Tag Archives: bribe

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.

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.

Corruption in India

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A few days ago, I applied for my passport. I was supposed to fill out a form and submit it at the passport office in Varanasi. When I arrived at the office and presented all my documents, I realized that I had made some mistakes on the form. I thought it would be best to fill out a new form, so I asked the officer if he had a fresh one. To my surprise, he told me that the office did not provide new forms, which seemed absurd. The officer asked why I needed a new form, and I explained my situation. He then suggested a solution: he used whiteout to correct the mistakes and asked me to overwrite the errors.

I was relieved not to have to go out and purchase a new form, but I was puzzled by his willingness to help, as I did not expect such assistance from a government employee. I suspected that something was amiss. After I completed the corrected form, I handed it to a person at the office, but he told me to wait for the officer. I inquired if he was an official employee, and he revealed that the officer had hired him personally to assist with the paperwork. This raised my suspicions further. When the officer finally arrived, he stamped and signed my form but did not give me a receipt. Instead, he handed it to the other person and instructed me to speak with him for the next steps.

The man turned his face away and mumbled something I couldn’t hear. When I asked him to speak clearly, he eventually said that I needed to pay for the stamp and postage charges to send my application to the regional office in Lucknow. I questioned why the government did not cover these costs, and he simply replied, “No.” I knew that postage should not be so expensive and argued that Rs. 200 was excessive. He insisted that the fee covered bribes for all officials who would handle my application. Reluctantly, I negotiated and gave him Rs. 100, which he snatched eagerly. He assured me that he would forward my application by the evening.

It was disheartening to see how the officer had cleverly outsourced the bribery process to avoid direct involvement. The next step was to obtain a no-objection certificate from the local police station. The passport office sends the documents to the SSP (Senior Superintendent of Police), who then forwards them to the local police station. When I visited the police station to check if my application had arrived, I was told to return after two days. During my visit, I observed a man retrieving his car, which had been confiscated by the police two years earlier. He had received a release order from the court.

I knew that the police would demand a bribe to return the car, but I was curious about how they would solicit it. Despite my presence, the policeman loudly instructed the car owner to give something extra to the next officer to receive the car keys. The car owner reluctantly paid Rs. 500, but the policeman demanded more, eventually settling on Rs. 700. The next day, when I returned to the police station, the officer had my application. He reviewed my documents and asked for my father’s village address, even though I had never lived there. When I questioned this, he explained that people sometimes commit crimes in their villages. I realized he was likely trying to delay the process to extract a bribe.

I insisted on a faster process, and the officer mentioned he knew a way to expedite it. He took me to the head of the police station, who interviewed me and asked various questions, including who would pay for my trip to the US. After attesting my photo, the head of the station sent me back with the original officer. The officer then demanded a bribe, stating that I could pay whatever I wished. When I suggested Rs. 200, he dismissed it, saying it was insufficient. Eventually, he asked for Rs. 600, which I reluctantly paid, knowing that without this bribe, I might never receive my passport.

This entire experience left me disheartened. I wonder if there is any government service in India that can be obtained without paying bribes.

Per capita income India

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In India, one of the most common questions people ask is, “How much is your salary?” With India’s rapid development, the nature of such questions has evolved. About twenty years ago, the standard query after meeting someone was, “What do your parents do?” Today, however, the first question is often about one’s occupation, followed by inquiries about the parents’ professions. While family remains a crucial aspect of Indian society, it is clear that the focus has shifted towards individual careers.

However, discussing salary in India can be quite confusing. Despite having a fixed salary, many people are unsure of their actual earnings due to the prevalent practice of bribery. Here’s how these conversations typically go:

**Person A:** “What is your salary?”

**Person B:** “Ten thousand, but I make about twenty thousand including everything.”

In this context, “everything” often refers to bribes. It’s not uncommon for people to disclose only their official salary, with others then asking if this amount includes additional earnings from bribery. This practice is particularly prevalent among government employees, many of whom are involved in corrupt practices. It’s hard to imagine any government department where work can be done without offering a bribe.

Whether dealing with civil courts, the electricity department, the water board, municipal services, road transport offices, or the police, bribery is a common requirement. For instance, if someone wants a court case to be scheduled at their convenience, a bribe to the clerks can make it happen. If one wishes to reduce their electricity bill, paying a fraction of the bill as a bribe can lower the amount due. Even obtaining a fake driving license can be accomplished by bribing officials, bypassing any testing requirements.

This stark contrast with Western practices is striking. In Western countries, when asked about salary, people are usually asked if the amount is before or after taxes. In India, the focus is on whether the amount is before or after bribes—a significant difference. Many people avoid paying income tax by hiding their earnings, deciding on their own how much tax to pay.

In addition, due to the scarcity of jobs, many people receive their salaries in cash rather than through bank accounts. This system allows employers to bypass official records, leading to widespread underpayment. Even well-known companies like Coca-Cola sometimes fail to pay their temporary employees the standard minimum wage. Improved record-keeping and computerized systems might help address some of these issues, but it’s uncertain whether such measures would be foolproof against new forms of evasion.

Corrupt Policing in India

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I witnessed something truly bizarre recently, which might be considered quite unusual even for an Indian. While I was sitting in an auto rickshaw, the driver was pulled over by a policeman who then sat next to me. Typically, police officers don’t pay for transportation, whether it’s an auto, bus, or train. After a few minutes of driving, another individual tried to stop our auto, but the driver refused. He explained that this person was also an auto rickshaw driver and was looking for a free ride. The other driver was furious and began shouting loudly.

We encountered this irate driver again near the railway station. He had arrived ahead of us, parked his auto, and was waiting for us. This time, our driver stopped, and the angry driver approached, grabbing the policeman by the collar and hurling abuses at him. I, along with the others in the auto, was shocked to see an auto rickshaw driver berating a policeman so publicly. The second driver claimed that the policeman had tried to ride in his auto without paying, and when he refused due to his auto being full, the policeman had slapped him.

It seemed the policeman had come to our auto after this incident. The driver continued to yell at the policeman, demanding to know why he was slapped, while the policeman merely replied that he would deal with him later and threatened to arrest him. The driver then accused the policeman of routinely sitting in his auto without paying. He boldly said, “Do I give you Rs. 10 every time I drive to the railway station to get abused?” He revealed that police officers would charge him Rs. 10 each time he drove to the railway station, a practice that he had endured for a long time. The policeman, caught off guard by this revelation, fell silent.

The driver’s response was impressive. Another rickshaw driver shared that police officers have set rates for different routes, with drivers in the downtown area paying Rs. 60. Trucks and tractors are banned from entering the city center after 8 a.m., but they frequently do so by paying bribes to the police, who stop them at every intersection but only for show. As I watched the altercation unfold, I was quite entertained by the driver’s defiance. However, to my surprise, a few other bystanders started siding with the policeman.

Despite widespread knowledge of police corruption and harassment, these people began supporting the officer. The policeman seemed emboldened by their support and became more assertive. The crowd, now favoring the policeman, urged the driver to move and let the policeman go. Eventually, the auto rickshaw driver relented, and the policeman, now with the support of a crowd of over fifty people, was let go. As the station approached, the policeman got out of the auto without paying the fare, just as he had done before.

It was striking to witness such shameless behavior. The driver will likely face repercussions for his actions, but his bold response to the policeman was remarkable. It’s a stark reminder of the kind of bravery we need to tackle the most dangerous kind of corruption in India—often embodied by those in positions of authority like the police.