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Deadwood
Forest
Purging the
bureaucracy of laggards is a great idea. But who'll do it? On
Tuesday, June 27, the Supreme Court rendered a service to the nation in
asking the government to link the tenure of its employees to their output.
The court observed that continuance in service, particularly in the
context of the retirement age having been raised from 58 to 60 years, was
not an employee's birthright. The judges used exceptionally strong
language in calling for the "removal of deadwood". Anybody who
has visited a municipal water works office or tried to complain about a
dead telephone will instantly recognise the sort of "indolent"
babu the remark is directed at. The bureaucracy -- a self-perpetuating
Hobbesian leviathan -- is not just the symptom of India's ills; it is the
disease. Its very structure sabotages innovation, condones lassitude and
encourages the attitude that a government job is a sinecure from the day
you get it.
The
economic nightmare that the clunky state sector is has been well
documented. Underpinning it is a philosophy that is far more pernicious
and largely uncured, fitful reforms or no fitful reforms. When it was
established, the gargantuan public sector was the Indian elite's stratagem
to thwart rational economics. Rather than a neutral, logic-driven creature
called the market deciding what jobs should be allocated and to whom, the
tinpot rulers would do it. They would dole out resources, favours, gas
connections and, of course, jobs. The state as the largest employer
represented, in effect, feudalism's last stand. Jobs for the boys became a
national mantra. Indians were divided into two new castes -- the babus and
those they lorded over. It is this iniquitous and inequitable relationship
that the apex court's obiter dictum strikes at. Since it is not binding,
the pity is the government is almost certain to ignore it. The temptation
to mollycoddle babu unions is too strong for any politician to resist. Ask
Ram Vilas Paswan in the Telecom Ministry.
Clueless Crowd
The CBI's cricket inquiry could do with
a sense of urgency
Union
Law Minister Ram Jethmalani was only reflecting the cynicism of his
countrymen when he exclaimed, "Not much will come out of the
match-fixing probe." Such faith in the ability and integrity of
India's ace sleuths, particularly those in the redoubtable Central Bureau
of Investigation (CBI), is touching. It is also wholly believable. Since
Dirty Friday, April 7, the day the Delhi Police released implicatory
transcripts and accused Hansie Cronje of tanking matches, where has the
inquiry gone? Frankly speaking, it has hardly moved. The chargesheet,
promised within the mandatory 60 days, has not been filed. Other than an
off-the-record statement here and an off-the-cuff remark there, the men in
khaki have not moved towards publicly identifying and arresting or even
slapping charges on corrupt bookmakers.
The original Cronje case is now comatose
and dependent for clues on the King Commission hearings in Cape Town. The
more glamorous "interrogation" of cricketers is no more than a
photo opportunity for the media. The comparison with the King Commission,
stripping the game of its pseudo-ethical robes, is there for all to see.
The fault is not limited to the rigging scandal. It is the tragedy of the
way crime is scrutinised and extenuated in India. Under the guise of
confidentiality and "in camera" operations, the CBI gets away
with unresolved case after unresolved case. The match-fixing swindle will
get more attention simply because cricket is a bigger phenomenon in this
country than, say, hawala. Since nobody seriously believes that the
cricketers are being subjected to third degree methods by the CBI, why not
simply release the tapes of questioning? Transparency and a time-bound
probe are the CBI's obligation to every cricket lover.
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