On the fiddle: Everyone's a player in India's bribe culture

Simon Harding, with additional material from Arshad Hussein

I had seen it done in the movies. The leading man coolly peels off a couple of notes from a wad in his jacket pocket and slips them discretely into the hands of the policeman in a faux-handshake. “I trust we'll have no problems”, he says, or something to that effect. The cops face softens. “I wasn't here”, he says, smiling. With the police pacified by a well placed bribe, our villain or hero can do whatever he likes to either unfurl his dastardly plan or play dirty to stop the bad guys. Whilst bribing the authorities may be the restricted to gangster films back in the UK, in India the bribe is alive and well and affects all sections of society. The bribe provides the basis of many an amusing travellers tale, playing a vital part in the “authentic Indian experience”. Bribes are, for better or for worse, an unavoidable part of life for small businesses. But for the poorest, the inability to lubricate dealings with local officials can mean that they are denied the state support designed to help them. Stay in India long enough, talk to the man on the street and you will soon run into the notorious backhander.  

“Get this signed by the Delhi Public Notary Office, then come back”, barked the official at the Foreign Residents Registration Office, “it's close, it will take ten minutes”. This was my second full day at the FRRO and after three hours queuing in an airless corridor this was not what I wanted to hear. My first attempt at registering – compulsory for those on 'entry' visas – had been refused because my rental contract was printed on the 'wrong type of paper'. Having no idea where the DPNO was, or exactly what it was, I trudged out onto the street and headed in the vague direction the official had pointed. Half an hour later I stood in the middle of a crumbling 1970s office complex which would not have been out of place in A Clockwork Orange. Rather than the single huge monolith of an official building I had expected, I was faced with a choice of a dozen tiny offices squirreled away down staircases and behind various shops in the scruffy complex. They all claimed to be the DPNO. I picked one at random and walked down a flight of stairs to find a tiny office, a desk and four young guys drinking tea. Yes, this was the DPNO, they said. Yes, they could get my rental contract stamped, it would only cost Rs.400. I agreed. My contract was taken somewhere upstairs by a slim chap of no more than fifteen with the beginnings of a wispy moustache. How does this work? I inquired, interested, but careful not to raise any hackles. They knew someone upstairs in the DPNO, explained the most senior looking man, they took things to him and he got them done quickly. My contract came back ten minutes later, stamped as agreed. I paid up, sure that some would stay with the guys in the tiny office and some would make its way upstairs to the man with the stamp in the DPNO. I had paid a bribe, but for the first time in India, something was completed quickly and efficiently. 

Talk to any small Indian businessman and soon the spectre of bribery soon emerges. The apparatus of the Indian state moves with all the speed of a tired elephant. The odd bundle of rupees here or there acts as a metaphorical peanut to the slumbering beast, speeding things up enough to get what you want, be it your driving licence issued, ration card validated, visa processed, vital documents stamped or to get the police to investigate a crime, or simply to stop hassling you. Given the complexity of India's bureaucracy – applicants for ration cards have to present dozens of different documents, some of which are almost impossible to procure – a bribe is often the only way to get things done because it encourages officials to overlook gaps in applications or missing documents. So prevalent is this bribe culture, that the police and many officials actively solicit bribes from the public by selectively applying India's labyrinthine laws to squeeze a few hundred rupees out of the 'common man' to supplement their modest government salaries.

Suresh owns a small spare parts shop in a working class area of East Delhi. Auto-rickshaws in various stages of repair litter the road in front of his shop, staining it black with oil. Repair is a vital part of his business and he employs five mechanics. But his shop has no rear yard or internal workshop, so he has no option than to use the road to keep his business afloat. Obstructing the road is technically against Delhi's road traffic laws, a fact which has not gone unnoticed by the local police. Although Delhi's traffic laws are patchily enforced at the best of times, the prospect of a kick-back jolted the local cops into action, bringing them down on Suresh's small enterprise. Consequently, Suresh pays a monthly bribe to the local police. In return he is allows to use the road for his repair business and is not troubled by the authorities. The bribe, although a sizable sum, does not affect the viability of the business and provides Suresh with valuable space. Suresh is also a long time Delhi resident having moved here from his native UP over twenty years ago. He is also no shrinking violet, waving his hands around as he speaks and telling the local youths to move off his patch (they leave quickly for fear of a clip around the ear). He has documents, connections and the 'attitude' to bargain with the local police and make the arrangement work for him. For others, the expectation of a bribe actually hinders the poorest in claiming the state aid, relief and exercising their rights.

Jalasri is sixty-five years old. In 2008 the river Koshi burst its banks and flooded her village in the state of Bihar. The floods devastated the entire region, drowning thousands, washing away whole villages, killing valuable livestock and dumping up to seven feet of sandy silt on the area's farmlands. Jalasri lost her husband. Her only asset, a cow, was washed away. Today she survives by doing domestic work for Rs.10 per day (20p) and whatever left over food scraps she is granted. There is a government scheme in place to compensate flood victims like Jalasri. But to have any hope of getting state support, Jalasri needed a death certificate for her husband. Although this service is a free government service, the local official demanded a bribe to issue the certificate. Jalasri had to take out a Rs.200 loan from a local loan-shark (at an eye-watering 120% interest) to pay the bribe. With no collateral, she faces the prospect of becoming a bonded labourer on the loan-shark's land, should she fail to meet just one monthly repayment. Despite having won the fight to get a death certificate, Jalasri hit upon a second obstacle: the officials administering the compensation scheme demanded a bribe to register her claim, effectively deterring the poorest from lodging claims. Faced with a second round of baksheesh, Jalasri's struggle for compensation has stalled indefinitely.

My experience at the DNPO, Suresh's dealings with the police and Jalasri's fight in Bihar show how bribes are an integral part of the relationship between the Indian public and its government. For the rich, paying a bribe gets things done quickly and easily: no standing in the queue and no maddening red tape. Small enterprises must pay bribes in order to simply go about their day to day business. But regular payments to the authorities may hinder savings, stifle the potential for future growth and undermine the will to grow: why bother investing in a second shop if the authorities will snatch some of the benefits by demanding bigger bribes? However, it is the poor for whom the bribe has the largest impact. By demanding cash incentives to register claims to state aid, process voter identification cards and issue ration cards, officials erect a barrier, which prevents the poorest from getting the help to which they are entitled. This stops the state's presence reaching the vast numbers of poor Indians whom they are elected to serve.