Tag Archives: bureaucracy

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.

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.