccupied with counting money.

When another patient tried to register through an open window, a clerk became aggressive and injured the patient’s hand. I managed to get a registration paper and submitted it to the doctor, who then required me to write a declaration that I would not involve the police in the future. Despite the urgency, there were no available supplies like nylon thread for stitching. I had to leave the hospital to buy these items myself. After waiting for over an hour and a half, junior doctors finally started stitching my baby’s wound. This was in one of Uttar Pradesh’s largest hospitals, and the lack of timely care was shocking.

Having experienced such poor service, I now share Prabhu’s apprehension towards BHU and will avoid it for any future needs. I sought treatment for my baby elsewhere and had the stitches removed at a different hospital. The condition of government hospitals is deplorable; their focus seems to be on money rather than patient care. Despite the considerable revenue and international reputation of institutions like BHU, the reality of their services often falls short. For many who lack health insurance and cannot afford private hospitals, this situation is dire. The question remains: are these hospitals designed to save lives or to fail those who seek their help?

Airtel mobile phone scam

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I use an Airtel SIM card, which is one of the largest service providers in India. A few months ago, I received a call from them about choosing a caller tune for my mobile. The automated system played a few songs and instructed me to press 3 if I wanted to select a song as my caller tune. It also mentioned that pressing 3 would subscribe me to the service for a week at a charge of Rs. 10. I intended to hang up but mistakenly pressed 3 instead of the red button located just above it, thereby subscribing to the service.

Initially, I didn’t mind as I knew the subscription was only for a week. However, the following week, I received a message saying my subscription had been renewed, which I did not want. I tried to contact customer care but was unable to, due to my lifetime validity plan. I visited their office, only to be told that lifetime plan customers could not access customer care services. It seemed that customers with lifetime plans were being treated unfairly, perhaps because they paid less.

The situation continued for three months, during which I noticed a consistent loss of balance without understanding where it was going. I thought someone else might be using my mobile, causing a negative balance. Whenever I recharged, it seemed to cover previous deductions. After a few months, I switched to a monthly billing system to receive a detailed bill. I was shocked to discover that my first month’s bill included a charge of Rs. 68 for the caller tune.

If I had subscribed to the caller tune on a monthly basis, it would have cost Rs. 30 per month. Instead, due to the weekly subscription, I was charged Rs. 68. This included Rs. 10 per week for the caller tune and an additional Rs. 7 per week for an automatic SMS that renewed the service. I never sent that SMS, yet I was charged for it. Although Rs. 68 wasn’t a huge amount, I was frustrated by what felt like deceitful billing practices.

I visited their office to unsubscribe from the service, but the representative directed me to call a specific number. I asked if she could unsubscribe me using her office computer, but she insisted that only a call could handle this. When I called the number, I faced another issue. Initially, the automated system had spoken to me in Hindi, but when I tried to unsubscribe, it was only available in English, with no language option.

The automated system used a strong American accent, which was difficult to understand, even though I am familiar with American accents. The speech was fast and unclear. After listening multiple times, I managed to unsubscribe from the caller tune service. However, I wonder how people who don’t speak English or struggle with foreign accents cope with such situations. Are they left paying Rs. 68 per month without realizing it? It’s frustrating how corporations seem to exploit every opportunity to increase their profits.

Samajwadi Party’s Manifesto 2009

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Politics in India is particularly heated right now, with all major parties releasing their manifestos for the upcoming elections. Recently, the Samajwadi Party unveiled its manifesto in Lucknow. The party’s chief, Mr. Mulayam Singh Yadav, made some controversial statements. He proposed banning computers, English-medium schools, the stock market, harvesting machines, and high corporate salaries. His rationale seems to be that these elements create unemployment and contribute to inequality.

I believe that rather than banning English, efforts should be made to promote and strengthen Hindi. India’s global competitiveness is partly due to our proficiency in English, which is a significant advantage over countries like China. If English were banned, it could harm our international standing. Moreover, many top Indian leaders, including the Prime Minister and President, often speak English in their addresses. It would be more constructive to advocate for the use of Hindi without eliminating English.

Interestingly, Mr. Akhilesh Yadav, Mr. Mulayam Singh Yadav’s son, was educated in English-medium schools. It seems inconsistent for Mr. Mulayam Singh to advocate for banning such schools when his own family has benefited from them. Instead of eliminating English education, the focus should be on prioritizing Hindi while maintaining the importance of English. Moreover, banning computers is an absurd idea in the 21st century when digital technology is crucial for progress.

Computers play a significant role in various sectors, including the IT industry, which is a major contributor to India’s economy. The manifesto itself was likely printed using computers, highlighting the hypocrisy of such a ban. During Mr. Mulayam Singh Yadav’s previous tenure as Chief Minister of Uttar Pradesh, allegations of corruption surfaced. A committee led by Mayawati discovered that thousands of police jobs were given in exchange for bribes, leading to their dismissal. Banning computers might hinder transparency and anti-corruption efforts by eliminating digital records.

Mr. Yadav’s disdain for the stock market also raises questions. Politicians are required to declare their assets, and investments in the stock market must be disclosed. By opposing the stock market, Mr. Yadav might be attempting to obscure financial dealings and evade scrutiny. Corrupt practices, such as stashing money in Swiss banks, are prevalent, and the stock market provides a transparent mechanism for tracking investments. Additionally, the manifesto’s stance on harvesting machines reflects a lack of understanding.

These machines increase agricultural efficiency and productivity, which is crucial for a country with a large agricultural sector. The Samajwadi Party’s focus on destroying such technology seems contradictory, especially when considering other significant issues like preserving cultural heritage. Ultimately, it seems that the Samajwadi Party’s manifesto is more about appealing to certain voter demographics rather than addressing substantive issues. Instead of targeting technological and educational advancements, political leaders should focus on improving education quality, reducing corruption, and preserving cultural landmarks.

As the saying goes, “Vote ke liye sala kuch bhi karega…” – for votes, they will say anything.