Bureaucracy, Community and Influence in India: Society and the State, 1930s - 1960s

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Bureaucracy, Community and Influence in India

Offering a fresh approach to the issue of government and administrative corruption through ‘everyday’ citizen interactions with the state, this book explores changing discourses and practices of corruption in late colonial and early independent Uttar Pradesh, India. The author moves away from assumptions that the state can primarily be associated with the top levels of government, and looks at citizens’ approaches to local level bureaucracies and police. The central argument of the book is that deeply ‘institutionalised’ corruption in India could only have come about through the exercise of particular long-term customs of interaction between agencies of the state – government servants and police, and their engagement with local politicians. Because the social hierarchies that condition such interactions are complicated by individual and family connections to state employment, periods of traumatic state transformation lead to a reconfiguration in the meaning of corruption in the local state. Based on principal primary sources and extensive field interviews, this book will be of interest to academics working on political science and Indian and South Asian history. William Gould is Senior Lecturer in Indian History at the University of Leeds, UK. His research interests include Hindu nationalism, the history of ‘communalism’ and Gandhian nationalism, and the transformation of the Indian state and bureaucracy between 1930 and the present. He is the author of Hindu Nationalism and the Language of Politics in Late Colonial India (2004).

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Routledge Studies in South Asian History

1

The Social History of Health and Medicine in Colonial India Edited by Biswamoy Pati and Mark Harrison

2

Decolonization in South Asia Meanings of freedom in post-independence West Bengal, 1947–52 Sekhar Bandyopadhyay

3

Historiography and Writing Postcolonial India Naheem Jabbar

4

Nationalism, Education and Migrant Identities The England-returned Sumita Mukherjee

5

Medicine, Race and Liberalism in British Bengal Symptoms of empire Ishita Pande

6

Radical Politics in Colonial Punjab Governance and sedition Shalini Sharma

7

The Great Rebellion of 1857 in India Exploring transgressions, contests and diversities Biswamoy Pati

8

The State and Governance in India The congress ideal William F. Kuracina

9

Gandhi’s Spinning Wheel and the Making of India Rebecca Brown

10 Gender and Radical Politics in India Magic moments of Naxalbari (1967–1975) Mallarika Sinha Roy

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11 Bureaucracy, Community and Influence in India Society and the state, 1930s–1960s William Gould

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‘A Village Meeting’ (1946), Darling Collection 8:280:4, Centre of South Asian Studies, University of Cambridge.

Bureaucracy, Community and Influence in India

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Society and the state, 1930s–1960s

William Gould

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First published 2011 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2011. To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk. © 2011 William Gould All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Gould, William Bureaucracy, community, and influence in India : society and the state, 1930s–1960s / William Gould. p. cm. — (Routledge studies in South Asian history; 11) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978–0–415–77664–6 (hardback) — ISBN 978–0–203–84538–7 (e-book) 1. Corruption—India—Uttar Pradesh. 2. Political corruption— India—Uttar Pradesh. 3. Bureaucracy—India—Uttar Pradesh. 4. Uttar Pradesh (India)—Politics and government. I. Title. JQ609.5.C6G68 2010 306.20954'2—dc22 2010006921 ISBN 0-203-84538-2 Master e-book ISBN ISBN 978–0–415–77664–6 (hbk) ISBN 978–0–203–84538–7 (ebk)

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Contents

Acknowledgements Abbreviations

ix xiii

1

Introduction

2

Administrative power and public morality: hierarchy and corruption in late colonial and early independent UP

22

3

Religion, caste and government servant recruitment, 1920s–1950s

48

4

Imagining corruption: languages and symbolism in administrative and police power in north India

77

5 6

1

The rise of anti-corruption: government servants and ‘citizens’, 1940–1952

104

The bureaucracy, police and political change: maintaining the ‘steel frame’ in the 1950s and 1960s

137

Conclusion

167

Notes Bibliography Index

175 203 213

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Acknowledgements

This book is the product of research carried out principally between 2004 and 2009, with the bulk of the work carried out since mid 2007. It has evolved out of a collaborative AHRC research project, ‘From Subjects to Citizens: Society and the Everyday State in India and Pakistan’, which connects the University of Leeds with Royal Holloway, University of London. Without the generous support of the Arts and Humanities Research Council (AHRC), writing this book would not have been possible, not least because its preparation involved an entire year of funded research leave between September 2007 and June 2008. My most direct debts of gratitude are therefore to the AHRC, to my co-applicants on the project: Drs Sarah Ansari and Taylor Sherman, and my research associate in Lucknow, Dr Ekta Gautam. They provided me with constant (and detailed) feedback on my ideas and writing, and were exceptionally generous in helping to run the project when my attentions were on the archive or the manuscript. Dr Gautam assisted me directly in the collection of material and in arranging interviews, and her dedication and calm sensitivity was enormously helpful throughout. The Steering Committee for the collaborative project have been extremely helpful in helping us to develop the broader framework of research, and here I would like to thank Prof Francis Robinson, Prof Ian Talbot, Dr Craig Jeffrey, Dr Yasmin Khan, Mr Stephen Evans, Ms Catherine Coombs and Mr Daniel Haines. I would also like to reserve special thanks to all the attendees at the two workshops for ‘From Subjects to Citizens’ at Leeds and London in September 2008 and August 2009, whose comments on sections of this book allowed me to shape and refine its content and arguments. My earlier interest in the history of the civil services in Uttar Pradesh, which formed the background to this book, involved research supported by two British Academy small research grants which provided an invaluable opportunity to test the archives, find initial interviewees and see if I could write about the subject. But perhaps most important of all, was Dr Raj Chandavarkar, who sadly passed away in 2006. He was my chief guide and inspiration for thinking and writing about Indian governance and the state, and his work continues to inform my research. Conducting the research for this book threw up special kinds of challenges, and without the assistance of the many interviewees and archivists in Lucknow, Noida, Delhi, Dehra Dun, Lalpur and Azamgarh it would have been much more difficult. In particular, several individuals provided prolonged help in finding interviewees,

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x Acknowledgements and in arranging meetings. Most worthy of mention here are: Mr Ram Advani, who is not only a great friend, but who also helped us to initiate so many conversations, and whose shop provided (as it has for so many researchers in Lucknow) a calm hub for discussion; Mr Vibhuti Narain Rai, who arranged meetings for us in Lucknow and Azamgarh and who endured a car journey with me between those two cities; Mr Sandeep Pandey, with whom I travelled to Lalpur, Hardoi and who allowed me to consult the papers of his organisation; Mr Mani Shankar Aiyar, who arranged for me to contact a collection of retired Uttar Pradesh Indian Administrative Service (UP IAS) officers in Noida; and Mr Shariq Alavi, and Mr Arun, who helped us to find most of our Indian Police Service (IPS) interviewees. My interviewees were only too happy to give me their time and were exceptionally generous in describing their past careers. I would also like to thank the staff of the National Archives of India, the Nehru Memorial Museum and Library in New Delhi, the UP State Archives, Lucknow, the Indian Institute of Public Administration (IIPA) Library in New Delhi, and the IIPA in Lucknow where Mr T.N. Dhar and Mr S.P. Gupta provided us with further contacts and assistance. Dr Seema Alavi was, as always, extremely generous in helping to set up affiliation with Jamia Millia Islamia in Delhi, and Mr Prem Singh and Mrs N. Sharma put up with my untidy living habits in Delhi and Lucknow. Also of great assistance and support in India, were Mr Deepak Singh, Dr Holly Singh, Dr Sarah Pinto, Dr Max Catz, Mr Ravi Rao, Dr Nirmal Kumar, Mr Pravash Kumar and Mrs Mangalik. My very special thanks go to all the interviewees for this research in India. In the UK, most of the archival research was carried out in the Asia Pacific and Africa Collections of the British Library, and the Centre of South Asian Studies, Cambridge. In both places, the archivists were very helpful as always, and I would like to particularly thank Dr Kevin Greenbank. Some pivotal academic conversations were initiated before or near the beginning of the ‘From Subjects to Citizens’ project, and here I would like to especially thank Dr Yasmin Khan (who also read over parts of the manuscript), Dr Markus Daeschel, Prof Paul Brass (with whom I talked about mid 1960s UP over a warm beer in Leeds), Prof Roger Jeffrey, Prof Patricia Jeffery, Dr Eleanor Newbigin, Dr Justin Jones, Dr John Zavos, Dr Ornit Shani and Dr David Hall Matthews. I would also like to thank all of the other participants of the ‘New Approaches to the State’ conference in Leeds in 2007 – Prof Thomas Blom Hansen, Dr Ben Zachariah, Prof Mrinalini Sinha, Dr Andrea Major, Dr Katharine Adeney and Dr Jennifer Davis. The 2007 workshop was based on seed funding provided by the Leeds Humanities Research Institute which led to the development of the AHRC project grant, and so I am also very grateful for their initial financial support, and belief in the intellectual groundings of the project. Others, whose advice, comments and contributions at seminars or workshops have been invaluable, include Prof David Arnold, Dr Clare Anderson, Dr Vazira Zamindar, Dr David Hardiman, Dr Shalini Sharma, Dr Andrew Thompson, Dr Shane Doyle, Dr Joya Chatterji, Dr David Washbrook and Dr Talat Ahmed who kept South Asian history alive in Leeds over 2007–8. The academic year of 2007–8, when the bulk of the research for this book was carried out, was also one of the most trying for me and for my family in other

Acknowledgements xi

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respects, which put the business of academic writing into perspective. During this time, many very important people tolerated my duty to the project, despite the fact that their own lives would have been easier with me based in the UK. In this connection the greatest thanks go to Olivia Gould, my wife, who put up with my prolonged visits to India, and to my parents and her parents – Elizabeth and Richard Gould and Radu and Doina Harasemiuc – who provided support through this period.

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Abbreviations

ADSO AICC ASP BDO CBI CBE DCC DIG DSPE FCS GAD IAS ICS IIPA IPS MBE MLA MLC NAI NMML OIOC PCS PWD SI SP SDM SDO SSP UP UPPCC UPSA

Assistant District Supply Officer All India Congress Committee Additional Superintendent of Police Block Development Officer Central Bureau of Investigation Commander of the British Empire District Congress Committee Deputy Inspector General of Police Delhi Special Police Establishment Food and Civil Supply Department General Administration Department Indian Administrative Service Indian Civil Service Indian Institute of Public Administration Indian Police Service Member of the British Empire Member of Legislative Assembly Member of the Legislative Council National Archives of India Nehru Memorial Museum and Library Oriental and India Office Collections Provincial Civil Service Public Works Department Sub-Inspector of Police Superintendent of Police Sub Divisional Magistrate Sub Divisional Officer Senior Superintendent of Police Uttar Pradesh or United Provinces Uttar Pradesh Provincial Congress Committee Uttar Pradesh State Archives

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1

Introduction

Opening a newspaper or turning on a television news channel anywhere in the world invariably reveals public interest in government ‘corruption’. But in nearly every discussion of the phenomenon, the viewer or reader is immediately confronted with the question of definitions, and the limitations of language. The word ‘corruption’ has been used, to some extent, as a convenient catch-all to present what in nearly every case, are a series of highly complex human interactions. It may entail forms of profit-making, loss, bargain, deal-making and breaking, or other forms of everyday or business relationships which are intimately tied into the very exercise of living. When people speak of ‘corruption’ they are hardly ever talking just about straightforward, single actions, such as ‘bribery’ or ‘embezzlement’, since even such apparently explicable acts contain within them an array of other social and political choices and contexts. Indeed, as this book will explore throughout, the idea of ‘corruption’ in any particular context is central not only to how the state operates, but also to how the state is imagined and discussed. It is a term whose ambiguity invites the use of inverted commas in many respects. However, this book, while largely following that convention, argues that its implications and effects were often real and unambiguous. ‘Corruption’ and most of its associated terms, give the impression of transgression from acceptable norms of behaviour, but as soon as the term is used, those boundaries are thrown into question, since they are contingent and context derived. Such boundaries shift over time and space, and are determined by social conventions. However, there is often consensus about what ‘corruption’ entails in any particular context, time or place, and to dispense with the term is to potentially belittle the many situations in which its effects lead to the exploitation and victimisation of the disempowered. This book is therefore concerned as much with the changing efforts to define ‘corruption’ in the past, as it is with the intricate unravelling of such apparent transgressions, to observe their internal anatomy. It is not about either measuring the extent of ‘corruption’ or its effects, although outcomes are explored. It takes one specific (and important) period of time – the 1930s to the mid 1960s, and one group of public administrators (although situated in different parts of an Indian state – Uttar Pradesh or UP), to look at ‘corruption’ as a way in which people get things done, in terms of communities of interest and the exercise of influence. In this sense, it does not explore the higher levels

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2

Introduction

of ‘state corruption’ – the huge scandals involving vast sums of money and the highest officers of the state, but rather (for important reasons given later), looks at everyday routine moments of government servant transgression. It also explores another purpose of acts variously defined as ‘corruption’, as a means of creating or consolidating social advantage. As we will explore in more detail later, the book is also about the ways in which discussions about, and practices contained within the phenomenon open up new questions about the theoretical boundary between ‘state’ and ‘society’. In India, interest in the subject takes on particular and unusual characteristics which, this book argues, relate back to its colonial and early postcolonial past. There has been a general desire by contemporary commentators to explore the apparently endemic corruption in parts of the administration or political system. The idea that ‘corruption is everywhere’ has contributed to (often comic) public representations of officialdom and state obstruction. Two recent and notable expressions illustrated this obsession with corruption’s ‘inevitability’: in a story covered by a US journalist for example, in Azamgarh district, Uttar Pradesh in 1975, a man by the name of Lal Bihari applied for a bank loan, and discovered that his proof of identity was invalid. The Lekhpal (village revenue official) told him that he could no longer be who he said he was, since his death was recorded in the registry. The ‘death’ had apparently been arranged by an uncle, who had aimed to inherit a share of Bihari’s ancestral land. The article continued that Lal Bihari would have been less upset if it hadn’t been for the fact that he had recently been having tea with the Lekhpal. He was however aware that if an Indian bureaucrat had certified his demise, it might take him ‘a lifetime to prove that he was not dead’. Eventually, his legal resurrection was achieved after 19 years of intense public activity, in which time he formed a pressure group, the ‘Association of Dead People’. Others had also been registered dead by relatives fearing the subdivision of land. Bihari learnt that it had cost his uncle the equivalent of about US$ 25 to persuade the Lekhpal to make the death entry. By 1994, the year when Bihari’s lands were finally recovered, he had at least become a popular local figure. The article printed ‘his own words’: ‘I became the leader of a movement. I knew I had other dead people to save.’1 The second press story involved a public vote on the ‘most corrupt’ IAS officer, carried out in Lucknow in March and April of 2005. The survey was to be carried out anonymously, but curiously many members of the IAS Officers’ Association elected to boycott it. The general media and public response was to suggest that the fiasco illustrated the impossibility of ever rooting out corrupt officials. In response, the UP Provincial Civil Services Association pushed a survey to identify its 25 ‘most honest’ officers.2 Both of these stories illustrate how public discussion of corruption in India has become a routine facet of political commentary. It has its own repertoire of forms and linguistic expressions, which often seem to defy the boundaries of possibility. This repertoire suggests that few are able to escape its pitfalls, but that it is intimately tied in with the banter, gossip and discourse of public and private events – a subject which is at once entertaining and tragic. Certainly, some of the best jokes about government corruption seem to emerge from India, but this book is more

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Introduction 3 concerned with its serious social and political implications. Importantly, it does not seek to argue that ‘corruption’ is or was in the past somehow more endemic, ‘greater’ in its scale or more problematic in South Asia, compared to other regions. Neither is it useful to identify nationally distinct forms of ‘corrupt’ activity, or suggest that it is bounded by the borders of a nation state. Certainly, it is not suggesting that the majority of government servants in our period were ‘corrupt’. It does however argue that the specific forms of colonial state power in India generated a unique popular preoccupation with the phenomenon in our period. All governments and populations are, at some level, concerned (and sometimes entertained) by the problems associated with ‘corruption’. At the time of writing in the UK, media and public interest has been aroused by two very different scandals surrounding ‘government corruption’. First, the Members of Parliament expenses scandal has exposed the ambiguously legal, but in many cases gratuitous and widespread ‘expenses claims’ of elected representatives, some of which are repeated and quasi-systematic, and some ridiculous. Although not apparently systematic, this ‘corruption’ existed because a system of checks and controls was inadequate. Crucial too, was the calculated exposure of this misappropriation of public money at a time of global economic insecurity, by the print media. The second recent discussion of ‘corruption’ in the media again involves the UK, but this time in terms of its involvement in another state – Afghanistan and its 2009 elections. Although the governments of states occupying Afghanistan feigned surprise at the apparent extent of election rigging, they had all along been supporting an Afghan president whose power base included alliances with powerful regional ‘warlords’. Once again, the meanings of ‘corruption’ here are not only multidimensional at the point of their entrance into the media (i.e. via the investigation of rigged elections), but also multi-layered in terms of external acquiescence, or the indirect implication of non-Afghan government agencies. Yet, the public awareness of ‘corruption’ only comes to the fore once picked up clearly by the media, in the context of military crisis, massive loss of life on all sides and apparently, poor strategy and military provision. In the meanwhile, the routine acts of ‘corruption’, in many cases just as profoundly affecting the lives of the people of Afghanistan, continue unnoted. This book attempts to distance itself from quantifying ‘corruption’ then, not least because such exercises often lead to vague qualitative judgements about different states, and simplifications of its variable social implications. Instead, it explores the discussion and significance of ‘corruption’ in government and politics from the late colonial period to the mid 1960s in Uttar Pradesh – a deliberately selected transitional phase – and looks at the points where it affects ordinary people. The aforementioned case in Afghanistan is relevant here for another reason. First, the nature of colonial power (its structures, hierarchies and forms of knowledge), and the context in which India emerged from colonial rule, were central to the changing ideas about, and practices defined as ‘corruption’. Crucial in the comparison between the recent cases of alleged MP corruption in the UK and electoral corruption in Afghanistan, is the European presupposition that such things ought not to happen in a European state. In Afghanistan on the other hand, such acts become

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4

Introduction

almost expected for western observers, as a dynamic of social conditions. This is a function of the colonial gaze – a situation which has led so many observers (both Indian and non-Indian) to see the phenomenon as endemic, ubiquitous, tantalising and probably not worth writing about. Acts of ‘corruption’ are rarely admitted and rarely occur in public. Discussion of it is usually then, based on presupposition and expectation. But expectation is often a guide to action. Even where a bribe is not required, the vague ‘reputation’ of the potential recipient can encourage the supplicant to reach into his or her pocket.3 In the transition from colonialism (and the anticipation of this transition) in India, debates, discussions and publicity about ‘corruption’ were heightened. Simultaneously, new kinds of systematic illegal profiteering were reported (in the media and official reports) to have appeared from the early 1940s. This book does not, however, seek to argue that acts of ‘talking’ about ‘corruption’ simply created the conditions for its practice. This book will suggest that material changes in 1940s UP, particularly around rapidly expanding and changing government servant and political power, were crucial in transforming the scale and conditions of government servant ‘misconduct’. But the very definition of what was and what wasn’t ‘corruption’ was tied up with processes of publicity. There is therefore a subtle interaction between ongoing practices of routine transgressions in government, and moments when such transgressions explode spectacularly onto the public stage. Both of the UP cases cited earlier – of the Lekhpal’s death entry and the IAS campaign also illustrate this interaction. Moments of publicity denote the points at which public tolerance for breaking rules to ‘get things done’ at an everyday or routine level, become more unacceptable. And it is for this reason too that the book is particularly interested in the points where everyday, routine ‘corruption’ affecting ordinary Indians are connected to scandals higher up in the political system, and vice versa. Discussion of government servant misconduct and transgression of professional norms presupposes the existence of rules frameworks. Throughout the book too, we will consider the extent to which definitions and meanings of government corruption are related to relatively intangible social rules on the one hand, and more tangible (albeit often ambiguous and complex) professional rules for government servants on the other. The processes of defining government servant conduct rules, involve official choices about what constitutes ‘corruption’. And readings or interpretations of the rules often lead to strategies for breaking them, or bypassing them in order to avoid punishment. Here, calculations are involved in which parties to a transaction decide whether their interests are best served by observing or by breaking/bending government rules. However, no party to a contract wants a system of governance to break down entirely, so that some acquiescence to frameworks of rules are always desirable.4 Before 1947, rules also reinforced social hierarchies within government and between government servants and public applicants. The working of these hierarchies meant that acceptable/unacceptable public behaviour was related to social customs and expectations. More broadly and throughout our period, official rules presented and projected an image of state rationality and discipline, and their purchase in reality (as we will see throughout the book), could often be limited or ambiguous.

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Introduction 5 This book, in looking at the range of relationships and actions which are contained within definitions of ‘corruption’, looks particularly at the idea of ‘transaction’. Insofar as the ultimate outcome of any act of government servant transgression is difficult to quantify, it is nevertheless likely that in most significant and repeated cases of ‘corrupt’ activity in local governance, more than one party is involved. As the book progresses, we will see that these are not only transactions in terms of the exchanges of goods and services, but also in terms of strategic political collaboration and redistribution of resources. In most cases, the book is not concerned with calculating the ‘balance sheet’ in the outcome of such transactions. But it does attempt to explore how and why certain societal groups in UP appeared to be winners and others are losers. Transactions involve the calculations of one party, about the potential actions of another party in a deal or agreement, and in this sense, relate to social expectations both inside and outside of government offices. This book argues that in moving beyond the mechanisms of ‘corruption’, to look at its meanings and definitions, it is necessary to consider more than just institutions or government departments. As the interviewees for this research repeatedly emphasised, bribery involves givers as well as takers, and in this sense the illicit deal involves an official’s assessment of the social standing and context of the ‘non-official’ donor. The assessment works both ways and reflects back onto the official or recipient of gratification. Social expectation intersects with social capability too (or the exercise of ‘social capital’), so that the outcomes of transactions are rarely very stable or predictable. The interactions between the agent of the state and the donor (in a classic instance of ‘bribery’) then are self-reflective and self-conscious, but on more levels than simply the everyday assessment of standing, status or capability, as this book will explore throughout. However, the actual context of such relationships between an official and a non-official petitioner in our period was based in specific colonial and postcolonial notions of Indian or ‘Oriental’ society and its supposed ‘customs’ – a theme which will be explored in more detail later. This was even the case after the British left India. Debates in the literature on ‘government corruption’ have sometimes revolved around whether or not its outcomes are essentially a hindrance to economic and social development, or a unique means of bypassing bureaucratic rules of procedure.5 In the 1990s and 2000s in particular, and even more since the introduction of the Right to Information legislation in countries like India, the attempts to quantify the full ‘costs’ of wastage through ‘corruption’ have intensified. In a study conducted by the Indian Chamber of Commerce in 2001, it was estimated that, as a result of corruption, India was losing at least Rs 63,800 crore (638 billion) worth of additional investment per annum. The same study calculated that in 2001 Rs 3,500 billion of public money was unaccounted for.6 These staggering calculations are, of course, based entirely on estimates and the overarching assumption that ‘corruption’ leads to the unambiguous deviation of resources entirely away from specified targets. But they do, at the very least, indicate the importance of the phenomenon in public life in India, which is repeatedly described in general surveys as a hindrance to development and ‘good governance’. This too is reflected in the

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6

Introduction

common appearance of the organisations of anti-corruption in news items and reports in India – particularly the Central Vigilance Commission.7 Throughout, the need for governments to be seen to be combating ‘corruption’, relates to official assumptions about the nature of ‘public interest’. The definition of ‘public interest’ is of course a political project, in which the operation of ‘corruption’ is tolerated to varying degrees.8 The significance of ‘public interest’ in everyday life for Indian citizens, also depends upon the means by which officials and citizens navigate the complex transactions and interactions of the local state. Yet, as we will also discuss throughout, in the rhetoric of all governments, there is at least an awareness that the interests of the public should be defined and protected, and this too is a dynamic of the concurrent growth of movements to promote ‘anti-corruption’.

i) Approaching government servant ‘corruption’ The focus of this book is as much about cultures of ‘corruption’ in government then, than its internal dynamics, which have been amply set out for contemporary India in the growing literature in anthropology, political science, political geography and economics.9 With a few notable exceptions, not actually from the pen of historians,10 relatively little attention has been paid to this kind of history, perhaps because of the assumed ubiquity of what is described as ‘corruption’ in modern politics. On the other hand, there has been more (older) historical research on the nature of how local political influence and power was exercised in colonial India, particularly around different levels of governance. Importantly, much of this work came about in the midst of contemporary concerns about growing ‘corruption’ or misgovernment in India, from the mid to late 1960s. Rather like the more recent fashion for the study of Hindu nationalism, historians of that period were naturally influenced by the context of their research and fieldwork. In 1965, Robert Frykenberg published a book on the working of local influence in relation to centralised political authority, which traced the development of local fiefdoms of semi-autonomous bureaucratic power in south India.11 Frykenberg showed how an unreformed system of bureaucratic power lost control over local subordinates in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, who formed familial and associational networks tied into the very structures of the bureaucracy itself. Although this work focussed on Guntur district, its implications applied to other contexts, namely, that in British India do bashi (two language) mediators were channels of communication between the Collector and the local landholders. Although Frykenburg highlighted a period before the formation of a formal Indian Civil Service, in which rules of conduct and lines of authority were more carefully drawn,12 some of the structures and arrangements of local authority he outlined survived well into the twentieth century, as this book will explore. For example, the contrast between the temporary nature of a Collector’s authority in any locality, compared to the longer term roots of the Sheristadar in Guntur, certainly continued into later periods and had far-reaching implications.13 These divisions in the bureaucracy, which form an important theme of Chapter 2 of this book, made up a common theme in late colonial popular representations of the British Raj.

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Introduction 7 Research in the 1970s and 1980s uncovered three further relevant trends. First of these was the extensive work done on the development of factional politics in municipal government. C.A. Bayly,14 David Washbrook15 and Francis Robinson all carved out regionally specific studies on the nature of urban political power, and the development of factions in municipal politics. As well as exploring the working of local politics, this research showed how municipal power allowed urban publicists to exercise influence over contracts in public works and distribute patronage.16 Second, historians from the same period also worked on the details of the late colonial systems of rural trade and industrial employment, especially in relation to the dalal or middleman. Rajnarayan Chandavarkar’s work on industrialisation in Bombay examined the complex webs of dalals and brokers and how they linked into local political networks.17 Third, the notion of ‘collaboration’ in the colonial phase in systems of governance was developed by an influential group of Cambridge-based historians. David Washbrook, for example, worked on the development of networks of influence among the lower rungs of the village revenue administration – the village headmen and kurnams (village accountant), who, through their office and control over records could exercise discretion in land disputes, and build up networks of political power.18 Yet none of these works related such networks of influence and power to notions of public morality, value judgements about integrity or ‘corruption’ per se. In practically all cases, the analyses were structural, in that they related detailed local case studies to frameworks of political organisation, where political and economic interest groups acted on the basis of rational choice. There was deliberately no reflection on the contemporary public responses to such networks of influence and authority. Part of the hesitation here was perhaps the assumed ubiquity of corruption, which for many historians gave its terms little descriptive value, purchase or meaning, beyond those involving value judgements. For some, ‘corruption’ is and has always been since the beginnings of organised human society, an unavoidable or even a necessary part of political business or government transactions in a whole array of different contexts worldwide. In this sense, ‘corruption’ is viewed as a natural or inevitable consequence of organisational behaviour, particularly by economists,19 perhaps even a dynamic of human nature. This brings us then, to wider problems of definition, or alternatives to the slippery phrase ‘corruption’ in attempting to describe the multiplicity of behaviours that the idea covers in academic and popular media discourses. It is easy to find arguments in the popular science of genetics, zoology, sociobiology and evolutionary psychology, for explaining why societies harbour self-interested individuals, who break up the theoretically more advantageous networks of mutual support.20 Other observers of sociobiology have commented on how certain genetic features in men create a greater degree of general risk taking in life,21 which has (gendered) implications for how far individuals partake in any activity considered to be deviant. This work has created a scientific consensus that genetically determined selfinterest will encourage individuals to seek personal gain, either in support of, or against the conventions of society. The idea of corruption as inherently ‘human’ also supports the hypothesis that it often works to create systems of mutuality,

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8

Introduction

and even stability: there is an important ‘demand’ side to ‘corrupt’ transactions as well as supply through the corrupt official. Some social scientists have suggested that corruption sometimes allows for the more efficient cutting through of red tape, or entrepreneurial activity.22 Wherever material and non-material resources are distributed through contracts between different parties, the opportunity for manipulating or ‘bending’ rules, to alter the quantum of benefit has arisen. It has also been argued that the very existence of ‘rules’ within any particular organisation, promotes the development of more sophisticated and systematic means for diverting resources, if such rules are alien to a dominant political culture of the governed, as was often the case in India.23 But evidence suggesting that ‘corruption’ is an innate human characteristic, does not help us to explain why political reactions to it have been uneven over human history and settlement. Neither does it help us in untangling the real ways in which ideas about permissible and non permissible forms of public behaviour, fundamentally alter, disturb or reinforce social and political hierarchies, particularly in relation to government.24 The second problem involves questions of definition. If ‘corruption’ is an inevitable product of human organisation or biology, then we are faced with the question of how far its effects can be tolerated according to the ordinary workings of an organisational rules system, such as that contained in a public administration. At what point does apparently corrupt behaviour, really mean ‘corruption’? And at what point do those outside, or more loosely linked to transactions involving rule-breaking, begin to label and critique such activities? Further, if ‘corruption’ is ‘inevitable’, the real issue is not one of ending corruption, but one of how far mechanisms for controlling or regulating it are effective.25 These questions are particularly urgent in relation to everyday interactions between state agents and citizens – perhaps the realm of ‘petty corruption’: most Indian citizens experience the state through lower-level government servants. And representations of corruption are consumed through organs of popular culture and dissemination. The relationships between powerful financial/business interests and government agencies are an important part of these representations (and easily identified everywhere). But much less is known of how general views of government corruption percolate down to the street. This brings us back to the nature of the state, and in particular, the ambiguous relationships between state agencies and non- state interest groups and individuals. And once we start asking questions about the boundaries of the state, it is necessary to establish the changing moral norms of the wielders of state power, and public expectations about those norms – particularly within the bureaucracy and police. The central arguments of this book require us to consider those changing moral norms, since they determine how everyday corruption is defined and perceived by the general public. This in turn affects the day-to-day contacts of citizens with state agencies in India, particularly in terms of how they access state resources. To this end, Chapter 2 examines changing notions of public morality and the shifting meanings of corruption that they produce. The peculiar interest in the apparent inevitabilities of corrupt governance is itself something with a deep political history in India – a history which deals with individual ‘moral’ choices on the one

Introduction 9 hand, and how state officials reflect on social conventions on the other. A common device in writing about contemporary government or business corruption in India, is to cite the Arthasastra of Kautilya, the multiple and categorised forms of ‘corruption’ therein, and such choice passages as the following:

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As it is impossible not to taste honey or poison that one may find at the tip of one’s tongue, so it is impossible for one dealing with government funds not to taste, at least a little bit, of the King’s wealth.’26 References to ancient accounts of India’s state structures were common in the historical consciousness of early to mid twentieth century Indian nationalism. But reflections on the foundational writing about the state in specific ‘Oriental’ regions of the world were also part of a distinctively European project. A powerful facet of late colonial knowledge about Indian society was the association of ‘corruption’ with the structures of bureaucratic power contained within ‘Oriental despotism’. Significant here was the work of the classical economists such as Richard Jones and John Stuart Mill. This writing informed mid to late Victorian European thinking about the nature of the state in regions such as India, and had an impact on wider (and lasting) traditions of political thought. Marx for example, drawing on Mill and Jones, typified the separateness of ‘Asiatic’ or ‘Oriental’ society, with reference to India in particular in the mid nineteenth century. Mill’s notion of ‘Oriental Despotism’ was especially important from an intellectual perspective, but also because of his own career in India House. J.S. Mill’s early thinking about Indian governance was influenced by the utilitarianism of his father James Mill and of Jeremy Bentham. Classically, utilitarian thought on India presupposed the wastefulness and corruption of ‘indigenous’ despotic forms of government. But it also posited the ideals of a ‘rational’ revenue system which disciplined the hopelessly corrupting influences of Indian social ‘customs’.27 Significant here were debates about Indian governance in the 1830s and 1840s, which revolved around the advisability of ruling through Indian institutions and social structures.28 But it was Mill’s later intellectual transformation in his thinking about India which had the most far-reaching implications – a shift which typified mid to late colonial thinking about ‘corruption’ in India. Mill’s later ideas critiqued Benthamite utilitarianism, and privileged the idea of ‘sentiment’ as much as ‘reason’ in human affairs, thereby questioning the fundamental rationality of human nature.29 Habit, imagination and tradition in human affairs – a set of considerations that influenced a range of political philosophers in the early to mid nineteenth century – was also however a way for contemporaries to compare social institutions in different parts of the world, and particularly the differences between Occident and Orient. The Romantic thinkers’ preoccupation with the possibility (or inadvisability) of the reform of ‘native’ institutions and ‘social customs’, was sustained into the twentieth century, especially at the quotidian level of district governance. It was one of the intellectual roots of late colonial ideas about ‘corruption’ in India, particularly in its disaggregated forms (bribery, extortion, embezzlement, etc.).

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10

Introduction

As a result, the ‘problem’ of corruption in India for late colonial British officials was rarely one in which the behaviour of a European could be extracted, in moral terms, from the ‘Oriental’ context in which he worked. His ‘corruption’, where it appeared, was a result of the environment in which he worked, and his integrity beyond that could (in theory at least) be trusted, since the peculiar working of the Indian state was based not on mere rationality, but the sentiments and customs of the Indian people. European ‘conduct’ in India had also gone through a phase of self-examination and reform over the same period of the early to mid nineteenth century. Historians surveying the shift from East India Company power to the more formal colonial system of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries have described the tightening of bureaucratic efficiency, against the backdrop of rapidly expanding opportunities in global trade.30 These histories trace the transformation from a system promoting ‘Oriental despotism’ via local client leaders, to an increasingly intrusive colonial state. This state was repeatedly forced to change the bases of its local collaboration, (particularly in north India), as urban, middle-class political interests came to the fore through the first quarter of the twentieth century. An older literature has also, in broad brush strokes, narrated a decline in ‘corruption’ accompanying these changes, from the rampant days of Company power, to the formal and regulated bureaucratic state of the late nineteenth century.31 These presentations of a later ‘moral’ paternalistic European governance were also based on comparison with an earlier phase of European interest in which the ‘corruption’ of East India Company servants had potentially threatened the prestige and stability of a gradually formalising colonial dominion. This theory was suggested by Sir John Malcolm in 1821, in his ‘Instructions regarding intercourse between European officials and Natives’, which argued that the bureaucratic corruption of local officials related to European practices of ‘thirty years ago’.32 However, highlighting such broad shifts in European colonialism has tended to obscure the detailed ways in which administrators in the districts, and their subordinates, continued to manage the everyday business of governing India into the twentieth century. And it has led historians to largely ignore the principle that a thinly spread state power necessarily had to develop new ways of managing ambiguously legal transactions.33 For many late nineteenth and early twentieth century British administrators then, the use of public resources for private gain was not simply a matter of rational choice based on self-interest, but something which also related to Indian social customs. It wasn’t something therefore which should in all cases be reformed or removed. Neither was it something which, for many European administrators, should be judged by any concept of universal moral standards. James and J.S. Mill’s celebration of British political liberty, did not extend to India – a country which his On Representative Government (1861) suggested could only be suited to enlightened despotism. These principles had a long afterlife within the Indian administration well into the interwar period.34 As we will see throughout this book, the difficulties in uncovering and punishing government servants who broke ‘rules’, was to an extent based on pragmatism. Consistently controlling the

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Introduction 11 ‘conduct’ of revenue officers, for example, whose work might cover large areas of poorly-connected rural settlements was troublesome, particularly for a revenue system which largely worked on a shoestring. But pragmatism equally dictated at times that representing certain forms of rule breaking as ‘petty’, and ‘customary’ allowed the Raj to go about its business undisturbed, to protect the interests of its principal allies, and to maintain an image of stability, control and legitimacy. Chapter 4 will explore how this context meant that what would later be defined as ‘corruption’ was represented more ambiguously in the late colonial period. Conversely, a belief in the authority of European power, as based on ‘rational’ governance underpinned the training and world view of India’s British political administrators. In Chapter 2, we will look at the practical applications of this world view from the perspective of colonial esprit de corps. The importance of classical education and the elitist public school/Oxbridge backgrounds of most ICS recruits in the twentieth century has been well documented.35 Although there were certainly many (often extrovert) exceptions,36 as we will see in chapters 2, 3 and 4 of this book, this lent itself to a predominantly conservative and anti-modernist stance on the part of district level administrators in north India.37 Practically this often meant, as some of the older historical research on the colonial state argued, that . . . they [the British] had to wink at the existence of an administrative underworld, where the play of local faction settled the distribution of resources and the resolution of conflicts, without much reference to the Raj or its book of rules . . . they governed in name but Indians ruled in practice.38 The public services in India were gradually reformed and rationalised over the late colonial period, slowly permitting increased Indian recruitment to higher cadres. This created its own conflicts, not least Indian political reactions which are well covered in the literature.39 But over the turn of the century and particularly into the period of popular nationalism in India, such reforms did not translate into any desire to fundamentally disturb the bureaucrat’s relationship with Indian subjects, or to reform the concept of ‘service’ itself. More recent historical orthodoxy, aiming to retrieve ‘subaltern’ consciousness’ sees one implication of this as the elevation of the ambiguously private ‘cultural’ or ‘spiritual’ spheres of life as the preserve of nationalist ideological development, not subject to western hegemony.40 Although such ideas have been applied predominantly to Indian nationalism itself, there are parallels here with the interaction of different levels (British and non-British) of Indian governance. The sphere of the non-gazetted, or subordinate officer, was governed by a range of social and cultural idioms often detached from overarching colonial structures. But this was not just the result of Indian middle-class government servants over the twentieth century, bringing their own cultural milieu to the bureaucracy. At all levels of the colonial system, relative lack of interference in the everyday business of governance was also partly a decision made by government itself. As the third section of this chapter will explore, the ambiguous nature of state authority in everyday matters was not entirely hidden from the view of the patricians of the Raj.

12

Introduction

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ii) Approaching the state Writing about the ‘state’ in early post-1947 India has been dominated by assumptions about the relative stability, and largely modernising aims of the Nehruvian regime, in the context of the colonial system outlined earlier.41 Some of this work was published in the first flush of political freedom, when the optimism associated with the new democratic system and possibilities of economic development provided the context of research. This sentiment was certainly reflected in interviews for this book. Most of the retired IAS officers for example, commented that they had joined on the basis of an ambition to serve a modernising democratic state.42 Later writing on the first 20 years of independent India has tended to recreate this view of the period, via comparisons with the relatively ‘unstable’ era of the 1970s and 1980s: the period of Indira Gandhi’s more precarious hold on the Congress and political mainstream, the Emergency, the rise of the Hindu right and the development of coalition politics.43 Some of the older work on early post-independence India attempted to relate the problems of ‘corruption’ to the perpetuation of bureaucratic ‘folklore’ and custom, in which the state had incompletely overcome the traditional structures of customary exchange and private profit.44 Such approaches often appear as variations on British views of Indian primordial corruptibility, and indeed relied to a great extent on sources such as that of J.S. Furnivall.45 The idea that the state was an edifice which acted as a beacon of modernity, and that by being more ‘modern’ it would break down traditional social mores, was also at the root of the Santhanam Committee report on corruption in India in 1964. The report characterised corruption in traditional and medieval societies, which granted officials freedom of action, and went on to suggest that official measures might be used to control the inevitable corruption of Indian social conventions: In the long run, the fight against corruption will succeed only to the extent to which a favourable social climate is created. When such a climate is created and corruption becomes abhorrent to the minds of the public and the public servants and social controls become effective, other administrative, disciplinary and punitive measures may become unimportant . . . However, change in social outlook and traditions is necessarily slow and the more immediate measures cannot be neglected in its favour.46 The sense that the ‘modernity’ of the Nehruvian state might overcome the backward and ‘medieval’ problems of a society is reflected in other studies exploring dichotomies in the Indian state. Another survey of the Nehruvian period for example, represented this struggle between modernity and tradition through the projection of a precarious victory of Nehruvian liberalism over the Hindu right.47 More recent work has suggested that the early postcolonial state served to perpetuate social conservatism and an older colonial paternalism, despite the veneer of modernity.48 But such detailed, long-term studies of the postcolonial state in its first twenty or so years have been relatively few. This is partly because the field of South Asian or Indian history has been divided along the line of 1947. Many

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Introduction 13 of the analyses of the ‘infrastructure of the state’ in the 1950s and 1960s point out continuities from the late colonial period.49 But with the exception of recent studies specifically examining the predicament of refugees,50 there have been few attempts to explore the dichotomies between high-level government rhetoric and the quotidian realities of how the state was ‘experienced’ on the ground. In other words, little has been done to explore what impact the symbolism of Nehruvian modernity had on the consciousness of Indians about how the state worked. The situation is very different when we move to contemporary India. Here, there has recently been a great deal of sophisticated theoretical reflection on the nature of the ‘everyday state’, which has critiqued older social science paradigms that posited the idea of a monolithic state arbitrating social conflicts. This approach has not yet found its way into much historical work on the important periods of state transformation over late colonial and early independent India. Part of the problem has been the inability of historians looking at the mid twentieth century to examine the disaggregated qualities of the state. In contrast, Thomas Blom Hansen’s work on western India represents the ‘state’ as a ‘fractured ensemble of institutions, whose relative incoherence makes it impossible to “conquer” or control . . .’, whereby an image of state uniformity comes about as a result of specific political projects. This work draws on Foucault’s notion of knowledge-practices, which create technologies of order. Lobby groups and rights claims have increased as these technologies have become more advanced – a framework which is adopted to some extent in this book.51 The work of Chris Fuller and John Harriss moves more into the realm of the ‘everyday’, and directly questions the easy assumption that the state might be seen as a ‘neutral arbiter of public interest’. Instead, Fuller and Harriss suggest that the everyday state (the state experienced by ordinary Indians in day-to-day life) might be better approached as a site of competition and dispute, where the actions and choices of its personnel are not easily related to a structured system of rules.52 Other anthropological approaches to the contemporary state have carved out local case studies to illustrate how local power brokers have systematically subverted state power for their own private or family/community interests.53 Most important in this respect are the approaches of Akhil Gupta and Jonathan Parry. The former examines cultures of corruption, and how a common sense about ‘corruption’ and ‘anti corruption’ has emerged in rural UP, which relates to notions of citizenship and the state at multiple levels. Drawing on Bourdieu, Gupta suggests that ‘corruption’ is not always entirely dysfunctional, but a means by which ‘the state’ is discursively constituted.54 Jonathan Parry, like Gupta, suggests that corruption becomes a means whereby Indian citizens internalise some of the ideals of state neutrality and citizenship. However, he also goes into more detail about the effects of corrupt transactions, the systematic means whereby individuals feel obliged to connect to such transactions, and the activities of ‘middlemen’ or touts.55 A study of the changing representations of ‘corruption’ over the period of the 1930s to 1960s seems to be best approached along the lines of the frameworks and critiques offered in some of these recent anthropological interventions. Clearly, the lines between subject/citizen agency and representatives of the state were

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14

Introduction

fuzzy, not least since everyday approaches to bureaucrats and policemen involved informal and variable transactions which often subverted rules of conduct and formal rules of procedure. Chapter 4 will discuss the ways in which debates about corruption and anti-corruption over the entire period, set up a kind of consensus about how the state worked and how it might be approached. Who defined these state discourses changed over time. The context of rapid political adjustment around Indian independence therefore brings something new to the debates on the Indian state, which have mostly examined specific contemporary contexts in their case studies. One of the few exceptions to this dearth of detailed analysis of state-society interactions in the late colonial/early independent state, is an article among the later work of Rajnarayan Chandavarkar. This book borrows the idea of ‘customs of governance’ from this writing. Chandavarkar has suggested that since the 1980s, ‘the state has appeared more than ever before to constitute an armoury of resources upon which its agencies and its allies among dominant groups can draw to impose their will more or less arbitrarily on the powerless’. The exercise of violence and coercion through this system was also something generated by a domain of ‘formal conventions’ perpetrated by middle classes controlling state resources. Most importantly, Chandavarkar suggests that Indian electoral politics encouraged new practices in the misappropriation of state resources via the continued application of ‘customs of governance’ inherited from an older colonial system. Specifically, he identifies a colonial ‘salutary neglect’ towards public order, in relation to the control of labour, into which stepped ‘the disciplinary mechanisms of local structures of power.’ The domains of arbitrary local power were then expanded by the specific nature of political mobilisation in a democratic context.56 This book, following Chandavarkar’s intervention suggests that everyday approaches to state officials by UP subjects/citizens are conditioned by the exercise of particular customs of interaction and transaction between government servants and police and citizens. These customs of interaction/transaction involve a wide range of often ambiguous and contingent rituals for approaching government, which are tied to social expectation and hierarchy, and importantly, the changing meanings of community and political minority. They should not however, be seen as primordial or pre-modern relationships, against which the modern state struggled, but rather as products of modern colonial and postcolonial governance at the everyday level. Customs of interaction and transaction in India were therefore part of an official repertoire of terms and ideas, which represented the activities of lower-level civil servants and police in terms of their social behaviour. This official repertoire led to the continual renegotiation of acceptable forms of contact and petition between citizens and the local state. But they were in turn, a product of the colonial state’s pragmatism in managing or responding to religious and ethnic diversity in any particular locality. In this sense, they correspond to Foucault’s notion of governmentality – forms of knowledge that determined how citizens might be governed, or the conventions whereby they might self govern. In this connection too, the book suggests that the limits and definitions of ‘corruption’ in such a politically complex and multi-ethnic state such as Uttar Pradesh, are

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Introduction 15 constantly transformed and adjusted to social and political expectations. At moments of rapid political change, for example, the late 1940s–1950s, attempts were made to provide more concrete overarching national schemata to combat corruption. But these were reinterpreted and reworked at the state, district and tahsil (revenue subdivision) levels, meaning that their application was never uniform or entirely predictable. This process will be examined in more depth in Chapter 5. Customs of interaction or transaction in everyday governance were also closely linked to the processes by which state officials adjudicated and defined caste and community in civil service and police recruitment. Historians and social scientists researching the politics of caste, have on the whole, taken the operation of ‘casteism’ in recruitment for granted and have rarely unravelled its intricacies as a form of social communication. Here again, the point of contextual transformation between colonial and postcolonial is critically important. Official thinking about caste and/or community became a framework for representing the local influence of government servants, and this complicated discourses of corruption between the 1930s and 1960s. The political context for these debates transformed over Indian independence, but late colonial discussions of caste, community and civil service/police recruitment had continued salience after 1947. This process will be set out and discussed with reference to specific case studies in Chapter 3. Finally, in looking at discourses surrounding corruption, we will make reference throughout to specific descriptions of illicit activity, that describe (sometimes legalistically) different forms of everyday state interaction or transaction. This subject will be explored predominantly in Chapter 4. The varied terms used to describe or define corruption transformed over time, context and linguistic form, and also played a part in the moulding of everyday approaches to the local state in UP. The oft-heard terms such as ‘bribery’, ‘embezzlement’, ‘extortion’, ‘illegal gratification’, etc. usually conceal a much more complex reality than the terms at first suggest. In reading the research material used for this book, this becomes abundantly apparent. Wherever a report is found in a newspaper article or an official file on a specific case of ‘bribery’ for example, in the event of further information on the case, the surface representations are nearly always just that: brief reports, like the tips of an iceberg, whose dimensions often do not correspond to the evidence in view. In general, where there is evidence of such activities, its appearance in the public view, or on the desk of an officer is usually the result of collaboration by a wide circle of informants, participants and witnesses. And in these cases, particularly where the action is the result of more systematically planned arrangements of illegal gratification, the headlines, titles or brief descriptions are indicative at best. Certain terms used to describe forms of corruption, particularly those derived from Hindi, such as daalii (‘gift’), or sifarish (‘recommendation’), were extremely nuanced in their meaning, particularly in the late colonial period. In certain contexts, language used to describe ‘corruption’ became more legalistic, and the choice of language often presented the social complexity of the act itself. This was evident on the eve of independence in the wording of the 1947 Prevention of Corruption Act. Articles 4 and 5 of this Act dealt with the conditions

16

Introduction

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under which public servants might commit punishable offences: Sections 161 and 165 of the Indian penal code could be used where, . . . an accused person has accepted or obtained, or has agreed to accept or attempted to obtain, for himself or for any other person and gratification (other than legal remuneration) . . . [5] any valuable thing without consideration or for a consideration which he knows to be inadequate, from any person whom he knows to have been, or to be, or to be likely to be concerned in any proceeding or business transacted or about to be transacted by him, or having any connection with the official functions of himself or of any public servant to whom he is subordinate, or from any person whom he knows to be interested in or related to the person so concerned, or (c) if he dishonestly or fraudulently misappropriates or otherwise converts for his own use any property entrusted to him or under his control as a public servant or allows any other person so to do, or (d) if he, by corrupt or illegal means or by otherwise abusing his position as public servant, obtains or attempts to obtain for himself or for any other person any valuable thing or pecuniary advantage, or (e) if he, or any of his dependents, is in possession, for which the public servant cannot reasonably account, of pecuniary resources or of property disproportionate to his known sources of income.57 Even this complicated wording could only approximately capture the scale of possible interactions involved in the offences it aimed to combat. Moreover, such enactments could not cover the temporal dynamics of offences. Most corruption ‘scandals’ unravelled as a temporal narrative in which the timings of particular events determined culpability. The terms themselves affected the direction of the narrative too. In other words, the point at which a ‘bribe’ related to violent intimidation, or ‘extortion’ in the narrative of an event, materially affected how the event is received or acted upon, either by those considering punishment, or those launching protests. In this sense, the disaggregated terminology of ‘corruption’ is dynamic as well as linguistically nuanced.

iii) The setting So much work that has hitherto taken governance and corruption as its focus has tended to assume uniformity in the ‘system’ of government over time, taking up specific case studies which are only thinly related to historical context. However, the very experience for ordinary Indians, of rapid transformation and change in how the state worked between colonial and independent UP, set the conditions for the processes described previously. Although the basic structure of the administration itself did not radically alter,58 the political conditions in which officers worked changed dramatically. This book therefore takes as its focus a period that deliberately connects late colonial with postcolonial India, from the 1930s to the mid 1960s, and a region (Uttar Pradesh, UP or the United Provinces), which by virtue of its size and complexity, illustrated well the pressures, dislocations and

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Introduction 17 opportunities of rapid political change. Electorally very important, and administratively one of the regions of ‘choice’ for colonial bureaucrats, UP provides a lens for examining the crucial mid to late 1940s. The state was not subject to the dramatic violence and displacements of the north east and north west.59 Nevertheless, UP was still significant as a point of emigration and immigration for evacuees and refugees – a theme which will be picked up in later chapters, and connected to the specific projects of governance and corruption in the region. Working from the perspective of a province/state, rather than a higher level (nation), or lower level (district) analysis is crucial. The political significance of ‘corruption’ in our period often related to the contrasts between events, pronouncements and actions at the centre, compared to those in the locality. The state- level archives then, which form one of the cores of the research material for this book, are uniquely located to connect centre and locality, documenting the means by which overarching ideals of governance were translated or interpreted lower down. Since the book is also about the intersection of governance and local or everyday networks of community and political alliance, it is also significant that Uttar Pradesh is one of the most ethnically diverse regions of India. This has meant that most of the recent work on contemporary corruption in UP, as well as the nature of local politics in UP since independence has focussed on specific districts or towns of the state. Perhaps best researched is the western part of the province/state, particularly the regions of Meerut and Aligarh.60 Less work has looked further east, despite the fact that questions of relative infrastructural ‘underdevelopment’ are more pronounced in those regions in contemporary India. The book therefore works across the entire state, but in its final chapter looks more closely at specific districts from west, central and east UP. The main themes of Chapters 2 to 5 cut across the entire province, and most of the local examples are indicative of trends across the region. This is not to argue that there was uniformity in the operation of corruption networks across UP – there were clearly important specific local contexts for some of the case studies provided. But because the book examines officers who were part of a structure that fitted to the state as an administrative unit, it is often possible to draw parallels between different districts and towns. This is much less the case in Chapter 6, where the book examines specific personal and business relationships between local politicians, whose spheres of influence were often specific to a district or town level institution. The UP state level of analysis also allows us to directly connect the experiment in provincial autonomy in the 1938–39 period, with Congress power after independence. The four administrations of Govind Ballabh Pant (1937–39; 1946–50, 1950–52 and 1950–54) form the central political context. However, the book also more lightly covers the UP governments of Sampurnand as Chief Minister (1954–60), and those of C.B. Gupta (1960–63) and Sucheta Kripalani (1963–67). Stopping around 1967, at the point of the first Charan Singh administration is significant. The split in the Congress and the subsequent crises in the 1967 elections, coupled with the rise of new political formations in UP has been commonly viewed as the beginning of a new phase in Indian and UP politics. This was certainly a kind of watershed for many of the officer interviewees for this research,

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18

Introduction

although the book will argue that much of the ‘corruption’ that they saw as taking off from that period, had deeper historical roots.61 The need to examine the late 1930s phase is important, since one of the crucial contexts for this study involves the anticipation of power transfer and how that influenced administrative conduct and everyday administrative decision-making. In particular, the book will explore (particularly in Chapter 5) specific policies in combating government and police corruption. Differences between the late colonial and early independent projects of ‘anti corruption’ illuminate the processes of colonial ambivalence very starkly. After independence, new drives to combat corruption emerged as a key project of the state in UP. Yet, such drives tended to expose malfeasance rather than control it. Most existing work on corruption in India argues that the growth of corruption in the everyday state in newly independent India and beyond was related to the expansion in the developmental state’s resources, and the sheer size of the bureaucracy itself. But these general trends do not offer sufficient explanations. A parallel development was the deepening of patron–client political and governmental relationships, built upon long-standing citizen–state discourses about governance. These political interactions, which will be examined throughout, but especially in Chapter 6, were driven by the political compulsions of factional leaders to control localities by relying on the administrative and police machinery. Like the colonial state system itself, the Congress became the champion of political consensus and stability in each locality, by harnessing existing networks between bureaucrats and politicians in the maintenance of informal alliances and power bases. Such networks connecting locality, district and state administration can be best examined by looking at the administrative structures that tied them together on the one hand and the reflections on those structures from the view of the public. The book therefore looks in particular at the executive cadres of the revenue services in the civil services. This includes the posts from Deputy Collector, down to naib tahsildar (deputy tahsildar, or revenue official), but also including district officers at the higher level, and patwaris/lekhpals (sub-divisional land record officers) at the lower. Certain parts of the book (for example Chapters 4 and 5) will examine the UP police, and in certain parts, the specific cadres of Town and District Rationing Officers. It was at these levels of the state that Indian citizens experienced their most direct and relevant contacts with the changing Indian state. For most Indians, the state was the ‘street corner’ bureaucrat, the village headman or tahsildar, patwari, Lekhpal or field level official in the irrigation department. These cadres will be introduced more fully in the following chapter. Their social status was partly determined by a colonial bureaucratic hierarchy which privileged their superiors, and which determined official expectations about conduct and professional behaviour. It is also significant, as we will see throughout, that there were racial as well as social divisions between the personnel of the ICS and lower levels of the services, particularly ‘uncovenanted’ or non-gazetted cadres. It is not the purpose of this book however, to write an institutional history of the civil service in general, or to survey administrative reforms, since this has been already covered in existing work.62

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Introduction 19 Importantly, most of these officers remained for most of their careers in one particular district or area, or at least were not transferred between different posts as often as gazetted officers such as the ICS/IAS. Some have described these local officials as ‘intermediate and auxillary’ classes.63 Certainly over the last decade of our study, into the late 1960s, these levels of the Indian bureaucracy expanded to become one of the largest machineries of state in the world and were therefore much more than simply a mechanism of state power.64 In this sense, they exercised significant, complex and variable political and social interests in their own right. They were also the principal objects of debate and attention amongst Britons and Indians attempting to define how the Indian state might be modernised, which itself made up part of the administrative discourse and self-image. The question of how a colonial steel frame might be adapted and transformed to the needs of a participatory democracy interested in state-driven economic planning was also a central component of broader intellectual discussions about modernity itself. Because the main arguments of the book relate to changing official and popular views of government corruption, the key sources are national and state archive records, and it is through these sources that the work of bureaucrats and policemen can be seen in greater detail. This is not just a matter of observing the contexts of work, recruitment or appointments decisions, but also the detailed thought processes, and the nature of ‘notings’ on files which determined departmental work.65 Moreover, these records are also read in the context of unique interviews with retired civil servants, policemen and non-officials from the UP area. This involved 56 interviews with ICS/IAS, police and Provincial Civil Service (PCS) cadres, and members of citizens’ ‘anti-corruption’ lobbying groups between October 2004 and May 2008. The majority have been used directly in this book. Most of these interviews took place in the Lucknow region, although some of the IAS interviews took place in Noida and Delhi. Most of the interviewees had been recruited in the 1950s, but there was a small (and important) group who had joined the services in the 1940s and 1960s.66 Whereas researching upper levels of the civil service in this way was reasonably easy, access to retired PCS officers and subordinate cadres was more difficult to establish. Walking around the most affluent areas of Lucknow and Noida, it became apparent that the social networks of IAS officers were conspicuous in terms of patterns of consumption and lifestyle. For PCS and subordinate cadres, living patterns were more dispersed and markedly less conspicuous. In some case, interviews for this book were set up through contacts with existing upper level bureaucrats who had worked as District Officers or Collectors in UP, and some were arranged via the Indian Institute of Public Administration in Lucknow (IIPA). Interviews were concentrated, with respect to the PCS, to upper levels of the revenue administration, especially those who had worked as Tahsildars, Deputy Collectors or District/Town Rationing Officers. Over half of the interviews were recorded.67 In some cases, these interviews yielded insights which pushed the research in new directions, especially around the issue of social relationships between IAS officers and their subordinates. But in relation to the specific issues of recruitment, they more often acted as corroboration for the more detailed archival mate-

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20

Introduction

rial. A great deal of sensitivity is required in conducting such research interviews, especially as a two-way narrative uncovers principally the information that the interviewee wants the researcher to know at the moment of the interview. The interviews were therefore conducted in a semi-structured way, and proceeded more as a conversation, than as a dialogue with a rigid agenda. Wherever possible, questions and interruptions were kept to a minimum, to allow for a free-flowing narrative. In all cases, interviewees were happy to talk about ‘corruption’ and in nearly all cases volunteered information on the subject with no prompting. Indeed, in around half of the interviews, it became one of the principal subjects in officers’ descriptions of their experiences. However, it was also the case that nearly all those interviewed found it hard if not impossible to keep their observations fully tied to the period leading up to the mid 1960s: their feelings about governance, political ‘interference’ as they saw it in administration, and general ‘corruption’ were naturally coloured by contemporary events. In this sense, their narratives need to be treated with extra care. The UP State Archives in Lucknow provided one of the main cores of archival research material, and almost every department was mined for the period of 1930 to the 1960s. The breadth of material became thinner after 1951, and sparser still after about 1957. However, there were a surprisingly large number of files dealing with the specific issue of ‘illegal gratification’, or ‘misconduct’, with noticeable concentrations in the personnel files of certain departments such as the Public Works Department and Food and Civil Supply for the 1940s. This book is not concerned with quantifying the ‘extent’ of corruption, but there were a proportionately larger number of files on the subject in the period between about 1942 and 1953. As later chapters will explore, official and public interest in corruption certainly appeared to rapidly increase over this period, and some of the first serious attempts to institute mechanisms for ‘anti-corruption’ were launched too. The other four main archives used for this book were the National Archives of India (NAI), the Nehru Memorial Museum and Library, the Oriental and India Office Collections of the British Library and the collections of the Centre of South Asian Studies, Cambridge. Additional rare published material and one-off research theses were accessed from the Indian Institute of Public Administration in Delhi and Lucknow. Connecting the national level records in the NAI to the UP state level clearly demonstrated that there were both connections and disjunctions between the projects of official ‘anti-corruption’ at different levels of government – a theme which will be explored in Chapter 5. There were also some key differences between the rhetoric of ‘government servant integrity’, and the duties of the state, from the position of the Government of India, compared to UP governments. Particularly apparent were the very different kinds of citizen experiences of the state (via officialdom) at the level of the UP village, town or city, compared to the view from Delhi. This gulf corroborated the detailed formation of material and analysis around the nature of the ‘everyday state’ over this period, but added a multi-spatial dynamic which is often missed in other studies of the Indian state. Reconstructing the mechanisms and experiences of government corruption from these files threw

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Introduction 21 up its own challenges. Naturally, much of the official material dealing with internal ‘scandals’ has been weeded out of records offices. Often, files would make references to other files, which were not available, and only rarely did events reported in the newspapers link directly to the contents of the government records archives. Nevertheless, enough remained to certainly get a detailed sense of how discourses of corruption changed over the period, as well as the systematic nature of corruption mechanisms in some specific cases. Perhaps most problematic, was the balance of accusation and allegation against direct evidence and punishment/ prosecution. As Chapter 6 will explore, by the early 1950s a normative political strategy involved the tarnishing of rivals with the accusation of ‘corruption’, and this also ran through departmental files . This meant that reading the files involved, more than in other areas, a repeated exercise in suspended judgement which probably reflected some of the same thought processes of officers investigating or prosecuting cases. It was very easy to get immersed in the fascinating and complex narratives thrown up by this material then, which, despite appearing between the covers of dusty and ragged official file covers, often contained the full power, pain and tribulations of life’s rich pageant.

2

Administrative power and public morality

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Hierarchy and corruption in late colonial and early independent UP

This chapter examines the links between cultures of ‘corruption’ and official perceptions of public morality across administrative spheres in Uttar Pradesh. In the Introduction, we explored the common premise that ‘corruption’ is an unavoidable or even a necessary part of political transactions in a whole array of different contexts worldwide, in politics, government or business. According to this popular view, transgression of rules is an inevitable consequence of organisational behaviour, or even a dynamic of human nature and genetically determined selfinterest. These representations of ‘corruption’ often highlight positive as well as negative outcomes of its transactional nature: corruption as a means of increasing the efficiency of obstructive bureaucratic procedures (i.e. ‘speed money’), or ‘rule’ bending to redistribute resources and profits sometimes in a more socially equitable way.1 However, they do not help us to explain how and why political reactions to ‘corruption’ changed over time, or how what was considered to be ‘permissible’ in public behaviour connected to, or reinforced social and political hierarchies. Research has been done on how the phenomenon is bound up in the production of class, caste, religious and gender inequalities.2 However, less well-explored is how far its social and political effects can be tolerated within the rules framework of a public administration on the one hand, and by the general public on the other. This brings us to definitions, labelling and popular responses, particularly in everyday interactions between subjects/citizens and the state. Once the historian starts to look more closely at permissible behaviour at the boundaries of the state, the changing moral norms of civil servants and policemen, and public expectations of those norms emerge as key themes. This chapter then will look at those changing moral norms as they applied to the civil services in UP. The introduction briefly explored how meanings of everyday approaches to the state are conditioned by customs of interaction between government servants and citizens. These customs of interaction involve a wide range of often ambiguous and contingent rituals for approaching government, tied to social expectation and hierarchy, and importantly, caste/religious community identities. Rituals for approaching the state will be examined in this chapter, and Chapters 3 and 4 specifically from the point of view of colonial notions of Indian ‘custom’ and social behaviours in local governance, for lower-level civil servants and policemen. This chapter will also deal with how the idea of the ‘public’ was

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Administrative power and public morality 23 constituted and constructed, especially in official and governmental discourses about ‘corruption’. Habermas’s notion of ‘the public sphere’, denoting bourgeois spaces of discussion and debate, which mirrored bourgeois private spaces, does not however effectively explain public–private interactions in north India. Here, western notions of the family unit, with its attendant stress on ‘private’ family affairs did not apply. Francesca Orsini has argued with reference to the Hindi literary sphere, that instead of a twofold division of ‘public’ and ‘private’, it is more apt to consider north Indian society in terms of three layers – public, private and ‘customary’ – the latter a sphere which the ‘public’ only incompletely permeates. For Orsini, this ‘customary’ sphere relates to cultural practices and beliefs, whereby for example, caste as varna could be seen as part of the ‘public’ sphere and caste as jati the ‘customary’.3 This book does not seek to segment the distinctions between private and public in the same way, although Orsini’s ‘customary’ sphere is useful as a concept. Rather, the forms of ‘public morality’ examined in this book functionally connect private and public affairs in distinct ways, since we are dealing with performative approaches to state agencies. In these performances and actions, expression of personal or family morality became a means for taking control of, or applying for state resources or jobs. On the other hand, the forms of ‘public morality’ set out by norms of administration in UP were designed to appeal to those very same qualities which ritual and performance sought to publicise. This interaction was dramatically exposed, as we will see in later chapters, particularly where a corruption scandal came to the surface, since the whole publicity of ‘anti-corruption’ came to involve the digging out of the ‘private’ affairs and morality of those involved. The first section of the chapter examines this process by looking at how the public morality of the bureaucracy in north India between the 1930s and 1960s, formed a context for appropriate and inappropriate approaches to the local state. The book uses the term ‘public morality’ as a way of connecting private and family preoccupations about status with moral values set out in government administrations.4 The connection between public and private, family and public service, and the increasing attempts to scrutinise the activities of families of government servants will form an important dimension of the second section of the chapter. These opening sections will argue that since popular views of ‘corruption’ were related to ideas about ‘acceptable’ social behaviour, it is important to identify where and how the moral preoccupations of government servants and those accessing their services intersected or diverged. This requires us to connect with historical research not only on the class and professional values of civil servants in particular, but also with changing ideas about social deviancy and the family. The third section then explores briefly how some of these official and popular concerns about the public morality of the government servant figured in largescale official debates and commissions looking into administrative reform. Here too, the ways in which corruption was represented in terms of ‘public morality’ played an important part in some of the main official reports on administration and government corruption in India. The final section of the chapter looks at how social hierarchies within the executive cadres of the UP civil services and police

24 Administrative power and public morality

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affected official representations of corruption. Social and occupational differences between different cadres of the bureaucracy in particular, derived from colonial hierarchies, were crucial here. In general, an official layered view of ‘corruption’ distinguished between its high-level political forms, and its everyday forms, operating in a sphere of the subordinate cadres of the civil service, and those in daily contact with the general public. Later chapters will explore how these occupational and social hierarchies were critically important in allowing the performance of corruption by its perpetrators to empower and disempower political communities in relation to the bureaucracy, in ways that often upset traditional structures of local power.

i) Public morality, and the late colonial bureaucratic ethic The idea that notions of public morality in north India were transformed by European colonialism and its ‘forms of knowledge’, is one of the best-known themes of historical writing on India. Equally, the argument that a ‘derivative discourse’ arose within Indian nationalism, relating to colonial knowledge, has been well-rehearsed.5 Exactly how these forms of interaction between quasi-European and Indian ideas about public morality came about, has however occupied a range of historians, looking at an array of contexts in Indian social history. Writers on social reform, community and gender,6 public and private space and the body,7 or literature and the arts,8 have concerned themselves with what colonialism actually meant for Indian society, rather than just Indian political organisation and political resistance. In contrasting ways, this body of writing has suggested that colonial discourses about social organisation, culture, language and the arts served to reshape public moralities, and define acceptable and unacceptable public behaviour in bourgeois Indian society. Curiously, relatively little of this work has looked closely at projections of public morality through government service,9 especially regarding issues like ‘corruption’. The public and private activities of the ‘public servant’ have perhaps been avoided as an outdated relic of an older historiography dealing with the history of the civil services in India. Throughout, this book is concerned with a range of bureaucrats and policemen in Uttar Pradesh, whose functions as ‘servants’ of the state brought them into everyday contact with members of the public approaching the state. However, since the development of government service in India depended upon the peculiar creation and projection of hierarchies of authority,10 it is important to explore the overarching discussions of public responsibility that were attached to the civil services in general over the late colonial period. The Indian Civil Service (ICS), the Indian Administrative Service (IAS), and to some extent Provincial Civil Service (PCS) cadres, projected notions of public morality, through a normative vocabulary of gentlemanly conduct and esprit de corps.11 It is not the purpose of this chapter or book, to rehearse the detailed organisational structures of north Indian administration, which have been amply covered elsewhere.12 Instead, this section begins by examining esprit de corps as a form of public morality, looking at its effects on north Indian society in the interwar period. This was a phase of rapid

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Administrative power and public morality 25 adjustment and accommodation in the administration, with the gradual rolling back of the colonial bureaucratic system through Indianisation. As Chapters 3 and 4 will suggest, against these pressures, vocabularies of gentlemanly conduct in the civil services were highly important. They not only helped to define approaches to issues such as ‘corruption’, but also mediated the state’s approach to India’s social and ethnic diversity. Notions of public morality therefore emerged from the same discourses of governance, as the colonial ethnographies around which the mechanisms for administration in different localities were set out. This was especially the case in provinces/states like UP. Much has been made in memoirs of ‘British India’ of how ICS officers came from the same kinds of schools and universities, and brought with them ‘. . . almost exact replicas of the sort of life that upper middle class people lived in England.’13 The most recent historical surveys of this cadre have stressed how, despite this apparently homogeneous background, ICS men were equally moulded by the contrasting circumstances of living and working in India, and that what defined their identity was essentially the idea of being a ‘servant’ of the state.14 Part of this discourse in the final two decades of British power in India was surely also moulded by changing forms of accommodation of Indian officers, as ‘Indianisation’ developed higher up in the civil service and police cadres. This service ethic was also partly based on the idea of ‘morally virtuous’ public work, gentlemanly self-discipline and what its exponents described as ‘Hardness, self-composure, coolness in the face of pain and danger, confidence in one’s own decision’.15 The intellectual milieu here was a general European colonial concern of the interwar period about the nature of the arbitrary and politically dynamic ‘Oriental’ mind, which had, for many of these British political administrators, exercised itself in the encouragement of anti-colonial revolt. So, the idea of the disciplined ICS officer, was very much set up in anticipation of or response to political challenges. Lizzie Collingham has looked at the British ‘Sahib’ in terms of an ‘active, self-disciplined bureaucratic body’, set up to maintain a sense of physical as well as symbolic prestige. Here, there was a constant concern in local administrations to maintain forms of manliness and bodily vigour, as a dynamic of colonial power.16 From the late nineteenth century, as far as the bureaucracy was concerned, this was not just a vigorous body, but a virtuous one too – promoted by colonial administrators in contrast to their ideas of north Indian depravity and moral decline on the one hand, and long-standing fears of ‘degeneration’ attendant on the widening suffrage in the colonial metropolis.17 Consequently, the ethical ideas underpinning the bureaucratic esprit de corps were founded in notions of class and racial difference, embodied and set against the idea of an ‘Oriental’ morality, marked by political and physical decline.18 One field of work has looked at the intersection of ideas about race, with concerns about sexual morality and conduct. This scholarship suggests that in many parts of the European colonised world, it was not just the issue of skin colour which determined whether or not you could be counted as European, but also issues of sexual mores and controls. Sexual control was therefore a class and racial marker, and consequently racial difference was connected to the middle-class moralities of

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26 Administrative power and public morality sexual conduct. Most significantly, the arrival of larger numbers of white women to India in the early twentieth century is commonly argued to have led to the more careful delineation of social and racial space, as white ‘memsahibs’ had to be protected from ‘black’ men.19 Women’s roles here were distinguished as bearers of colonial morality, custodians of family welfare and respectability, which of course limited the opportunities of professional women too.20 This was also about environment – both physical and political in which miscegenation and degeneration and fears of sexual contamination, related to environmental incompatibility, political challenge and moral breakdown. As we will see in the next chapter, there was therefore a strongly gendered characteristic to civil service recruitment patterns, in which the ‘masculine’ qualities of most cadres defined their characteristics and excluded women. And as we will see in detail later, this had its own kind of impact on, or dialogue with specifically north Indian notions of the family. Just as general racial attributes were rarely described in non-gendered terms, so too were the specific qualities of the virtuous administrator set out within the framework of a bourgeois social morality founded on gender difference and racial distance. This created new pressures as more Indians came into the higher cadres of the civil services. As we will see from Chapter 4 onwards, these frameworks of public morality, which brought into play European notions of sexual conduct, and environmental degradation, were also central to shifting ideas about corruption. The day-to-day work of the ICS/IAS man, through this esprit de corps, also transformed popular responses to the civil services, and those who wielded administrative power. The way in which officers chose to project themselves professionally, to some extent determined popular views of the bureaucrat, as well as the meaning of ‘corruption’. However, this self-projection varied in relation to the social and professional hierarchies of the civil services: the notion of esprit de corps, I argue, was presented and interpreted in crucially different ways for subordinate cadres below the ICS. This had implications for the meaning of ‘corruption’, which, this chapter argues, was set up against the context of ideas about depravity, and general moral conduct in the late colonial period. A further question that this chapter will address is what it was about the civil service esprit de corps which then allowed it to survive, albeit in a different avatar, into the 1950s and 1960s. Three themes emerge from the ICS ethic of service and esprit de corps in the interwar period, which had a bearing on the exercise and multiple meanings of ‘corruption’. First, there was a sense of public orderliness in personal/official transactions, and deference to forms of conduct and physical appearance. This sense of public orderliness helped to define what was officially acceptable when Indian subjects approached government servants within the colonial system on everyday matters, and therefore was crucial to the nature of their communication with state officials. Central to these forms of public conduct too was the unique interaction between the public and private in India. For the civil servant, part of the esprit de corps involved the conscious separation of the intimate and personal from professional and official conduct at certain defined moments (something assisted by the racial distances described previously). In other areas of

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Administrative power and public morality 27 professional life, the idea of personal contact however, and family considerations were projected into official life, as we will see later. The second theme involved the highly structured notion of social hierarchy, derived from colonial traditions of Indian sociology and ethnography. These also conditioned ordinary approaches to the state, by setting out a hierarchical sense in which state agents might deal with Indian subjects. Third, this sense of hierarchy was expressed as part of a larger mission which encompassed other imperial territories and which might be applied to other European peoples. From the point of view of the ICS, notions of social conduct and permissible behaviour according to an esprit de corps were also always relatable back to broader imperial ideologies. All three of these aspects of administrative esprit de corps were to have a bearing in the post-independence period, as techniques that continued to be valorised (but by the 1950s in a different way, by an Indian IAS elite) in the face of the presupposed ethnic and religious divisions in the Indian polity, and the supposedly chaotic unpredictability of the politics of the governed. Since these themes in the esprit de corps were so clearly determined by the theoretical distances maintained between the administrator and population (in terms of state ideals, social elitism and racial distance), they worked in different ways for lower cadres of the civil services. Some of these ethical trends were evident in the 1930s, especially from 1937, after the electoral establishment of full provincial autonomy in India, in which the Raj’s ‘servants’ began working closely alongside elected Indian ministers. The Round Table Conferences of the early 1930s in London, set up to determine India’s fate and eventually decide upon a federal structure based on provincial autonomy, took place in the midst of a serious and widespread challenge to the personnel of the administration and the values they represented. The Civil Disobedience Movement across UP between 1930 and 1934 had taken many different forms,21 but a fairly consistent pressure was brought to bear on civil servants in a range of different departments to resign from their posts. Also common in Civil Disobedience protests was the exposure of the Indian Civil Service and police at all levels, as a corrupted agent of colonial ‘despotism’.22 When the Congress managed to form ministries under the new Constitution of 1935 (one of them under the premiership of G.B. Pant in UP), these tensions were particularly acute. Between July 1937 and September 1939, British bureaucrats theoretically ‘served’ a provincial government run by their chief political adversaries. This situation of rapid political change, I will argue, transformed the bearing and purchase of the older esprit de corps of the civil services as a whole in north India. And this had important effects upon how government corruption was subsequently defined. Between the two world wars, alongside growing anti-colonial boycotts of British goods and government, the role of bureaucratic colonial ceremony was declining as a facet of symbolic imperial power, and British officers were increasingly working alongside Indian recruits.23 This was a period, it has been argued, of crisis for an older, more secure notion of British ascendancy within the services, although Indianisation over the late 1920s and early 1930s was slower than Indian ministers anticipated.24 These changes though, in particular the gradual

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28 Administrative power and public morality ‘Indianisation’ of the ICS and other cadres, led to a decline in interest in ICS recruitment from Britain. In 1937 therefore, the India office and the ‘Information Department’ of the Government of India decided to publicise the ICS as a career for young graduates. This was done by creating an impression of the ICS as a career involving challenge and adventure. More subtly, it was an attempt to reassert some of the ethical planks of the bureaucratic esprit de corps. Some leading civil servants in India were involved in the effort – Maurice Hallett, Governor of Bihar, delivered a lecture in February 1937, in which he talked in highly paternalistic terms of how the main appeal of the ICS, was that ‘one had many types of men to study . . . the astute native politician, the troublesome agitator, the religious fanatic, or the simple-minded aboriginal peasant – all of whom were strange and interesting’.25 Despite Congress critiques and eventual provincial autonomy, the colonial depiction of Indian exoticism remained fairly consistent. In a rear guard effort to prevent what it perceived as potential decline in quality of recruits, the India Office therefore re-established the sense of ICS aloofness in the face of India’s ‘unruly’ subject populations. That such an effort should appear in the late 1930s, in the aftermath of a period of constitutional reform and accelerating Indianisation was not surprising, given the powerful and long-standing colonial notions of racial and moral distance. The sense of challenge and adventure in the ICS was publicised in a more direct fashion, and it was through these efforts that some of the (newly reinforced) ethical qualities underlining an idea of civil service esprit de corps were underscored. In other words, the core elements of the bureaucratic esprit de corps, threatened in a racial and social sense by Indianisation and rapid political change in the mid to late 1930s, were enhanced and exaggerated. The distinctively ‘European’ characteristics of governance and social behaviour (as set out by colonial norms) were therefore enhanced through this publicity. Some of the new recruits to the service were encouraged, for publicity purposes in the late 1930s, to travel to their first postings in groups by car, across Europe and Asia. The India Office released a set of documents of advice on how to organise the trip and lists of equipment required. Most importantly, form, social conduct and appearance were keynotes in these documents: instructions were given on how recruits should conduct themselves as a team, in their social and leisure activities and in their relations with various ‘local natives’ that they might meet en route, who should be dealt with ‘according to their native prejudices’.26 However, alongside a framework for evaluating different ‘native customs’, social conduct and orderliness also required ICS men to maintain, even exaggerate their own, clearly defined cultural practices.27 The importance of responding to or engaging with Indian social hierarchies, which these notes conveyed, was in other contexts based on ideas of public conduct within an older sociological order. Handbooks and notes on official conduct were significant in documenting and setting out these principles. One such handbook from 1913, and designed in the first instance for circulation in Bengal, was used as the basis for training upto the 1930s. In setting out instructions regarding social relationships between ICS men and subordinate bureaucrats, the handbook discussed how important ‘in social and official intercourse with Indians are the

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Administrative power and public morality 29 social divisions which are partly indigenous and which have partly grown out of western civilisation’. The social and the official distance between an ICS man and ‘Indians of different classes’ were considered to be interrelated; notions of incompatibility on the basis of race were connected with class division. The handbook stated that ‘It should be remembered that between Europeans and many classes of Indians, there exist such differences in personal habits, that prolonged confinement together in a railway carriage is a very serious trial to both parties’. So, it was suggested that the social conduct of an officer in unofficial situations could also mirror behaviour in the official, public sphere, where a fixed sense of rank and how to behave towards different ‘classes’ of Indians was set down. In interviews, chairs might be offered to all visitors who were above the rank of raiyat or small trader. Chairs were not generally to be offered to a great array of subordinate bureaucrats and officers – all those below the rank of Sarishtadar,28 for example. Moreover, it was ‘not usual to shake hands with official subordinates below a rank corresponding to that of Sub-Deputy Collector’. At the same time, social prejudices were considered to be fixed in the practices of ‘all Oriental peoples’, who ‘have a strong predilection for personal government, and are much more amenable to order and control when they recognise the personal source of such control’.29 These rules of conduct were clearly based on a colonial reading of its own ‘traditions’. In the main text of the handbook, it was stated that officers should take care to read the advice of Sir John Malcolm from 1821, which was appended to the handbook. This suggested that Europeans ‘should judge Indians . . . by a standard which is suited to their belief, their usages, their habits, the ideas they have imbibed from infancy and the stage of civilisation to which the community as a whole are advanced.’30 These depictions of social and official conduct strongly affected social relationships between gazetted officers and non-gazetted subordinates in administration, and through them, the nature of contacts between civil servants and the Indian public. Moreover, the working of professional (and social) hierarchies in the civil services was to have results of great consequence in independent India, as later chapters will explore. Such traditions in bureaucratic organisation were not easily challenged or subverted largely for ideological reasons: they helped to uphold and justify the third and final theme of the colonial bureaucratic esprit de corps – that of a sense of a larger, expansive mission of civilising benevolence. They also permeated the social contacts of British officers, and many of the interviewees for this book pointed out the deliberate social aloofness of gazetted British officers from most Indians. This manifested itself, for example, in the pastime of large game hunting, which might have involved a powerful landowner or raja, but was rarely something which allowed officials to connect with Indians in general, while killing wildlife.31 This notion of distance, of course, had its historical roots. John Malcolm, in his advice in 1821, despite setting out the ways in which officers should defer to local customs, religious practices and social ranks, argued that it was necessary that officers ‘should always preserve the European, for to adopt their manners is a departure from the very principle on which every impression of our superiority

30 Administrative power and public morality

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that rests upon good foundation is grounded’.32 But the theme of the ‘great and benevolent’ European mission came to the fore with perhaps greater force at the moment when the ICS suffered from low morale in the late 1930s. Sir John Crerar, as Home Member of the Viceroy’s Executive Council, in writing about the attractions of a career in India, decided that ‘the determining attraction must be, as it always has been, the honourable opportunity of participating in the greatest and most beneficient work to which this country, beyond her borders, has ever put her hand . . .’33 As we will see later, this sentiment of a beneficent mission continued, albeit in quite different circumstances, after 1947.

ii) Civil servants, public morality and the family over Independence It was clear that the colonial administrative ethic had continued relevance in the immediate post-independence period. In one critical area, the notion of ‘personal rule’ was to reinforce particular kinds of patron–client relationships in the bureaucracy and political system of UP. But this whole process was reinforced by the continuation of other social prejudices in the administrative services. One R.C. Dutt, who had served in the ICS in Bengal before and after 1947, wrote of how Indians within the ICS and IAS were encouraged to somehow think of themselves as ‘different’ from other Indians, and commented that his British colleagues pointed out how ‘indistinguishable’ he was from an Englishman.34 Interviews with UP-based IAS officers, who had served between the early 1950s and the 1990s, revealed the importance of maintaining social connections with influential people in any particular district: P.K. Kaul and Surendra Singh, both retired IAS men spoke of this in relation to their district postings in western UP in the 1950s and 1960s.35 But whereas the expansive justification of the British civil servant related to a ‘benevolent’ European paternalism, the language of India’s post-independence mandarins was framed more in terms of the great national figures in the hagiography of Indian nationalism who had passed ICS exams – Bihari Lal Gupta, Surendra Nath Banerjea and Satyendra Nath Tagore – alongside whom IAS men could justify their equally ‘national’ status as state builders. For the post-independence IAS, like the ICS, the need to perpetuate a ‘service’, was necessitated by the obstacles to ‘national unity’ – the supposed chaotic cacophony of Indian ethnic and religious diversity. It was a similar aspect of the IAS esprit de corps which generated repeated value judgements about the moral decline in Indian public life as a result of what old IAS and police hands saw as the onslaught of policies of caste reservations.36 These similarities in bureaucratic language were perhaps partly explained by the slow transformation in the social characteristics of the IAS and its relationship to other levels of the bureaucracy. In 1961–62, 44.4 per cent of total direct recruits into the IAS were offspring of government servants. The IAS, like the ICS was (and still is today) considered a highly attractive career, something which is demonstrated by the extent to which officers were able to command large dowries. K.N.V. Shastri, a retired District Collector, noted how in the early 1950s, the District Collector, despite the declining glamour of the post, was still considered to be ‘one among many’ – who could wine, dine and exercise influence, and ‘open

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Administrative power and public morality 31 schools and hospitals, inaugurate conferences, distribute prizes and medals . . . and agree to be the patron of popular institutions within his district. He can also hold a press conference like a cabinet minister.’37 These demonstrations of public largesse bolstered the government servant’s social power, and connected to older traditions of ‘personal rule’. For Shastri, in the past a district collector could potentially rule by terror, a situation which increased the need to depend upon an unaccountable ‘cabinet of subordinates’. Such unaccountability had a continued salience for many years after 1947.38 B.K. Misra, commentator on the transformations in the civil services in UP after independence, described the British district officer as a ‘platonic despot’.39 Alongside this hesitant celebration of the IAS man’s personal power, derived from colonial times, was a sense of regret, too, about the effects of the growing ‘specialisation’ of government services, in the wake of development planning. In a collection of short essays on their careers, a selection of UP IAS and PCS officers described the changes they had experienced over their careers. A common theme in the accounts was the sense in which the introduction of technical experts had created ‘fiefdoms’ of authority, which undermined the broader general work of district officers.40 The public moralities projected by officers through the upper levels of the civil service – the ICS and their inheritors, the IAS – were also however juxtaposed against uncertainties about foreign colonial power, and the imposition of north European values on north Indian governance. While a career in the civil services carried with it, for most middle-class societies in north India, social kudos and power, the figure of the bureaucrat was also often shrouded in unpopularity, suspicion and intrigue, particularly in popular nationalist literature. This image of the government servant has its own, well-documented history that connects with hagiographies of the ‘Freedom Movement’. Most obviously, in the period with which we are concerned, it manifested itself not only in well-rehearsed, direct anti-colonial critiques, but also through more subtle dialogues between European and north Indian views about the paternalism of government. There is no space to go into all of the former here, but some of the most important critiques historicised British administration in terms of its corrupt East India Company past. Such views of the administration grew stronger and more frequent through the interwar period. In 1938, in the UP Legislative Assembly for example, in a debate on the question of ‘Scheduled Caste’ employment within the civil services, speakers suggested that ‘gentlemanly conduct’ in the ICS and other services, ultimately only amounted to a system of patronage. Raghunath Vinayak Dhulekar argued that ‘. . . the Indian Civil Services in India are the inheritors of all evils and corruption that prevailed during the East India Company’s days’, and alleged that officers accepted bribery and gratification through wives, relatives and servants.41 The popular opposition and social ostracism of government servants during anti-colonial protests are wellknown. A retired UP IAS officer, Anand Sarup, whose family had been involved in Congress politics in the early twentieth century, described how when his family visited relatives and friends in government, we were cold shouldered . . . On our part too, anyone who worked for the government or was a Rai Sahib or

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Rai Bahadur was branded as a renegade. As children, every time we passed by the house of the tehsildar, we spontaneously broke into a chorus, shouting: “toady bachcha-hai hai [toady child, toady child]”.42 Another critique of the figure of the bureaucrat that extended down to the PCS cadres and non-gazetted officers concerned social expectations about officer–citizen contact. The slights Indian ICS officers felt as they failed to mix completely at a social level with the English in the club context appear in many memoirs and formed the basis of a whole genre of Anglo-Indian writing.43 These critiques were also important to some of the central texts of middle-class Indian nationalist criticisms of the colonial state. For Nehru, the social separation of the British bureaucrat from ‘interesting’ Indians was created by the very core bureaucratic function of the civil servant, who fell into a ‘kind of intellectual and cultural torpor’, resulting from mindless file rotation and the promotion of a narrow-minded outlook of colonial governance. Nehru went on, . . . for this gradual deterioration of mind he will blame India, curse the climate, and gradually anathematise the tribe of agitators who add to his troubles, not realising that the cause of intellectual and cultural decay lies in the hide-bound bureaucratic and despotic system of government which flourishes in India and of which he is a tiny part.’44 Social snubs were amplified by the hierarchical social gulf, which opened up from the late nineteenth century, between ICS/IAS officers and cadres of the PCS and subordinate services. S.K. Das, a retired officer from Bengal, explained at length the importance of the social call in official business, but linked it directly to a system of professional knowledge, in which ulterior motives for social contact were revealed. He discussed, for example, how the typical British officer would have a team of visitors who could be broken down into three different groups – sycophants, those who wanted something done, and finally those in trouble, who wanted to see which way the wind was blowing. By comparison, the Indian officer did not, so clearly, have these three types, he claimed, and would be able to build up a stronger rapport with Indian middle-class families in his or her district. Importantly, Das’s narrative was built around accounts of how the social clubs of the Raj had generated forms of social and sexual exclusion – with Indians being excluded from dancing with English women.45 As will be explored in more detail in section (iv) later, the public morality of the civil servant, in terms of expected social relationships, encompassed the crucial links between ICS/IAS officer and subordinates. Stanley Heginbotham, writing about Tamil Nadu in the early 1970s, showed how such relationships survived after independence. He described in detail some of the social rituals surrounding meetings and discussions between district officers and their subordinates, suggesting a popular analogy of parent–child or teacher–student relationship: one observed meeting of Block Development Officers (BDO) and District Agricultural Officers with the collector involved a series of individual confrontations, in which the Collector tore a strip off individual BDOs for not

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Administrative power and public morality 33 distributing development loans fully. A certain amount of ceremony was involved in which, as the Collector of the Block, the BDO stood up to answer the query. Heginbotham narrated how, at the end of the meeting, the BDOs chatted together, much as a group of students would do after a class.46 Maintaining social formalities in official situations was about the projection of a particular kind of public morality, and moral authority then, which conveyed the importance of self-discipline and conduct. But as was suggested at the beginning of the chapter, this public stance was implicitly based on assumptions about private correctitude, particularly of gazetted officers, when appearing in front of subordinates and members of the public. Very often, and particularly from the 1940s, when non-gazetted officers were either accused of or prosecuted for ‘corruption’, their activities were often linked to allegedly licentious activities in private life. And importantly, such actions were described as encouraging broader practices of corruption and immorality: a powerful colonial trope was to connect corruption with more general notions of immorality. This idea affected the verification of candidates applying for government employment, for whom the Appointments Department in the 1940s claimed, ‘. . . conviction as a result of moral turpitude is a bar’, and that ‘Morals and private life form a very important part of an officer’s life and an inquiry is very necessary before apptt.’47 As we will see later when looking at specific episodes of corruption involving supply officers around the time of independence, this could lead to sexual stereotypes being attached to the culpable officer, particularly if he was from the Muslim community. The work of Charu Gupta has shown how discourses of communalism in late colonial north India were strongly gendered, with popular Hindu nationalist pamphlets demonising Muslim men as sexual threats to Hindu women.48 Similarly, the taint of immorality very often dovetailed with accusations surrounding the government officer. And many accusations were sexual in nature, particularly if an officer worked at a level involving regular contact with members of the public. Colourful examples of such associations became increasingly common over the very period that Gupta describes in her analysis of sexualised discourses of communal conflict in UP. From the late 1930s and early 1940s, as the UP government set up an administrative ‘complaints’ system,49 and as the press was often able to report on them, departments had to deal with a flurry of anonymous accusations, and it is here that we also commonly see reflections on the private lives of officers. Chapter 5 will look at this in more detail in UP, but an example from outside UP is indicative of this trend. An anonymous complaint was sent in late 1945 to the Collector of Central Excise of Kohat Division, describing in detail how the Assistant Collector (H.S. Kohli) in charge of Rawalpindi Division was allegedly involved in a range of corruption scandals. The complainant argued that Kohli was not afraid to act boldly, since he was backed by one officer of the headquarters staff: He [Kohli] boldly says that none on earth can harm him as he is paying the share of bribery to all from head to bottom . . . He says so much that he can dupe all the visiting officers by giving them dalies and dinners and lunches

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. . . his dishonesty is known all over the Collectorate but none has been able to do anything in this direction.50 Kohli was allegedly able to manage his activities by spreading what the complainant described as ‘the plague of corruption’ – a disease which kept his retinue tied to him in the district, with the help of strategic transfers. In particular, the Assistant Collector had a right-hand man – Bhambry, who was, the complainant averred, ‘of a very low family’, but who worked as the officer’s main broker. The deputy superintendent, under Kohli’s direction, had allegedly arranged for important cases to be quashed in return for monetary rewards. A local firm at Mardan, M/s Wazir Chand Radha Kishan allegedly supplied cloth, whisky and other necessities to the Assistant Collector and his retinue, and paid him Rs 250/month for the privilege. The complainant claimed that Kohli charged Rs 1,000 for appointing Inspectors, Rs 500 for promoting supervisors and Rs 150 for appointing clerks. The transfers of peons provided a profit of Rs 50 in each case. These were largely uncorroborated accusations. However, their interest lies not in their questionable veracity, but in the sense in which they related notions of corrupt governance to sexual deviancy: the complainant went on to describe in his accusations how many of the inspectors associated with the Assistant Collector and Kohli himself were ‘sodomites and catamites’ and Kohli kept young men in his bungalow to sate his sexual appetite, whilst paying for their services from government coffers.51 The ambivalent connections between the public and the private or family concerns of government officers at all levels was, for British officers at least, the result of the peculiar interrelationship between work and private living for the average district officer. A common refrain of ICS officers over the late colonial period, was the extent to which no part of their lives was entirely private. The colonial system of governance itself, as we have seen, generally encouraged official and social aloofness. But bureaucrats were expected to acquaint themselves on a semi-personal level with key Indian power brokers in any particular region. The ‘call’ on the district officer, was also considered by government and officers, to be a tokenistic ceremonial which paid lip service to European ideas about north Indian conventions of audience or durbar. Such visits by Indian subjects/citizens to civil servants would take place in a formal context, but always with one eye to the private life of the officer concerned, whose domestic arrangements would be clearly in view. The recognition of status difference – in terms of who should call on whom and when – was taken very seriously in the late colonial period, and became the subject of an Assembly debate for example, around the ‘slight’ of a more senior Indian Deputy Collector, expected to call on a relatively junior British Superintendent of Police (SP).52 More importantly, because the nature of all civil servants’ administrative roles involved the exercise of almost absolute power over a small area in the late colonial period, it was easy to see how an officer could maintain the image of integrity at a formal level, whilst simultaneously promoting private interests which potentially broke civil service rules of conduct. District officers, and many of their immediate subordinates had enormous latitude (not least since executive officers

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Administrative power and public morality 35 combined administrative and judicial powers) in deciding the fate of applicants to the local government. This latitude was important in the actual, as well as the formal, exercise of power. This often comes out when the historian scratches below the surface of documents, or combines the official record with oral testimony. Thus, one often finds that an officer’s official record did not always reflect his unofficial reputation. For example, Hobart, a Commissioner based in Gorakhpur District in the late 1930s, formally had an unblemished record, but his District Magistrate remembered Hobart as having a ‘reputation’ for bending the rules of civil service conduct. One such example described a new assistant magistrate who was keen to not accept any gifts from powerful zamindars of the district, but who was told by Hobart that it was only through these landed agents that the British ruled, and that it was necessary to keep them sweet by accepting all their ‘dallies’/ daalis, even if it occasionally broke the rules.53 It was clearly in the knowledge of this ambivalent overlap between official duty and private profit that the Civil Service Conduct rules paid close attention to the position and activities of a government servant’s family. Rule 11 of the Government Servants’ Conduct Rules, operative in UP right upto the 1960s (although reformed in the 1950s), pointed out that gazetted civil servants were not allowed to receive gifts, or permit any of their family to do so, either directly or indirectly, other than from a close relation. Officers were allowed however, to accept gifts at a wedding or on a ‘ceremonial occasion’. A range of other profitable activities were prohibited for his immediate family, as well as himself, such as the running of an insurance business (rule 17), or the making of investments (rule 21), or the disposal of movable or immovable property (rule 24), without the ‘prior sanction’ of government.54 A great deal of discussion surrounded the extent to which these rules should be extended to all cadres, especially bearing in mind the point that quite a lot of the day-to-day functioning of any particular area of administration would be delegated to subordinates, around whom scrutiny would not be applied in the same way. As we will see in later chapters, there were political and practical reasons why non-gazetted cadres in the executive and other levels of the administration were not to be subject to the full severity of rules. One important dynamic was the colonial consideration of an overarching need for loyalty and acquiescence, through the opening up of state largesse, via appointments. In a file dealing with the delegation of powers to local governments to punish non-gazetted officers, the UP Appointments Department was quite open about the fact that: ‘. . . The Government of India recognise that the distribution of patronage, hitherto exercised by Local Governments, has been conducted on sound lines,’55 and used this idea as a prelude for administrative reform in appointments. In this, the Appointments Department in UP always took into consideration the extent to which family and private status was enhanced by government service. Hence, when the issue arose of extending such rules to posts such as tahsildar or naib (Deputy) tahsildar – the middle/lower level revenue officers directly subordinate to Deputy Collectors – it was more often than not quashed for practical reasons. For example, when in 1908 a suggestion was made to deliberately alter the Civil Service Conduct rules to allow tahsildars and naib tahsildars to invest

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36 Administrative power and public morality savings and purchase land, it was pointed out that the rule was largely ignored in any case across the province.56 Also significant was the idea that being ‘gazetted’ brought social status for the officer and his family members, and that this ‘privilege’ should not, for political reasons, be cheapened. When, from the mid 1930s, organisations of tahsildars and naib tahsildars lobbied for recognition as gazetted officers, alongside Deputy Collectors and Collectors, they argued that the higher status would enhance the position of their families. But by the same token, the Government of UP was not inclined to regulate and monitor the quasi-private activities of such officers; it preferred such regulation to be conducted at the departmental level. There were also pragmatic reasons for this, since by the 1940s, as we will see in Chapter 5, it was becoming increasingly evident to the UP Government that the formal procedures of punishment of officers in corruption cases had become so cumbersome and long-winded that a more informal punishment was often more effective.57 This delegation of punishment to local government departments,58 was however quite out of sync with the self-perception of civil service associations at this level, which identified the role of tahsildars as comparable to gazetted officers. In a memorial to Malcolm Hailey in 1934, the tahsildars and naib tahsildars of the Subordinate Executive Services Association described themselves as: . . . the agents of Government, the Lamberdars of Lamberdars, the medium between the aristocracy and the masses and the presentatives of every class, community, trade and profession. A Tahsildar is at once a Magistrate, an Assistant Collector, an Executive Officer, a Treasury Officer and Head Clerk of a big office . . .59 No doubt the UP government acknowledged this point, but it was willing to consider alternative mechanisms of censure, discipline and control for this cadre. There was another way in which private and public morality interacted via official notions of the civil service family. P.C. Kakker, who joined the UP Police Service related the ‘decline’ of government servant integrity to the British stress on ‘good family’: . . . there are families which have integrity, there are families which have loyalty . . . there are families that do not believe in integrity, or who believe in corruption’. So, yes families are important. The British came to the conclusion that they will have people from selected families. So, if my constable, in the British period was good in service, they would say I will have your son . . . Democracy only sees individuals, not families. The British saw families. The result of this change is that corruption has increased, casteism has increased, politicisation has increased . . . Merit is no longer there, because merit included integrity.60 Kakker pointed out that he was the sixth generation of government servants in his family and that a relation of his had been ‘awarded a village’ after the 1857 uprisings.

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For most of the late colonial period, applications for posts contained dossiers of letters, certificates and recommendations, which made repeated references to long-standing family connections to government service. These applications were more often than not passed through a powerful patron or ‘fixer’ who would have some influence with the administration. Hence in 1944, a serving District Magistrate forwarded the application of one Maharaj Singh, officiating SDO, Karwi and described him as belonging to, a most respectable and loyal Jat zamindar family of Muzaffarnagar district. The family has an excellent record of military and social services rendered to Government. They helped the Government during the last Great War and have rendered substantial help during this War. They have supplied 1502 recruits to Indian Army, purchased War bonds of Rs 3,52,000, donated Rs 6500 towards the War Fund and Red Cross; paid Rs 500 for Military Propaganda stall and Rs100 for technical fund.61 The correspondent went on to play up the notion of caste ‘balance’ that had formed the basis of discussion in the Appointments Department throughout the 1930s: ‘I am informed that no Jat has been selected for the last several years for the post of Deputy Collector.’62 This kind of appeal often had a positive effect on British officers involved in the recruitment process, well into the 1940s, when the experience of provincial autonomy theoretically reinforced principles of formal recruitment on the basis of merit. In the 1945 batch recruitment of Deputy Collectors, Raja Sir Syed Ahmad Ali Khan Alavee, Commander of the British Empire (CBE), of Salempur House, Kaiser Bagh supported the application of Ghulam Husain, stating that he was interested in this young man and will feel much obliged if you could do something for him. His father Syed Jawad Husain was Tahsildar of Mohanlalganj and died owing to heart failure in that Tahsil, this is the reason of my interest in this Youngman [sic]. Ghulam Husain was duly appointed. So too was Ram Lagan Singh who came from ‘a respectable and loyal Rajput family’ according to his sponsor, and whose application was accompanied by a letter from Maurice Hallett to his uncle, for his uncle’s work ‘during the recent disturbances’ in Ballia district.63 In postings too, even though the Revenue Manual stated that the preponderance of any one caste in a tahsil should be avoided,64 the UP Government looked favourably upon applications for first postings in or near districts where members of an applicant’s family worked, if family tradition made it seem acceptable. This could often mean home districts. This was the case right upto the end of British power, and the trend was often more pronounced during moments of political instability, because it was believed to shore up the precarious morale of the civil services. In late 1942, in the aftermath of the Quit India movement, in considering the first postings of Deputy Collectors, the Appointments Department received a

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letter from Mujtaba Husain, Member of the British Empire (MBE), headed with the words ‘My dear Mudie’. Husain requested that his nephew be posted near him in Lucknow, so as to give him the benefit of working under Lewys Lloyd. The request was granted.65 Another letter from Rai Sahib Pandit Charan Chaturvedi, himself a Deputy Collector in Mainpuri pointed out that his son had been successful in the 1942 PCS competition and requested that his son be posted as a probationary Deputy Collector to Mainpuri along with him. The request was again endorsed by the District Officer of the district who wrote: I have no objection to the proposal. The old family system of apprenticeship where a son learns under the close supervision of his father is not generally practicable among Government officials, but where as here it is possible it would reinforce existing methods of training.66 After 1947, an element of this approach survived. But instead of accounts of past loyalty to the state, the new family connections assisted where an officer or his family had been sympathetic to the freedom movement. In the emergency recruitment of Deputy Superintendents of Police in UP in 1948, some of the applications conveyed this: one Harbans Narain Singh boasted of how his family had a long and glorious record of police and government service, but he had ‘lost my King’s Commission and other civil appointments that were offered to me after my graduation in 1942 as I was associated with the political movement of August 1942.’67 One Narayan Pratap Singh’s application stated that he came ‘of a respectable Rajput family of Allahabad district which has been taking part in freedom movements since 1857 and suffered physical and property losses.’68 Clearly there was a difference between the written letter of the rules and their application, when it came to considerations of local status and influence – a theme which will be taken up again in section (iv) later.

iii) Administration, ‘modernisation’ and corruption After independence, and certainly by the time of the first and second Five Year Plans, the projected role of all levels of district administration was to take on board the ideals of development and modernisation. Yet, older paradigms of family connection, political loyalty and tradition continued to play their part in civil service recruitment and life. As we will see in later chapters, although after independence civil service recruitment was carried out ostensibly on merit, such changes did not immediately transform the culture of family connections. Such changes, for most who took an interest in civil service recruitment and reform, would most likely be brought about by the processes of state modernisation. In looking at these discussions and debates about the public responsibilities and moralities of government servants at all levels in the immediate aftermath of independence, it is clear that reformers’, journalists’ and statesmen’s consideration of ‘corruption’ was a key element. There was a detailed semi-official language that was part of the whole process of how policy-makers and the media represented corruption, which will be

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Administrative power and public morality 39 examined later. However, there were a number of important general national discussions about public administration and problems of corruption, which exposed the ambiguous social and moral positions of the ‘bureaucrat’, described earlier. These discussions in the late 1940s and early 1950s were often concerned with the transformation from an authoritarian-colonial, to a democratic ‘welfare’ state. In these public debates, there was a recurring sense that somehow the ‘moral fibre’ of the civil servant had suffered deterioration after independence. This was strongly related to levels of education and social standing, and through those dynamics, ideas of professional integrity. Without any official measure or sense of its scale, a common assumption in official and media circles was that ‘corruption’ within the civil services had somehow become ‘worse’ after 1947. In the early 1950s, to some extent this was explained by the need for ‘emergency recruitment’ to fill vacated posts following Muslim migration and British exodus.69 Such qualitative reflections on the rapidly promoted lower cadres in this recruitment were certainly noted by our interviewees.70 However there was also a clear assumption, even in the Santhanam Report on corruption published in 1964, that administrative corruption had ‘increased’ since 1947, but no figures or research was produced for the pre-independence period, most comments being based on anecdotal evidence.71 To an extent, this view was also produced by the powerful orientalist representation of the incorruptible British administrator, whose integrity contrasted to his environment. This attitude, or general discourse, about ‘corruption’ and its traditions was found in legislative and media debates as well as in academic conferences shortly after independence. For example in December 1951 at Hyderabad, in the Indian Political Science Association 15th Conference, one of the conference’s major areas of discussion was the ‘problem’ of public administration in India. The Planning Commission had asked A.D. Gorwala to suggest such reforms in the administrative organisation that would make the implementation of a development programme possible. The debates at the conference and the papers presented were concerned with the problems associated with transformation from a colonial to a democratic state.72 And in this respect they were mainly concerned with the subject of governmental modernisation, largely based upon colonial assumptions about ‘Oriental despotism’ and long-standing ‘corruption’, from which the modern state should aim to distance itself. There was a dichotomy here: on the one hand, many of the speakers at the Hyderabad Conference commented that an idealised welfare state might be effectively transplanted on a western model. But some of these same contributors also highlighted the problems of disjunction from a colonial state, which they nevertheless acknowledged had been a champion of a modernising process. In these arguments, the fundamental obstacles to progress could be found in India’s antiquated social institutions, which militated against efficiency and accountability.73 The Gorwala Report itself was based on the assumption that the problems of early 1950s corruption in India could be juxtaposed to an essentially uncorrupt colonial service.74 As we have seen, this was a peculiarly erroneous assumption. Although there were criticisms of this in Hyderabad, there was still strong

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40 Administrative power and public morality support for the notion that, essentially, the problems of administrative efficiency and fairness related to the obstacles to modernisation presented by ‘primordial’ social relationships, which British practices had incompletely overcome. At the conference, K.V. Rao pointed out that during the British period, there was a rule that a local man should not be placed in any post of responsibility in a particular district, to prevent corruption along kinship and caste lines, but such an ideal didn’t appear to be in force in 1951. Clearly, as we have seen previously, such a rule only ever fully operated in principle or on paper, as men could be posted near to other relatives in services, or even in their home districts. K.N.V. Shastri, a member of the Executive Council of the Indian Institute of Public Administration, stated that So long as the Republic of India is to be run by men who in bulk are illiterate, poor and corruptible the duties of a District Collector as far as his collection of revenue are concerned are bound to be distressing to those who have a record of service under the British.75 Turning to the solutions offered to problems of corruption and inefficiency in the 1950s and 1960s, the approaches were more varied. K.V. Rao, an ex-civil servant writing in the late 1960s, reasserted a colonial ethic which assumed that notions of colonial bureaucratic discipline were essential against the context of a socially disparate India: he noted that although management techniques are very important . . . it is equally necessary that there should be a knowledge of the people, their idiosyncracies and their problems. This is particularly important in a vast country like India which is still groping its way towards realising its national identity.76 There was however another influential view, which reiterated the problem of local level corruption along the lines of caste, religion or kinship, and the need to assert a paternalistic, and distanced upper bureaucratic moral agenda. However, this was nevertheless different to that offered by the British. Here, modernisation was to be best achieved through the retention of ‘lost’ Indian traditions, and an ancient Indian morality. B.B. Majumdar wrote a detailed account of the historical legacy of contemporary Indian administration, in which he set out to demonstrate how the structures inherited from colonialism, were hardly suited to the task of implementing the directive principles of state policy. Majumdar noted that a framework of administration better suited to these needs might be found in pre-colonial practices, that, indeed, the roots of low-level bureaucratic corruption were closely connected to British power: ‘Under the impact of Western civilization, the old social order based on Varnashrama Dharma and rural economy has suffered disintegration’.77 Majumdar even suggested that the programme of rationalisation set out by Gorwala had precedents in ancient Indian practices. So, the prevention of corruption could be achieved through some of the steps suggested by Kautilya in the chapters on kantaka-sodhanam. Furthermore, Gorwala’s idea for a board of

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Administrative power and public morality 41 five or six members for the management of Government of India civil industry, was supposedly based on the Kautilyan principle of Vahumukhya Adhikaranam, or a dual-headed controlling agency. On the matter of how the state should deal with the problem of favouritism through channels of social hierarchy and existing networks of power, Majumdar again spoke of how pre-colonial notions of the relationship between state and society might be instructive. He noted that the traditional policy of government in ancient India was to be particularly solicitous of industrial and mercantile classes, as pressure groups – a situation that supposedly forestalled the building of interest groups independent of the state.78 State governments were also investigating, in more detail from the early to mid 1950s, the problems of administrative corruption by looking at the relationship between different phases of the history of the Indian state, some of which stretched back to views of the ancient ‘Hindu golden age’. In UP between 1952 and 1954, the administration of Govind Ballabh Pant set up a Disciplinary Proceedings Inquiry Committee. In its final recommendations for ‘combatting corruption’, this report79 put forward four suggestions which presented alternative notions of public morality which this time were linked to Congress anti-state discourses. First, the report suggested that ‘national traditions’ should be circulated in the media. Second, the substantive teaching of Indian history and the ethical values to be derived from it were set out. Third, it recommended the use of extracts from the speeches of Mahatma Gandhi, and the need for the general media and entertainment industry to emphasise, ‘without prudery, the portrayal of high and strong character in various episodes of our epics and history.’ Finally, and in connection with the last point, it recommended the promotion of community and physical work.80 These early reports on Indian administration were followed by a flow of others over the first two decades of independent India: the next principal analysis came under the direction of Paul Appleby (1953),81 then K. Santhanam (1964) and by 1966, a plethora of reports were produced under Desai’s Administrative Reforms Commission. In the late 1940s and early 1950s, projects for administrative modernisation and change, whether based on a traditionalist framework, or a Nehruvian model, all shared a common assumption: that one of the critical obstacles to India’s modern identity was ethnic and religious divisiveness.82 Importantly, this was a discourse inherited from an older British bureaucratic view of Indian society, which asserted the moral virtue of an incorruptible Indian Civil Service. And it was this overarching context which was to form the historical basis for national discourses on corruption and through them anti-corruption drives in the first three decades at least, of free India. The colonial government servant, according to these discussions and reports, maintained his impartiality, his gentlemanly conduct, his attitude towards ‘different classes’ of ‘His Majesty’s subjects’ and women, his commitment to particular social forms and rituals, through a constant awareness of his distance from ‘Indian custom’. The latter, as the next section will explore, was described using a particular vocabulary, which juxtaposed the power of Indian primordial religious and ethnic relationships against the rational and distanced government servant. Just as the anti-colonial critique of the Raj, set up the ICS mandarins for ridicule, as

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inheritors of a European-style Oriental despotism, so the ICS and IAS conceived of their mission in terms of the natural corruption of Indian society. It was the role of the bureaucratic esprit de corps to present Indian society as something to be undisturbed, to be taken and governed ‘on its own terms’. But importantly, this projected public morality of the elite bureaucrat was also set out in relation to the very ambiguous territory where administrative action and public benefit overlapped – the cadres of the Provincial Civil Services and subordinates services.

iv) Corruption in political and social space: Provincial and ‘subordinate’ cadres In examining late colonial ICS values of esprit de corps and public conduct and morality in the first section of this chapter, we saw how social and occupational gulfs between different cadres of the civil service were very much part of the colonial project in India. ICS aloofness was generated by racial and social conventions, which connected to the very mechanisms of authority-projection in everyday governance. This final section of the chapter will examine how, through those social and professional distances, late colonial Indian stereotypes of the corrupt lower servant were a normalised theme in the 1930s. Yet, alongside the upper ‘heaven born’ civil servants, driven by a monolithic mission,83 the Raj depended upon a much more extensive network of government servants and agencies.84 More ambivalent narratives were associated with these cadres of the civil service, and were reproduced in the public sphere of the Hindi and English press and literature. In Munshi Premchand’s Godaan (1936), the character of Lata Pateshwari, the village revenue clerk ‘would play off farmers against each other so as to make a profit for himself’.85 In Orwell’s Burmese Days (1934), the character of U Po Kyin, a sub-divisional magistrate, who had worked his way up through the civil service with bribes, getting information quickly on promotions, and discrediting his competitors. ‘His practice’ writes Orwell, ‘was to take bribes from both sides and then decide the case on strictly legal grounds. This won him a useful reputation for impartiality’.86 These writers described a common British and Indian middle-class perception of the colonial bureaucracy of the time – a vision which also exposed a paradox. In ruling India, British administrators relied upon legitimising ideologies such as the idea of the rule of law. Yet below the ostentatious trappings of imperial power, local officials also depended upon informal alliances, networks and connections, to buttress the civil service’s own organisational weaknesses.87 And some of the most important dynamics of these networks were played out through locallyrecruited cadres of the civil service itself: from the Deputy Collector, to the tahsildar and naib tahsildar in the revenue administration, or the Sub-Inspector in the police. The public in general, and local governments in particular, viewed this, Po Kyin’s, or Lata Pateshwari’s level of the local state in a very different way to the ICS custodians of ma-bap88 governance. For officialdom in late colonial India, its position was paradoxically tied into vaguely defined notions of ‘corruption’, yet its existence to an extent justified the very myth of the ICS. This was a view that

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clearly also carried on into the 1950s and 1960s. P.C. Kakker (IPS) who began service in 1953 illustrated this point of view perfectly, as he described to us how in the pre-1947 period: . . . the non-gazetted ranks – they could do fiddly work. The upper people would use them, but they would not be like them. Corruption was then confined to the lower ranks . . . It was an old tradition, so it was ignored partly; they would not be openly corrupt actually, and wouldn’t pass the money to the senior ranks . . . they would do it secretly and surreptitiously . . . it has nothing to do with salary actually. It’s not money, it’s habit, family tradition and background.89 Although Orwell’s characters are rabid in their white imperialism, the key theme of Burmese Days is how the English were corrupted by the political culture of the Orient. Similarly, in this discourse, the reputation of the ICS was something to be protected from the natural rapacity and moral turpitude of the cunning ‘Oriental’, sometimes a part of the lower cadres, who get their hands dirty in everyday deals. These lower state cadres of the civil service have been relatively under researched and there is still no comprehensive social or political history of the Indian state at this level, for any particular government department.90 But they are critically important in understanding popular, everyday notions of corruption, being the point at which most Indians encounter the state, as Akhil Gupta has argued.91 The revenue cadres of tahsildar and naib tahsildar for example, form one area of focus of this book. They were part of what was known, in the late nineteenth century, as the uncovenanted civil service, later Provincial Civil Service (PCS).92 In UP, they were part of an old subordinate revenue unit, based around the tahsil and from 1833, the post of Deputy Collector was created to supervise these subordinate revenue officials.93 Importantly, right up to 1947, this level of the civil service was dominated by Indians, who had much lower salary prospects than ICS officers, and were granted less liberal rules of leave. Whereas the latter moved around through promotion, PCS officers were usually appointed to particular areas where they remained for most of their careers. This fixity was very important as a background to recruitment reform proposals. The gulf between the ICS and PCS, covenanted and uncovenanted or gazetted and non-gazetted, had theoretically narrowed since the 1890s, and particularly from the 1920s, with increasing Indianisation of the ICS and promotion from subordinate cadres. The two classes of civil service were nevertheless distinct, with different notions of appointment by merit permeating the two levels. This helped to create a deep-rooted attitude of intellectual superiority within the ICS and fostered the view that subordinate cadres were immersed in a different kind of administrative world.94 This principle – that PCS cadres and those below them working in the districts were rooted to the political locality, compared to the transferable ICS or IAS officer, had influenced policies towards recruitment over the longer term. Significantly, from 1904, the principle of competitive examination was abolished in the PCS,

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44 Administrative power and public morality since it was felt that it did not spring from ‘Indian traditions’ and did not allow the provincial government to reconcile conflicting claims of ‘diverse races and rival religions . . .’95 Not only were the professional traditions of PCS cadres considered to be different from the IAS, this move suggested that Appointments departments thought it undesirable that there should be a parity between the two levels. Yet there was a general awareness, as we saw in the last section, that bureaucratic jobs were both a mark of social status and potential political power: the occupational and social relations between the two levels of the civil service had been, since at least 1880, a theme of political agitation, since most early political parties in India recognised that bureaucratic jobs were a route to local political influence within a colonial system.96 Debates in government about caste and community proportions in the PCS and subordinate cadres, which will be explored in the next chapter, were therefore central to how upper civil servants managed their relationship with subordinates. More generally, questions of recruitment into these lower cadres, were, in the late colonial period, usually debated with reference to issues of ‘rules’, ‘conduct’ and local politics. Government departments that designed and implemented schemes of bureaucratic recruitment, such as the Appointments Department in UP, did so, therefore, on the basis of traditional civil service views of the role of the subordinate servant which juxtaposed him with the ‘incorruptible’ ICS or IAS officer. A dominant assumption in this tradition, then, was that provincial cadres such as tahsildars, lower revenue officials and police were more easily embroiled in the everyday intrigue of local politics. This had positive as well as potentially negative connotations to the ICS/IAS. Obviously, instances of outright corruption had to be watched, controlled and its perpetrators disciplined. Yet, the lower civil servant’s knowledge about local corruption, and about powerful interests (and disempowered communities) attempting to access state power, was also of vital importance to the bureaucracy. This delicate balance, although never explicitly stated by policymakers, had to be taken into account in recruitment, as we will see in more detail in the next chapter. Furthermore, because local intrigue was believed by recruitment authorities to involve the balancing out of caste and community interests, this too came to colour and determine appointment policies, although in different ways across provinces like UP and across departments within the UP government. This process involved the translation of perception and expectation into recruitment and ‘conduct rules’ policy, affecting both the practice and the public representation of corruption. One ex-PCS and ICS interviewee for this research expressed the opinion that in British times, many cadres of the civil service were effectively (if not officially), divided into ‘wet’ and ‘dry’ cadres – the latter being the upper level of the services. The ‘wet’ cadres, or those in the subordinate echelons, whose salaries were relatively low, he stated, were allowed to exercise a certain amount of local influence, to work somewhat against the letter of the rules, either in favour of kith and kin or by taking bakshish (a small and incidental payment or ‘tip’).97 The implications of this bureaucratic view shifted after 1947. But as I will argue next, they were still related to public perceptions of corruption as an expression of social status.

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Administrative power and public morality 45 Applicants for government jobs and public (especially newspaper media) agencies were well aware of this situation, to the point that, from the late colonial period, private discussions about ‘getting’ civil service jobs, involved admissions that ‘extra’ forms of income might thereby be acquired. For example, a retired PWD Executive Engineer, recalled how, by the 1960s, it had become quite commonplace, in arranging marriages, for the ‘extra percentages’ derived from nonformal bureaucratic income contained within the bridegroom’s salary to be taken into account, and that he had seen many examples of it.98 T.S.R. Subramanian, a retired IAS officer posted in UP, told a story of the wedding of a daughter of the executive engineer in the public works department in Ghazipur. His wife was closeted with the other women of the party and recounted that guests would come up to the mother of the bride and ask her about the salary of the prospective son-inlaw, who was also an assistant engineer in the same department. The answer was invariably that his salary was rupees three hundred plus two percent. Subramanian concluded that ‘The system had allowed these [percentages] to become part of normal functioning . . .’99 Critics of government in this period linked these phenomena of corruption to perceived national trends and political cultures, as will be seen in the next chapter. Throughout, however, there was still a tendency to view corruption as essentially a dynamic of subordinate cadres, or as a problem which related to questions of social status – something certainly hinted at by T.S.R. Subramanian throughout his memoir. As in the 1930s, in newly independent India, strong associations were made between the idea of a lower, local or degraded sphere of political activity, the different class proclivities of the subordinate civil service, and models of bureaucratic integrity. This involved the assumption that the natural state of affairs involved an almost Hobbesian sphere of free acting subordinate activity, which had to be watched by the superior. Integrity was then, to an extent, seen as a dynamic of social status. This dynamic worked in two directions. On the one hand, official malfeasance was thought to be, ultimately, evidence of low social standing. On the other, perception of status itself could generate forms of corrupt activity. From the late 1920s, when a new round of discussions about constitutional reform involved the possibility of communal reservations in the bureaucracy, this provoked discussions in the Appointments Department and Revenue Department about the danger of reservations for cadres which had traditionally been filled by men linked into some of the key frameworks of local landed power.100 The police were not exempt from these kinds of discussions. The case of the prosecution of a British Deputy Superintendent of Police based in Dehra Dun, UP in 1946, illustrated the ways in which allegations of corruption were given weight by prosecution authorities, with reference to broader moral attitudes and behaviours. The Deputy SP of Dehra Dun, one E.M. Harris had, over the years 1945–46, allegedly accepted illegal gratification from three persons for recommending to the Regional Transport Authority that their vehicles be permitted to ply as buses on hire. He was also accused of having accepted bribes for registering a vehicle in the name of an individual, although the transfer in question was prohibited without a permit. Then ‘with an ulterior motive’, prosecutors

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46 Administrative power and public morality claimed that he had ‘carried out a systematic reshuffling of postings of underofficers and men of the district at very short intervals during the years 1945–46’. However, in the cementing of departmental proceedings against Harris, one of the key sets of witness statements and assessments of his work involved the observation that he was ‘addicted to heavy drinking involving him in an expenditure well beyond his pay’. He was therefore found guilty of accepting bribes and of ‘personal immorality in indulging in drinking to an extent that reduced his utility as a public servant’.101 This practice of linking forms of illegal gratification to morality and behaviour was carried over after 1947. Most importantly, there was a developing theme in government that general perception of social status would have a significant effect on official behaviour, and therefore incidents of corruption. A direct example of this attitude in UP government after independence was seen in the proposal to abolish the old colonial cadre of Circle Inspectors in the police in 1955 and to introduce a new officer, whose role would be to root out corruption in the police and local administrative departments. The objection against the old cadre of Circle Inspectors, was, according to one commentator on the file, that ‘their knowledge of investigation in its shadier aspects has been regarded as a necessary evil. At the same time, they have served as a store house of infection for the subordinate police . . .’ In their place, Sampurnanand, the UP Chief Minister suggested the introduction of a new cadre of Sub-deputy Superintendent of Police (Complaints). Critical to the success of the scheme, for the UP government however, was that ‘. . . they should behave with the restraint, decorum and probity associated with gazetted officers.’ It was considered important, wrote a note on the file, to make the Sub-Dy S.P. feel that they have been raised to a position which obliges them to follow certain rules of conduct, and to attempt in every way to raise their social status and esteem in the eyes of brother officers and the influential people of the district.102 During the year 1956, in UP, the Sub-Deputy Superintendent of Police (Sub-DY SPs) looked into 6,355 cases, the majority of them pertaining to low-level police officers and officials. The traditions in which the social status of different bureaucrats were considered to condition public and private behaviour, also affected the publicity of corruption over the period of the transformation of the Indian state. And the complicated set of professional and social relationships that the lower echelons of the Indian bureaucracy established, often placed subordinate bureaucrats in a more informal position vis-à-vis local power brokers and local politicians, especially as the latter grew in prominence over the late colonial period. As a result, in order to understand and contact officialdom, more informal approaches to government offices were often required by ordinary Indians as was suggested earlier by S.P. Gupta. Acknowledgement of these kinds of arrangements more generally in government, coloured official attitudes to subordinate bureaucratic cadres.

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Conclusion The ICS or IAS was normally expected, both within government circles and in the wider public arena, to act with ‘integrity’. The tahsildar, lekhpal or police constable was normally expected, at some level, to be involved in a network of influence, which might bring alternative forms of income or influence. This was why, throughout the late colonial period and the first two decades of Indian independence, instances of corruption among IAS men were taken so seriously, and why evidence of low social standing could be set up as an explanation for dubious public morality. The effects of social space and professional hierarchies on discourses of corruption surrounding the civil services penetrated a range of different public servant work environments, through changing spheres of public morality. A further issue not directly tackled by this chapter, but implicit in the discussions around differences between IAS and PCS or other subordinate cadres, were the spatial differences in the purchase of these discourses and public perceptions. ICS/IAS professional conduct formed part of a national project – illustrated by the debates surrounding public administration, such as those emerging out of the Gorwala Report. In contrast, the political world of the PCS officer or subordinate bureaucrat – exemplified by the Tahsildar in Revenue, revolved around the tahsil, district and at its widest, in the province/state. Yet, the very awareness of this hierarchical difference in government was also a part of the official construction of public moralities of administration. The pre-1947 ICS was not only a cadre that was transferred between centre and district, but was also largely (in the case of its Indian recruits as well as European) built upon an awareness of international or imperial connections, as the first part of the chapter set out. This conceit continued after 1947, and has been amply researched by David Potter. The rooted nature of PCS cadres by contrast, was naturally related to discourses of conduct that were to be located more in localised public spheres – the Hindi press and the spheres of district-level politics. This did not mean that discussion of subordinate cadres of the civil service did not penetrate national debates. This chapter has illustrated some of the ways in which provincial and national debates about public morality and administration, worked their way down to local levels of the civil services. In particular, the connections made between ‘corruption’, social status and local spheres of political influence were part of the broader inter-connections between the discourse of integrity for upper civil servants, and the other side of its coin, the subordinate whose integrity was more easily placed in doubt. It also seemed clear that these discourses had a cumulative effect on the workings of some departments, setting up a kind of tradition of ‘corrupt’ operation, which reset the boundaries once again of acceptable and unacceptable official behaviour.

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3

Religion, caste and government servant recruitment, 1920s–1950s

This chapter examines issues of social hierarchy and ‘corruption’ in the civil services in the light of bureaucratic policies that prioritised proportionate representation of communities and castes in recruitment. It also explores the early questions about reservations in the government services. This history encourages us to reconsider the way in which subject/citizens interacted with civil servants and police officers, particularly when it came to issues of recruitment. The chapter is, therefore, concerned with the nature of interactions and boundaries between state and society and offers an alternative to political histories which treat the state in India as a uniform homogeneous entity. First, by looking at how different communities attempted to gain access to government employment, it examines how the interactions between officialdom and the public affected bureaucratic corruption in terms of the use of state resources and manpower for particularistic purposes. Second, to this end, it more directly develops a historical background for the existing literature that posits the idea of a ‘fuzzy state’ in contemporary India.1 The chapter examines three specific phases in the colonial and postcolonial state’s approach to caste and communal representation in the services. First, it will consider the early to mid 1930s, the period surrounding the Round Table Conferences leading up to the 1935 Government of India Act, and the Communal Award. In particular, here it will survey the debates in the UP Appointments Department (established to manage and review civil service recruitment) about the possibilities of community or caste reservations in the services. In the second section, it will move on to the mid 1940s and concentrate specifically on the kinds of pressure and lobby groups that emerged as a result of government reservation proposals, and the ways in which they played themselves out around the 1946 elections. Finally, it will look at the period of the early 1950s, and consider how the independent Indian state managed the question of Scheduled Caste (SC) reservation in a very different political context. The politics of caste reservations has become a popular subject of debate in contemporary India and although most commentators relate the subject to events since the mid 1980s or so, the subject has a much deeper provenance. In the late colonial period, as will become clear in the following sections, there was a debate about the relative merits of absolute fixed reservations, as opposed to more general policies of ‘affirmative action’ (although the latter term is more modern

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Religion, caste and government recruitment 49 in its origin), and proportionate weightage. In the late colonial period, the main demands for reservation, weightage or proportionate representation, principally came from religious community groups, and there was a particular concern within the UP government to acknowledge the interests of Muslims, as we will see later. The political history of this process has been extensively covered elsewhere, so won’t be repeated here.2 Significant for this chapter though, is how the formal and legislative provisions for the recognition of community (and caste) claims found their way, in a different form, into the ostensibly secular Constitution of India in 1950. Certain sections of the Constitution were particularly pertinent here, articles 15 and 17, and article 46, and the latter states that the state shall pursue the advancement of the ‘weaker sections’, defined broadly as ‘depressed’ or ‘socially and educationally backward’ classes. Articles 330 and 332 make special electoral provisions for broadly defined ‘Scheduled Castes and Tribes’.3 Caste associations and movements had been lobbying for the recognition of political and educational rights, and for the promotion of ‘social reform’ in UP since the early twentieth century – a factor which can be clearly seen in the plethora of caste bodies sending representations to the Census Commissioners in 1921, 1931 and 1941.4 Many organisations, such as the All India Yadav Mahasabha, were principally concerned with ‘sanskritisation’, i.e. the assertion of higher (in this case ‘kshatriya’) status. However, a range of organisations, some of which will be explored in detail later, began to seriously campaign for special recognition in terms of electoral reservations, separate electorate provision and administrative recruitment reservation, in the lead up to the 1935 Government of India Act, from the period of the late 1920s (around the time of the Simon Commission), to the early 1930s (during the Round Table Conferences in London).5 Critically important in the continuation of this principle of reservations (or their possibility) after independence, was the Constitution’s drafter, and first Law Minister, B.R. Ambedkar and fellow Maharashtrian, Punjabrao Deshmukh. These men consistently suggested the extension of reservations to government jobs for a range of castes which went beyond the already defined ‘Scheduled Castes and Tribes’ group. Such proposals which would take the form of caste quotas, were generally opposed in Constituent Assembly debates, but a Backward Classes Commission was appointed on 29 January 1953, under Kakasaheb Kalelkar. The report of this Commission recommended reservations in government services, principally in the lower cadres, but many in the Commission opposed its recommendations, including its chairman. Outside the Commission, G.B. Pant in particular, argued that the modernisation of the state and the establishment of society ‘on a socialist pattern’, would eventually lead to the extinction of caste and other social distinctions. The burying of any recognition by central and state governments into the early 1960s, of what would later become the category of ‘Other Backward Castes’, has been represented as a general reluctance within Congress to recognise caste as a criterion for affirmative action.6 However this chapter will argue that despite this broad ideology at the centre of government, caste lobbying groups continued to play an important role in pushing for special recognition through the 1950s.

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50

Religion, caste and government recruitment

And even more importantly, the Congress’s high caste ‘modernising’ agenda for society contained within it a recognition that caste and community would continue to play a part, in reality, in local-level administrative work and political mobilisation. This trend, and the very fact that a Commission had been set up, encouraged organisations such as the UP Backward Classes Federation and a host of more local organisations to make a claim for special representation. Since the implementation of the Mandal Commission recommendations in the early 1990s, which extended the principle of reservations to OBCs,7 the notion of reservations in government employment and educational institutions has defined a range of political agendas at central and state levels, and has become the very basis of electoral mobilisation and political bargaining in states like Uttar Pradesh and Bihar. Research on low caste political movements and parties has increased, largely as a result of the changes that followed their rise,8 and analysis of the connections between the politics of reservations and the rise of the Hindu right has become almost de rigueur.9 However, while contemporary debates about reservations have become a defining feature of contemporary Indian politics, the phenomenon has elicited relatively little research into the deeper historical roots of state-oriented reservations policies. This is partly due to confusion and a lack of consensus about the limits and actions of the ‘state’ in India, as will be explored in detail later. Nevertheless, it was certainly an issue of primary importance to nearly all of the interviewees for this book. P.C. Kakker (IPS, 1953) made it plain that they connected the ‘politicisation’ of the services since the late 1960s, to the growing prominence of ‘caste’ in Indian politics.10 J.N. Chaturvedi, (IPS, 1951), who worked extensively in the Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI) for a large part of his career, described in detail the means by which local mafia gangs based on caste distinctions intersected with local politics in the 1960s and 1970s.11 Debates within the UP government about caste and community proportions in the PCS and subordinate cadres were not just about the politics of appointments. Such discussions were also significant in setting the ethnographic agendas for how ICS men established and maintained working relationships with subordinates. Once these debates took into account the notion of ‘reservation’ and political ‘minority’ (from the 1930s), some of the pre-existing civil service notions about managing local networks and informal political alliances in support of the Raj underwent change. This process was particularly important for a province/ state like Uttar Pradesh. In the giant UP, the Appointments Department administering provincial/state civil service recruitment had to manage a very wide range of local circumstances, across different topographies. The distance from district headquarters to village could be vast (in areas such as Almora), and networks of social power could rapidly change. This chapter will explore some specific examples of how UP cadre recruitment policies had to take these differences into account. UP also provides a (very varied) snapshot of how civil-service notions of ‘minority’ representation shifted from a consideration of religious community (in this case, the Muslim community), to ‘Depressed Classes’, or ‘Scheduled Castes and Tribes’. The period of 1930 to the mid 1950s was a time in which state-driven notions of ‘minority’ status shifted dramatically – from the Communal Award and

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Religion, caste and government recruitment 51 its protection of Muslim minority rights in the early 1930s,12 to the recognition of ‘Scheduled Castes Order’ in 1936, and their enshrinement and extension in the 1950 Constitution of independent India.13 This chapter will also look in more depth at the variable methods used by subject/citizens in approaching the state, particularly in terms of recruitment. This was not simply a case of individuals approaching the Public Services Commission or departmental authority with the aim of networking for a job. There was a complex arrangement of lobbying and petitioning on behalf of candidates, as we have seen in Chapter 2 in relation to the family, often by specific community-based organisations.14 In pursuing these intersections between citizens’ organisations/ community groups and civil service or police recruiters, we start to get a different kind of insight into how the local state worked in this period, and what it meant to ordinary Indian subject/citizens. This was a (local) state composed of the multiple actions of informal actors, who, through local networks and affiliations, were able to acquire temporary control of state power in certain districts and areas. It was an entity which defied logical categorisation, despite the apparent formality of the passing of files between departments, or the hierarchical conventions of civil servants. Second, the chapter suggests that late colonial debates on reservations in the services, and the circumstances in which pressure and lobby groups responded, had a bearing on later, post-independence approaches to the issue. What happened at the inception of political demands for caste and community reservations was tied up with the very ideological bases of state power. In particular, the social hierarchies that operated within the local state in UP, which themselves made references to caste differences, coloured the civil servant’s theoretical duty towards the public. Departments that implemented schemes of bureaucratic recruitment did so on the basis of specific assumptions about how lower-level bureaucrats operated, and on a desire to not unduly upset local traditions and social structures. In this project, administrative and police recruitment policies were explicitly gendered, directly excluding women from their purview, and indirectly reinforcing patriarchal social structures among those lobbying for civil-service posts. Since a dominant assumption, as Chapter 2 suggested, was that provincial cadres such as Deputy Collectors, Tahsildars and police were more easily embroiled in the everyday intrigue of local politics, this, policy-makers argued, had to be taken into account in recruitment. Furthermore, because recruitment authorities believed that ‘local intrigue’ involved the balancing out of caste or community interests, this too came to colour and determine appointment policies, although in different ways across UP and across departments. As a result, communal and later, caste pressure groups and lobbies were indirectly encouraged to canvass for jobs. The ultimate by-products, as party politics developed, were problems of bureaucratic neutrality in electoral politics on the one hand, and in the day-to-day operation of civil servants and police on the other. As we saw in Chapter 1, recent research on the ‘everyday state’ and corruption has agreed that the idea of a monolithic state, arbitrating social conflict was a foundation myth in India. Chris Fuller and John Harriss, for example, capture

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the conflicts and inconsistencies of agencies and actors within the state machinery itself in contemporary India: unlike a ‘benevolent leviathan’, the state does not act as a neutral arbiter of public interest. In practice, ‘its multiple agencies are staffed by personnel who rarely act in full coordination with each other and are often in dispute or competition’.15 Official policies towards caste and communal ‘minorities’ in an earlier historical phase illustrate this process in stark form, and allow the historian to see how the fuzzy state changes over a critical period of decolonisation. Anthropologists and sociologists working on how the contemporary state operates in specific low-level case studies, have identified dominant local communities who subvert state power for their own private or family/community interests.16 These are specific agencies and groups who, I argue, not only contribute to the ambiguity of state–society divisions, but who also link to long-standing, much older, officiallydefined pressure groups and lobbies. This work, which has so far not been much used by historians, has nevertheless opened up new questions for the discipline. Some of the issues outlined by local state writers then – problems of everyday corruption and the exercise of influence, can be given depth and nuance by looking at how the civil service managed communal and caste recruitment from a historical perspective. Because local governments evidently defined the exercise of influence at district levels partly in terms of the control of the district bureaucracy and police, they tended to view community power-sharing or competition as one of the keys to that political control. Questions of ‘minority’ proportion and reservation in the civil service, at critical historical junctures also made it more difficult however for colonial officials in general to claim that the paternalism of the Raj operated in a largely neutral way. There was a paradox in this process. On the one hand, local governments in UP wanted to maintain a balance between a mixture of what they saw as the key dominant communities in terms of ‘caste’ or religious groups. This was at the root of the state’s image as a neutral arbiter – it underwrote the British claim to be adjudicators of India’s political future. Of course, no political observers in India were in any doubt about the realities of a colonial system which had all along privileged powerful landlords who were able to control the land. Indeed, since 1858, British police in Awadh was explicitly directed towards the creation of a landed aristocracy.17 On the other hand, colonial officialdom increasingly sought in the interwar years to publicise an image of colonial benevolence, which (albeit in an empty way) projected the Raj as the custodian of ‘progressive’ self-government in India. In this process, some officials maintained a parallel sense that communities might share in state power. And in opening up the idea of state capture through community organisations, local governments exposed themselves to particular kinds of lobby groups, which effectively undermined even the basic principle of political neutrality. As we will see, the results were the growth in pressure groups specifically designed to put pressure on government for recruitment, or in some cases to critique and subvert its definitions. But even more interestingly, it was seen in the conduct of important elections, such as that of 1946. The implications of this process for post-1947 India were far-reaching. The point that independent India inherited the steel frame of the bureaucracy from the

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Religion, caste and government recruitment 53 Raj, largely unreformed in its shape and structure, and with some of its surviving prejudices has for a long time been a common refrain both of historical work on the 1950s and of political commentators in India.18 There were more deep-rooted legacies which connect the whole infrastructure of caste lobbying for governmentservice jobs to older dynamics in which communities were granted a share of power under a colonial system. Most of the interviewees for this research complained that local bureaucracies were ‘influenced’ by local politicians, or that the civil service was being increasingly politicised. According to M. Subrahmanyam, who joined the UP IAS in 1958 and P.K. Kaul who joined in 1951, this process got going with the appearance of a new generation of politicians from the late 1960s.19 However, the structural aspects of this situation were already established by the late colonial state. Recruitment to government service was one of the primary routes to local influence, whilst the franchise was limited and the emerging party system relatively weak. This also had an important effect on how political agencies interacted with bureaucrats in a new democratic context. How the colonial state adjudicated demands of competing interest groups, how it defined and described those interests as communities or minorities, was also vital to how local bureaucracies were to operate after 1947.

i) Colonial views of ‘community’ and questions of representation The early 1930s was a period of dramatic constitutional and political change for India – from the declaration of purna swaraj (complete self-rule) by the Congress late in 1929, to the launching of civil disobedience and the phase of Round Table Conferences to decide India’s constitutional future in London. Throughout the 1920s in UP, the press had highlighted moments of communal resurgence, involving, for example, the Malabar rebellion and the rise of the Hindu Mahasabha in the electoral arena in 1926 and the robust refusal of most UP Muslim organisations to join Congress’s civil disobedience from 1930.20 Over the same period, the civil service was experiencing growing ‘Indianisation’, and as we saw previously, demands for special representation of ‘disadvantaged’ minority communities and castes were considered and implemented by the Communal Award of August 1932.21 It was in this context that officers in the Appointments Department debated the question of bureaucratic reservations or proportionate representation for different communities. Information was gathered from all local departments (for example, revenue, police, engineering, medical and education) on their recruitment policies and existing workforces. The initial statement of policy was ‘to prevent the preponderance of any one class or community’ but with the possible ‘reservation of one third of all vacancies for the redress of communal inequalities.’22 This was clearly a time when the terminology surrounding community and caste issues were transforming: ‘class’, ‘caste’ and ‘community’ had for many years been somewhat interchangeable,23 but more frequent now was the notion of ‘minority’, which more directly drew comparisons between different kinds of communities. Bureaucratic recruitment artificially privileged religion and caste in relation to other, potentially stronger identities, and served to consolidate

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their political meanings. For example, the UP Revenue Manual rules, designed to guide the work of revenue officers such as Tahsildars and Deputy Collectors, and which encouraged ‘a due admixture of castes’ in local government service, formed the central basis for discussing Hindu–Muslim ratios.24 Government analysts of bureaucratic recruitment appeared to assume that caste and religious community played comparable roles when it came to the exercise of local political influence. There was a duality in policy here: on the one hand, there was an attempt to limit, or prohibit, what was seen as the exercise of illegitimate interest in the bureaucracy through caste or community cliques. On the other hand, representatives in the administration tacitly acknowledged, and in other senses, attempted to control or guide what they saw as the inevitable manipulation of state power through ascribed communal channels. Importantly, the whole issue of reservations in the civil services and police was about who the local governments wanted to keep out of these posts, as well as those who were to be included. This exercise of official exclusion was gendered. Specific communities were traditionally identified as ‘ideal’ for certain cadres because their characteristics were often defined in terms of ‘masculinity’.25 There were also, however, direct and deliberate exclusions of women from executive cadres. In 1935, under the perverse title of ‘Reservation of services and posts for a particular sex under section 275 of the Government of India Act 1935’, the UP Appointments Department did not principally discuss the areas of reservation for women, but focussed on the parts of the services in which women should continue to be excluded. The Civil Executive Services, and Police, including the work of tahsildars and naib tahsildars, . . . have hitherto been reserved exclusively for men and it appears that they should continue to be so reserved as duties attached to them call for considerable powers of physical endurance. Though officers in the Judicial Department are not called upon to perform duties in riots, in raids on gambling dens, in chasing dacoits, etc, their service requires continuity of work, which in the case of women is likely to be interrupted by marriage, etc.26 Certain departments were suggested where reservations might be instituted for women, such as in the Medical Department, warders and matrons in jails, inspectresses in the Cooperative and Education Departments, and mistresses and matrons in government schools. In particular, it was noted that where an officer would need to control a relatively large number of men, women would not be suitable. However, after the 1935 Government of India Act, the men in the UP Government realised that they would need a specific order to exclude women, since they could not be excluded under the Act itself.27 Harry Haig, Governor of UP at the time, put this down to the ‘interfering stupidity’ of British feminists. However, there was some consolation for the Governor in colonial assumptions about Indian society: The feminist movement has made such rapid progress in recent years that we may not be able to say so positively for much longer that women are not as

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capable as men in powers of endurance and in the performance of work which involves the control of large bodies of men. On the other hand public opinion in India is generally conservative and will probably for many years resent the intrusion of women in the various branches of public service.28 Haig’s views were shared by most of the Indian members of the Congress government in UP, when the subject was discussed after the 1937 elections. G.B. Pant’s prejudice, however, was more subtle. For him, the legal position was not in any doubt – it was open to the government to impose a disqualification on the grounds of sex by any general or special order. However, he did not think it necessary to debar any sex from any particular post because it would happen naturally through the discretion of the Public Services Commission. The latter would simply reflect the overall paternalism and conservatism of north India society. Pant was able to conclude: ‘Let us observe the principle of equality of sex, at least in theory. I know that this province is too conservative to outgrow age long prejudice at once.’ Possibly, Pant noted, later on a time would come when special orders would be required, to make sure the successes of women did not allow them to enter service on the basis of equality with men.29 The debate about excluding women from executive services revealed a form of argument that again appeared in the consideration of caste and community reservations: the idea that forms of local ‘custom’ could guide policy on the one hand, and the sense that informal action could achieve the desired end on the other. The UP government did not want to appear to be intruding on desirable paternalistic north Indian customs. An open-ended policy, which was not committed to clear community proportions and reservation was therefore always more likely than clear reservations. Such flexibility meant that special considerations of community could be geared towards the maintenance of stability and political loyalty, where the government’s strategic ‘choice’ of any particular caste or religious community could change over time. Also important was the management of community claims. As Malcolm Hailey, Governor of UP between 1928 and 1934 put it: directly you begin to lay down a definite proportion for one community you are immediately assailed by other communities and classes; whereas if you confine yourself to an endeavour to prevent the preponderance of any one community, or see that each community has a reasonable representation, you do not lay yourself open to this trouble.30 Practical difficulties overlay ideological objections too. It quickly became clear that there were serious logistical difficulties in a policy of reservations in such a large province as UP. J.M. Clay pointed out in a later discussion on the subject, that the attempt to fill a province-wide quota, say, for Muslims, would be made particularly difficult by their uneven recruitment in different cadres and in different regions of the province. Any even proportion of reservation would therefore undermine traditions of recruitment from particular communities in particular cadres. For example, while the overall percentage of Muslims in the total population

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of UP was about 14 per cent, there were low proportions of Muslims in Kumaon, Gorakhpur and Jhansi divisions, which would make it difficult to fill any kind of Muslim quota in subordinate civil services in these areas.31 The broad principle of maintaining a balance of 60:30:10 between Hindus, Muslims and other minorities in the provincial services seemed more appropriate. However, because of regional variation, and the acknowledgement that Muslims for example, traditionally took up particular kinds of government posts (for example, in the police and revenue departments), departmental policy varied too. Clay pointed out that Muslims were over-represented in the Executive, Police and Registration Departments, but ‘lagged behind’ in Medical, Engineering and Forest Departments. As a result, the idea of ‘proportion’ was based on ratios which reflected the preferences and traditions of community groups themselves. For most of the 1920s, it was found that under the competitive examination for Deputy Collectors, the target ratio of non-Muslims to Muslims was 2:1. Amongst tahsildars and naib tahsildars, the policy in the Board of Revenue since 1913 had been potentially more generous to Muslims – aiming to select not less than two and not more than four Muslims for every five Hindus.32 The discussions surrounding possible reservations or proportionate/managed recruitment, then, were to a great extent guided by the line of least resistance: where particular communities had traditionally dominated certain cadres or departments in any particular district, this dominance was often interpreted as the basis for administrative stability, and something worthy of preservation. Generations of government service and family background in government, most commentators suggested, was a clear key to loyalty. These were clearly considerations which had been inherited from an earlier era. In the first two decades of the twentieth century, it was quite common to include caste and religious background when considering suitability for appointment, particularly at PCS level or below. In a file discussing how appointments should take place at PCS level in 1908–9, the subject of recruiting Indian Christians into revenue positions was also discussed. And here, the caste background of subordinate Christian officers’ ancestors was taken into account in discussing appointments, leading to the conclusion of one official that ‘Native Christians are quite out of place in independent charge of outlying tahsils . . .’33 Although Muslims were to be granted separate electorates under the 1909 constitution, there was no serious consideration at this stage of ‘fair’ representation in the service. In 1918, the issue of reservations and the need to pay lip service to the notion of social justice did begin to arise, but it was still framed in terms of community characteristics. When the UP Appointments Department, in that year, considered the question of communal proportions in district executives, a District Officer in the Kumaon Division had noted that, The hill Bhn [Brahmin]. and especially the Joshi, tries to annex all good appointments and resents the hill Rajput coming in . . . One of the main jobs of the Commn. in Kumaun has been to put a necessary break on the Bhn clique and give the Rajput a leg up . . . The Joshi makes an excellent government servant out of the Kumaun Division, but unfortunately his great ambition is always to get back there and this has to be resisted.34

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Religion, caste and government recruitment 57 Discussions in the 1930s, in contrast, revolved more clearly around the relative merits of reservations for Muslims and ‘Depressed Classes’. It was fairly obvious where colonial preferences and energies lay. On the surface, this debate reflected of course, the proposals for separate representation for depressed classes in connection with the Communal Award in the early 1930s. But there were some general tendencies in the discussion which bring us back to the manner in which the position of women in the services were tackled in the mid 1930s. On the whole, the reservations debate in UP government was not at all concerned with social justice, or even the anticipation of a time when a large proportion of a democratic electorate would be composed of large swathes of communities effectively excluded from the services. In some departments, it was openly admitted that as well as the consideration of ‘not allowing the preponderance of any one community’, the notion of state servant esprit de corps should be taken into account – a set of ideas which narrated the different qualities of specific communities, and which was based both in notions of social precedence and in some cases, views of ritual pollution. This tradition also had a deeper background. In 1908, the principle of competition and examination at the PCS level was extended so as to open up a proportion of posts to what was at that time referred to as ‘the educated classes’. At that time, S.H. Butler had complained that such a move was: . . . a deprivation of the landowning class of a privilege given them, and at a time when they alone have shown overt loyalty . . . Would not the proposals be regarded as a preference for those who have nothing but education to recommend them over those who have education (generally better) and social position as well?35 The sentiments expressed by Butler extended into the 1930s. For example, in a debate on the UP executive services, it was admitted that ‘in making direct appointments [to deputy Collectorships] . . . the claims of taluqdars or zamindars are generally considered but sometimes appointments go to the sons of loyal government servants also.’36 The police in UP were even more blunt about the need to favour particular kinds of recruitment and to avoid any kind of special recognition of lower castes, for reasons of esprit de corps. The ‘practical’ difficulties alluded to here, were the problems associated with overcoming community taboos and prejudices. G.P. Sinha writing from the Police Department suggested that ‘so far as the Subordinate Police Services is concerned there is a practical difficulty . . . that men in that service will not associate and work and eat with members of the depressed classes.’37 Muhammad Ahmad Sa-id Khan, a prominent UP policeman, commented in the Appointments file that . . . we believe in that department in maintaining a sort of ‘esprit de corps’ and if we have a chamar or sweeper living in a barrack occupied by Brahmans and Thakurs, there is bound to be trouble. The fact is that what is being said by all the Hindu reformers is a hope which has not yet materialized and the question of untouchability is still in existence.38

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In both of these objections, the issue of caste taboo was associated by senior officers with lower cadres, and reform was viewed as a dynamic of societal change which might come about with the ‘modernisation’ of the state. Assumptions about the different ‘characteristics’ of communities could also be mixed up with considerations of ‘racial’ difference. In a discussion in 1929 about the method of recruitment of Kanungos39 in the Revenue Department, Kayastha domination of the posts was discussed with a sense of regret by the nine Commissioners of UP consulted on the issue. Instead, it was suggested that agricultural castes, zamindars and sons of zamindars should be selected, partly because of their ‘better physique’. One Commissioner commented that Caste representation should be considered. At present the Kayasth community have an unfair predominance which is harmful in practice as most patwaris are Kayasthas. A due proportion of kanungoships should be given to Muhammadans also and to the cultivating castes of Hindus such as Kurmis, Lodhas and Ahirs.40 The desire to include ‘sturdy’ peasant stock here, was also linked to a fear of over-developed caste cliques, which would connect different levels of the revenue administration. The significance of ‘community’ was however more often related to the maintenance of esprit de corps by recruiters, rather than because of the requirements of social justice or religious community balance. Following the Communal Award through the mid to late 1930s, the UP Government defined around the 60 ‘depressed classes’ in the province. Religious status and practice was one of the criteria for identification, as it was later to be for Scheduled Castes. Government servants’ Classification and Control rules and the Revenue Manual,41 made explicit links between religious community and caste community in terms of the exercise of community influence in a locality. However, in more informal discussions of caste and community, the ideas of elitism entailed by esprit de corps certainly privileged predetermined ideas of community difference. In this project, Muslims as minorities were accorded a kind of priority over other minorities, allowing J.M. Clay to comment that ‘The depressed classes are not a separate community, but a special interest and cannot therefore successfully make the claim’ to be fairly represented in the same way as Muslims. The very positive results of proactive recruitment in Madras were often cited in government circles, and by pressure groups as a development which had led to improvements in standards of living and the development of lower caste political consciousness. E.A.H. Blunt, census commissioner, dismissed this comparison between Madras and UP with the note which again suggested that disadvantage was not the defining principle in the debate: ‘But many of their Harijans are cocks of a very different hackle to ours’.42 There was however a move to formalise the idea of reservations for lower castes – something which took place through the enactment of an order that gave the appearance if not the substance of progress: limited direct recruitment of Scheduled Castes was permitted in UP under the 1936 Scheduled Castes Order. Nevertheless, the

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Religion, caste and government recruitment 59 difference in how the UP Appointments Department viewed this development in comparison to ongoing consideration of Muslim minorities was palpable. When the Appointments Department discovered that Muslims held a high proportion of posts in the executive branches of the UP civil service in the early 1930s, rather than being perturbed, most commentators looked upon the situation as positive. In 1932, 44 per cent of UP’s Deputy Collectors were Muslims, and they held roughly 41 per cent of the tahsildar and naib tahsildar posts. Muslims were even better represented in the police, making up 44 per cent of Sub-Inspectors and 71 per cent of Head Constables in the same year. Muslim representation was much lower in the technical departments. For example, out of 25 recruits the UP Engineering (B and R) department, only one Muslim was recruited in 1932.43 With the failure of widespread Muslim support for civil disobedience in the early 1930s, disproportionate Muslim presence in the most important posts was not viewed as a problem by the UP government. In fact, one of the arguments made against fixing communal proportions in the civil service, was that it might lead to Muslim losses in important executive branches. In the mid 1940s, this prejudice continued to have an important effect on official acquiescence in UP Muslim opposition to the Congress. We might look at this entire discussion of reservations from the colonial perspective as an exercise in how best to maximise the smooth running of local administrations for the purposes of revenue collection and law and order. Whereas some representatives of the UP government attempted to limit or prohibit the exercise of caste or community-based interest in the bureaucracy, others saw the possibilities of harnessing, controlling or guiding it. In these debates, practical considerations came to the fore. Whereas government had to be seen to be meeting some of the demands of its most influential subjects, by paying lip service to the idea of social justice, in reality, most government spokesmen did not relate this to a framework of political or social development. Instead, the driving force behind the debate was a belief in the tendency for interest groups to form at local levels, which would immediately attempt to take advantage of state power. The local government could either harness this situation to its benefit, or attempt to combat it. In these difficult calculations, the late colonial notion of ‘corruption’ was central. The behavioural characteristics of different communities, when exercising administrative authority, were linked to their propensity to exercise influence on behalf of their caste-fellows, or their practices of ‘integrity’. Most significantly, the tendencies towards the abuse of power on the basis of community were associated with subordinate levels of the civil services and police, as suggested in Chapter 2. But this supposedly inescapable fact of political life in India, precisely because it was low level and ‘local’, was something which put government in a difficult position. On the one hand, its very variability and complexity meant that disciplining or controlling it would appear to be a mammoth task. On the other, its importance to the real exercise of authority and rule meant that it ought to be carefully watched. The colonial regime in UP had neither the manpower nor the inclination to monitor each of its servants very closely. And so, as in the past, a large proportion of men who had worked at the district level pointed out that communal

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and caste prejudice in the administration might be guided and controlled rather than entirely eliminated. In the mid 1930s, the colonial assumption was that there was more likely to be community and caste-based competition at subordinate levels of the administration, and in areas where state–society contacts were clearest. R.A. Horton commented on the suggestion of reservations in the UP police, that A communal basis for the appointment of gazetted officers is no doubt today more or less indispensible, but, on the whole, gazetted officers are so trained and qualified educationally, that most of them can be relied upon to avoid action likely to give rise to allegations of communal prejudice. Among the rank and file, however, this is hardly the case . . .44 Perhaps unsurprisingly then, the UP government continued to identify ‘ideal’ communities for civil service and police recruitment and these often overlapped with identifiable religious and caste communities in India. This led to recruiters’ essentialisation of community traits. In the process of selection of Deputy Collectors for different districts in UP in 1934 for example, the District Magistrate’s report on one Pandit Govind Atma Ram Dhavle who had applied for a post in Farrukhabad related his caste-based characteristics, to particular kinds of administrative skills: “He is by race a Mahratta Brahman, and has all the characteristics of his race in being cautious and far seeing in what he carries out.’45 These reports were indicative of a larger trend – one in which provincial governments self-consciously promoted a long-standing tradition of identifying bureaucratic ideals, within preexisting notions of community and region.

ii) Implications: the response of community organisations The UP Government’s decisions in the early 1930s to maintain communal proportions rather than fixed quotas or reservations had been an attempt (for people like Hailey) to discourage the multiplication of claims and calls for representation. However, in this the final decisions failed to fully meet this objective and contributed, through the late 1930s and 1940s, to the formation of community-based lobby groups. During the late colonial period, the services were still the key to local political influence. We might look on these groups and organisations, specific examples of which will be examined later as something including both ‘demand group’ and ‘interest group’ functions, as defined by Rudolph and Rudolph: in many respects they worked in camera, had their own internal structures, hierarchies and sometimes publications, and held formal meetings of ‘members’. On the other hand, they could also, on occasion mobilise quite spontaneously around a specific ad hoc issue, in a Gandhian style.46 This straddling of the two forms was possible partly because they were based around religious community and caste, the boundaries of which could be extended or reduced on the basis of the subject of appeal or petition, and whether or not it demanded broader public participation. Membership could contain both professionals of the ‘lobby’, sometimes representing a particular government post on the one hand, and members of the public

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Religion, caste and government recruitment 61 petitioning the local government on the other. In this sense, perhaps more than any other form of organisation, they represented a pivotal intersection point between local state and broader social interest groups. Lobbying organisations and institutions were not only interested in getting jobs for their communities. Bureaucratic jobs provided leverage in important local affairs, such as land ownership, control of neighbourhoods or religious spaces and getting things ‘done’ in their business affairs. There were other specific reasons why low caste groups and Scheduled Castes (SCs) wanted to increase their representation in revenue cadres and district-level administration in the mid to late 1940s. The phases of tenancy reform inaugurated by the Congress governments in the late 1930s, and the promises of eventual zamindar abolition suggested that a host of older social relationships in the UP countryside, many of them like forms of begar (customary forced labour) highly iniquitous, would be altered. Importantly, the colonial administration stood in a complex relationship with these traditions since, as we have seen earlier, the Raj continued to favour in areas like UP, the consideration of family and caste traditions in appointments to revenue cadres. Yet at the same time, the formal notions of ma-bap governance still had a resonance. There was a sense that, in the right hands, revenue department posts could do some good for lower castes who had suffered due to forced labour and other iniquities in the past. Historians and political scientists have traditionally argued that a whole array of caste and community movements usually had as one of their key aims and agendas, access to state employment or representation. In this, the very formulation of community identity in such organisations has been seen as responsive to state-generated definitions of ethnic and religious difference.47 It is difficult to draw a clear conclusion on this in UP, since recruitment at the level of the PCS was both regionally varied and cadre-specific (Muslims, for example, not traditionally being associated with technical posts). For example, as well as the obvious religious community-based organisations, like the Hindu Mahasabha, which made government lobbying a part of their function, there were a range of more specific movements more clearly set up with government recruitment as a central priority. Some of the regionally-specific low caste movements and lobbies seemed to respond less to government direction and change in policy in a broad sense, than to challenge the whole basis of colonial ethnographic definition. On the other hand, nearly all groups and organisations, with the exception of those on the left, accepted the principle that government set the pattern for local powersharing between communities. Even where there was critique of colonial ethnographies, then, there was relatively little criticism of the idea that the purpose of the state was to define communities and use such categorisations to distribute government posts. There were important differences in the style and content of the representations these organisations made, and this is evident in a comparison between the Hindu Sabha in UP and Scheduled Caste organisations. One main difference was how each set out claims of social disadvantage. In August 1938, the UP Provincial Hindu Sabha sent a deputation to the Governor on the matter of bureaucratic recruitment.

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Complaints about proportions and numbers was at the forefront, the point being that ‘the Hindu community does not hold offices in proportion to the population, while specially in the Police and Executive services, the disproportion is large and striking.’48 The Sabha was itself placed in a relatively difficult position in making these claims, since it had for most of the 1920s and early 1930s, contained members and sympathisers, who had entirely rejected the push for bureaucratic employment. In UP, a range of Congressmen, some of them very active in the main campaigns of non-cooperation and civil disobedience, had partaken in Hindu Sabha activities.49 It was perhaps for this reason that this more ‘loyal’ deputation stressed acquiescence and support. The deputation suggested that ‘the Hindu community in these provinces do not lag behind other communities in literacy and education, [or] in the payment of government revenue’, but more strikingly, it was claimed that the Hindu community was naturally as loyal as any other – that it was only widespread Hindu unemployment that had accounted for Congress support during the Congress protests of 1920–22 and 1930–31.50 Lobbying movements at a national level were similar but their representations of loyalty were sometimes more direct. Interesting here, was a reflection of the UP Hindu Sabha position that access to employment should be linked to contribution to the state, either in terms of revenues or services. In claims for better representation in the railway services in 1934, the Sri Guru Sabha argued that Sikhs had ‘shed their best blood in the cause of the British Empire’. A similar Muslim deputation argued that Sikhs had been of service to the Empire, but they had also been troublesome in the Akali movement. In contrast, Muslims had fought against their own kith and kin on the frontiers, East Africa, Somaliland, Egypt and Mesopotamia and had not generally joined the Congress.51 At this level, the issue of communal bias in policing and administration was more bluntly stated – the Hindu Yuvak Sabha of Punjab (a province where Hindus were in a minority) in a deputation to the Government of India argued that ‘it is seriously apprehended that in communal troubles, minority communities would be entirely at the mercy of officials belonging to the majority community’.52 A significant aspect of these fears related to the fact that one of the central government services was the railways, and a great deal of ‘communal’ violence had (and was to later) take place on transport networks. Loyalty and overall suitability were also present in low caste representations. Ram Prasad Soni, representative of the Depressed Classes of Agra, wrote to Willingdon in February 1936, arguing that, Individually a Britisher does not recognise the distinction between an untouchable, a caste Hindu and a Muslim butcher but when it comes to appointing them in Government services, a distinction is actually made . . . physically, the depressed classes are not less fit than others. In loyalty, surely they do not yield to anyone else in the country.53 These kinds of representations could be made at particularly strategic moments, too, and there were a range of low caste representations of loyalty during the 1942 Quit India movement. A meeting of the Adi Hindu Depressed Classes in Agra on 5

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Religion, caste and government recruitment 63 August 1942 urged the Depressed Classes to cooperate with the Government in the defence of the country and to join the Civic Guard. The meeting also resolved that it ‘strongly opposes the present movement of Mahatma Gandhi and the Congress’. The members of the Kumaun Shilpkar Sabha made similar declarations of loyalty during 1942, and in 1942 offered to raise a brigade of Shilpkar youths for the army: ‘The shilpkar youths will continue to enlist themselves and contribute in blood, on account of the poverty of their community they may not be able to contribute in money.’54 However, whereas the communal appeals of the Hindu, Muslim and Sikh organisations were based on a basic acceptance of the relationship between religious identity and government employment, the local caste organisations directly critiqued the basis of colonial ethnographic knowledge. For many such organisations, the duty of the state included not only balancing and assessing the relative educational and political merits of communities, but also caste definition itself by the setting out of tradition and custom. Such traditions and customs would then become a factor in defining the exercise of local power. For example, the Adi Hindu Depressed Classes Assocation Allahabad, under the presidentship of Syam Lal, critiqued the official methods of scheduled caste identification up to the late 1930s, and pointed out that they were being subverted by individual applicants. He wrote to the UP government in 1941, to point out that from 1939, non-scheduled caste applicants had slipped through the net, after it had been decided to reserve a few posts amongst SCs in posts such as naib tahsildar. For example, an Ahir, or Gwala, had passed himself off as a Gual – a caste ‘belonging to the Nat group’. In another case, a Rajput artisan of the hills was able to claim that he was Shilpkar – his occupational name was the same as one of the caste names for SCs. The UP government’s response was to suggest that the various SC associations should take care to watch the cases of candidates who are appointed.55 By the late 1930s and 1940s, SC lobbying organisations attempted to set up more formal connections with government departments. For example, the UP Adi Hindu Depressed Classes Association campaigned over this period for the inclusion of its office bearers on the committees which disbursed grants through the UP Reclamation Department. These grants involved relatively large sums in strategic areas of housing and education.56 At first, the UP Government was reluctant to give such associations this kind of power, partly for the reason that once one representative organisation was selected, a range of others would put forward their claims. This in fact happened when the Pasi Mahasabha, on hearing about the Adi Hindu deputation, sent in its own representation to government. Also problematic was the fact that there were two rival Adi Hindu organisations in UP, each vying for prominence.57 However, in March 1944 the Reclamation Department set up a seven-man advisory committee.58 Very quickly it came under heavy criticism (as many in government predicted) from a range of other bodies, mainly complaining about the fact that five of the seven members were from the Chamar community.59 Such SC lobbying attempts and critiques exposed the inconsistencies of UP government-sponsored definitions of caste, community and class. In particular, they

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highlighted the deficiencies of a reservation system unable to take into account overlapping or hybrid identities. In another case in 1940, the Rajak Sabha of Agra and Harnath Prasad, an SC member of the Legislative Assembly, complained about the nomination of a Muslim Bhangi for admission to the one reserved post in the UP Kanungo60 training school. In response to this complaint, the UP Revenue Department tied itself in knots discussing the relative merits of Hindu and nonHindu SC rights.61 Whilst the UP Appointments and Revenue Departments appeared to fudge the differences between caste and community in such documents as the Revenue Manual, religious community was still higher up the hierarchy of priorities for the colonial state. The willingness of bureaucratic reformers to consider the inter-relationships between the two, however, was to have important implications after 1947. Internal debates about the possibility of reservations in the services were therefore marked by ambiguity and confusion. But despite these problems, all sides recognised that bureaucratic recruitment was essentially about the exercise of local power. And curiously, there was very little reflection within government discussions on communal representation on the fact that from the early 1940s, newspaper publicity about communal or caste bias on the part of officers was increasing. Quite a few of the accusations about government servant corruption in the 1940s, for example, came to be linked to ideas of community bias. For example, in 1947, the Assistant Manager of the Government Press in Aligarh, Mushtaq Ahmad, was accused of accepting bribes on appointments and promotions, and the formation of cliques among the staff. He was described by a complainant as ‘a man of most communal bent [who] exploits the staff by arousing communal feelings in them . . . he has filled appointments most with his own community.’ When this particular case was investigated, it was found that there were two rival groups of press employees, which revolved around particular communities, but that some of the accusations related to clique competition and could not be directly linked to corrupt activities.62 But perhaps the clearest endemic links between community and official misconduct, or acquiescence in misconduct, involved the quotidian realities of rural life. In many areas of UP, lower castes were forced to undertake traditional ‘obligations’, often with the encouragement of administrators and policemen. A conference of Depressed Classes organised by the UP Adi Hindu Depressed Classes Association in Ghazipur District in 1942, discussed the need for increased proportions of SCs in the executive administration. But alongside this, one of the main sets of requests that it presented to the UP government concerned the prevention of begar (forced labour) and zulum (injustice, tyranny or extortion). In particular, the conference campaigned to prevent the ‘Zulums’ of the patwaris propagated on the poor and requested that patwaris should be posted at least ten miles from their homes.63 From the period of the Congress ministry in UP, the issue of begar had been taken more seriously, but still, over the period from 1939 to independence, the number of people charged and prosecuted was relatively low, compared to its suggested incidence. Over this period, the number of people challaned (process of prosecution) for demanding begar in Lucknow district for example, was only

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Religion, caste and government recruitment 65 five, and all five were released as a result of a compromise. Even in the district where there were a relatively large number of arrests, the ratio of conviction to arrest was low. In Hardoi district over the same period, of 36 persons arrested, only eight were convicted and in Kanpur district, all 15 persons arrested were acquitted.64 The reasons for this leniency and poor investigation were, of course, linked to the fact that the very infrastructure of revenue collection and local policing depended upon the acquiescence and goodwill of powerful landholders – the exacters of begar. Added to this was a long-term policy, as seen earlier, of selecting particular castes and occupational communities or local bureaucratic recruitment whose interests would be largely aligned with power brokers in any particular district. The Superintendent of Police in Muzaffarnagar district, in response to government enquiries in October 1946, reported that there had been no cases of prosecution for begar, but that the practice was prevalent. Similarly, in Budaun, Saharanpur and Hamirpur districts, it was reported that the practice died hard but that the number of cases did not reflect its prevalence. Clearly, the connection between powerful interest groups in a rural locality and the manning of the local administration was vital here. There were also a number of cases in which patwaris were prosecuted but ultimately shielded by superior officers such as tahsildars.65 The report sent by A.I. Bowman, the District Magistrate of Mirzapur, summed up the official attitude to begar by revealing a position that chimed with UP government policy to work alongside the existing ‘caste’ traditions and customs in each locality. Bowman, who by his own admission did not generally pursue prosecution, unless it involved a stick, made his position clear: I do not think however, that prosecution is particularly effective in completely stopping ‘begar’ as ‘begar’ is part of a social tradition, and the result of prosecution is only to make the taker of ‘begar’ feel that he has a grievance . . . It is difficult, I find, to draw a clear line between ‘begar’ and the ordinary duties imposed on a caste or class. I have come across no example of a zamindar taking work from a person without payment, as a matter of right . . . On the other hand, zamindars often secure labour by supplying foodgrains to labourers and taking their work as payment instead of money . . . Other things described as ‘begar’ include the ploughing of zamindar’s land by halwahas . . . the doing of the various public services prescribed by caste or custom by Chamars, Doms and other depressed classes; harvesting for zamindars (at usual rates of payment); and working on house-building or repairing of a zamindar’s house (on payment). Bowman admitted that the cases he had seen involved patwaris, but was blunt in stating that from the side of the landholders, ‘Brahman and Kunbi zamindars are the offenders in almost every case’. But for most officers like Bowman, this was a set of traditions hardly worth disturbing, especially since most felt that ‘political agitators’ had whipped up the issue of the rights of workers, and that this was the reason for the concentration on the issue of begar.66

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It was not surprising, then, that when the issue of forced labour became still more public just before and after independence, and was eventually forbidden under the Constitution, the associations between the older colonial administration and acquiescence in begar continued. In March 1947, an article in The Leader made allegations about the use of begar by local officers. A UP government decision to investigate this case noted that, There has been general resentment against Government servants if they forced anybody to do an act for them which he was not willing to do even on payment. Technically the latter may not be begar, but that always evoked protest and resentment. The times are absolutely changed. Such things are not likely to be tolerated.67 Enquiries into ongoing cases of begar and nazrana (customary payments) by low status communities continued into the late 1940s. On the Salempur estate in Lucknow district, two SDOs conducated a large-scale investigation and discovered that one of the main abuses involved the setting up of false claims to land, through the entering of fictional names in land records. These pattas (land deed or document proving right to property) would then allegedly be distributed to relatives and associates of the landlord – an abuse which could only have taken place with the acquiescence or active connivance of the lower-level revenue officers. One of the SDOs concluded: In order to be able to extract nazrana, it is necessary that tenants should be well under thumb and for this it is essential that they should not be permitted to acquire any statutory rights. This object was achieved by executing farzi [false] leases in favour of relations and servants.68 Nazrana was allegedly taken from low status communities on the Salempur estate in a number of creative ways, through taxes levied on trees and through the requisition of milk and other goods at the time of Muslim festivals. But once again, the relationship between the Raja, some of the key revenue staff and of course, the UP Government itself had meant that the case had been delayed. As one commentator in the investigation explained: In 1937 when the Congress Ministry was in office I remember, several complaints of excesses against tenants were received by the Government. The enquiry was afoot. But the Raja being a very influential man in the district, anyhow managed to delay its completion. The result was that with the exit of the Congress Ministry in 1939 all those records of enquiries were perhaps entrusted to the cold storage by the succeeding Govt. So the mismanagement alleged has become chronic in this estate.69 Clearly, the landlord polity of the colonial state in north India meant that governance and the mechanisms of landed power were closely intertwined.

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Religion, caste and government recruitment 67 However, as we will see in much more detail in Chapter 6, the question mark surrounding government servant neutrality in this respect bore similarities with what was to occur later in a context of parliamentary democracy, when power shifted from plough to soapbox. The material ways in which the filling up of posts with particular communities could benefit community fellows, ultimately encouraged intrigue at crucial electoral moments, and highlighted for political observers the problem of political neutrality in the civil services. This was especially the case during elections at the height of Muslim League–Congress rivalry. The policy of working out proportions of Hindus and Muslims in local government posts, was given an ironic twist in December 1945 and early 1946, during the Central Assembly and Provincial elections. Throughout the entire period of the elections, the Appointments Department was besieged with complaints, particularly from the UP Congress Election Board, about government servants’ interference with the conduct of the elections. Since these elections were largely a race between the Congress and the Muslim League, the communal proportions of the civil service now appeared to be particularly important. In Bareilly district, tahsildars and a Sub-inspector of police reportedly put obstacles in the way of Congress meetings in October 1945.70 In Hardoi, the Congress, and several of its papers claimed that the League candidate of one constituency was closely associated with an array of government officials, including revenue officers and policemen.71 The Adhikar reported that ‘In Mallawa, weavers were told that the police and the cooperative handloom inspector were Nawab Sahib’s [the Muslim League candidate] men and that they would have to face dire consequences if they did not vote for the Nawab Sahib’.72 Complaints of a similar nature were received from Bulandshahr, Farrukhabad, Kheri (where a Kanungo reportedly made a speech for the Muslim League), Muzaffarnagar (where a sub-inspector of police apparently beat Congress candidates), Lucknow and Saharanpur. Most importantly, it was clear that instructions going out to government servants were particularly geared towards warning against involvement in favour of Congress-related activities. G.B. Pant wrote to Frampton in November 1945, complaining about a circular to district administrations, suggesting government officers specifically avoid involvement in Congress activities. In the words of Pant, the circular ‘reflects the general mind and attitude of the administration’ and it was ‘subversive of the principle of neutrality and impartiality’.73 Clearly, Pant wanted to play on the British declarations of civil servant ‘neutrality’ in principle in relation to the main parties in the mid 1940s by highlighting long-standing administrative opposition to the Congress. The UP government policy of considering the question of communal proportions in the civil service precipitated a range of political expectations about how bureaucratic power might be manipulated at times of elections. But once again, there was practically no mention of this (as a future probability) within the UP government. The civil service continued to be an important site of political power into the 1940s. Some implicitly admitted that such a bureaucracy was far from aspiring to neutrality. Frampton noted in February 1946, that when he read a letter of complaints about police support for a Muslim candidate for election in Bulandshahr, he thought the police chiefs must have been bold, when only 20

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miles away in Basti, the SP and Deputy SP were Hindus.74 In the heady days of the mid 1940s, when party politics followed broad religious community divisions, the fragility of the system was exposed. And yet the future political implications of entertaining caste/community proportions in the services was hardly noticed by British officials. The smouldering issue of caste and community reservations in the bureaucracy was kept stoked after independence, forming the background to contemporary debates. In the memoirs of IAS officers serving in UP in the 1960s and 1970s, the ambiguity of civil service and police neutrality during elections is a repeated theme. In the annals of the IAS, it was essentially lower cadre neutrality that was questioned. For example, T.N. Dhar wrote of the sensitivities for civil servants surrounding the state elections in Meerut elections of 1973.75 The ways in which bureaucratic power allowed civil servant entanglement with crucial electoral processes from the late 1930s and 1940s had set another precedent. One of the great inheritances then of the Congress regime from the colonial administration was the fragile principle of civil service neutrality.

iii) Caste and civil service recruitment after 1947 Bearing in mind the importance of caste and community in civil service recruitment to the electoral process, it should not be surprising to the historian to discover that similar networks and connections between caste organisations and the civil service (particularly at PCS level and below) continued after independence. However, as we will see in this section, and as was already hinted at previously, the justification for such connections was now quite different: it was related to broader issues of ‘modernisation’ and ‘development’. To some extent, specific cases in which particular communities and/or families dominated local state positions related to traditions of social dominance. Interviewees in the executive cadres of UP for this research echoed this. For example, one Assistant District Magistrate in Lakhimpur Kheri in the 1980s described ‘collusion’ between bureaucrats in the development administration and political leaders who had always been prominent in the district.76 But the changing political implications of this process take us back to the period of state transformation over Indian independence. And here, looking at caste and community-based approaches to civil service recruitment, illegitimate practices in which identities could be manipulated and changed, could sometimes disturb expected or established patterns of local power. Under British rule, groups like the Hindu Sabha or Adi-Hindu associations represented their political position in terms of loyalty, and the historical strength of their communities.77 After 1947, in the context of democracy, the arguments about ‘historical’ importance were certainly less viable and traditions of loyalty were evoked in an ambivalent way, not least because what it meant to be loyal had changed. Instead, ‘community’ based pressure groups, as well as being almost entirely based in caste rather than religious identity, appealed to the ideals of statesponsored social justice, and the principles of ‘development’ set out as part of the guiding principles of the 1950 constitution. Now, the appeals of religious minorities were relatively lost in the context of an ostensibly secular state. However,

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Religion, caste and government recruitment 69 from 1947 onwards, the demand for representation could be framed more legitimately in terms of getting a foot in the door of the bureaucracy, for the direct benefit of one’s community, since forms of affirmative recognition were gradually formalised in civil service and police recruitment. There were other reasons for these changes: the new resources and manpower required to fuel the developmental state had heightened the stakes and of course, increased in absolute terms the range of opportunities for government employment. Crucially, the beginning of this process came before independence itself, during the war years. The requirement of the state at all levels to control and impinge upon the everyday lives of UP’s population had been generated by the inauguration of rationing and food-control policies, as we will see in Chapter five. And, importantly, practices to avoid, or take advantage of shortages, the movement of goods or the management of large public budgets came with the increase in state controls. It was not insignificant that this coincided with the rapid increase in caste-based representation in the civil services and police too. From the late 1930s, the idea that reservation could be linked to ‘development’ had also figured in national-level debates. N.R. Sarker, the Bengal Finance Minister had written reports on the broader implications of a system of reservation for India as a whole during the provincial ministries period in 1939. For Sarker, the system of reservation must be regarded as a temporary expedient until such time as the general educational progress of the Muslim community is high enough . . . The arguments in favour of reservation are analogous to the arguments addressed in favour of protection of infant industries in countries which are industrially backward.78 By the early 1950s, this process accelerated. The number of PCS and subordinate civil service posts up for grabs increased dramatically under the Five Year plans. And from the early 1950s, the old executive civil service cadres worked alongside the National Extension Service and Community Development Programme.79 In this context, some argued for the need to move away from an old colonial system which had almost expected the operation of caste and community bias. Sampurnand, who was UP Chief Minster between January 1955 and April 1957, argued that: One legacy we have inherited from the British is the feeling that in the Police as well as in other services, nobody can be expected to act justly if he is posted in his own home town and district. Apart from the fact that hundred[s] and thousands of rupees are spent by Government over transfers each year to satisfy the psychological aberration, a continuance of this policy would be merely an acknowledgement of the fact people in general and the services in particular are not fit to be independent and that they lack in social sense and the pride of being just to their own men in daily dealings which are the hallmarks of a democratic people . . . But being close to his wife and family, the constable is less likely to be led into evil ways . . .80

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Sampurnanand felt that the British had been wrong to mistrust low-level civil servants. There was also a sense in the Chief Minister’s words, of an expectation that the very fact of democracy and the welfare state would bring with it automatic improvements in the enforcement of government servant neutrality. Taking this further, by implication, in the new context of secular and liberal democracy, communal or caste mobilisation would be severely hindered. Sampurnanand’s statement suggested that such mobilisation had no place in India by virtue of the very principles of freedom and democracy, even though he himself had promoted the easily communalised cause of sanksritised Hindi in the late colonial period.81 Such forms of communal and caste mobilisation (which in the 1930s and 1940s had been associated with the Muslim League) were presented as anathema to givers of ‘rights’ in the Constitution, and an outdated product of a defunct colonial system. In fact, the Constitution reinforced, as those working on Mandal in the late twentieth century showed, a new politics of caste mobilisation, through the slowly emerging politics of reservations. However, here was a powerful argument to support upper-caste dominance throughout the polity of north India: communalism and casteism had been eradicated through the constitution. Or, to put it in other terms, the principles of the constitution could be allowed to take their course in such a way that did not necessarily oblige local governments to actively pursue principles of equal representation in the services. After 1947, there had been a change in state priorities, from revenue gathering to development. But there had been much slower changes in the criteria for recruitment and this was to have serious implications when it came to administrative reform, particularly around systems of rules governing civil servant conduct. For example, when the new post of Block Development Officer was introduced in the National Extension Service, there was no special training, with personnel being drawn primarily from the existing PCS revenue administration. Petitions from SC organisations lobbying for bureaucratic recruitment after 1947 indicated that some of the old-style struggles for representation in the services were to continue unabated. And now some of the demands for reservation or enhanced recruitment in the UP bureaucracy were made more openly in terms of leverage for one’s community. The Report of the Backward Classes Commission (BCC), 1955, which had carried out extensive research on low caste organisations across India, noticed that one of the most insistent demands of a whole range of groups was for representation in the services: ‘They argued that as Government service carried prestige, power and influence, the backward too should have their due share in it’. Even more explicitly, the Commission declared: ‘The scale of pay in government service, security of employment, power and prestige and the scope to distribute patronage, all have combined to make government services highly attractive and consequently greatly desired.’82 As in the colonial period, the way the post-independence governments responded to these representations encouraged increased and more insistent demands from caste-based organisations. For example, a general meeting of SCs under the chairmanship of Kailash Prakash MLC on 24 June 1949 at Meerut, placed on record its ‘deep resentment and despondency’ that despite the policy of government of

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Religion, caste and government recruitment 71 10 per cent reservation, the UP Public Services Commission in Allahabad had failed to fill the quota by not calling enough SC candidates for interview this year. Similar meetings were held at Farrukabad, Agra, Etah, Mainpuri, Hamirpur and Hathras. In an office memorandum on this lobbying effort, it was noted that the depressed classes were ‘likely to judge the intention of the Government and the declarations of goodwill towards them by the actual number of them taken in the various spheres of activities which constitute the governance of the country.’83 In 1952, the UP government decided to rely on direct contacts with organisations and associations (often political) of SCs, such as the UP Scheduled Castes Federation, since the method of recruitment had not been effective.84 Such approaches were set up on formal lines and in coordination with adverts in some of the main UP newspapers – the Amrita Bazar Patrika (Allahabad), The Pioneer (Lucknow), National Herald (Lucknow) and Frontier Mail (Dehra Dun): In all cases where experience has shown that a sufficient number of suitably qualified candidates of a particular community will not be forthcoming by advertisement alone for vacancies reserved for them, the local Head of a Department should consult the organisations mentioned in Appendix C and such other organisations as are recognised by the Government of India from time to time as representative of the communities for whom the reservations are made.85 The UP government response was, of course, conditioned by long-standing traditions in the consideration of community and caste claims. In the early 1950s, it appeared that many IAS officers maintained older, colonial views about both problems of political interference and generally felt that subordinate cadres were more prone to political manipulation.86 This had also been written into the intellectual, social and occupational gulf between ICS and PCS cadres as we saw in Chapter 2. In this view, what particular, officially-determined interest groups really wanted was a share in bureaucratic power, precisely because it could be manipulated in the interests of their ‘community’. The notion of ‘community’ was very much based in older colonial ethnographical research, and became one template for understanding the composition of pressure groups. The identification of SC groups, and the definition of customs, traditions and practices of bureaucratic recruitment, led the UP Appointments Department once again to older colonial practices of discovering caste customs. It even promoted the identification of Scheduled Castes and tribes with exactly the same sources that had been used since the late nineteenth century. The Appointments Department noted the need for a new list of Scheduled Castes, under the Constitutional Order (19) of 1950, as there were new castes that had come into consideration for government recruitment. But when we look at the lists of castes prepared and the descriptions used to identify them, colonial classifications were clearly apparent. Of the 63 castes identified, over a quarter were classed as ‘vagrant tribes’ in the file prepared by the Appointments Department. Eleven of the castes came into the category of ‘criminal’. The Dhamuk, a sweeper caste, were described as ‘village

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menials, day labourers and watchmen’, who ‘eat unclean food and drink freely of liquor and have many primitive beliefs’. The Baiswar were described as a hill tribe of Mirzapur, whose account was that they were Rajputs of the famous Balis stock of Dundiya Khera, ‘but in appearance they are dark and have much of the characteristics of the Dravidian races . . . and it is very doubtful that they have any Rajput blood’. The Deputy Secretary commented on the 20 June 1951, that some of the characteristics of the tribes included in the list ‘have been obtained by consulting the reference books on the subject, viz, the Tribes and Castes of the North Western Provinces by W. Crook, and The Caste System of Northern India by E.A.H. Blunt’.87 In 1952, H.K. Tandon wrote that In the Government of India, the practice of getting communal returns . . . is very old, dating back to the days of the 1934 resolution regarding communal representation in the services, and the present instructions are merely a variation of the previous practice.88 The ongoing recruitment strategies of the 1950s in UP, then, bore a close resemblance to those of the 1930s, even though there was an awareness in government that they were outdated. And in a similar way, this elicited strategies, critiques and subversions from lobby groups and organisations, which sometimes threw the definition of community into doubt. The use of old colonial ethnographies was coupled with a largely unreformed structure of executive administration, essentially the district magistrate. The measures taken to prevent subversion of this system actually reinforced pressure from lobby groups: SCs were required to hold certificates of proof about their caste origins. Alongside a declaration of caste origins, the certificates actually listed the 63 castes identified by ethnographic research for special consideration in a system of reservations. The Appointments Department commented that instances continue to occur of candidates for civil employ who belong to a caste or sub-caste which bears the same name as one of the castes scheduled by the Government of India, taking advantage of the similarity to obtain a certificate. As a preventative measure the file suggested that the District Magistrate should carefully scrutinise each applicant’s claim: ‘If a District Officer has any reason to doubt the validity of a caste, he should question the claimant closely on his origin, place of residence, caste affinities and customs before granting him the certificate applied for.’89 This system also opened up opportunities for non-government interpretations of caste identity, and thereby helped lobbying groups to develop new strategies for approaching recruitment. For example, in December 1953, the UP Kori Mahasabha petitioned the Appointments Department, requesting that, although their caste was not recognised as SC, they should be given the same benefits and privileges as SCs.90 The colonial state then had based its recruitment on ethnographic texts which also fit the agendas of post-1947 bureaucracies with ostensibly very different

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Religion, caste and government recruitment 73 priorities. They demonstrated that in the 1950s and 1960s, not only was bureaucratic recruitment at PCS and subordinate levels still considered along the lines of local custom and tradition, but that the hermeneutic categories of caste dominance, set out by the BCC could link an old colonial system to a modern administration geared to development. When the exercise of power also meant control over development funds, the door was opened for new kinds of political exploitation of caste and community, that evolved as political systems became more complex. However, when it came to the active attempt to bring SCs and STs into the civil services at all levels, the level of general apathy within departments in practice was palpable. One report in the Hindustan Standard noted the view of L.M. Shrikant, Commissioner for SCs and STs that there is a good deal of apathy on the part of various departments of Government for keeping a constant watch on the percentage of reservations laid down . . . Much less is there the zeal shown by top-ranking officers to encourage Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes in services.91 Caste and community-based lobbying for bureaucratic jobs often reinforced political nexuses, as we will see in more detail in Chapter 6. This politicisation of caste, via government services, was not just something which emerged then, at the point of a formal and extensive system of reservations from the early 1990s. It was evident in the colonial period and even more explicit from the point of the first general elections in India of 1951–52. Sometimes, as Robert Wade suggested for south India in the 1980s, political leaders could use these connections into the bureaucracy to skim off resources as a means of financing electoral activity.92 This kind of activity was already under way, too, in the early 1950s, especially with the creation of controls on the supply and sale of goods through rationing and permits, and the expansion of cadres of bureaucrats to run such controls. In other contexts, such links were used to maintain ongoing local dominance. Again, from the late colonial period, networks of local power connected local bodies such as the district boards or the district Congress Committees with certain important cadres in the district bureaucracy and police. However, the very fact that caste identities could, and were, manipulated at lower levels of bureaucratic recruitment, suggested that the practices of corruption, entwined with caste and expectations about community, could easily complicate patterns of local power. Part of the problem faced by the UP government in reforming or combating this, was that each network related to specific local circumstances, in which caste identity was just one dynamic in a complex system of factional calculations. These local situations were also deep-rooted in time. Caste and community marked the bureaucracy over many generations – a situation often indirectly encouraged by colonial ethnographies. Most importantly, these bureaucratic customs were reinforced and given a justification by the long-standing gulf between upper, middle and lower level civil servants. This was not just about pay, status and the politics of transfer. Of equal importance were governmental assumptions, held throughout

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our period that lower-level civil servants had to engage with local networks of authority and power. Just as in the late colonial period, the ostensible maintenance of socially just bureaucratic recruitment in the 1950s was also seen as a strategy for managing political subversion, and the need to distribute state power accordingly, especially at subordinate levels. When it was suggested that the Revenue Manual, (which specified that no particular caste should predominate in tahsils), should be amended, a note on the file pointed out that A large percentage of persons including those in public service, at least, in the lower ranks are sometimes guided in their actions not by the merits of a question, but by the birth, caste and religion of the individuals involved.93 Rather than attempt to change this culture of bureaucratic recruitment and public expectation, the early independent UP governments reluctantly acknowledged its presence and worked around it.

Conclusion Looking more closely at recruitment into the provincial civil service in UP, it seems apparent that a reorientation of how historians view the state in India is probably necessary. ‘The state’ has been loosely described by those interested in late colonial Indian politics (but not directly concerned with the state’s dynamics), as a largely autonomous entity. For example, histories of the ICS and its successor, the IAS of the 1950s and 1960s, revolve around the idea of esprit de corps within the service. This was a tradition, David Potter argues, that adjusted quite awkwardly to the needs of the postcolonial Indian administration. It is true that the voices of ICS men and women, taken alone, appear to confirm the theoretical work on the Indian state, which speaks of a marginality between a westerneducated elite bureaucracy and a general population: a civil service struggling to come to terms with democratic political processes.94 These views of the Indian state suggest a set of relatively autonomous agencies, working according to the whims of a Nehruvian agenda. However, the close archival picture pertaining to more localised studies, for example in UP, suggests that most general views of the Indian state have not taken into account the crucial social dynamics that played out within and across cadres, at different levels of the civil service. Looking more closely at UP using this research, it seems that the Indian state was a much less autonomous entity than many historians tend to assume, more blurred and ambiguous in its relationship with dominant social groups. Anthropological works on the contemporary Indian state have already found this for contemporary India, as we saw in Chapter 1: specific local studies have recently demonstrated how the actions of the state can degenerate from an idealised position of administrative uniformity, to reflect specific patterns of local power, related to caste and communal dominance. Crucially, much of the general theoretical and historical literature approaching the Indian state appears to be based upon a methodology that still often inadvertently supposes the relative homogeneity of Indian political

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Religion, caste and government recruitment 75 culture, not only across different political traditions, but also across administrative divisions. Clearly a study of the civil service as an (ambiguous) indicator of state– society relationships in UP, produces a different history to (the more common) national surveys. And it also sets out the important tensions in how low-level bureaucratic connections to dominant social groups are envisaged at local, state and national levels. While crucial observations have been made about the ambiguous nature of state power, the multifarious roles of civil servants, particularly at PCS and subordinate levels, are still to be fully explored in detailed research. This chapter has suggested that these cadres shed new light on the ambiguities of state–society interfaces, particularly when looking at the issue of caste and communal reservations going back to India’s colonial history and by extension, this has an important impact on notions of bureaucratic corruption. Long-term ideologies behind bureaucratic recruitment, defining expectations about local civil services were critical in setting the conditions and traditions of employment. Such ideologies played an important part in the definition of communities that might come to control local governance. By the 1940s, this bureaucratic ethnography was also part of the calculations of political parties, aiming to control local administrations. In colonial India, a central dynamic of bureaucratic knowledge was that middle and lower level administrators would be more likely swayed by caste and communal considerations than the ICS. Subordinate and PCS cadres needed to be recruited with one eye on that tendency. This bureaucratic ethnography survived into independent India. The relationship between government-driven notions of ‘religious community’, ‘caste’ and ‘minority’ shifted over this period, adjusting itself (sometimes poorly) to the changing kaleidoscope of local politics in UP. Both before and after 1947, religion and caste were rolled together as comparable identities in bureaucratic thinking. In this way, the state was continually reinvented as the arbiter of social justice, the balancer of local interests. Of course, this balancing act was always carried out with one eye to the political needs and aspirations of local governments: in UP, the fact that Muslims held a relatively dominant position in the executive cadres of the PCS in the 1930s was a situation that the Appointments Department was happy to encourage, when the UP Congress was failing to recruit significant Muslim organisations. It was for this reason too, that some of the mainstream religious community-based lobby groups framed their claims for jobs using comparable claims of political loyalty. Yet, the response of other lower caste lobby groups to this governmental activity subverted and challenged the boundaries of bureaucratic recruitment policy. The UP Appointments Department certainly responded to, and sometimes encouraged such low caste lobby groups, aiming for better representation in the civil services. However, since central governments (increasingly from the 1920s), defined religious or caste community in terms of political ‘minorities’, governments at all levels were ill-equipped to adjust to the realities of local political identities that depended upon hybridity. The shifting terrain of low caste pressure groups in bureaucratic recruitment was an area that clearly challenged the use of old colonial ethnographies, and exposed the limitations of colonial definitions. In this sense, it is an area clearly needing more research.

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There were other implications to the ongoing employment of older ethnographies in bureaucratic recruitment, alongside IAS assumptions about lower cadre political activity. In defining administrative rules and expectations in a way that differentiated between upper and lower levels, and accommodating the notion of community and caste pressure, the bureaucracy further undermined the symbolic artifice of political neutrality. Most important in this process, was the continued reliance on a bureaucratic ideology of esprit de corps in accommodating the claims of dominant (usually high status) communities in any particular context. Colonial discussions about low caste representation in the service were part and parcel of this bureaucratic concentration on the moral and political characteristics of different communities in relation to the state. But rather than endowing under-represented communities with greater political power and leverage, they served to justify, in local contexts, the general principle of caste and community dominance within the lower civil services, thus perpetuating an open door to those groups better able to mobilise community resources to capture civil service posts. The system of caste reservations that emerged after Indian independence was an attempt to move away from older colonial notions of communal representation. However, its practical implementation reinforced the local power of groups best able to acquire information on recruitment policy, the ear of appointments, and ultimately, political command over their own identities. Reservation was applied to a civil service structure in which the old colonial attitudes towards subordinates’ customary activities and their natural link to local structures of power were retained. UP’s emerging democratic political culture aligned well with this framework of caste-based pressure for bureaucratic recruitment. As the sphere of party politics widened, and state employment increased, the politician’s involvement in the bureaucracy could only deepen from this point.

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Imagining corruption

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Languages and symbolism in administrative and police power in north India

Merely shouting from the house tops that everybody is corrupt creates an atmosphere of corruption. People feel they are in a climate of corruption and they get corrupted themselves. Jawaharlal Nehru1

Nehru perhaps better than most in 1950s India, appreciated the ambiguities surrounding the idea of ‘corruption’. His was one of the first generations in India which strongly believed that it could be viewed as a general ‘problem’, for which remedies might be proposed or sought, through officially constituted commissions. The first rush of optimism in India, perhaps represented by the surviving older generation of India’s ‘freedom fighters’, now variously serving in the Lok Sabha, or as Governors of states, created the context for this belief. What Nehru and those of his ilk in administration focussed on as ‘corruption’ in their official reports, was not so clearly analysed and discussed as such in government just 20 or 30 years previously. Yet in the final years of the Second World War and its immediate aftermath, during the frantic process of decolonisation, not only did public discussions of ‘corruption’ become more urgent in India, public debates began to define (albeit ambiguously) the limits of what, in Indian political debates in assemblies and newspapers, was seen as ‘corrupt’ behaviour. This chapter develops the arguments of the preceding chapters in looking at how changing official and media representations of public morality affected the ways in which corruption was represented and discussed in north India. In particular, it will look at the shift from the expectations surrounding ‘honest’ governance under a colonial system, through the period of constitutional transition, and into the new independent state and democratic context, when ideas about government servant integrity changed. These shifts in how the relationship between subject/citizen and government servant were thought to operate were always, of course, based on a two-level idea of the state: both the colonial and the early independent Indian governments projected the idea of the state as a monolithic and largely paternalistic entity which was set apart from and served the needs of the population. Yet, in reality, the interaction between agents of government and subject/citizen was more open-ended. This chapter will argue that it was the very awareness of this, and the changing discussion

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of its significance both inside government and without, which altered reflections on the nature of ‘corruption’. This relates to ideas of the morality of government servants, since over our period the interaction between public and private lives of government servants became increasingly available for scrutiny and comment. This chapter then looks at how this process was described and represented – how the idea of ‘corruption’ became a kind of signifier for explaining changing relationships between government servants and subject/citizens. This was achieved by the appropriation or revival of languages, expressions and rituals to describe or engage with a whole range of administrative and police actions which at certain moments and for certain purposes were described as ‘corrupt’. In many ways, these discussions might be described as a ‘political culture’ which didn’t simply pertain to the urban middle classes of UP, but also related to the main consumers/ recipients/objects of administrative or police action and inaction – the rural and urban poor. Most importantly, the words ‘corrupt’ and ‘corruption’ or their closest Hindi equivalents, ‘bhrasht’ and ‘bhrashtaachaar’, will be examined as fluid and changing concepts, with no universally fixed characteristics, yet with a connection to the dynamics of state servants–subject/citizen interactions. This does not condemn us to advocate a position of cultural relativism, in setting out the idea that ‘corruption’ was not condemned generally, or that there were not some common denominators in how ‘corruption’ was imagined across north India. However, notions of acceptable or unacceptable approaches to government were linked to quite specific political cultures in northern India, which varied not only by region, but also by department and officer. Permissible approaches to or engagements with state power, were also related to what Jonathan Parry has described as the process through which corruption creates its own forms of publicity. The normalisation of particular languages of corruption, created the sense that ‘nothing could be done’ without direct influence with an officer, bribes or commissions.2 This, in turn made corrupt activity particularly difficult to avoid, from the perspective of both the bribe-giver and bribe-taker. Parry ultimately relates this process to a general internalisation of the values of a ‘neutral’ state over time – a realisation by citizens of what their rights ought to be. This chapter suggests that such a conclusion, while appealing, is very difficult to demonstrate historically. Instead, it proposes a different general argument. Languages and representations of corruption adjusted in important ways around particular moments of political transformation or crisis in north India. In turn they were practices which occasionally upset, as well as reinforced established networks of local power. In this sense, as the final section of this chapter on policing, violence and corruption will explore, perceptions of corruption were connected to citizens’ social and political capital, in a range of transactions which might involve physical violence. The final section of the chapter will also look at how this might shed quite a different kind of light on specific episodes of ‘communal’ violence around partition. On the other hand, this chapter largely agrees with Jonathan Parry and Akhil Gupta, in their conception of the relative importance of state discourses surrounding ‘corruption’. In contrast to most other writers, Parry for example, suggests that ‘corruption’ is not ultimately related to the failure of state discourses to enter the

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Imagining corruption 79 public imagination, but the opposite. For Parry, there has been a separation between an idea of public and private interest in Indian political debate. The awareness of what bureaucrats and government servants ought to be doing as part of their official duty has thereby increased. Akhil Gupta has also suggested that popular consciousness about the differences between the local, regional and national state has transformed the purchase and meaning of ‘corruption’.3 Similarly, I would like to argue here, that popular views about the state and ideas about ‘what can be done’ were central to how ‘corruption’ was constituted as a political practice over time. The first section of the chapter examines how the contexts of public morality set out in Chapter 2, formed a changing milieu for euphemisms and expressions, re-representing corruption in terms of ‘customary’ social relationships. Agents of the colonial and postcolonial state in UP, acquiesced in what were thought of as ‘traditional’, customary or ritualistic practices. These practices tied approaches to government to quite specific ideas about personal influence. As with so many other areas in which the state intruded into the social lives of Indians, a peculiarly British fascination with the social intricacies, twists and turns of personal political contact in India, served to re-shape methods and customs for petitioning government. The first section of the chapter, therefore, examines these processes by looking specifically at the terminology, languages and rituals for making contact with states agents. It argues that subtle euphemisms for activity that, in different contexts were described as ‘corruption’, related to social hierarchies within the civil services, but also to colonial notions of historical ‘custom’. The second and third sections of the chapter explore the different kinds of public spheres through which these languages worked, how they represented corruption in contrasting ways, and how those representations shifted over independence. They look in a little more detail at how the ambiguous nature of languages of ‘corruption’ were complicated by their detailed operation through different kinds of government and police departments, government activity and forms of media, and how those contexts reinscribed other kinds of socially hierarchical expectations. The chapter argues, for example, that differences in media representations of scandals often reinforced class differences that had already been complicated by corrupt activity. In the case of policing, it will look at how police violence was wrapped up in a series of transactions in which social status determined the social and political capital that could be used to navigate transactions with the local state. At another level, the very practices of violence, where they were part of such transactions, reinforced notions of status. Since administrative and political corruption was, to a great extent related to access to information and knowledge, the language in which approaches were made to government servants was critical in defining the relationships between Indian citizens and lower-level civil servants and police. This chapter, in this sense, is also about what people over our period thought ‘corruption’ entailed. This widened and narrowed at different points over the 1930s to the 1960s, with, for example, relatively broad definitions in the critical period of the late 1940s and 1950s, as relationships between subjects and the state adjusted. In this transitional period, ‘corruption’ included a wide range of activities which in other

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periods might have been dismissed as merely ‘customary’. In other words, even such apparently minor activities as the granting of ‘daaliis’ or gifts came out into open discussion of the ‘problems’ of corruption, alongside more obvious notions of illegal activity, for example local instances of police intimidation and violence. This process of public recognition of ‘corruption’ also had a linguistic dynamic, which transformed in critical ways, as the relative significance of English and Hindi shifted between late colonial and early independent UP. The Hindi papers and literary outputs developed terms such as ‘sifaarish’ – ‘finding a recommendation’, ‘dasturi’ – ‘customary payment’ and ‘bakshish’, which contained different and more subtle arrays of meaning compared to English language spheres. These languages also shifted over space and time, and were a product of the dynamic social relationships within government services and police. Finally, these sections look in more detail at the specific ways in which these languages and representations of ‘corruption’ affected the work of subordinate cadres of the civil services and police, and the points at which provincial and national governments started to take the general issue of misconduct more seriously.

i) Representing corruption Anthropological and ethnographic research has clearly shown that the impact and even the meaning of corruption in rural UP shifts in relation to citizens’ access to forms of cultural capital that are necessary for negotiating access to resources and services.4 The preceding chapters have suggested that during the period of transformation from colonial to independent India, some of the same principles can be applied. The conditions within which access to services took place, and the cultural knowledge required to do so, also depended upon changing perceptions of the Indian state. Two important dynamics in our period, relate to the continuation of traditions of ‘personal rule’ and audience on the one hand, and the mythical idea of the deterioration in administrative morality after 1947 on the other. This section will look in more detail at the latter. In particular, it will argue, using varied examples, but also specific case studies from Revenue and Public Works Department (PWD) departments in UP, that activities described from the 1950s as ‘corrupt’ were seen in the ICS tradition in the late colonial period, in a less clear-cut way. It was not that colonial governments turned a blind eye to ‘corruption’. There are many cases where administrative misconduct was stamped upon severely – this too was highly important to the ICS idea of integrity. However, a whole range of activities that, by the 1950s, came to be identified clearly as a part of the problem of corruption, were not always regarded as such before. In other words, there was no clear discourse of ‘corruption’ in the late colonial period, on which uniform judgements about government servants were made. Instead, ideas of misconduct were related to quite widespread notions of social status and customary differences in approaching government. Some of the activities of subordinate civil servants were therefore ambiguously ‘corrupt’ in the context of late colonial public moralities in government. The term ‘corruption’ rarely appeared in relation to government servants, in either official documents or newspapers, in this late colonial

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Imagining corruption 81 period. Instead, the authors of such documents and texts employed a more subtle terminology to describe activities of ambiguous legality that had to be adjudicated by asserting the paternalistic authority of the district officer. From the early 1950s, however, more concrete public and official notions of ‘corruption’ in relation to government emerged. The public drive to establish a modern model of a welfare democratic state, as illustrated in the 1951 discussions of the Gorwala Report was at the root of this process. This was a project which produced a range of commissions and reports, and many of them, like the Railway Corruption Enquiry Committee and eventually, the Santhanam Committee of 1964, dealt directly with the issue of ‘corruption’. But these official actions, driven by central government initiatives, were not the only factors in the shift of discourses surrounding ‘corruption’. This chapter will look at how wider public attitudes to the phenomenon, especially at levels of the local state, altered in response to changing public attitudes to local governance, new forms of communication about the conduct of government, and the efforts of local administrations to adjust to a democratic context. References to ‘corruption’ in the late colonial civil services were commonly expressed in ambiguous terms, and connected to perceived social hierarchies within the services on the one hand, and the ‘customs’ of subjects in any particular locality. Most memoirs of ICS officers document this social gulf,5 which to a great extent corresponded to officially designated hierarchies within the executive civil services in provinces like UP. One of the more interesting accounts is that of Michael Carritt, entitled ‘A Mole in the Crown’. A refrain of the memoir is Carritt’s view of the administrator as paternalistic and legalistic protector of the people, who leaves the everyday dirty business of managing local disputes to subordinates. Carritt speaks of three Indian deputy magistrates and two Circle Officers under his control who he claimed had no judicial powers but in their comparatively small area or ‘circle’ they were the eyes and ears of the District Officer; they knew everybody and all that was going on, and were the channel through which petitions were made and grievances were referred back for enquiry. Consequently, though the Circle Officer’s powers were limited in one sense, in another they were almost unlimited; and the villagers understood and made use of. He was their contact man.6 Yet this arrangement, in which the subordinate was given freedom to exercise discretion, depended upon the maintenance of racial and class hierarchies. One of the Circle Officers, Bepin Bose, nicknamed Pippin, wouldn’t eat his snack with Carritt or sit in his presence, and interspersed all of his sentences with ‘your Honour’.7 There was a well-developed language and system of cultural performance for maintaining this representation of ‘corruption’ as part of a sphere of low status political activity. Most important was the need to protect, especially in colonial times, the basic structure of the administration, to maintain forms of local stability. ‘Traditional’ roles of particular cadres, for example the need to draw on

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the local officer for his knowledge about local magnates, came to be used as a justification for ambiguous or dubious practices. One of the most ambiguous representations of ‘corruption’, as a ‘natural’ form of administrative action at lower levels, surrounded the question of bribery. In many accounts of ICS officers in north India during the period from the 1920s to independence, there were barely veiled references to the continuation, even after the theoretical imposition of tighter administrative regimes, of forms of illegal gratification. Descriptions of these activities usually involved the problem of an over-worked district officer, or comparable British official, channelling the overburgeoning demands of Indian petitioners and subordinates. For example, Philip Mason tells the story of one Lane, a Regional Food Controller of Meerut, UP during the Second World War, who had to manage a vast administrative operation, and ultimately accept ‘new forms of . . . corruption’ which emerged around him.8 Such situations encouraged, perhaps necessitated, the development of everchanging ways of representing administrative activities of dubious legality, without ‘compromising’ the position of the over-worked ICS man. Bribery, in many accounts was re-represented as the traditional or customary gift, present or daalii (dalaI). Michael Carritt tells the story of a Punjabi builder who approached him to support his tender for repairs to a grand trunk road. Carritt refused to receive a daalii, but then on a sign from the contractor, two servants approached carrying baskets, one with fruit and the other with bottles of whisky. Despite waving them away, the gifts still managed to find their way onto his table. The contractor then left with the words, Your Honour is a noble man. In this sad country there are three sorts of man. There are the good men who take no bribes, of whom you are one; there are the bad men who take bribes; and (looking me in the eyes) there are the suerka-bacchhas (sons of a pig) who take bribes but do not help the bribe giver. Salaam your honour, salaam.9 As he walked away, Carritt noticed that the two baskets had been left on his verandah. Carritt concluded this story by asking rhetorically, ‘. . . who is going to pour down the sink the whisky left anonymously at his back door by the Punjabi contractor[?]’. The author described an even more awkward daali – a live sheep that followed him around like a guilty secret.10 The daalii was rarely associated with ‘corruption’ in the late colonial period, being a mechanism through which officers could manage personal meetings and acknowledge powerful political interests. Yet its effects, as the account of Carritt suggests, were clearly very similar in many instances to bribery. Although under the Government Servant Conduct Rules current in the late 1930s, minor gifts on ceremonial occasions such as weddings were allowed, they were not to be passed between different cadres of officers.11 And the rulings on gifts were contained in different places – for example appearing in the Manual of Government Orders and Revenue Manual as well as conduct rules themselves, and were often ambiguous in their application and ‘size’. Many accounts of the daalii at this time and

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Imagining corruption 83 afterwards were recounted via expressions of amusement and secret complicity – as though the act was ‘allowed’ at certain times and contexts, but later on looked upon as deviant or even illegal. Interviews for this research firmly related the practice of daalii to the late colonial landlord polity of the UP countryside. One retired police officer, C.R. Arun, talked of this with a rueful smile: ‘One word is daalii . . . a particular day or time, the local zamindar will seek an appointment with bara sahib, and he was known as mai-bap . . . now this legacy has continued but we are no longer mai-baps.’12 Arun made it clear that the daalii was really little more than a gift or gesture at that time, but that the ‘legacy’ had less desirable consequences once the culture of zamindar–bara sahib interaction had disappeared. The ambiguity of the daalii was related to the complicated moral calculation involved in the relative culpability of the bribe-giver and bribe-taker, and the question of whether the person taking the bribe or daalii had a responsibility to act on the gift. Here, an analysis of the daalii necessarily moves into the territory of ceremonial gift-giving, and the sense in which, the taker of the bribe needs to ‘eat’ the sin of taking the bribe, in the context of taking on some of the essence of the gift itself. Notions of dan and dakshinaa (ritual gift giving), for example, contain the idea that the sins of the donor of a religious gift can corrupt the soul of the taker.13 This calculation clearly comes through in the words of the Punjabi builder previously, as does the overtly masculine act of presenting Carritt with whisky. The issue of the receiver ‘appearing’ to act upon ambiguous favours, formed part of the role of the political ‘middleman’, in relation to the administrator. Carritt suggests in his memoir that in other instances, the role of contact man could be taken up by the subordinate officers themselves. This is also supported by some of the main anecdotal evidence that emerges out of UP memoirs, in relation to the subordinate bureaucrat as agent on the ground.14 The culture of the daalii also appeared in other public services. Eugene Pierce, a retired Anglo-Indian railways worker, in an interview conducted in the 1970s, easily glided between the idea of the daalii as a gift and the building up of personal fortunes through systems of commissions for contracts. He described how his . . . father was a very honest man by any standard, but he mentioned to me how he got so many thousands of rupees before a brick was even laid when, he nearly gave the contract to the right parties, and these contractors . . . they covered him and gave him this money and it was customary for all the British officers and senior men of those days, to get what they call dollies at Christmas time. How the name was derived I don’t know to this day, but it meant a present. That is, a contractor would arrive with a large tray, perhaps some sovereigns on it, bottles of whisky, and having numerous contractors you’d get these people lining up all morning and I remember, even heard where one English memsahib said now, move on, baboo, they’re others waiting [laughs] to come to deliver him dollies.15 Pierce insisted that the daalii ‘. . . was not a bribe. It was never regarded in the light, taken as a bribe.’ But he was willing to talk openly about how contractors

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had presented his father with money, gold and bangles, that his mother had been given jewellery, and that the latter were clearly markers of status: ‘I can well remember, we had a safe built into the wall behind a picture where it was concealed. It was quite a ceremony to bring this out once a month and look it over . . .’ More systematic were the networks of corruption that operated through the railway stations. According to Pierce, ‘each station was allotted wagons and these wagons were in the gift of the stationmaster and that station used to be virtually sold.’ The stationmaster paid the traffic [laughs] the district traffic superintendent, and people like company inspectors . . . They’d go down their district once a month and a brown envelope [laughs] was slipped into his hand containing this, this tip. Now, if they mis-behaved themselves, the stationmasters, or they don’t come up to expectations, then he’s transferred to another station, you see, so some of these stations are regarded as prizes and others are not looked on so favourably.16 Eugene Pierce, like ICS commentators from this period, also suggested that these forms of corruption became ‘worse’ after independence, and that there was an important difference between the systematic commissions and bribes of subordinate cadres in civil services, and the supposed integrity of the upper levels. There was also a tendency within these sorts of testimonies, to view the existence of petty ‘corruption’ as a natural or normal part of the subordinate officer’s activities. This difference in language – between the obvious moral turpitude of the wayward ICS man or gazetted officer, and the naturally acceptable petty deals involving the subordinate or agent, was something that civil service reformers in late 1920s UP were very aware of. In July 1926, G.B. Lambert sent a circular to all Commissioners of Divisions in UP, asking District Officers to report on any deputy collector ‘whose reputation for probity is not unsullied’. However, in the circular, Lambert emphasised that he was concerned with ‘corruption in the true sense of the term, that is to say, the habitual use or abuse of his official powers by a public servant for his own profit.’ He stated that he was ‘not concerned with the practice of receiving customary payments, the offer of which to minor officials is sanctioned or at all levels endorsed by the long standing practice of the country.’ He went on to admit that ‘the line between the customary payments which public opinion sanctions and the beginning of exactions which it does not sanction is sometimes hard to define’, but felt that it was ‘useless’ for the government ‘to direct their energies against a minor evil.’ 17 However, after the 1935 Government of India Act, the issue of the daalii was revisited again, and this time reference to instructions on how far a ‘gift’ could go was reiterated by the UP government, almost certainly in response to the changed political context. When the Raja of the Mursan Estate in the Aligarh district administered under the Court of Wards was married in 1937, the Collector of Aligarh reported to the UP Government that he was presented with gold ‘mohr’.

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Imagining corruption 85 The gift was reportedly given on behalf of the bride’s family as his guardian. Since, the Collector explained, the gift was not ‘customary’, he could not keep it himself, and it was subsequently sold on the open market and deposited in the Lucknow treasury. The Commissioner of Agra Division felt that since ‘the Estate is an important estate, and the Raja Bahadur holds a high social position in this division’ and that ‘in the circumstances, I consider that Naqvi acted correctly in not refusing the gifts. To have done so would undoubtedly have caused offence.’18 Nevertheless, in the new post-1935 context, the Collector still felt it necessary to clarify his acceptance of the gift in terms of legalistic definition of gifts and presents in Government servant conduct rules – in this case rule 3(5) (1935).19 Other cases were unearthed by the Appointments Department in which ‘gifts’ between landowners or businessmen and officers had extended to the granting of daaliis between different ranks of officers. Specifically, letters to the department had alleged that large numbers of Superintendents of Police in UP had accepted large daaliis: Government further have reason to believe that in some cases it is still a practice for superior officers to receive dalis from their subordinates. Paragraph 303, Manual of Government Orders, contains the existing rule about the acceptance of dalis but for some reason no mention is made therein of Government Resolution no. 1636/III – 114 General Administration Department, dated October 6, 1919. This Resolution expressly forbade the acceptance in any form and at any time of dalis from subordinates and steps will be taken to incorporate the order in the Manual of Government Orders.20 Yet the UP government still wanted to ensure, as we will see in the next chapter, that officers should be able to take advantage of the ceremonial occasions in which they might receive ‘customary’ gifts from allies of the Raj, and the important members of the ‘local gentry’.21 ‘Corruption’ in all of the cases described earlier was clearly related to social expectation, and the notion of popular custom – something which allowed transactions defined as petty, to be made a part of the everyday forms of cultural capital for imagining and approaching the state. But these delineations of customs were now interacting with more legalistic views of government servant misconduct. Looked at from a non-official point of view, the daalii was part of a more systematic system of influence and favour which underpinned the ‘customary’ working of government. The idea of ‘customary payment’ was represented in the popular Hindi press and literature, as dasturi (dsatUrI) – a notion of payment that presupposes a normal transaction often involving a sense of commission for a service rendered, or payment to a middleman or intermediary. This was very much a part of popular and literary spheres – Premchand’s Rai Sahib in Godaan, made ‘the customary payments to lesser officials’ (krmaacaairyaa kI dsatUrIyaaM).22 And these payments were clearly seen as the oil that ran the administrative and police machinery – in the novel Sevasadan, the sub-inspector of police is unable to treat his superiors

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in a ‘ceremonial’ way, not being able to collect a bribe, part of which would be passed upwards.23 The ease with which the languages and meanings surrounding dasturi could be naturalised related to what bureaucrats and the public alike saw as ‘long standing’ practices of interaction with government. An early nineteenth century commentary on business dealings in north India, pointed out, for example that Whenever an European, even in person, buys goods of a native, his servants have, from time immemorial, a claim on the vendor of half an anna in every rupee the latter receives. This, which is called dustooree, or customary gift. . . .24 The use of languages and expressions that had a clear meaning across a range of spheres of transaction – money changing, trade and business, endowed the practices associated with lower civil servants with a special kind of connection to ordinary social processes. Dasturi could be interchangeable in certain contexts with the idea of a fee, discount, exchange or ‘batta’. Within the notion of dasturi, was also an ambiguous sense of the boundaries of illicitness, as was the case with the daalii. Where the exaction of dasturi was out in the open, its practice could be represented as legitimate. Where it was hidden, it might be represented as fraud.25 Perhaps most importantly, there was also a sense in which dasturi was seen as a minor abuse, which could never be sufficiently managed or controlled by senior civil servants, and that should therefore be carefully allowed. This approach also had a deep historical root: according to Hicky’s Bengal Gazette of April 1780, ‘It never can be in the power of a superintendent of Police to reform the numberless abuses which servants of every Denomination have introduced, and now support on the Broad Basis of Dustoor’.26 For others, it became a kind of shibboleth through which the European viewed all that might be acceptable according to custom, since it upheld social stability: ‘that venerable and wonderful Institution dustooree, by which the interests of all classes are cemented together and the wheels of the social system are oiled.’27 This was also a part of colonial perceptions of East and Southern Africa, although in that context, with a broader meaning in relation to ‘custom’.28 Colonial administrators of the 1920s and 1930s still had to contend with a largely clientelist system of local power, through which the colonial state tolerated spheres of political and administrative autonomy, as a means of maintaining stability and collecting revenue. Where district officers and their staff were over-stretched, particularly in areas of great population concentration such as UP, local governments were forced to prioritise business and in particular, the manner of contacts with powerful local interests. Appointments and Revenue department heads in the UP government, for example, were at pains to insist that district administrations should be allowed to get on with their jobs to the best of their abilities without undue interference from the provincial government. To this end, older practices of acquiescence in subordinate officer autonomy were continued and justified by recourse to the notion that some transactions of dubious legality in relation to

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Imagining corruption 87 government could be represented as ‘customary’ or long-standing. Such transactions were naturalised and cautiously accepted, especially if they were related to some of the key landed or monied allies of the Raj. This situation was particularly pertinent in a system where there were connections between powerful rural and business interests and the local state which needed to work through the lower levels of the Indian bureaucracy – a set of cadres who, in any case, could be divorced in official discourses from the ideal of the incorruptible British district officer. Once public interest in the detailed business of administrative activity changed however, so, of course, did attention to the phenomenon of ‘corruption’, and the forms of language used to describe it. After 1947, clearer anti-corruption drives were initiated within the civil service, which more starkly exposed the specific categories of influence and ‘corruption’. Jonathan Parry has described the characteristic of a growing ‘awareness’ of corruption in contemporary India, as part of a process in which Indians have internalised the neutral values of the state.29 However, the archive suggests that this was not a gradual process which bore fruit from about the period of economic liberalisation in India from the early 1990s. There is plenty of evidence that a key shift in terms of popular views about corruption occurred around the time of Indian independence, partly as a response to the crisis of the post-war shortages, and partly through the dramatically transformed political context. Immediately after independence, the ‘project’ of rooting out corruption became stronger, both as a popular discourse, and as a preoccupation of governments in states like UP. From the late 1940s, national consolidated reports were compiled by the central government, on persons excluded from government service on account of misconduct. This was built up on the back of an attempt to collect detailed reports from different departments about disciplinary proceedings, through local conduct committees.30 In the many corruption cases documented across departments, direct and more legalistic terms such as ‘embezzlement’, ‘misconduct’, ‘misappropriation’ and most commonly, ‘illegal gratification’ were evident in the titles of files dealing with individual cases. These, as well as the detailed legal proceedings which accompanied them, will be examined in depth in Chapters 5 and 6 – in particular, in relation to the specific cases surrounding the war and partition. Overarching reports on and observations about ‘Public Administration’ posited the need for a new drive towards ‘integrity’, in the post-independence, postconstitution context of parliamentary government and democracy. An All-Indian form of this discourse of ‘integrity’ appeared most clearly in A.D. Gorwala’s report of 1951. Importantly, Gorwala made the distinction between ‘conduct’ and ‘behaviour’ – the need to not only observe high moral standards, but also to be seen to be observed.31 Discourses of ‘corruption’ could themselves affect governance – something which was now presented as an urgent problem. According to Gorwala, The psychological atmosphere produced by . . . persistent and unfavourable comment is itself the cause of further moral deterioration, for people will begin to adapt their methods, even for securing a legitimate right, to what they believe to be the tendency of men in power and office.32

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For Gorwala, this attitude was created by frustration and economic difficulties, especially among the ‘middle classes’, and the general intoxication of newly acquired freedom. The issue of ‘rumour’ was given more substance with the suggestion that . . . when a strong aroma of corruption has gathered round an officer, very rarely will it be wrong . . .’ However, the report went on to define three categories of ‘deviation from moral standards’ – ‘corruption’, ‘patronage (based on communalism, sectarianism, nepotism and favouritism)’ and ‘influence’.33 Gorwala attributed such systems, to the Government of Great Britain up to the early nineteenth century, and described them as more admissible or acceptable in a system of oligarchy, where there was no question of building a welfare state. Implicitly, these categories were also derived from a notion of the ‘customary’ or ‘traditional’ forms of state–society connections which permeated Indian public service in the past: In a country in which it has long been recognised to be a man’s clear duty to provide for his relatives, near and distant, as well as for his Biradri or brotherhood, very special measures are needed to deal with the many evils and injustices that comes from patronage.34 Even more pertinently, Gorwala went on to examine whether corruption ‘rumours’ might be controlled or managed. This involved the judicial system. Gorwala noted that ‘the filing of several such prosecutions had a very healthy effect on the press and prevented their spreading unfounded sensational tales’.35 In remedy, he suggested that government should respond rapidly to such allegations, demonstrating where possible their falsity – an action which would reinforce views of governmental responsiveness. However, as we will see in the next section and Chapter 5, these national-level, legalistic descriptions of ‘corruption’ and its management were starkly out of phase with the realities of quotidian practices and expectations.

ii) The public sphere of corruption in the UP bureaucracy Lambert’s general assessments of ‘customary’ transactions involving lower officials were not unfounded, when we look more closely at discourses of ‘corruption’ in specific UP departments, such as Revenue and PWD. Here, the notion of ‘dasturi’ frequently appeared as a description for ambiguously legal relationships, as it does in the supporting UP interview material. For example, one retired ICS officer who had worked up through the PCS, described the logic behind ‘bakshish’ and ‘dasturi’ in ‘British times’ by lower cadres of the civil service – a situation that was tolerated as a way of enhancing low income levels. It was ‘customary’ in nature, it appeared from this interview, both in terms of the long-term historical practices of the region, but also in terms of the civil service, and the custom supported the overarching need to present upper levels as distanced from such activities.36 Other examples abound: C.J. Pelly, an ICS officer who worked in the Punjab and UP in

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Imagining corruption 89 the final years of British power, talked about ‘fiddling’ and ‘bribery’ as an everyday customary activity of subordinate court officials – something that higher-level officials were unable to prevent, being too thin on the ground.37 In other areas, the ICS man was represented as keeping an eye on what he saw as the constantly corruptible elements of subordinate civil servants, who would receive customary ‘tokens’, only ambiguously associated with bribery. Examples in which such payments, fees and commissions, might have been described in terms of ‘dasturi’ (and therefore acceptable and open) are usually only mentioned in a general sense. Because of its ‘everyday’ nature, there was little desire to document this practice, either in late colonial or early independent India. However, in some of the specific ‘corruption’ and complaints cases, it is possible to identify points at which customary arrangements, involving technically illegal payments, became a cause for enquiry after the terms of a ‘deal’ changed. Some of these cases spanned many years, since court procedures, especially in relation to government servants, could be riddled with delays and obstructions. One such case was unearthed in 1946, and involved one Brij Bahadur Sahai, a subordinate officer in the Collectorate of Etawah district from 1928. Sahai’s complaint related to a series of what he described as ‘customary payments’ that had been made to the Collector, and which, he claimed had become illegal and onerous. The deal went back to a period when his father had worked as head clerk in the same department and had leased out land on the military encamping ground. Sahai claimed that the payments had been acceptable up to the point when one Chaudhuri Raghabir Singh was appointed as District Officer in Etawah. The latter had a cattle herd, in need of grain and fodder and he selected the Sahai farm for securing the supplies. When Sahai baulked at the decision of the Collector to increase the customary arrangement, the farm lease was cancelled. Importantly, the ‘customary payments’ were supposedly made because of the relatively low rent Sahai had paid, as part of a quid pro quo arrangement.38 However, the Etawah Collector, responding to the charges of Sahai, maintained that Sahai had used ‘insider knowledge’ to acquire the lease on favourable terms in the first place.39 In this case, a transaction of mutual benefit, which transgressed official rules of conduct (not least in relation to the issue of subordinates granting payments to superiors), was made effective by being described as ‘customary’. Yet the apparent illegality of the deal had only come about (from the complainant’s point of view), once the payments had become relatively onerous. In other words, the notion of ‘customary payment’ was a flexible one which could only ever be very loosely described or defined by official rules or professional expectations. Much more common within the UP Revenue Department, were the range of approaches towards recruitment on behalf of relatives and associates. This related to ‘dasturi’ in the sense that petitioning was based on a vision of enhanced opportunities for money-making. More specifically, it was about ‘sifaarish’ – ‘finding a recommendation’ – a phenomenon later depicted in UP political culture as ‘brother-nephewism’. One of the UP Revenue Manual rules, designed to guide the work of revenue officers such as tahsildars and Deputy Collectors, encouraged ‘a due admixture of castes and communities’ in local government, and directed that

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a ‘preponderance’ of any one caste in a district was to be avoided.40 The rationale for the application of this for some local departments becomes clear when we look at how local governments adjudicated what they saw as the exercise of influence or ‘sifaarish’. In 1932, in the midst of a discussion on communal and caste balances, attention was drawn to the fact that district staffs in some departments had taken an active part in forwarding the candidature of relations for posts under local bodies. Three ICS colonial officials involved in civil service recruitment at this time, Phillip Mason, H. Bomford and J.M. Clay,41 for example, corresponded over their experiences of Deputy Collectors angling for appointments for their relatives. Clay recounted similar complaints recently surrounding the city magistrate in Moradabad.42 Again, in 1935, a member of the District Selection Board for the Police Training School complained that he ‘must have had relations of every single candidate calling on me to persuade me to influence the committee to elect the candidates they are interested in . . .’ The same process went on with the district selections of tahsildars and naib tahsildars.43 There was no attempt to draw together a general overarching policy in response to this activity, and each representation from different districts was managed according to the particular ‘traditions’ of the region. Within UP government departments after 1947, the new stress on ‘development’ did not change an older paternalistic identification of poor conduct on the part of subordinates. In the four years after independence, a spate of internal corruption investigations (which built upon a larger anti-corruption drive directed by G.B. Pant as Chief Minister) in the PWD in UP, prompted a new survey of the administrative mechanisms for identifying and punishing ‘corruption’. But from the outset, the definition of bad conduct was complicated by internal systems of occupational and hierarchical alliances. For many in the UP government, the notion of ‘integrity’ was self-consciously relative: since it was relatively easy to arrange for a good ‘integrity certificate’ from the inside, the ability to present oneself as ‘honest’ could be effectively acquired. For example, after the failure to prosecute an official in the Canal Department in Bara Banki, one file concluded that There is no opportunity to have investigations made against subordinate officials of this Department by independence agencies . . . There is only a departmental examination, and there is a natural tendency to support the action of subordinate officials on the part of higher officials in the department.44 The system of ‘integrity certificates’ was continued after independence. But new efforts were made to persuade Heads of Departments to check the work of their subordinates. In amendments to the service rules of tahsildars, naib tahsildars and peshkars (magistrates), drawn up just before independence, ‘verification of the character of candidates’ was emphasised before first appointments.45 The UP Revenue Department suggested that Heads should sign a declaration with the wording: ‘I have made every possible effort to check corruption among my subordinates.’ In a note in the same file, the Department pointed out that ‘it is needless to re-emphasise the importance of purity and integrity in the public services in a welfare state . . .’.46 Corruption was, it seems, and in comparison to early surveys,

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Imagining corruption 91 related to absolute notions of individual ‘character’ rather than increases in economic opportunity. Character verification under a colonial system largely concerned checking the political connections of those coming into the services. It was also, however, another mechanism whereby favour could be shown or retribution exercised, through the granting or refusal of a certificate. This threw open an interesting set of associations between corruption and political activity, when the character verification process was continued after independence. In discussions of the advisability of continuing the procedure of character certificate verification in the mid 1950s, a number of officers working in the Appointments Department suggested that it was outdated. One note on a file on certificates suggested that ‘The present elaborate safeguards are relics of the race prejudice summed up in Lord Curzon’s dictum: “Truthfulness and honesty are not to be found East of Suez” ’, and went on to comment that with the coming of democracy, the reactions to corrupt behaviour would necessarily be sharper: Clean antecedents at the start of service are no guarantee for continued good behaviour . . . The black sheep so often found among all ranks of public servants, for whom a whole code of punishment and appeal has to be devised and enforced, are indicative of the failure of the character test. In a free democracy there is little temptation to be subversive. The public is very critical of dishonourable acts of public servants and makes its voice felt.47 Clearly, this comment was about the difference between officers who had served under a colonial system and the anticipated results of appointments in free India. Yet, the same file also contained suggestions that the UP Government had reasons to monitor which groups and organisations were taking an interest in civil service recruitment: ‘one of the reasons that subversive organisations do not try to get into government service, is because, it is much easier to subvert or bribe existing government servants. This, in fact, is the method favoured by the Communist party . . .’.48 And at the same time, the assumption was that in any case the granting of certificates would be mired in the inevitable networks of corruption and influence which were thought to characterise those (middle to lower) level cadres responsible for granting them: ‘Securing certificates from such officers must be causing such candidates inconvenience and harassment, and may lead to unscrupulous activity by intermediaries’. It was therefore suggested in this file that the seeking of character antecedents should be given up with respect to lower grades of Government employees ‘on account of the harassment and complaints of corruption arising from verification by local police officials.’49 This reflection on the shallowness of official certifications of ‘integrity’ was also apparent in the growth in interest in bhrashtaachaar in the press by the late 1940s, particularly in the Hindi papers. Not only was the term bhrashtaachaar more common in its usage after 1947, but other terms were now inflected with a deeper sense of irony. Aaj ran an article in January 1948, about unfair government appointments, using the term in inverted commas – ‘sifaarish’ (isafarISa) – finding a recommendation.50 The English language newspapers from this period

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of the late 1940s and early 1950s also contain more reports on individual cases of corruption investigation, accusation and defence, when compared with the 1930s. For example, on 9 January 1948, The Pioneer ran a multiple column set of connected stories surrounding corruption in Kanpur: a cement black-marketing scam, involving members of the Kanpur municipal board; general police irregularities; and police-firing incidents.51 A later issue of the same newspaper contained a special report from a Special Railway Magistrate, Lal Mohan Banerjee, which contained detailed allegations about corruption on the part of railway officials, and created the sense of how ‘corruption’ could be linked to national political change. He wrote that, . . . official corruption and oppression not only debases the officials but serves to demoralise and degrade the nation as a whole . . . It is essential for national uplift and progress that efforts in all direction be made to root out corruption and high-handedness which is the legacy of a century of foreign domination.52 There was also a much stronger tendency to juxtapose bureaucratic and police irregularity to the violence of partition and the dreams of a Gandhian or idealised age of freedom. One Hindi paper ran a series of articles about police violence, which linked such violence to general low-level corruption and commented that the UP police had descended into savagery and asking, ‘How is this rule of the people? How is this the age of Gandhi? How is this freedom? How is this service?’53 The English language press was more inclined towards broader sweeping articles on this issue, relating the ‘problem’ of corruption to ‘national progress’ and ‘modernisation’. Hindi papers in UP, by contrast, were more concerned to report on individual cases of malfeasance, with specific reference to individual departments and regions. The contrasting development of a Hindi public sphere, through the phase of high anti-colonial mobilisation in the 1920s and 1930s, had helped to generate parallel concerns around governance in UP.54 This divided media sphere affected government too. In states like UP, serving IAS officers were still largely drawn from English-speaking elites well into the 1980s, whereas those entering at PCS level were more commonly recruited from provincial universities and contexts. This difference was so bald in the late 1940s, that the Appointments Department and commentators remarked on the ‘problem’ of what was seen as deteriorating ‘quality’ in the phase of late 1940s recruitment. From 1948, a sudden drop in ICS/IAS personnel, led to rapid promotions from PCS levels.55 This situation helped to reinforce the sense, on the one hand, of a distant upper-level state, representing mythical forces of modernity and integrity, and the notion that local levels of the state operated not only in a different moral political world, but a linguistically different one too. More important still though in the divided linguistic spheres of corruption, was the accessibility of information. Because the English language press tended to more often report higher-level legislative developments to changes in local

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Imagining corruption 93 governance than the Hindi press, the process of what Gupta and Parry have described as the ‘internalisation’ of citizenship rights was relatively constrained for many over our period. For example, reports were sent from state governments (including Uttar Pradesh) to the Government of India in 1951, showing that the action taken to publicise constitutional and legal provisions in regard to forced labour was mainly restricted to the English language newspapers and Press Bulletins. These were read by relatively few living in villages. In remedy, the Ministry of Labour suggested that in rural areas, leaflets should be distributed in local languages, and publicity should be given through local officials of the Revenue Department and District Public Relations Officers, and the radio.56 Very common in both Hindi and English language newspapers were articles which historicised corruption in terms of a lost or failed dream of political freedom and progress. And these are still evident in a whole range of popular responses to the problem of corruption in contemporary India. Bound up with the idea of a lost phase of ‘integrity’ from the colonial and early independence period, was the notion that corruption was essentially about the withholding and command of ‘insider’ information in relation to government, by a middle-class elite – the readers of the English language dailies. Interviewees in the Lucknow region who remembered the early decades of independent India, explained how the growth of corruption over time was related to administrative elites’ links to the grassroots through organised networks of profit involving subordinate officers. A contemporary anti-corruption organisation working in Hardoi district, Uttar Pradesh, under the organisation and leadership of a Lucknow-based leader, Sandeep Pandey, had been fighting against village and tahsil level corruption in a range of government departments since 2002. The organisation was taking advantage of recent legislation on ‘Freedom of Information’, to check the records of local government officials. In interviews with several of the local participants in this movement, it was plain that even at this level, a common view was that the ‘problem’ of corruption within the bureaucracy had become progressively worse over the second half of the twentieth century and related to ideas that upper levels of government withheld information and privileged access to officers. A retired police constable from Lalpur, Hardoi district, who served between 1946 and 1976, suggested that, Earlier the scene was much better. As government officials we used to live with 30–35 rupees, now they take bribe with earning of Rs. 30,000 also. The thanedar [local police officer] does not take the report down before taking a thousand bucks . . . after independence controls were weakened and corruption was promoted, as those with the ear of the higher officials profited. People like us, who could only use Hindi were stuck in the district.57 Another volunteer of the organisation echoed this idea of gradual deterioration: . . . when I was 15–16 years old, officials used to take little bribes. Like the Magistrates’ peon used to ask for Rs.2 from beneath the table, today he openly asks for Rs. 20 as a right, and passes a percentage of the money upwards to his superiors in Lucknow.58

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This popular perception that things had somehow got ‘worse’, can be partly explained by the common phenomenon in interviews for this research, of seeing the Nehru period as a kind of ‘golden age’ in Indian politics. But also significant was the common identification of ‘misconduct’ with the issue of administrative hierarchical control and political management. In other words, misconduct and corruption were, throughout the late colonial and early independence period linked to the notion of overall public and individual ‘discipline’ too. This notion had Gandhian roots, in which notions of individual swaraj, related to bodily discipline, were a route to broader political freedoms and rights.59 Also important was political ‘discipline’. In national consolidated reports compiled by the central government, on persons excluded from government service on account of misconduct for 1950 and 1951, cases of embezzlement or bribe-taking were lumped together with cases of apparent political disloyalty, as though the two kinds of activity were interchangeable. For example, in the half year ending June 1950, out of 165 cases, there were 34 cases of officers accused of participating in the newly illegal Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh or the RSS60 (many of them within the Railway services in Delhi, Gurgaon, Punjab, Bulandshahr, Aligarh and Meerut). There was also a case reported of a Temporary Assistant in the Ministry of Commerce, removed for ‘indulging in political activities since 1950’ who had been ‘on the editorial staff of Communist magazines’ and who had been ‘inciting the public to take part in anti-government activities’. Some of these supposed political crimes could date back to pre-independence times. Mohammad Ahmad Zubari, a temporary clerk in Meerut, was disciplined for being a member of ‘a subversive organisation in 1940–42’ and for being on the editorial staff of the pro-Pakistan newspaper, Dawn.61 The political cases were tabulated alongside the other cases, which might involve terms of reference such as ‘corruption’, ‘misappropriation’ and ‘illegal gratification’. A similar juxtaposition came into the ‘Annual Reports’ on subordinate staff in departments like Public Works (PWD) and Revenue in Uttar Pradesh. In these, political activity was often presented in terms of ‘intrigue’ or ‘faction’, which suggested a dovetailing of meanings with ‘corruption’. These associations between corruption and political intrigue formed part of a larger tendency for political rivals in UP to use the idea of corruption and anti-corruption as a form of political challenge – a theme which will be looked at in detail in Chapter 6. However, this language of integrity and political intrigue was also part of the process of official reporting on civil servants and their conduct. For example in the PWD in Kanpur, the report on one assistant engineer pointedly referred to his ‘intriguing nature’ and his ‘habit of forming rival parties’ and factions. Another adverse report on a Construction Supervisor, elicited a response from the supervisor that the report compiler held a ‘political’ grudge against him, as he was related to a previous Engineer with whom he had had disagreements.62 In an assessment of tahsildar recruitment in 1948, character rolls of individuals also reflected this approach.63 These objections to political activity were not just about the need to retain distance between administrative and political spheres in the state. They used an older colonial vocabulary that identified political intrigue with state subversion in

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Imagining corruption 95 general, but increasingly with specific reference to existing political structures. This association between political activity and ideas of everyday corruption also characterised public perceptions. For example, in a case in Etah district in 1949, when a contractor was confronted with an apparent over-payment of over Rs 35,000 , he responded with a list of general allegations against PWD staff. These included general bribery, conspiracy with certain contractors and finally involvement in local party politics: one government Overseer was charged with involvement in local board elections.64 Both in 1930s, and 1950s–60s UP, political subversion and notions of ‘corruption’ were closely related then. There were important overarching political reasons, relating to the maintenance of local stability, why governments were willing to maintain such mental connections. A situation where the police and bureaucracy after independence could call upon older forms of political control, had implications for the ritual and performance surrounding ambiguously legal arrangements with government. But it also meant that at moments convenient to political leaderships in UP, issues of political loyalty or political subversion could be used as a way of tarring administrators’ conduct reports, effecting transfers or scoring points against political opponents. This meant that lower-level civil servant (PCS and subordinate cadres of the Revenue departments in particular), had to be especially skilled in navigating political deals surrounding the patronage politics of rural Uttar Pradesh. Such navigation involved the principle of being seen to ‘get things done’, and was probably enhanced as politics became increasingly factionalised at state and central levels.

iii) Policing, violence and the transactions of corruption in UP The changing representations of corruption, as they affected everyday contacts with local state agents, also influenced the complex exercise of violence. This section will look at how forms of violence, involving social humiliation and the control of property and financial resources were part of a changing nexus of transactions involving diverse political calculations by policemen. These calculations changed between colonial and post-independence UP in important ways and moulded the nature of Indians’ everyday contacts with the state as they changed over this period. The interaction between political masters and policemen or other low-level officials was neither straightforward nor uniform. As was argued in the opening section of this chapter, and explored further in relation to other parts of the lower-level bureaucracy, there was a level of local autonomy in the exercise of police violence in which obstacles to punishment allowed policemen to operate often in quite arbitrary ways. However, changing government and public attention to corruption and anti-corruption, partly as a result of nationalist critiques, effectively drew cultures of violence into a series of complex transactions, in which the meaning of such violence transformed. Specifically, the detailed social implications of violent conduct reinforced the dynamics whereby subject-citizens often failed to exercise their rights, since police violence proscribed access to the political capital necessary in this endeavour.

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Critical to this changing public awareness, particularly of policing, was the corresponding publicity about and discussion of the purpose of police violence and corruption itself. For most of the late colonial period, all kinds of violence – from rioting, to criminal activity, were represented with little or no reference to the potential culpability of government officials or policemen. In particular, the idea that ‘goondas’, or hired villains were behind episodes of large-scale violence was commonly used by both officials and Indian middle-class observers as an explanation for the apparent irrationality of such violence. Such explanations were also important in generating the sense that respectable Indians were disconnected from its causes. But by the late 1930s–40s, the common sense of police violence as part of a form of corrupt transaction grew, partly as a result of more vociferous and direct nationalist critiques of colonial policing and administration. The work of three scholars – Thomas Blom Hansen and Paul Brass on India, and Jonathan Spencer on Sri Lanka – has explored this feature of policing and social violence, particularly through their examination of the performative nature of violence, and how it distorts the operation of state sovereignty.65 Hansen suggests that violence becomes a way of critiquing elitist middle-class dominance of older state structures, and that it essentially represents a practice often directed at Muslims, but that it is also linked to police cultures of dadaism (gangsterism), which are intimately connected to the administration. Some of the most recent work of Brass has looked at this in relation to the policing of north Indian cases of communal violence, and the links therein to local examples of crime and violence, perpetrated often by proxy, by local political leaders, encouraged by problems of the judicial process and connected to frameworks of factional politics.66 Jonathan Spencer has argued that there is a kind of fascination with ‘vicarious violence’ – the desire to witness road accidents, killings, film violence or cartoon-style violence. But importantly for him (and for this work), collective violence was often methodical in nature – organised by small groups of men, according to defined plans. In many cases, this organisation took place with the complicity of party leaders and security forces, who in some cases either did nothing to prevent the violence (apart from warning some residents to leave the area in advance), or actively collaborated.67 In looking at the specific role of police violence over our period of colonial and postcolonial UP, this section of the chapter will consider the ability of citizens, in the light of such violence to either assert positive rights, or recognise negative ones.68 By looking at the dynamic of social humiliation, it will suggest that victims of police violence, to quote Rajeswari Sunder Rajan, ‘emerge as a category of political beings who do not have a relationship of full equivalence to citizenship’.69 Certainly, media reports were increasingly reporting on the ways in which violence disempowered the poor. And important in this process of publicity were the events of the 1940s and in particular, partition. The paradigm shift in partition history from the late 1990s, encouraged us to look more closely at quotidian violence, individual experience and emotions.70 This is also pertinent to this book: one dynamic of police violence in the political economy of corruption, is its reconfiguration of the relationship between the subject-citizen’s body on the one

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Imagining corruption 97 hand and their property (a form of political capital) on the other. Property then, becomes a means of avoiding violence or its consequences, and this also affected the whole official and semi-official process of disciplinary proceedings. We will be returning to this theme of discipline and the implementation of ‘anti-corruption’ in Chapter 5. In the UP State archives, there are collections of files which discuss the problems of police misdemeanour in some detail, although of course, their production had a particular purpose in relation to the public image of colonial governance. Some of the files from the period between 1909 and 1914, stand out in terms of their detail and complexity, providing not only narratives of police misconduct, but also complex official manoeuvring around procedures of redress and punishment. Here, the ambiguous representations and signs for corruption described in the sections earlier were critical. The Government of India had asked local governments in 1911 to investigate all controversies of ‘public interest’, to avoid Parliamentary questions on Indian issues picked up from Indian newspapers.71 In 1909 then, before the full development of nationalist politics, forms of physical and social intimidation appeared in ways that later were to become more entangled with other political agencies. And we will reflect on this in a moment with a later 1930s–40s period. As David Arnold showed for South India, there was practically no recourse to an ‘impartial state’ in this period for most Indians.72 Although mechanisms of political intelligence were growing at this time, policing of rural areas was relatively laissez-faire. This meant that landlords could and did, on occasion, use policemen to resolve the affairs of their estates. In February 1909, a sub– inspector of police in Meerut district (western UP), Haidar Abbas, was brought to a Meerut village, Chajjupur, by the agent of an absentee zamindar and asked to detect unofficially, and with no record, a theft of livestock and equipment and to recover the stolen property. The sub–inspector, Haider Abbas, summoned another constable, Farzand Ali, and together they rounded up a family of suspects of the low–caste Kahar community (man, wife and daughter). What happened next is indicative of how the unofficial investigation of the police rapidly turned into a combination of summary judgement and punishment, associated with intimidation. The family were stripped naked and paraded on the landlord’s assembly area. No goods were recovered nor clues obtained. No complaint was lodged.73 This ritualistic humiliation was significant in that it deliberately attacked the notions of family honour, involving the family as a collective unit, among a community that in this period was asserting higher status. Although late nineteenth century ethnographies described the palanquin and water-carrying Kahar community as ‘true village menials, receiving customary dues and performing customary services’,74 over this period movements of Ramanandi reformers like Bhagvan Prasad, had encouraged Kahars to assert kshatriya status, and to fight against forced labour. The Kahars of Meerut were at this time, following the lead of their south Bihari brethren, who had set up the Ramani Dharma Pracharini Sabha, directed at jati reform.75 The violence against the Kahars then, possibly was also a form of social violence, which involved the assertion of control over subordinate communities.

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Reporting on the case in 1909, the Superintendent of Police H.G. Richardson remarked that

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The wretched kahars were in the clutches of a very high-handed and unscrupulous sub-inspector who had the sympathy and active support of a very influential karinda [estate manager] and they were therefore afraid to speak. Not only this but they would be naturally unwilling to bring public attention to their shame.76 Making a complaint then, would have highlighted the moment of humiliating violence. Higher officials, aware of this situation, were unsure of the application of their own systems of punishment and discipline for policemen. The District Magistrate pointed out that had the case against the policemen been brought to the courts, there would have been every possibility of an acquittal. The landlord’s agent could have brought forward all the leading tenants to swear that nothing had happened. Injured parties would have been bribed or cajoled or bullied into saying that they knew nothing about it. As it turned out, the constable who had carried out the violence was the one punished internally. This, of course, was convenient for (and probably anticipated by) the sub-inspector, who had delegated the dirty work to a subordinate. Nevertheless, Richardson did point out that, ‘but for the fact that it would have only given further prominence to the disgrace of the wretched women I would have prosecuted Haidar Abbas.’77 Clearly, the form of violence itself – the social humiliation of the Kahars – had been used by policemen as a method of dodging any possible judicial consequences by displaying the victims’ powerlessness. In the light of this, extra-judicial punishment was not only necessary to bypass the problem of local police networks of protection, but also the problems of victim honour and shame. This was not an isolated case of police violence of its kind. In the same file from 1913, seven more similar cases were described for a period of about two years in UP, in which the mechanisms of formal punishment were thought to be ill-fitted to the task of dealing with the intricate webs of local violence. As we saw in section (i) previously, the meanings of ‘corruption’ in these cases were highly complex, and connected to a consideration of the specific local circumstances of the police action. Not only that, but the very definition of the crimes committed by the police (broadly categorised in terms of misconduct), were also tied up with the fact that they had acted as agents of a powerful landholder – the very bedrock of the British colonial system. Significant too was the anticipation on all sides of how the officers might, or could be punished, given the ambiguous meanings surrounding these acts of corruption. Finally, also useful here is the notion of lajja, roughly corresponding to ‘shame’, explored in Jonathan Spencer’s work on rural Sri Lanka. Everyday violence in this construction is described as the loss of the necessary modicum of lajja or ‘shame’. There were class (caste), and gender dynamics to this, since those of lowly social or ritual status are considered to have relatively little lajja to lose.78 Arbitrary action against the Kahars, as against other low status communities as we will see later, was made possible by official and popular perceptions of victim shame.

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Imagining corruption 99 It is instructive to look at a comparable case in the official archive for 1938, described in terms of ‘police misconduct’, this time in Jhansi, UP. Police, led by a head constable Mohammad Abbas, allegedly beat up and extorted money from a young man from a low-caste Teli community, as a result of (apparently) false accusations of theft. Again, the use of social humiliation and intimidation meant that the resolution of the case was far from straightforward. Like in 1909, the normal mechanisms of justice and complaint were bypassed. The case involved the accusation of the theft of some goods by the young man, whereby the police had (on their own account) attempted to arrange a settlement payment between the parties (the man who had made the allegations of theft was described in the file on this case as a ‘favourite’ of the head constable). However, later commentators suggested that the police aimed to keep a part of this payment for themselves and that in effect the payment was a form of bribe. Compared to the 1909 case, here the situation was complicated by the use of a local panchayat to establish the settlement payment. At first, the panchayat itself, involving leading members of the local community, were to an extent complicit in the act of bribery, in the sense that in discussions of the case, the bribe was commuted into a different form. In a context of a Congress ministry (and years of Congress campaigning against the police, as well as the Pant ministry’s moves for anti- corruption to be discussed in Chapter 5), district Congress leaders in the area arranged a sting operation to entrap the policeman, with marked notes.79 The patterns of police violence were similar, but the forms of political and social capital used to get around them were now quite different. There was clearly a local ‘common sense’ that the beating of the young man could be ‘managed’ in a semi-formal way with a series of payments, involvement of a panchayat and the intervention of local leaders. Whereas the 1909 case had involved the straightforward use of summary punishment to assert local social power and control, in 1938, such calculations surrounding violence involved more complex considerations – how the moment of brutality might be publicised; what external support the young man might have (in this case he managed to get Congress support, via a local freedom fighter) and what the avoidance of social humiliation was worth in monetary terms. Such calculations continued when the head constable, Mohammad Abbas, caught red-handed by the Congress sting, proceeded to court. One argument of the defence was that it was incredible that a police officer would extort a bribe in full view, and with the knowledge of the public, or in this case a panchayat. A note on the file commented that the Additional District Magistrate’s report had initially rejected the prosecution story about young man’s ‘payment’ being demanded as a bribe, ‘because he thought that it was incredible that the head constable, if he has wished to extort a bribe, would have advertised the fact in such a manner particularly before a panchayat.’ However, the note proceeded, ‘I do not think this is a strong argument because it is a notorious fact that police officers extort and realise bribes more openly than the officers of other departments . . . This is by no means an uncommon occurrence.’80 This was certainly supported in our interview with one retired police officer, who pointed out that everyday ‘hush’ money routinely came into local police stations in the 1940s, particularly from disempowered

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applicants attempting to make complaints.81 As the case progressed, the accused policeman allegedly bribed the Circle Inspector (CI) heading up the case, to the tune of Rs 300. The idea was that in return, the CI would provide him with information on the case, and arrange to pay off or intimidate prosecution witnesses. Of course, the CI had enough local influence to avoid personally intimidating witnesses. It was also discovered by the Criminal Investigation Department, that the Circle Inspector himself had been involved in covering up a large armed burglary that had also implicated the accused police officer (Mohammad Abbas), involving property worth Rs 4,000 to 5,000 in the town of Ghadia Phatak some months previously. When the smaller bribery case was started the head constable threatened to disclose the burglary incident if the CI failed to salvage his reputation.82 The case against the head constable failed, so once again, departmental action was taken and Abbas, facing seven separate charges, was eventually ‘reduced’ in rank in March 1939. Policemen themselves were aware then, of how the use of violence increasingly involved transactions and agreements not easily managed by those of low status. We might look on this as a repertoire of violence – a specific set of calculations in which violence served a particular function within a wider political economy in the exercise of local power.83 But such machinations also involved calculations in which other incentives or deals could purchase a reprieve from threatened violence. For example, the UP government in 1948 collected a file on complaints against the police, in which one petition from burglary suspects in Sitapur in early 1948, described their arrangements to make payments to officers to avoid beatings.84 Over the period of late 1947 to 1949, it appears that violence could be ‘acquired’ to create commercial opportunities, to distribute favours and to bolster local support networks. For example, newspaper articles from January 1948, described how Lucknow property magnates reportedly provoked communal trouble in order to purchase property at cheap rates from persons leaving in panic. These communal outbreaks, which were repeated in Bareilly and Allahabad, seem to have been organised in a systematic manner from areas of refugee settlement, and importantly, while policemen nonchalantly stood by. The papers also claimed that one Allahabad police station had received payments from interested parties, to stand back as the rioting developed. Similar kinds of conflicts were also taking place in Lucknow over the municipal ban on street vendors, leading to a demonstration of refugees in the city, and the rumour of organised communal conspiracies to allow refugees to grab Muslim properties in January 1948.85 But whereas certain people among the refugees could be relied upon to generate violence at appropriate moments, their economic predicament could also provide opportunities for policemen. During the course of the removal of hastily-erected refugee pavement stalls near the Jama Masjid in Saharanpur in May 1948, the police were reported to have looted fruits and shoes.86 The sense in which the violence of social humiliation, via the police, targeted the disempowered, i.e. those who had little to no access to the normal channels of justice, reflects the scholarship on a different kind of violence around partition. Crucial here, was the point that during the displacement and violence of

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Imagining corruption 101 1946–49, not only was general public trust in the integrity of policemen and other officials extremely shaky: there was a broad expectation that forms of symbolic violence had been and would continue to be used by state agents for local political purposes. We can relate both the complex formation of the idea of the ‘victim’, and practices of social humiliation around partition to longer term public views of policing which had developed as a result of examples like those already cited. Important here is Paul Brass’s arguments that the often systematic and retributive nature of partition violence displayed ‘local and personal motives that had little or nothing to do with the categorical explanations applied to them’, i.e. communalism, religion or nationalism.87 Some of the most direct reporting on the involvement of policemen in forms of symbolic violence around partition can be found in the reports sent by Mridula Sarabhai to Nehru. Sarabhai, a female Congress leader from Gujarat, essentially played the role of information-gatherer over this period, looking into instances of violence, the condition of refugees, the problem of housing in Delhi (especially in Muslim areas), and the problem of female abduction on both sides. An important context was the highly-charged atmosphere of mutual recrimination in which police officers were, in particular, targeted as being responsible for moments of alleged violence. The papers of Purushottam Das Tandon contain a large quantity of letters from Hindu refugee organisations, and other Hindu leaders acting as their agents, complaining for example, about the UP Muslim police officers. One letter to Tandon (himself at the forefront of a Hindu protection organisation in 1947–48), represents this phenomenon: How can we feel safe at the hands of the Muslim police and Muslim Officials who are in preponderance in our Province . . . The Muslim police are daily helping the Muslim goondas to create trouble, and the prejudiced, partial and Hindu-hostile attitude of these Muslim policemen and officials has been well noticed during the Aligarh episode and in the riots at Bareilly, Allahabad, Benares, Khurja, Bulandshahr and Jaunpur, etc.88 The 1947–49 period of Sarabhai’s investigations is littered with claims that abduction and rape of women, and the forms of ritual humiliation associated with it often took place with the acquiescence or active participation of officials. For example, at Anandpur Mela in Punjab, it was reported to Sarabhai that abducted women handed over to the Pakistani military and police were simply handed back to their abductors and that officers were rumoured to be making money through the scheme. Similar suggestions and accusations were made on the Indian side with respect to Muslim women. Sarabhai’s interview with Master Tara Singh exposed his view that Muslim women would not be released until equal numbers of women were handed over from the other side.89 One set of accusations of police acquiescence in extensive abductions occurred around the Agra area. In her ‘Report of my visit to Agra on 21.10.1948’, Sarabhai, accompanied by officers of the Intelligence Bureau, met with the wife of the Principal of the Government High School. She suggested that at Deeg, 25 miles

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from Bharatpur, there were two or three abducted Muslim women in every house. The man who reportedly knew about the abductions, Rupa Gujar, the headman of 50 villages, was said to be ‘working against the Congress’. Importantly, the gang of people responsible for the abductions included local policemen, who were involved in the bringing of the women to Delhi to be sold.90 Whether or not this rumour was true, and Sarabhai had her doubts about the full veracity of the accusation, the point was that such rumours were given credibility by the popular distrust of official agencies and, in particular, policemen. Important now though, was the way in which the semi-official nature of the abduction scandals drew police violence into wider public discussions about the broader deficiencies of the state. Legislative Assembly debates in India decried the foot-dragging of Pakistan in returning ‘our women’. Police involvement in abduction was now written about in the newspapers more as part of a wider commentary on the nature of official corruption, which could be juxtaposed to the ‘damage’ being done to India by ‘double-dealing’ Pakistan. In this view, Muslims had dominated certain ranks of the police in UP before independence. And now the behaviour of a whole range of Muslim officials – rent officers, Town Rationing Officers (TROs) as well as policemen, were drawn into reflections on state corruption, which figured Pakistan. The failures of integrity, described in newspaper reports with details of bribes and beatings, were expressed in terms of a morality which demonised the Muslim and the emigrant.91 Section (iii) of Chapter 5 will examine this in more detail. Colonial policing in UP, as we have seen in relation to the civil services, created spaces of everyday sovereignty and power for officials placed at important intersections with other power brokers. In this scenario, forms of summary justice and coercion could be exercised by individual officers, yet with the continued appearance of upper-level state formality. This gulf between state rhetoric of civil service and police neutrality, and the actions of its quotidian agents, meant that whereas there was a general acknowledgement that rules could and would be broken, nevertheless formal procedures existed for the redress of subject-citizen grievances. However the very complexity and compromised nature of these procedures, allowed certain officers, as we will see in more depth in Chapter 5, to systematically mobilise resources to duck punishments, or shield themselves from the formal gaze of the state. An integral part of this process was what police violence did to its victims. The ability of victims to exercise their rights was circumscribed by techniques of violent humiliation and brutality that reproduced forms of status difference. Such acts of violence then connected to other networks of local power and factional politics, allowing informal interest groups with the right connections and resources, to wield police brutality for their own ends. But importantly, public awareness of these aspects of policing changed between the late colonial and early independence phase. On the one hand, by the late 1940s, police corruption appeared to intersect with Legislative Assembly debates about abduction, female honour, and the apparent threats posed by Pakistan, and those moving there. On the other, police violence over the late colonial period in UP, increasingly related to broader notions of the transactional nature of corruption,

Imagining corruption 103 as more complex political agencies intersected with the force, and as newspapers ran reports on policing and government transparency. Also important was how such violence related to the definition, redefinition and control of property and space. Local violence, especially where it linked to retributive justice and policing, increasingly came to be seen in public as part of a larger political economy of corruption in which at a basic level, violence was one form of settlement and the exchange of resources was another.

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Conclusion How organisations and institutions represent and ‘name’ phenomena, especially surrounding conduct and integrity, goes a long way towards creating a collective common sense about the organisation’s work and culture.92 This is particularly the case for public organisations, or those attached to government agency. This chapter has looked at trends in the representation of deviant behaviours within the civil services and police. It has suggested that methods of representing ‘corruption’ were also often means of controlling or channelling it, and therefore constituted a form of cultural capital for those aiming to control and direct state resources. In this sense, representations of corruption were channelled in a symbolic way, to bolster social hierarchies, at times resembling what Pierre Bourdieu has described as ‘symbolic violence’ – directed against those entering fields of contact with government servants, but unskilled in managing the signs and approaches that make government work. The terms ‘custom’ and ‘dasturi’, were perhaps most emblematic of this symbolism, evoking a sense of the colonial state reaching back into a pre-colonial past to justify the reiteration of ideas of paternalistic governance. The notion of the gift, or daalii, was a particularly fragile kind of symbolic sign, in relation to the shifting terrains of public morality in UP. It was a term which related to insider knowledge, and a sense of what was permissible in contacting government servants, and what might be expected of them. The exercise of police violence was also a factor in transactions of ‘corruption’, in which violence to body and property were interrelated. Throughout, they had a significance that was both theoretically internal and external to government agency: external, since the system of signs necessarily had to be learned by anyone attempting to approach and access state power; internal, since their employment served to define more clearly power relationships within the civil service itself. However, languages of ‘corruption’ also obscured the theoretical border between state power and the political authority of those seeking to influence the decisions of government servants. Crucially, however, these symbols and languages shifted over time, as the principle of the developmental state emerged, and as universal suffrage had its first test in the early 1950s.

5

The rise of anti-corruption

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Government servants and ‘citizens’, 1940–1952

This chapter examines the processes through which the ideals of ‘anti-corruption’ gathered pace through the war years and in the immediate aftermath of India’s independence. This phase was critical to the rapidly transforming idea of ‘corruption’ as the previous chapter has shown, and it coincided with the growth of the civil services and police force, and in the rapid multiplication of the functions of the local state. In particular, the 1940s was the first period in which governments in India began to have a very extensive impact on the everyday lives of vast swathes of the urban population, in areas which most directly affected them: food provisioning and control, and the control and rationing of other goods. In an effort to direct Indian resources towards war, and while facing off a series of political challenges and rebellions from anti-colonial organisations, the UP government, like other provinces, passed orders which were designed to establish security at all levels. These policies necessitated both increased work and influence for bureaucrats at the level of the local state, and the creation of new cadres. In particular, the posts of Rationing Officer (Town Rationing Officer, or District Rationing Officer, hereafter TRO/DRO), and the new cadres of civil servants involved after 1947 in the rehabilitation and relief of refugees were the intermediaries between the government rationing and provisioning efforts and the rights of the public to rationing cards or permits for the sale of controlled goods. Considering the rapid development and expansion of the blackmarket in controlled goods, these officers were quickly implicated in scandals which linked them to powerful urban business interests and local politicians. They were also in close contact with a wide cross-section of the population, as well as the district bureaucracy, which was connected to the rationing policies. In this sense, their careers contained some of the same pressures and concerns of other executive and non-executive cadres already explored in this book. The TROs and DROs were also implicated in new ways, in the management of scandals within the newspapers. The ways in which the ‘publicity’ surrounding corruption scandals changed over the war years and immediately after independence, created new pressures and incentives for the promotion of discourses of anti-corruption. It was in this same period then that public and government discussions of ‘anti-corruption’ really took off. Such discussions were partly prompted by rapid political change following the establishment of autonomous provincial

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The rise of anti-corruption 105 governments, alongside ongoing critiques of the colonial system. However, the need to present oneself as a champion of ‘anti-corruption’ also concerned tarnishing the reputation of rivals. The discourses of anti-corruption were a part of the growing sense in which networks of corruption developed around local transactions, as we have seen in relation to policing and violence. Finally, the chapter will also examine a theme that has already been evident in much of the material presented in earlier chapters – the role of the middleman, variously described (depending on his specific function and context) as ‘tout’, ‘fixer’, ‘source’ or ‘approach’. We have already seen how social hierarchies were crucial to the perception of government servant ‘integrity’. The middleman provided a principal function in creating that distance between the supposedly clean upper levels of government, or the powerful political figure, and the ground realities of deals. Government officers and policemen themselves could actually act in this capacity as middlemen, but insofar as the work of such figures became a business in itself, it also involved the supply or withholding of privileged information. Perhaps most importantly, the middleman was crucial in the changing public views of government servant corruption, in many cases even as early as the 1940s and 1950s, creating the impression of the ‘all pervasive’ nature of everyday corruption.

i) Managing ‘corruption’ and ‘anti-corruption’ in the 1930s and early 1940s The obvious place to get some insight into the interaction between changing popular notions of administrative corruption and the discourses from within government itself, are the explicit attempts to manage the ‘problem’ of corruption. In 1938, the Congress government in UP, elected under the new rules of the 1935 Government of India Act, decided to set up a committee to report into measures for the prevention of corruption in government services. The timing and scope of this report were significant. It was the first provincial or state-level government-driven effort to investigate, define and publicly expose corruption, and probably one of the first of such exercises anywhere in India before the Santhanam Committee of 1964. What makes it particularly useful for looking at changing discourses of corruption was its timing: it was the product of a very unique situation – a popular government-in-waiting, still operating in a colonial context. In this sense, it appeared on the cusp of changing official attitudes towards administrative responsibility in relation to what the government saw as the UP public. The 1938 report did indeed devise recommendations which presaged a changed view of public responsibility in relation to government, when compared to views held during the phase of dyarchy. Its recommendations included the establishment of local anti-corruption committees involving non-officials as well as officials; measures to ease the process of prosecution of charged officials in the courts – most controversially, requesting that the standard of proof on corruption cases be lowered; and a raft of more minor suggestions, such as a petition or complaints boxes in offices – measures that were generally thought to be ‘too corruptible’ to work.1

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Throughout, but sometimes only implicitly and indirectly, the report emphasised what its authors saw as the long-standing abuses of a colonial state that had tolerated the arbitrary exercise of informal power at local levels, through what had traditionally been defined as ‘customary practices’. To this end, they had a lot to say about the prevention of daaliis (customary ‘presents’ given to bureaucrats from zamindars or businessmen, as explored in Chapter 4) and sifaarish (using ‘recommendations’ to get a post, contract or administrative favour). The report described these practices as ‘past evils’, and suggested campaigns to root them out. Stress was placed on the daalii as a symbol not only of the intimate link between revenue officer and zamindar, but also the social habits of the officer on tour in the countryside. In 1921 and 1926, the UP Appointments department had issued instructions in an attempt to check corruption, but, as the 1938 report commented, the emphasis was then on the major forms of corruption rather than on the receipt of so-called customary payments and that government had in mind gazetted officers more than subordinates. For example, as we saw in Chapter 4, in 1926, G.B. Lambert’s circular stressed that the prevention of corruption was focussed on ‘corruption in the true sense of the term’ and did not include ‘receiving customary payments’, which was considered by him to be part of the long-standing practice of governance of India.2 The authors of the 1938 report pointedly concluded about the history of anti-corruption that, ‘We cannot help feeling that Government in the past, in view of the complexity of the problem . . . have been content in an excessive degree to rely upon the growth of public opinion for its solution’.3 There was a new emphasis then on public action as a remedy. In this sense, one key proposal involved setting up anti-corruption committees, composed of representatives from different walks of life. The causes of corruption set out by the report also reflected this set of priorities. They included: the reluctance of the bribe-giver, who has received his quid pro quo, to give evidence against the receiver; the comparative absence of a strong public opinion, especially against minor forms of corruption; the difficulty of securing adequate evidence of definite charges, partly through fear of consequences from the officer concerned and his external political sympathisers; and the existence of a large number of poorlypaid persons in the lower ranks of Government service.4 The last two of these points captured changing government approaches to corruption, and its centrality to public notions of citizenship and public responsibility. First, the issue of retribution and ‘sympathisers’ linked to corrupt officers, described corruption as a complex network, involving a web of beneficiaries, many of whom might be linked to the officer around a range of different political, familial or business functions. Second, the mention of large numbers of poorly-paid persons in government service pointed to the emerging problem of a huge, burgeoning state in which a good proportion of Indian families either had a direct connection through a family member, or who aspired to have such a connection. Particularly significant in the 1938 report was the meeting of older colonial views with the new priorities of a ministry elected under a limited franchise but with a new popular mission. The former were perhaps best illustrated in Maurice Hallett’s minute on the report.5 Hallett’s long commentary represented a typical

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British position on the pragmatic need to allow a degree of freedom for local bureaucrats and police. Whereas the report’s authors wrote of the need to manage what they saw as ‘corrupted’ public contacts with the administration, Hallett saw such interactions as a natural aspect of how the local state and UP society operated. In other words, the report focussed on activities which Hallett did not see, necessarily, as corrupted normal behaviour: they were the existing and legitimate means of state operation. He wrote: I have heard it alleged that a Superintendent is often prejudiced in favour of an officer in his district . . . many officers, probably dishonest, are often very useful and efficient and if a local officer decides the case, he may be prejudiced.6 Later he commented that ‘I do not feel certain whether shooting parties unless done on too lavish a scale do very much harm. “Sifarish” is hardly the same as corruption or dishonesty . . .’7 This was reflected in mid 1930s instructions to police officers too. A government directive from the Appointments Department suggested that Commissioners, IGPs and DIGs should be directed to make special mention in their annual confidential reports on the officers immediately subordinate to them, if officers fail in their social relations with fellow officers, subordinates and the leading residents of the districts. [italics added]8 The method of maintaining such relations involved the practices which, from another angle looked like bribery. In fact, the professional progress of officers, and their social and professional standing required them to partake at certain levels in this kind of activity: ‘all the more important officers of Government should be able to maintain friendly and cordial relations both with . . . the local gentry.’9 This also provided an excellent defence against the rapidly increasing public scrutiny of the everyday activities of officials, particularly when it came to their relations with powerful men in any locality. So, when Prem Ballabh Belwal, a member of the UP Legislative Council, made allegations in 1936 about how Superintendents of Police accepted large daaliis when they were in camp, the government suggested that such a practice was so ‘expected’ by the donor, that a minor ruling would assist matters.10 The Appointments department came to the conclusion that ‘most officers also feel that the rejection of such trifling gifts once a year might needlessly hurt the feelings of those who present them’ and that their acceptance was ‘a very advisable and pleasant duty.’ After investigating how officers behaved across a range of other departments in the province, R.A. Horton wrote that ‘such dalis, and sometimes often more elaborate dalis, are almost customarily accepted by officers of other Departments.’11 Maurice Hallett’s view of administrative corruption (as opposed to what for him was not corruption) stressed the interaction between bureaucratic webs of vested interests, and powerful members of the public or significant lobby groups,

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linked into complicated publicity networks, newspapers and public rumour. But this view was largely the product of an official concern about subversion and ‘political interference’ with the administration. This also explained the official attitude to the report’s suggestion that anti-corruption committees might be set up involving non-officials. Hallett argued, quoting his predecessor Harry Haig, that if Government wanted satisfactory results, it should be careful to eliminate nonofficials from these proceedings. He felt ‘that it was necessary for officers to be assured that proceedings were not inspired by personal or political considerations.’ Once again, for Hallett, this was not a case of attempting to effect a real change in public outlook, but more a pragmatic, bureaucracy-driven device to minimise the chances of lower-level officers’ contact with the inevitable shady deals that, for him, had always existed in north India. Also important was avoidance of the inevitable Congress-driven barrage of criticism about the administration. He wrote: a Government servant who thinks he has been unjustly punished will be almost certain to do all he can to influence members of the Committee to take up his case, for we all know how in this country there is more sympathy with the accused than with the complainant.12 Clearly, here, the issue of corruption investigation for Hallett, was defensive and concerned with anti-colonial critiques of the administrative machinery (which had been vociferous during the Civil Disobedience Movement of 1930–34), in the new context of provincial autonomy. Hallett agreed that public information regarding corruption was necessary if, in the main, regrettable. But his priority was not, as was the case with some of the drafters of the report,13 the idea of protecting the public, but rather the need to protect the lower civil servant from what he saw as temptations that destroyed the integrity of government. He noted that The committee appears throughout to consider that the responsibility for corruption rests on the Government servant, the bribe-taker. It does not deal with the equally or more important question of the bribe-giver . . . What usually happens? A Peshkar in a civil or revenue court is swamped with a large number of cases; a pleader’s clerk or a representative of the plaintiff comes to him and presses him to see that his case is fixed for a particular day; probably the pleader’s clerk gives him or offers him a bribe. Surely the blame in such a case rests more with the giver of the bribe than with the recipient? Again take the case of a Sub-Inspector investigating an important case; one of the parties come to him and produces a thousand rupees; can he have the strength to refuse this when he has to maintain his family on some small salary?14 Hallett’s view of the Indian public was also defensive: it effectively covered the inadequacies and illegalities of the local revenue machinery and police. For the Governor, procedure and rule-keeping was the key: ‘As far as my experience as a District Officer goes, corruption or dishonesty is usually facilitated by nonobservance of the rules of procedure’ and, according to Hallett, the real remedy lay

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The rise of anti-corruption 109 in placing greater authority in the hands of administrative supervisors, who would check what he saw as inevitable abuses. In other words, Hallett’s remedy was the strengthening of the colonial bureaucracy against the inevitable corruptions of the Indian political context. The differences between Hallett and the Congress ministers were ones of degrees rather than absolutes. But the contrasts in how each side conceived of the UP public and corruption were clearly illustrated ten years later in 1948, when UP governments directly sought (albeit half-heartedly) to sweep away what they saw as an outdated colonial mentality that had sat festering in the ranks of the civil services. Pant’s Ministry took measures for the compulsory and premature retirement of such old servants whose efficiency or integrity had ‘come under a cloud’. At the end of 1947, a high-powered Administrative Tribunal was set up for inquiring into suitable cases of corruption and other improper conduct. The procedure of the Tribunal was designed to secure expedition in dealing with suspected officers.15 In a report on UP government affairs in September 1951, Pant claimed that As a result of the measures taken during the last five years to deal with various forms of corruption in the services, more than 100 Government servants resigned, over 300 were convicted by courts, over 3,000 were dismissed or removed from service and over 2,500 were awarded other punishments as a result of departmental action. Among gazetted officers alone there were cases of about 50 dismissals or removals.16 As we will see later, some of these dismissals were directly linked to fears about the connections between Muslim officers and Pakistan. From the end of 1947 into 1948, the UP government proceeded to set up District Anti-Corruption Committees too – the very organs that had raised Hallett’s objections. The inability of bribe-givers to safely give evidence was related back by political commentators to the customs of the colonial power. An article in National Herald in January 1948 suggested that bribes had to be offered to court clerks, in railway booking offices and in the supply offices. According to the paper, even the educated had to do it, so Is it then, not too much to expect that the illiterate will go to take all that botheration of reporting the matter when it is deep-rooted in their mind, rightly or wrongly, that they will only get more harassment instead of relief by reporting the matter to superior officers?17 The threat of punishment also meant that such members of the public would keep evidence of bribes and corruption as a guilty secret. Yet the courts still insisted on direct evidence. There was no such system, the article continued, as an approver who is guaranteed a pardon: Such stringent measures were taken by the British Government in India to shut the mouth of the bribe-giver – whether he gave the bribe voluntarily or

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under compulsion – that he or any other member of the public may look at the Government servants with awe . . . Our misfortune is that we are continuing the same method.18 The British description of efforts to root out corruption in the IPS and lower cadres of policing in India also reflected this view of the public. An anti-corruption department in the UP Police was set up in 1942, and was staffed by police officers under a dedicated Superintendent of Police and Inspector General. The main focus of this organisation was to rally evidence against policemen and minor officials in a range of other departments. Significantly, there was a sense in which the work of anti-corruption in the police in this late colonial phase was held up by the perceived sensitivity of contacts between policemen in their everyday work and the general public of the province. Writing after he had retired, a former British Inspector General of Police, George Pearce, admitted that, ‘. . . the Anti Corruption was [not] an unqualified success, mainly because of the difficulty of securing reliable evidence.’ He went on to remark that, because of this unpopularity and the difficulties associated with work in the Department, the first SP, C.K. Kemp, got out of it as soon as he could, and was replaced by a one T.P. Bhalla. The latter, he stated ‘managed to run a few cases, mainly against subordinate Police officers, but I don’t remember any case resulting in conviction.’19 This was despite the fact that Bhalla and officers like him given posts in anti-corruption, were at this stage afforded special salaries in an attempt to give a sense of high status to the post.20 The whole process of corruption detection, investigation and punishment was to involve an extremely complex web of calculations which threw up much more than just the straightforward issue of the moment of corrupt activity itself. Clearly, the problem was not just one of mobilising evidence, but also of combating the developed mechanisms of political backing and support that officers were already beginning to mobilise in their own defence from the 1930s. Once again, the sense of desperation and powerlessness in the face of the practicalities of colonial policing, led British officers to turn to the idea of custom, local arrangement and internal forms of discipline. The efficacy of such methods was championed by claiming that they corresponded to the preferences of the local population. Pearce concluded that the only way around the situation was to use departmental and individual authority, in such a way, that they did not fundamentally upset the culture of police corruption in any thorough manner. Indeed, such internal methods set the example for discipline and counter-discipline by political leaders in independent India: . . . we had our own methods of dealing with officers known to be corrupt without resorting to prosecution! I used to transfer a sub-inspector believed to be corrupt every six months and to employ him on jobs where there was little or no chance of making money.21 The Prevention of Corruption Act, passed on 11 March 1947, aimed to define and clarify in legislative terms, non-permissible government servant behaviour

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The rise of anti-corruption 111 and was part of a broad anti-corruption drive that reached back to the Congress Ministries period of the late 1930s. More specifically, as we will see in detail later, it was a response to what those in power after 1946 saw as the problem of war-time neglect, the ‘dilution’ of experience in the services as a whole, with the need to increase recruitment and expenditure in absolute terms.22 The 1947 Act illustrated how far governments now considered corruption as a systematic, aggravated and complex phenomenon which could involve systematic networks of beneficiaries. It effectively added to the notion of ‘bribery’ as contained in the Indian Penal Code, by introducing for government servants, the idea of ‘habitual’ (or repeated and systematic) illegal gratification. It also suggested (in section 5) that government servants could be found guilty for the misappropriation of property via another, as well as just himself directly, as suggested in the Indian Penal Code. However, as we will see later, and as George Pearce’s earlier comments suggest , high-level enactments, orders and legislation did not radically transform investigations of officers in practically disciplining or controlling officers over the ensuing decades. Instead, relatively informal and long-standing or ‘internal’ procedures continued to be adopted, as in the 1930s, particularly for non-gazetted or subordinate officers. The difference from the late 1930s onwards, was that such acts of discipline and control took place against a context of rapidly developing framework of formal institutions of anti-corruption, and greater press publicity of government servant corruption.

ii) Managing corruption and anti-corruption after 1947 Perhaps the most active development at the all-India level, alongside the passing of the 1947 Prevention of Corruption Act, was the setting up of the Special Police Establishment (SPE). The rationale for the institution of this body, which focussed specifically on government servant misconduct and corruption in all its forms, was the peculiar circumstances of war. The outbreak of war had brought about a vast increase in government activity especially in connection with government contracts, stores and railway transport, and had also brought in its train numerous opportunities for ‘illegal gratification’. In an attempt to combat this, the Central Government set up the SPE in 1941, which in its initial manifestation was manned by selected policemen from the Provincial police forces. Just before independence, the organisation was set up on a permanent footing under the Delhi Special Police Establishment Act (XXV of 1946). By 1948, the ‘sanctioned strength’ of the SPE was not particularly impressive in scale: it comprised 139 constables, with 70 posts to be filled over the next couple of years, 12 gazetted and 23 nongazetted inspectors, 12 DSPs, two SPs and a reasonably extensive support staff of clerks.23 SPE offices spread throughout India, with branches located in Calcutta, Shillong, Ranchi, Puri, Jubbelpore, Delhi, Bombay and Madras. Offices at Kanpur and Ambala were opened a little later. However, like other late colonial attempts to shore up holes in the administrative structure, the SPE was from its inception undermined not only in its limited jurisdiction and manpower capabilities,24 but

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also in the rigid cultures of departments that it investigated, and their resistance to enquiry.25 It was technically limited to the investigation of cases among Central Government servants. From the outset this hindered the ability of its officers to connect different levels of government, and effectively meant that it bypassed the most widespread examples of misconduct that affected the largest numbers of Indian citizens.26 SPE officers by the 1950s were conducting cases at a state level involving state employees, but their effectiveness, as we will see later, was extremely patchy, and they did not connect well to the centre. However, it was able to publicise a number of high-profile cases, and to concentrate on specific successes in prosecution. The ambiguous advantages of publicising corruption will be dealt with more in Chapter 6, but, certainly, such communiqués tended to illustrate the difficulty of obtaining convictions and their declining number. Between June 1952 and March 1953, its communiqués moved from publicising eight high-profile cases per month, to only publicising three, and they increasingly featured crimes involving smuggling and foreign nationals.27 With one of the main offices based in Lahore, and with so many potential crimes spanning the newly created borders with East and West Pakistan, there was a necessity to communicate with the other Union, and this was rarely a fruitful exercise. Added to this was the fact that many of the SPE’s pre-independence officers opted for Pakistan and in the context of the ‘Emergency Recruitment’, they could not be easily replaced by trained officers. The Inspector General before independence himself opted for Pakistan, and Provincial governments certainly could not spare the required numbers of officers. Indeed, the communal disturbances actually brought about a total suspension of the work of the Delhi Special Police Establishment (DSPE) in parts of the country most directly affected by the violence.28 When, in early 1949, the Pakistani SPE wanted to examine two witnesses residing in India in connection with its own investigations, the Government of India informed the Pakistani SPE that no legal action could be taken against a person who failed to appear for interrogation.29 This was not a recipe for long-term cooperation. In some cases, the provision of documents to support cases across the border was amicable. In March 1949, the Pakistan SPE needed help in a case in connection with a senior officer of the Pakistan government, and the SPE based in Delhi was only too pleased to supply documents and even accompany witnesses to India.30 But there were a host of other cases where the lack of a formal inter-dominion agreement hindered investigations. For example, the company of Messrs Devi Dass Inder Sain Engineers and Bankers, allegedly involved in cognisable offences and fraud in Rawalpindi, set themselves up as Om Prakash Malik c/o Messrs Fabrico, Lal Bagh, Lucknow, UP. It was very difficult for the SPE to trace the links between the two avatars of the company over the border.31 The conviction rate of the SPE was higher than in the case of prosecutions at the state level, but still not very promising, and cases could still drag on. The number of cases investigated by the SPE from its inception upto 10 March 1948 was 1,362, and of those 814 were sent up for trial, with 419 ending in conviction. Of the 1,362 cases, 192 were dealt with by departmental action. The total fines imposed by courts over this period amounted to Rs 2.5 million, and the property involved in

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The rise of anti-corruption 113 these cases investigated came to approximately Rs 58.2 million. Of the investigations pending in March 1948, 44 involved gazetted or commissioned officers, and 156 concerned non-gazetted government servants.32 Bearing in mind the fact that these were often quite high-profile cases, in which specialised and trained anticorruption officers were involved, this was not a high rate of conviction. However, part of the problem also lay, as mentioned previously, in the reluctance of some of the key government departments to cooperate with SPE officers. After independence, the ratio of convictions to departmental actions seemed to drop even further. After the passing of the Prevention of Corruption Act on 11 March 1947 and upto 10 March 1948, there were 198 cases involving officials of the central services registered by the SPE. Of these, 13 cases involving 19 officers fell into the jurisdiction of the Government of Pakistan. In the remaining cases, 63 officials were prosecuted in the courts and an additional 20 remained under consideration. In the court cases, only two people had been convicted by March 1948 and two acquitted. The cases of the remaining 200 officials were still under investigation. Faced with increasing demands for more rapid and effective anti-corruption measures,33 the Administration Branch was established in 1956 to enforce the ‘complaints scheme’, under which one Deputy Superintendent of Police was posted in each district to undertake prompt enquiries into complaints against Government servants.34 Looking more closely at examples of SPE investigations, it is clear that officers often faced the resistance of entire sections of departments to thorough investigation into specific cases. In a similar fashion to the disciplinary measures against policemen at a provincial level, the often widespread and distributed nature of corruption mechanisms, well beyond the immediate individual(s) faced with investigation, held up SPE work. In other words, as with action against the police, most of the departments that the SPE dealt with contained within themselves an array of complex social and professional relationships, which not only made the research complicated, but also shielded officers. Political or ministerial protection was a significant factor in these networks from around the early to mid 1950s. This can be most clearly seen in the departments with which the SPE had most contact. But importantly, the nature of the political links to corruption cases shifted with the political context and, as we will see in the next chapter, there were increases in scandals and accusations around elections, or important transformations in political power. This can be seen in general over the period of 1946–48. There were also localised networks of social interaction which helped officers under investigation. The social connections of government servants which served them in their appointment to government service easily became the means by which alliances could be set up and deals brokered, to both run mechanisms of extra money-making and to protect officers from discipline or censure. In 1947, a complaint came into the SPE regarding the ‘mal-practice’ of one Dr Pinto, who worked as a Medical Officer at the Railway Hospital at Rewari, in issuing fit certificates to unfit candidates for civil service employment after allegedly receiving illegal gratifications. Most significant was the sense of social contact and support around which Pinto had supposedly built up a cover for his activities. As the

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medical officer, chief medical officer, chief traffic manager and agent were Europeans, the complainant alleged, Dr Pinto was over-confident because he was himself from the English community: ‘He thinks that nothing can shake him’. At the end of February 1947, partway through the investigations of the SPE, many of these allegations were found to be substantiated.35 Other officers allegedly made their way quickly up through departments through bribes to the authorities and through the protection of locally powerful leaders and Members of Legislative Assembly (MLAs). Another complaint detailed how ministerial protection was helping to shield an Sub Divisional Officer (SDO) of the PWD department in Punjab, who was involved in favouring certain contractors, paying for bricks at higher rates, using bogus tenders and bribe-taking, in alliance with his Executive Engineers and subordinate staff. Under the coalition government in the Punjab, the Chief Engineer later became the Secretary to the Government of Punjab and with the help of ministers allegedly attempted to hush up the frauds.36 In many cases the sheer volume of connections and parties in the department either with knowledge of, or involvement in a set of illegal and covert transactions, meant that investigation was bogged down by the complex details of cases. Specifically, making suspicions stick with evidence in a court or departmental enquiry was complicated by the involvement of agents, middlemen and touts. Very often, for example, in the case of bribery, the specific officer receiving such payments would not be the man with his hands directly in the proverbial till. As the UP branch of the SPE noted in a progress report to the central government: The difficulty of ‘trapping’ corrupt officers who do not themselves accept illegal gratification . . . but use the agency of touts who collect the money for some consideration for and on behalf of the officers concerned has become quite patent in some of the inquiries conducted . . .37 The significance of the middleman will be discussed later. Internal departmental networks were common in the Railways Department, which was one of the main foci of SPE work. Of the 804 cases sent up for trial or departmental action upto September 1946, 430 of them were railway cases, involving seven lakh in contracts.38 Most of the remainder were in the Defence and Supply Departments.39 In one case in 1950 against four employees of the Eastern Railways, the Chief Administrative Officer was not willing to allow the SPE to investigate the case, and other senior officers made efforts to frustrate the investigation. This was because a large cohort of railway employees, from the top to the bottom of the ranks, were involved in a corrupt arrangement concerned with the granting of contracts. Some of the gazetted officers in the department had allegedly given a contract to a contractor in Calcutta for the supply of locomotive and carriage spares, even though his rate was higher than two other bids. As a result of these transactions, the department lost in the region of Rs 112,000. The SPE officers conducting the case asked for the transfer of subordinates, who, working in proximity of the targeted officers, were afraid to give evidence. It was also

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The rise of anti-corruption 115 discovered that ‘. . . every railway witness who is questioned by the SPE has to go immediately and report what he has said and the Eastern Railway authority immediately makes out a complaint . . .’40 Networks of influence within departments could therefore be used to put pressure on witnesses from within the department. The Railway Corruption Enquiry Committee, which covered the period from 1953 to 1955, discussed the normalised system of percentages through which contractors paid different levels of engineering officialdom on the railways. One sub-contractor who acted as a witness for the committee, actually set out a systematised table which detailed lists of percentages on bills, running, for example as follows: Executive Engineer – 5 per cent, Assistant Engineer – 5 per cent, PWI Construction Supervisor – 5 per cent, Accounts section – 2 per cent, Head Clerk – 1 per cent, District Pay Clerk – ¼ per cent, Mistry (skilled artisan)/work charge – 1 per cent, miscellaneous – ¾ per cent, totalling 20 per cent in ‘commissions’.41 A similar system of ‘percentages’ of pilfered irrigation development money was described by one of our interviewees, in which ‘10 per cent’ was described as ‘acceptable’ level of ‘corruption’.42 The strategic importance of railway transport in Indian business, and the huge value of goods transported opened up a range of complex possibilities for collecting extra commissions. There were also detailed enquiries into the filing of false claims by businessmen, as a way of being awarded damages from the railways, which would then be dispersed between railway officials. Importantly, amounts paid in claims increased 95 times over the period of 1938–1949,43 reinforcing the growing theory in the 1950s of specific increases in corruption over the period of the war, partition and independence. Even where a superior might have wanted to prevent this systematic illegal gratification, there were problems since, as one of our interviewees suggested, once subordinates collected bribes as part of a collective ‘system’ it could rarely be stopped.44 As well as formal departments and cadres to deal with the problems of government servant corruption, states like UP, following the suggestions of the 1938 Anti-Corruption drive, set up committees which would involve non-officials. As we have already seen previously, this was partly driven by a new sense of the ‘public’ responsibility for ‘corruption’. It was also related to the Congress’ long-standing tradition of setting up parallel government activities, particularly in the areas of local government. This could be clearly seen in discussions in the Constituent Assembly around Food and Civil Supply Corruption.45 The anti-corruption committees set up in UP from the late 1940s, were partly a response to the idea of the burgeoning political economy of ‘corruption’ surrounding control and supply of goods during the war. But also important was the sense, shortly after independence, that colonial systems of anti-corruption had been largely ineffective. As Chapter 2 briefly discussed, in April 1955, the Pant ministry in UP attempted to push forward the anti-corruption drive in the creation of new posts to deal with police complaints/internal police investigations. A separate Deputy Inspector General (DIG) would be assisted by an officer of the status of Senior Superintendent of Police, and crucially in each district (to a total of 50 officers) there would be a Deputy Superintendent of Police (Complaints). In the decision to rationalise and improve the anti-corruption mechanisms in the police force itself,

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there were questions about why action had not been taken earlier. The desire of enquiring officers to shield subordinates, the want of enough time to enforce a thorough enquiry and the problems of time lag were outlined.46 Importantly, the new officers replaced the older Circle Inspectors who, as Chapter 3 showed, could be entangled within the very acts of corruption that they were empowered to investigate. According to Pant, the Circle Inspectors had ‘failed to exercise effective checks over station officers and have generally cramped their initiative.’ Because they were not highly regarded by ‘respectable’ public opinion, who withheld their cooperation in cases, the courts were ‘very chary of accepting evidence produced by the police. An over-rigid standard of proof has therefore been insisted upon which it is impossible to provide without cooking up evidence.’47 However, this situation was created by the specific exigencies of mobilising police evidence, for reasons that related to public–police networks and contacts. A further note on the file added, ‘As conditions are, there is some truth in the assertion that practice of irregularities in investigation (to be euphemistic) is necessary for successful prosecutions, and, therefore, for the control of crime.’48 The new Deputy Inspectors of Police (Complaints) were not able to investigate cases against gazetted officers. This decision also related to the idea that corruption, and its investigation involved considerations of social status. However, while there were numerous complaints about the lax and brief nature of reports sent to district magistrates from these officers, by early 1957, many felt that their impact had been positive. During the year of 1956, 6,355 cases were entrusted to the Deputy SP (Complaints) for enquiry, out of which 5,378 pertained to the police department and 977 to various other departments. The allegations in 1,721 cases were wholly or partially substantiated, and in connection with these cases, eight Inspectors, 363 Sub-Inspectors, 223 Head Constables, 703 Constables and 64 village Chaukidars, were punished.49 Nevertheless, perhaps the largest effect across UP districts was a reduction in the number of complaints against policemen, a situation which seemingly justified the continuation of the scheme.50 Other commentators, however, suggested that this reduction was down to the fact that the new officers were effectively filtering out complaints that they were unable to deal with in the context of time constraints. The apparent seriousness of the Pant ministry’s efforts to improve the problem of government servant corruption was influenced by older Congress notions of the corruption of the colonial state. Nowhere was this more plainly set out than in the work of a special ‘Disciplinary Proceedings Inquiry Committee’, which was appointed in 1952 and submitted its report in 1954. Pant sat in the chair, with committee members including Charan Singh, Kailash Prakash, Dwarka Prasad Maurya, Ganpat Sahai, Harpal Singh IAS, S.H. Zaheer ICS and a range of other officials and members of the judiciary. One of the opening statements of this report plainly related corruption not to the colonial transition, but to the very nature of the colonial state itself: ‘The administrative machinery of Government before the advent of freedom had been designed mainly to serve the purposes of the Police State, established by alien rulers . . .’51 But this did not involve a direct critique of the state’s machinery and personnel: clearly the Congress, as was argued in the introduction,

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The rise of anti-corruption 117 was keen to maintain the very structures that it had sought to bring to a standstill, yet work within, from the early parts of the century. So the committee discussed the state in terms of the need to raise the morale of existing government servants who, in the past, had been ‘suspected by people’. Yet there was no thorough critique of the structural mechanisms of enquiry and prosecution of government servants. This was despite the evidence of defendants’ use of loopholes in court procedures and the evidently over-complicated and ineffective mechanisms of internal discipline and punishment. Article 311 (2) of the Constitution of India offered government servants the protection of being able to show cause against actions of prosecution, and stipulated that an officer could not be dismissed by an authority subordinate to that which appointed him. This protection was even more extensive than section 240 (3) of the 1935 Government of India Act, and the latter had allowed, I.M. Lall an ICS officer from Punjab to overturn his dismissal for corruption in the Privy Council.52 These protections made it difficult for the government to formally punish ICS/IAS officers for corruption through formal judicial channels. Beyond this, there were complications in the procedures of punishment and investigation. For example, there were no clear instructions about how to administer suspensions of government servants either during or after an investigation. To get around this problem of over-complicated and unclear rules for nongazetted and other subordinate cadres, the ‘UP Disciplinary Proceedings Inquiry Committee Committee’ suggested the direct use of integrity certificates, which could be withheld by superior officers in such a way that they did not have to have recourse to the rule books themselves. Officers exercising authority over subordinates, it was suggested, could be given yet more power, to investigate the private expenditures and lifestyles of their subordinates: ‘We have also considered the cases in which sometimes government servants are found living beyond their means. We recommend that superior officers should keep a general watch over the standard of living of their subordinates . . .’53 Finally, in a general sense, the report pointed out how the lengthy, complicated and overly-bureaucratic processes by which members of the public needed to make applications to government offices generated inefficiency and sometimes, illegal acts. The problem here, the Committee pointed out, also linked to the very weakly staffed (and weak-willed) ‘Inspectorate of Offices’, in which only seven subordinate officers were expected to deal with around two separate offices for inspections.54 In 1953, the Disciplinary Proceedings Inquiry Committee appointed a subcommittee (involving Ch. Charan Singh, Minister for Agriculture, S.S. Khan and S.N.M. Tripathi), which on 26 March 1953, circulated a comprehensive questionnaire to 49 Heads of departments. This sub-committee principally focussed on the tightening up of redundant and wasteful administrative procedures. It also suggested that modernisation and mechanisation itself had distanced district officers from their work in villages. The sub-committee mourned the declining use of horses on tour: The use of motor cars tends to make officers soft and less willing to stay continuously in far away areas – with the result that their contact with the

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people under their charge is loose and their knowledge of rural problems not very deep.55 The very ‘personality’ of the officer was, the reporters suggested, affected by limited contacts with the village. And this was then linked to his efforts in ‘rooting out’ corruption among his subordinates. To this end, the reporters suggested that officers should keep a monthly statement giving the names of persons who had approached them during the month to exert personal influence. Related to this, was the stress on the deterrent effects of punishment, which, the report suggested, should be fully publicised to avoid a situation whereby ‘the public continues to feel that Government are inert about their corrupt officials.’56 However, as in the British period, the reporters generally favoured departmental over judicial investigations and punishments for smaller misdemeanours: cases that did not involve embezzlements worth more than an officer’s monthly salary, and which were not ‘systematic’, should be dealt with internally. Around the same period of mid 1955, the Pant ministry considered changes and enhancements to the district anti-corruption committees. During his tour of eastern UP shortly after the first general elections, the UP Chief Minister had arranged meetings with the newly formed district anti-corruption committees in Lucknow, and discussed measures for the eradication of the ‘evil’ of bribery. For Pant, the problem was related to what he perceived as unhealthy public responsibilities in contacts with local administrations: a good deal could be achieved if people would stop offering illegal payments. But again, as in the formal UP committees, there was a reflection on the colonial past. He stressed the need for propaganda: ‘It was said that certain payments to court officials or police and PWD employees were traditional. The Chief Minister urged that steps should be taken to put an end to such so-called traditional payments.’57 The new commitment to public accountability and involvement in the project of anti-corruption in governance also came to the fore here. This was reflected in changes in the composition of district anti-corruption committees: the post of chairman would be held by elected non-officials, rather than district magistrates and superintendents of police. Annual statements from the committees (none of which, sadly, have survived in official archives) were to be sent to district magistrates, giving details of complaints brought to the police, and looking at members’ proposals and suggestions for the eradication of corruption. There was now also to be a formal constitution of membership of the committees, including members of state legislatures resident in each particular district, a representative of the bar association resident in the district, and five government-nominated non-officials. This membership would be limited to three years. Each committee and individual member would ‘undertake propaganda against corruption . . . and will do their best to mobilise public opinion against this evil, stressing the fact that the giving of a bribe is as much an anti-social act as its acceptance.’ However, although members of the committees could hear specific complaints and were able to receive a quarterly statement of action taken against officers, they had no power to initiate proceedings or to directly pursue disciplinary action.58

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The rise of anti-corruption 119 While there was a drive to broaden public scrutiny of government servant integrity, as in the colonial period, it seemed that most efforts involved exercises in window dressing. And, as in the 1930s, it appeared that lack of will resulted from an appreciation of the complex and long-standing traditions in practices of government servants. Part of the mid 1950s drive against corruption, then, involved a stress on the importance of the presentation of a public image of ‘integrity’. If the bureaucracy could at least be presented as clean, this might reduce the number of illicit approaches ‘to get things done’ by members of the public. There was also an ongoing effort to redefine the rules of conduct and integrity for officers themselves, in the light of increasingly complex and multiple opportunities for illicit profit and advantage, reflected in many different sets of ‘rules’ which were labyrinthine in scope and detail. Rules surrounding corruption were contained in: The Civil Services (Classification, Control and Appeal) Rules, The Punishment and Appeal Rules for Subordinate Services, the UP Disciplinary Proceedings (Administrative Tribunal) Rule; The UP Public Services Commission (Limitation of Functions) Regulations, The Government Servants’ Conduct Rules, the Financial Handbook (Vols II and V), the Civil Service Regulations and the Police Regulations.59 Between 1954 and 1956, the UP government revised the Government Servants’ Conduct Rules. Those involved in the project, however, revealed cases of individual extravagance by delinquent officers and how easily they had evaded the rules’ provisions.60 Some significant amendments were, in the end, made. The whole area of property, its control and meaning around this time was going through a process of redefinition in the light of official views of ‘corruption’. One change of August 1954 set out that government servants should make a ‘quinquennial declaration’ of ‘all immovable property, shares and other investments’. In the 1956 Rules, the area of ‘gifts’, as set out in the colonial period, was revisited. Ceremonial gifts, especially from princes and powerful landlords and the like were permissible, as long as they were deposited in the Government Tashakhana (treasury). Monetary arrangements considered illegal in the colonial period were more clearly defined in 1954–56, for example the prevention of ‘purchases of resignation’, whereby resignations for the benefit of others, in return for a consideration, were banned. In 1890 and 1907, the UP government had already set out the rule that a ‘gazetted officer’ could not lend money to any persons possessing land within the local limits of his authority, or ‘enter any obligation to any person subject to his official authority’. Significant here, as in other places, was the relatively easygoing arrangements in this regard for non-gazetted officers, which the 1954 rules noted with concern.61 In 1872 and 1892, the UP government had allowed these rules to be relaxed for non-gazetted officers ‘at the discretion of the head of their office’. In a comparable way, while non-domiciled servants could not directly or indirectly hold or acquire immovable property in the province in which they were employed, this did not apply for domiciled servants.62 Since 1885, a government officer had been allowed to acquire shares in companies involved in developing the resources of the country, as long as it lay outside his province. However, he was unable, from the same date, to speculate in investments, or without the permission of government, to take part in

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the promotion, registration or management of any bank or other company. As we will see later, the involvement of government officers in companies that supplied goods on a rationed basis for the general population, prompted reconsideration of this latter point in 1954 (for the eventual rules in 1956). A further significant addition to the Conduct Rules in 1956, concerned appointments and lobbying. The practice of lobbying for jobs was encouraged on the one hand, by the rapid expansion in government employment, and the pressures of specific interest lobby groups, as explored in Chapter 3. The UP government recommended the addition of the following to the Rules: ‘No government servant shall either himself or through an agent, approach any non-official in the matter of his promotion or any other service question concerning him.’ Also added was the rule that an officer had to state if a person was related to him when action was taken for or against an individual, and he was unable to canvass non-official and outside influences: ‘No government servant shall bring or attempt to bring any political or other outside influence to bear upon any superior authority to further his interests.’63 The rules were more carefully defined in relation to what purchases could or couldn’t be made while on tour, and the use of subordinates’ goods and services without payments. However, on the whole the framers of the rules showed concern that existing rules only scratched the surface of arrangements that could be entered into with ‘outsiders’. For example, they noted that work was often subcontracted to outsiders for a part of a subordinate officer’s salary, but that the subcontracted person would not be bound by rules of conduct. The history of anti-corruption in early independent north India can be characterised as an exercise in optimism, which gradually gave way to a sense of hopelessness. Contemporary opinion on the Central Bureau of Investigation (the institution that grew out of the SPE in 1963) has suggested that the lack of efficacy of the SPE was linked to the fact that it was, from the beginning ‘engrained in the doctrine of establishment protection’, being founded in the war years and being based on the 1861 Police Act.64 But there were broader weaknesses in the mechanisms of anti-corruption. For example, the SPE faced difficulties in linking national to local scandals, or in following up cases that crossed borders. Even more problematic for the SPE, was breaking through long-established networks of illegal activity that had been systematically organised within departments. Here, one of the repeatedly offending departments was the Railways, where networks of mutual profit were made possible by distance, the movement of goods and contacts with the public. After independence, efforts at the state level in UP involved the paradoxical critique of government corruption as a legacy of colonial rule alongside the decision to work through its unreformed institutions. Also similar to the late colonial period was an acknowledgement by early independent UP governments that the realities of everyday corrupt contacts between the public and officers were not easily broken down. This realism bore a resemblance to British views of north Indian society, but now there was much more at stake politically in driving forward anticorruption schemes. Finally, in looking at the mammoth task of shoring up anti-corruption mechanisms, it becomes patently apparent that overall the target was constantly (even

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The rise of anti-corruption 121 increasingly) elusive. This is illustrated in the postscript of our period of study: in 1966, following the Santhanam Committeee Report on Corruption, as well as the establishment of the Central Vigilance Commission, the Administrative Reforms Commission recommended the setting up of the institution of Lok Pal, and in 1968, the Lokayukta Bill was introduced.65 The Lok Pal was essentially an ombudsman, who would field complaints of misconduct. However, his or her remit never included MLAs or MPs, and the Bill itself lapsed time and time again, being referred to different committees or held by political circumstances through the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s.66 The reform of the government servant conduct rules, or the setting up of new institutions and mechanisms of anti-corruption were just too slow to keep up with the widely varied and systematic schemes for dodging them. And nothing could be easily presented textually in rules, to combat the highly defensive mechanisms of systematic internal departmental profit-making.

iii) Rationing, refugees and the food controls of the 1940s and 1950s As the first section of this chapter showed, there were significant shifts in official representations of administrative corruption around the late 1930s to early 1940s. From this time, official files and discussions projected both a new sense of public responsibility for corruption control and critiques of colonial tolerance of ‘customary’ local powers. From the late 1930s, in line with the setting up of responsible provincial ministries, citizens’ organisations were set up as a bulwark against what they saw as the inherited tendencies of police and administrative excess. Ten years later, in the aftermath of Indian independence, anti-corruption ‘committees’ were established, and the press became a new kind of public mouthpiece for the exposure of scandals. In the immediate post-independence period, however, the UP government struggled to establish any clear direction in anti-corruption policy, despite improving its policing and opening up avenues for discussion. This section of the chapter will suggest that there were some specific areas in which government servants and the public interacted that had a huge influence in generating both new forms of and new discussions about corruption. By the 1940s with war-time commodity controls accompanying rapid political change, opportunities for nefarious gain apparently widened,67 and administrative rules and functions quickly became much more complex. The publicity of ‘corruption’, and the new debates appearing in the press, now connected national, state and local level discussions of independence, citizenship and state authority. These changes in the practice and meaning of corruption, transformed everyday approaches to the local state in mid twentieth century UP. We will examine in this chapter and Chapter 6 how different types of clientelist corruption in supplies and rationing encouraged new kinds of administrative/political networks, similar to those explored by Stanley Kochanek for the late 1960s.68 In the final section of this chapter, we will look at how the dynamic meanings and publicity of corruption were complicated by ambiguities of citizenship shortly after independence. ‘Corruption’ became, on the one hand, a discourse for representing injustice for displaced refugees or urban poor and a way of coming to terms with violence and

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loss. On the other hand, the policing and control of the dispossessed created the notion of social instability, around which the idea of local corruption could be naturalised. Here, too, the issue of licences for commodities and rations in the years of the Second World War was crucial. To some extent, this was a structural problem within administration and governance itself, as the remit of government rapidly expanded, yet was forced to rely upon the old structures and hierarchies of rule. A survey of district administration in UP in 1950 described the critical process whereby the functions of governments increased and expanded rapidly, requiring sudden recruitment and in some cases, rapid promotion, of relatively subordinate staff. By 1947–48, the departure of British and many Muslim officers from the ranks of the ICS combined with these pressures in the added functions of district administration meant that the average district officer: . . . has not time to think or do justice to the various functions that he is expected to discharge . . . He wakes up with extra energy only when peace is threatened in any part of his district . . . Otherwise the administration of the district moves on its old momentum which is likely to exhaust itself sooner or later in the looseness of organisation, lack of method and experience, slowness and inefficiency.69 Added to this problem was the fact that in 1950, many of UP’s district officers had only two years of experience, and that 95 or so Deputy Collectors were required to take on higher duties. The report went on to note how, added to this problem of numbers was the fact that any Deputy Collector who was any good, was soon required for jobs in the Secretariat, thereby further weakening the administration of the districts.70 A good proportion of the retired civil servants and police officers interviewed, who remembered this phase, described this in terms of a drop in ‘quality’, with one ex-police officer going so far as to claim: “When the Muslims left . . . all the lower ranks, the dirty people brought corruption into the higher ranks.’71 Approximately 464,000 Muslims had left UP for Pakistan by 1951, and this had severely depleted departments in which Muslim officers had played either a proportionate or disproportionately large role, such as Police and Revenue.72 Added to this were the extra burdens on district administration in overseeing the new state controls on the movement and sale of goods, through the systems of licences, permits and rationing in the 1940s. The background to this problem of manpower and experience goes back to the war period. From the early 1940s, public discussions of government servant corruption in the newspapers increased, entering more commonly, and with a new purchase, into reported speeches and columns. This didn’t happen just through the high-level committees such as that of 1938. Neither was it just the product of new political freedoms, although the cumulative anti-colonial critiques of the police and administration over the late 1930s and early 1940s no doubt played a part. Most significant were the series of crises of the 1940s, the effects of the war on UP society (and the economic controls that went with it), in weakening the legitimacy

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The rise of anti-corruption 123 and working of the state at all levels. This created uncertainty and opportunity in a phase of political flux. The central administrative function here concerned rationing and licences. This local state activity directly involved large sections of the UP population, at least in urban areas, via the Town and District level Supply and Rationing officers (TRO/DROs) who operated the Food and Civil Supply policies of the UP government between 1942 and the 1960s. By the end of 1946, there were 49 rationed towns in UP, with a total population of 56 lakhs and a further 340 smaller towns with a population of 23 lakhs were being considered for rationing.73 In its early stages in 1942–43, in response to price increases, the food provisioning and rationing schemes, contained in the United Provinces Foodgrains Control Order 1943 aimed to keep food prices at a controlled level, and to support only the poorer 40 per cent of the urban population. The Foodgrains Control Order was accompanied by a whole host of other enactments for other commodities and orders controlling the movement of goods.74 These were not statutory controls on prices, but an attempt to keep prices down by issuing licences to specific dealers and controlling the movement of commodities, thereby underselling the open market. The control policy was severely constrained by the inability of the colonial state to monitor and control trade with its limited resources and manpower. From the outset, formal total rationing was ruled out, since it was believed that large sections of the population would continue to bypass it by buying direct from the countryside. Rationing and controls were, therefore, concentrated on the so-called regulated large towns of the province, including Lucknow, Kanpur, Allahabad, Benares and Agra, and 20 other big towns. Subsidiary schemes were set up for a further 39 towns. It was recognised from the outset that if controls were in clear opposition to economic forces, abuses, black-marketing and hoarding would ensue. This was indeed what happened, almost immediately, in the three most significant towns – Allahabad, Kanpur and Lucknow, and Eastern UP generally, where there were sharp increases in prices over 1943, despite the control policies. And of course, the situation was compounded by the increasing political uncertainty, and urban violence of mid 1940s UP, although the events of that province were mirrored in different ways across India. Government officials and the media consistently argued that the problems surrounding rationing and controls involved the public in general, and that therefore recognition of public responsibility was essential. When a question was asked in the Constituent Assembly in late 1947 about the extent of corruption and blackmarketing inside and outside departments, the Ministry of Home Affairs suggested that with the passage of the 1947 Anti-Corruption Bill, central and state governments were already disciplining government servants, particularly in the area of rationing and supply. The Ministry also pointed out that it had set up the SPE, and as a result of these two measures, it suggested that the scope of corruption and black marketing inside several depts. has been restricted . . . Corruption and black marketing, if any outside the govt. depts. are the direct outcomes of the infringement by the public of food Control and movement control orders and rationing regulations.75

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However, although the central government made it clear that black-market profits and corruption surrounding rationing and food supply involved large numbers of the general public, it also wanted to ensure that provincial/state governments implemented effective and uniform measures. Instructions were sent to all provincial governments for the establishment of Special Enforcement Branches and careful training of the officers concerned in the detention of food crimes. The Home Department also stressed the proper supervision of barriers, surprise checks on retailers and establishments and also periodical house-to-house enquires to detect ‘ghost’ or bogus ration cards for the prevention of bribery and corruption. Third, it suggested that prompt action should be taken against the staff administrating the control measures if any evidence against them came to light. The response of the provinces showed that there was a considerable divergence in the effectiveness of the administration of the various food control orders across India and the Government of India felt that the penalties imposed were often so numerous and so complex as to render prosecution futile. As a result, all provincial and state governments were asked not only to review their food control measures, but to deal with instances of corruption in the staff administrating these measures promptly and severely. Finally, it was felt desirable that the local governments should give much wider and more pointed publicity to the offences and the offenders and make examples of important cases for deterrent effect.76 In UP in 1942–43, district magistrates were asked to set up advisory committees in every large town to mobilise public opinion against abuses, which were naively instructed ‘to remain aloof from party politics’. Rationing was organised through the distribution of identity cards. In 1944, one officer in Kanpur reported that industrial workers had been securing rations for a large number of imaginary units and significant numbers of the urban population got rations on several different cards. One of the Town Rationing Officers for Kanpur in 1944 pointed out that ‘figures of population for Cawnpore went up from 1941 census figure of 4,41,000 to over 8,00,000.’77 A similar case of fictitious ration cards prepared by rationing staff were unearthed in Etawah.78 The civic guards policing the queues in Gorakphur were reportedly collecting money from those trying to jump to the front of the queue.79 And the movement of goods provided rich pickings for policemen, of course, who around Bara Banki extorted regular levies on cartmen transporting grain.80 In response to the problem of identity and ration card fraud, the UP Government passed another Foodgrains Control Order in 1943, to provide penalties for ‘the dishonest overdrawing of the ration or the misuse of Government cards.’81 Controls and rationing involved large sections of the population, many of whom were destitute (refugees and the urban poor hit by price rises), and connected nearly all levels of governance and political activity in urban areas.82 Some prominent UP Congress leaders were drawn into it: P.D. Tandon was involved at high levels in the advocacy of Hindu Sindhi complaints against Muslim rationing officers at local levels. As we will see in more detail in the next chapter, one of the first UP Food and Civil Supplies Ministers, C.B. Gupta was embroiled in corruption scandals which linked high-level business deals with the complaints of men

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The rise of anti-corruption 125 and women on the streets. The issue was a central one for all governments. For the period of 1949–51, the procurement and rationing of foodgrains were costing the UP Government the huge sum of about Rs 2 crores every year. And throughout this period, public debates were common around the issue of whether production could be best enhanced under a policy of control or decontrol.83 Nehru considered the food situation, and the corruption associated with it to be a general problem of grave proportions that linked, in his mind to problems of law and order creating a ‘spectre of famine and starvation’.84 The entire situation was made worse by poor rains and floods in 1950 and 1951. While touring UP in early February 1952, he found that people in Allahabad ‘generally were against the Sarpanchas and the Mukhias who, it was said, did not distribute the cloth properly and made money out of blackmarketting [sic].’85 The rationing/trade licensing of food, cloth and building materials generated controversies, then, that reached from the central and state governments down into the locality. These moments of scandal and controversy affected those dependent on rationed or controlled goods, all of the labourers involved in the movement, sale or manufacture of controlled articles, middle-class urban consumers and business interests. As such, they brought some of the detailed realities of government servant corruption into the quotidian struggles of the urban poor, and illustrated the impact of the state at all levels on their everyday lives. The new hierarchy of administrative officers set up to administer the controls created the context for these connections: headed by the District Magistrate, and a Regional Food Controller, and most importantly, involving the recruitment of temporary gazetted officers, Town Rationing Officers, Area Rationing Officers and District Supply Officers (hereafter in this section referred to as TRO, ARO and DSO). The latter posts epitomised the temporary and rapidly devised bureaucratic response to food crisis and war. Their holders were nodes between the local administration of controls and public outrage surrounding them, and they were at the heart of a complex range of controversies over clientelist networks across UP over the late 1940s and 1950s. DSOs and TROs had a special pay of Rs 300, which, according to R.K. Trivedi, one of our interviewees who had worked as a DSO, was considered to be an important position comparable to a post in the ICS (which at the time generally started on Rs 350).86 They were vulnerable because they were constantly exposed to public controversy and because their posts were temporary (and hence they did not have the same statutory protection as permanent civil servants). The appointments in food and civil supply were generally made on the condition that the services could be terminated with one month’s notice on either side. As one high -level officer in the UP Secretariat put it: Drawing of formal proceedings against the official, after placing him under suspension if necessary would not have in most of such cases achieved the object in view. This would have simply delayed action . . . This system [being able to terminate service with one month’s notice] proved to be cheaper, and most desirable from disciplinary point of view. It had an exceedingly good effect on the rest of the staff.87

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However, these officers also had significant local power. Under clause 8 of the UP Foodgrains Control Order, 1945, the licensing authority (i.e. the TRO/DRO) could, at his discretion, suspend or cancel the licence of any person suspected of evading the provisions of that order or the conditions of the licence, irrespective of the decision which a court of law may, later on, take in his case.88 It was pointed out in 1946 that such a practice will encourage corruption on the part of the Inspectors as the suspension of a licence is a life and death question for a dealer. Such cases when contested in the regular court require about six months’ time to be decided. During this long period the entire business of a dealer is ruined and stocks get spoiled. . . .89 The possibilities for additional remuneration for these officers were therefore also vast. There were several court cases in which the UP government had to defend against accusations of vindictive licence cancellations and the like. However, TROs and DROs could rest assured that such judicial punishments would be drawn out enough to allow them to mobilise political defence, as we will see later.90 Illegal activity surrounding supply, controls and rationing was extensive, and extremely varied, and affected the publicity surrounding corruption in UP and popular discourses about the relationship between administrator and Indian ‘citizen’. Because supply officers could not be relied upon to act in accordance with formal rules and procedures, those affected by the control orders needed to protect their interests informally. Expectations surrounding administrative corruption involved the UP urban public in quite new ways from the 1940s. As well as problems in the supply of duplicate ration cards and dealers manipulating the licence system and black- marketing, there were other ways in which control orders were widely subverted, which generated witticism in the UP press: the control orders included specific policies of austerity, such as the UP Food Consumption Restriction Order of 1948. This initially, in theory, prevented more than 25 people dining at any particular function and limited the number of courses served by a restaurant – a set of rules which were continually breached: UP government comments on this provision concluded that ‘it was impossible to enforce it effectively in rural areas’.91 But the rules were nowhere more frequently breached than in UP high society. The Citizen Weekly, of 12 February 1949, reported on the marriage of the son of Ram Ratan Gupta (Prem Kumar Gupta) to Lala Gopalraj Swarup of Muzzafarnagar, involving 1,000 guests, with Sarojini Naidu presiding. ‘Where did the host get the rations to feed the 1000 guests from?’ asked the paper, ‘. . . was this only an exception to the rule because the Governor and other Provincial Congress bosses were attending the function?’92 Focus on Ram Ratan Gupta in particular here linked to his connections to powerful business and political interests in Kanpur, which were to give rise to other scandals as we shall see in the next chapter. The most fruitful source on local state/public interactions in supply and rationing can be found in the controversy-ridden personnel records of the Food and Civil Supplies department in UP. General complaints in these files were

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repeatedly couched in the new language of ‘public service’ and citizenship. This powerful anti-corruption discourse, mobilised the Nehruvian and colonial ideal of the ‘servant state’. In a number of UP towns, complaints asserting the new democratic rights of the people came from self-proclaimed citizens’ organisations. A letter from ‘the residents of Agra’ in August 1950, about the attitude of Hiranand Jhangiani, the TRO, stated that ‘He does not think himself to be a public servant. He has no courtesy for the public. He has the mentality of old type of Britishers.’93 ‘The citizens of Ballia’ complained about the nepotistic activities of the DSO there, Shyam Swaroop Tandon, who allegedly favoured selected fabricators of iron and steel in the district. Another complaint against Tandon read that The behaviour of the said officer was not only against the courtesy by also against the principle and honour of our democratic Government. The . . . remarks of the said officer against those who wear khadi to accommodate the plan of the National Government was so filthy, unwanted and uncalled for. . . .94 Clear in these complaints, was the shift from emphasis on ‘good family’ and the maintenance of good ‘relations’ (Tandon was allegedly close to the Food Minister, J.S. Negi), to a more general notion of citizenship. In 1944, in his letter for appointment as rationing officer in Jalaun, B.R. Sharma stated that ‘my family have ever been loyal to Government and rendered useful services to the Government from time to time . . .’ and mentioned how his Grandfather had rendered meritorious services in the last Great War and was awarded Sanads (land deeds) and a revolver.95 S.S. Tandon’s recommendations for service in 1936, described him as coming from ‘a very respectable and loyal Tandon family of Etawah . . .’. By 1960, he was being targeted by the Faizabad Zila Congress organisation for profiteering, in collusion with a particular Tandon family in Akbarpur. When 150 wagons of coal were allotted for flood relief, the DSO allegedly distributed this to brick kiln owners of his personal choice.96 TROs and DSOs would not have been able to maintain these activities in the face of public criticism without support networks of a political, familial or business nature, some of which went back generations. In some cases, this extended to officers profiting from their clients’ black-market activities. For example, B.R. Sharma, when DSO at Allahabad, Banaras and Kanpur in the mid 1950s, allegedly conspired with a fellow officer to favour one contractor – Dakhi Lal Gulab Chand – in a transport bid, and repeatedly collected large bribes to quash prosecutions of black-marketeers or to arrange contracts.97 The complaints against K.S. Sirohi, the TRO of Budaun suggested that he commonly arranged for the support of applications for shops, permits and housing, by ‘selling’ his ability to get the backing of higher officials for applicants.98 In nearly all the 24 files, there were accusations of party or factional favour in the granting of licences.99 In the next chapter, we will look in more detail at the ways in which local political publicists and party members related to this administrative machinery. High-level political protection could also provide a cover that allowed officers to avoid public attention and punishment. This was particularly true in cases of

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‘partibandi’, or the dividing up of illegal gratification by the staff of supply offices, since such arrangements involved so many beneficiaries, including politicians. During the war period, supply and rations were used as capital during election times, with supplies being provided to key voters or constituents in areas where officials felt they needed to influence the decision. For example, in Lakhimpur district during the 1945–46 elections, Rafi Ahmad Kidwai made a complaint to the UP Government that district supply officers were giving Muslim voters cloth yarn permits through a middleman.100 In 1950–51, an intricate, long-term embezzlement involving 18 officers, godown inspectors, MLAs and local party bosses took place in the Supply office at Allahabad.101 In total, Rs 18,361 was misappropriated or embezzled and took nearly two years to fully investigate.102 Political protection, financed by rackets was also evident in Aligarh. In the file of Saraswati Prasad, it was noted that one contact had been making tons of money by securing permits for sugar, steel and cement etc. from the District Supply Officer of Aligarh and selling them in the black market. The local police and the present Distt. Supply Officer are openly in collusion with the said Goonda [gangster] . . . and anybody can see him near the DSO’s office everyday, obtaining permits on bogus names, and funnily he enjoys the patronage and support of Mr N.S. Chowhan MP.103 Rationing/supplies corruption was an area, then, in which the idea of public disgrace could be used to tarnish political rivals through the press. Newspapers were not only an extremely important recourse for the UP Public. DSOs and TROs also had to be publicity managers. In Moradabad in 1959, Karan Singh Sirohi a TRO was faced with a smear campaign in the Hindi weekly Parvatiya, leading him to propose legal action against the editor. The newspaper ran a story on 15 March 1956 which stated that During the period of 2 yrs of his service or non service, all his work was know as ‘Atrocities’ by the people . . . There was a common assumption among people that if one wants his work done by the DSO, either he should be of the DSO’s caste/ community or he should have a huge pocket.104 The article went on to detail a list of abuses, including the distribution of shops and licences to favoured businessmen, and made the key point that controlled goods had not been distributed by the DSO to the poor of the town. An apologetic letter later appeared in the paper, which satisfied the TRO. Investigations into Sirohi’s case then revealed that he had privately concluded an agreement with the editor who, the District Magistrate felt, probably had some information against him. Other officers had been actually paying small fees to the editor of the paper, to protect their reputation.105 Following partition, DSOs and TROs were also often responsible for helping to administer evacuee property, and in this their work connected to definitions of the Muslim ‘intending migrant’. This placed Muslim officers in a particularly

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The rise of anti-corruption 129 vulnerable position as charges of ‘communalism’ in the press were associated with officers’ ‘corruption’. In the early 1950s, Syed Ahmed, TRO/DSO of Basti and later Gorakhpur was subjected to a Hindi press campaign by his own staff who claimed he had favoured Muslims in appointments and that he had made sexual advances towards Hindu and Christian girls.106 Muslim officers in these posts were targeted by Congress complainants, who pointed out that they had ‘Muslim League’ sympathies – an argument used against the TRO of Banaras, Mohammad Izkharul Haq, who allegedly only granted certificates to political supporters or Muslims.107 The complaints against another DSO of Kanpur in the early 1950s, Nawab Syed Mohammad Hasan Khan Nawab, were organised by the local Congress organisations. For the most part, the UP Government dismissed the various Congress claims of fanaticism, communalism, harassment and corruption against M.H. Khan.108 But this did not prevent the colourful public depiction of his ‘luxurious’ life with two wives and two first-class motor cars, maintained by the organisation of bribes and black-market activities through one of his Muslim inspection officers, and by keeping higher officials sweet with lavish parties. A district Congress worker described him as ‘not just a Nawab but a ‘double Nawab . . . of League mentality’. He allegedly engaged a Supply Inspector as a middleman for illegal exactions from petty illiterate dealers of the Charkhari Estate. When this corruption was to be exposed, the DSO managed to send his driver (who had collected the bribes) to Pakistan.109 The Hindi press image of the Muslim civil servant and policeman, as a potential evacuee and a ‘Pakistan sympathiser’ fuelled these public descriptions of allegedly ‘corrupt’ Muslim officers. During the huge embezzlement scandal of 1948–52 in the Allahabad Supply Office, where a Muslim TRO had migrated, failures were largely blamed on Muslim evacuees.110 And in the ‘efficiency drive’ of the early 1950s, supposed links to Pakistan were used in other departments as a pretext for rooting out useless officers.111 Since some of the same DSOs and TROs, were also often responsible for rent control for evacuee properties as ‘Relief and Rehabilitation’ officers, they were therefore easily caught up in communal mud-slinging. Sindhi refugee organisations, and Punjabi refugees settled in western UP, for example, sent appeals to P.D. Tandon, (the President of the Congress in 1950 and organiser of the Hind Rakshak Dal over independence),112 complaining about biased Muslim rent controllers. A group of Punjabi refugees settled in Saharanpur complained of a conspiracy between Muslim policemen, rent officers and Muslim ‘evacuees’ to vacate them from empty ‘evacuee’ houses.113 A list of Muslim government servants who had supposedly kept evacuee properties in their hands and were collecting the rents was supplied to Tandon by the Sindhi Hindu Refugee Panchayat.114 Rumours, such as that in Lucknow, of organised communal conspiracies allowing refugees to grab Muslim properties in January 1948,115 created more heat in the press. But the link to ‘corruption’ was made possible because so much local power had been given to supply officers and rent controllers. In some places, TROs and DSOs held up the renewal of trade licences and rations as a local punishment against displaced persons who had illegally occupied vacated Muslim properties. Early UP policy on evacuee properties certainly encouraged this type of arbitrary action

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by DSOs. The UP Custodian of evacuee property argued that a person’s property could be taken over without recourse to lengthy legal proceedings, if the officers concerned were ‘morally convinced’ that someone was an ‘evacuee’ as defined by the law.116 One of the interviewees for this research, R.K. Trivedi, former Governor of Gujarat, had started off his career in the UP Provincial Civil Services and worked as a DSO in 1946 in Muzzafarnagar and later, Bulandshahr. He suggested that ‘there was a lot of corruption in the running of the rationing schemes’ and that G.B. Pant believed that officers who had worked with the British for a very long time were not likely to be ‘pro-Indian’ or honest. The idea then was to get hold of younger people who had not been ‘spoilt’ by the system.117 These rose-tinted views reflected something very important about governmental and public reactions to the ‘problem’ of corruption in the late 1940s and 1950s. During this phase, corruption scandals were described in terms of public outrage in a way that was both impossible before and more fresh and angry than what would come later. However, the representation of ‘corruption’ did change over the 1940s and 1950s, in tandem with new corruption opportunities, and new ideas about the Indian public and their rights vis-à-vis the local state (as presaged by the 1938 report). Like never before, ‘corruption’ could describe a whole range of social ills: the instability and violence of the mid 1940s, the predicament and ‘rights’ of refugees, and the sensitive accusations of communalism. ‘Corruption’ or ‘bhrashtachaar’ became descriptive terms with a richer content, a problem which redefined the challenges and limits of Indian citizenship, and an idea which later would come to be accepted as a natural, barely visible function of the everyday state. Another dimension from the late 1940s, which made managing the publicity of scandals really matter, were the emerging political networks which reinforced the systematic exchange nexus and black money of licences and permits. Crucial here were the emerging business-Congress links, used to finance elections, power bases and factional loyalties, as shown in Kochanek’s work on the permit-licencequota raj. But this didn’t just appear in the dramatic changes of the late 1960s. It was already evolving two decades earlier.

iv) Corruption, anti-corruption and the ‘middleman’ The significance of middlemen and touts to networks of corruption has been welldocumented for contemporary India and was almost certainly an important feature for some of the most systematic forms of illegal gratification in late colonial and early independent UP.118 These agents could actually be financiers, traders or even lower-level government servants, and so it is almost more appropriate to speak of the middleman as a ‘role’ into which a range of different actors could be fitted. Networks surrounding large-scale and systematic forms of illegal gratification often involved internal forms of security and protection which distanced the recipient of the favour from the one who granted it. This was particularly important in arrangements which involved ostensibly incorruptible government servants (i.e. ICS/IAS officers), for obvious reasons. As well as ‘fixing’ deals between

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The rise of anti-corruption 131 those involved in a transaction, touts and middlemen also allowed such distances to operate – something which was extremely important particularly in the phase of growing anti-corruption movements, and state aspirations to government servant integrity. They were, in other cases, the source of insecurity and instability, since they held information which could damage the reputation of another. In this sense, middlemen could serve a range of different functions (some of them directly entrepreneurial) and it is important, therefore, not to elide the range of different arrangements in which they may have operated. Yet when it comes to the attempts to expose or prosecute such cases, there are some common features and generalisations that can be made about the middleman’s role. As we have seen in previous sections of this chapter, one of the problems faced by the prosecuting and investigating authorities in corruption cases was the complicated factor of such intermediaries. Prosecuting an officer was not simply a matter of starting an investigation and then following through judicial proceedings. For example, a term commonly used in colonial descriptions of officers under suspicion was ‘intrigue’, a form of activity which suggests conspiracy involving multiple accomplices. Indeed the process of prosecution itself, since it was contained within a system of governance where lower-level government servants were often given a relatively free hand, became a part of the web of transactions which drove the ‘corrupt’ act in the first place. Many of the case studies already cited involved more extensive networks of operators, fixers and mediators which extended well beyond the immediate act. One of the most intriguing aspects of middleman and intermediary activity is the sense in which such graft involved performance and subterfuge. It was important for an intermediary in any kind of ‘fixing’ deal to create the impression that something was being done, and therefore his role involved information and misinformation at multiple levels. The control gate for this process could easily become the lower levels of the bureaucracy, allowing a kind of space in which a form of ‘salutary neglect’ could operate alongside the maintenance of upper civil servant esprit de corps.119 Much of the research looking, briefly, at the actions of the middleman, employs terms as evasive as the middleman himself. Such roles were not necessarily sole occupations, but could involve moonlighting. They usually necessitated an understanding of the vagaries of political faction – important in the changed context of democratic politics, in which the new arenas of political representation and deal-making complicated the exercise of executive authority.120 However, since the middleman’s business was as much about maintaining the perception of contact with the state, his engagement with the more accessible wings of the bureaucracy were essential and it is at this level that more can be learned about the performances surrounding his activity. The subordinate bureaucrat as middleman again comes through clearly in the (somewhat denuded) files investigating official corruption in the Public Works Department of the UP state archives. The need for agents and fixers for PWD officers was important, since most of the cases involved contracts, or the selling of government resources directly from public works project supplies to contractors onto the black market. Surplus bricks were allegedly sold, for example, by an

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Executive Engineer of the Irrigation Branch in a large-scale case between 1949 and 1951. In this case, a Hindi petition signed by the ‘Secret Committee of the Employees of the Canal Department’, alleged that the officer used inferior staff for his own private purposes, and had embezzled large sums. Crucial to these actions, however, and their apparent boldness was the complaint that ‘his highhandedness is due to the fact that he can get anything done by the Superintending Engineer’.121 The latter had been clearly acting as a kind of agent to the executive engineer, fixing deals for him and arranging illicit payments. For the contractor too, it was necessary to get a foothold into departments like PWD, in order to make extra profits through over-payments or through over-supply, and here an intermediary, often an officer, was necessary. A classic case of this was illustrated in work done on the construction of the road between Etah and Anandpur in 1948. Here, an overseer in the UP PWD had deliberately overestimated the road measurements by about 100 per cent, which led to an excess payment of Rs 30,000 to the contractor. Other officers in the department were complicit as intermediaries, not least because of the technical complexity of both the work and the arrangements to get it done. This also made the case difficult to prosecute.122 The same kinds of deals involving contractors were evident in other areas of technical work: an interviewee who had worked from 1958 as a Military Engineer suggested that ‘Contractors would give money at all levels . . . to get the machinery working, instead of repairing the machine, they used money as a lubricant to get their work done’.123 ‘Fixers’ also appeared during the building of the Banda–Allahabad road in 1948–49. The file on this case stated that, in simple terms, one of the contractors, Daleep Singh, had allegedly sold 900 bags of cement on the black market through three specific ‘agents’, who had contacted PWD officials.124 By late 1950, the case had slipped away into the ether of inconclusive internal action. But a subsequent complaint from a sacked PWD officer, Iqbal Bahadur Asthana suggested that the theft of government resources was much more systematic than initially presented. Important in Asthana’s complaint, was the revelation that sums paid to contractors on road projects had also contained unique items of ‘commission’, of small percentages (for example, 5 per cent for Engineers and 5 per cent for overseers), and similar arrangements covered fees for the fixers. When Asthana refused to be ‘moulded’ in favour of the Assistant Engineer involved in this scam in Banda, his promotion was stopped, he was transferred to office work and given the remark of ‘unreliable’ in his service book. The internal cases against these officers continued to be delayed right upto 1953, partly due to the complexity and range of different scams attached to PWD in Banda, but also because the use of middlemen and fixers had made it very difficult to mobilise direct evidence against the officers. When, for example, the technical details of weak cement mixes or poorly fired bricks were investigated, officials were able to make the case that they did not have direct overseeing powers in all of these areas.125 There was an ambiguous overlap then between officers’ roles as recipients of payments or commissions or bribes, and their roles as deal fixers. Where more systematic networks existed within departments, government servants themselves

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The rise of anti-corruption 133 may have acted as go-betweens. This is evident in a general sense from the periodic reports sent from state governments to the Government of India, listing persons debarred from Government service across the state in the late 1940s and early 1950s. While it is difficult to get details on exactly how officers worked deals within a department, these reports show that the dismissal or disciplining of large numbers of employees in one particular department or area was very common, which suggests that illegal gratification more often than not depended upon extensive networks and hierarchies. For example, there was a collection of interlinked dismissals in the PWD (B and R) in central UP for misappropriation and bribery upto June 1951.126 Between June 1951 and June 1952, a group of 13 persons were dismissed from the office of the Chief Commissioner, Vindhya Pradesh, under the heading of ‘bribes and misappropriation of money’. There were also a range of bribery cases in the office of the Development Commissioner in Kundla over the same period.127 Clearly, information was also being passed and shared between officers and private individuals/non-officials where it was necessary to fix up an appointment for someone or to secure a deal. When the Irrigation Department looked into irregularities in appointments, it noted that: it has been noticed that interested persons come to know of the movements of files in the Public Works Department Secretariat and often it happens that when a case is in submission to Hon’ble Minister for Communications, the recommendation about it also comes to him simultaneously. This shows that the rules regarding secrecy of official documents and informations are not observed at all.128 So far we have looked at the work of touts and middlemen from within departments, but what about the perspective from the street, or from a member of the public wanting to get some ‘work done’ from the outside? Here, the official archive is of relatively little use, and the most of our existing case studies of the work of touts comes from the fieldwork of anthropologists, economists and geographers. In Jonathan Parry’s work, we have details of the process whereby a ‘source’ or ‘approach’ person demands money which will be needed (in this case) for the fixing of an appointment, or even just an interview, in a factory or other workplace. In this process, there is a common (although privately held) assumption that part, if not all, of the bribe money may well have been ‘eaten’ by the intermediary before it has passed his or her hands. In general in contemporary India, such practices suggest that networks of transaction in return for favour can never be fully uncovered and that there is, therefore, a kind of popular sense that corruption is ‘all pervasive’ and marked by an impossibly complex range of calculations. Here, the very public perception, i.e. the market itself, determines the service or the goods. Because money or ‘approaches’ are considered to be necessary to get things done, a cadre of fixers springs up to meet this need.129 Evidence from interviews with officers who worked in the area of anti-corruption in the 1960s supports this contemporary work. J.N. Chaturvedi, a former UP police officer recruited in 1951, who moved into the CBI told us that the forms of

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apparently pervasive everyday corruption were there right from the early 1950s, particularly in the areas of rationing, controls and public works. Importantly, though, he suggested that the reasons for this linked to what he described as ‘collusion’ in which the public face of the officer was so obscured that it could only be reached through an alternative source.130 Chaturvedi provided a general sense of how the systematic engagement of middlemen worked in the 1960s and 1970s. Here again, as in Parry’s arguments for the 1990s, the issue of public perception was extremely important. He noted that: They [touts] would come to you, make some formal discussion about the weather and then they would say they had seen the officer . . . and have made some money in the process . . . it has been my experience, that generally 50% of the jobs just get done, even if nobody has approached you, they just get done. But these people create an impression and that is why this class of people [touts/middlemen] has multiplied. Now, it is a regular business.131 For Chaturvedi then, the business of the middleman could also extend beyond the actual ‘effecting’ of anything. Just because a bribe or payment had been required to achieve a particular desirable end in the past, did not mean that it was always the case. Here, the very popular fear that officers would need to be oiled with money created a kind of phantom system, precisely because the passing of money and the making of deals took place behind closed doors in secret. The role of the middleman then was defined by information and misinformation, which placed certain people at strategic points in any network of transactions in an advantageous position. We talked in detail about the post-1947 anti-corruption drives with J.N. Chaturvedi, and he explained how the local-level anti-corruption committees had been subverted by the information held by a middleman. In our interview, he recalled a character whom he called ‘K’, whom he had met in the mid 1970s: When I went to Delhi as Commissioner of Police, A person – K – came. It is custom in India that when a new officer comes into a post, people come and call, wanting to build up contacts. And that is, I think a hangover from the British days, that landlords would go, just currying favour, not for other reasons, but because that imparted respectability . . . So, some person, we call him K, he met me, and he mentioned himself as the Vice president of the Delhi state, Local Conduct Committee . . . You could call it policeman’s intuition or something. When I talked to him I got the impression that I had seen him earlier. I said to him – ‘aren’t you the same person who brought information to me, 10 years ago, about smuggling gold via local officers, and at your instance we had conducted a raid.’ He said ‘Ah. . . . Yes Sir . . . I think I have met you, I think I have met you’. I said, ‘you gave me that information, and later on you passed on that information to the gang also . . . And now I said low and behold, this man is Vice President of the Local Conduct Committee’ [laughs] – a man who had close links with a smuggler gang.132

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The rise of anti-corruption 135 The role of ‘K’, described here by Chaturvedi seems to link well to the agent or middleman who connects, via inside information, to a range of different political factions, and makes money through such divisions. This can be clearly seen in the manoeuvring for Congress tickets around the 1951 elections which will be examined in more detail in Chapter 6.133 Although the official archive and the testimony of retired policemen and other officers suggested that the work of middlemen was also a part of 1950s India, the public perception of corruption at an everyday level has become more complex and more widespread. This also seems to be linked to the growth in size and complexity of the development functions of administration, expanding middleman opportunities. Ample examples of this can be found from the press and in secondary work, and an overwhelming theme seems to be the extent to which the existence of touts is particularly hazardous for vulnerable communities and individuals. However, in the area of licences and permit patronage in particular, the involvement of middlemen was crucial from the very beginning of the supply and control policies in the 1940s.134 Most importantly of all, the role of the middleman in the multiple situations in which fixers and touts appeared, formed another interface between subject/citizen and the local state. And the impression of officialdom that these fixers presented to ordinary UPites generated a wholly different range of popular perceptions about everyday corruption.

Conclusion The 1938 Anti-Corruption Committee revealed the extent to which a gulf was opening up between an older colonial regime’s ideas about the nature and purpose of local governance and that of a potential, democratically elected successor regime. These differences surrounded the definition and scope of corruption, and they were to be crucial later on in helping to define the fortunes of the 1950s and 1960s anti-corruption drives. Maurice Hallett’s view of the 1938 report was that it had made too much of what, for him, were essentially normal functions of north Indian governance. His definition of ‘corruption’ was nuanced (and some might argue, narrow) and the implications of his views encouraged administrators to effectively dismiss actions later described as ‘corrupt’ on the basis that they could be seen as ‘traditions’ and ‘customs’ of local state interaction. Perhaps, most obviously, his discussion of the subject was geared to the principal purpose of regime protection. The British in India could not afford to ask too many probing questions about how powerful landlords operated, or about the methods of local policemen, since they had neither the resources (nor the will – this was after all an ‘Oriental’ system of government) to replace these figures in each district. The very legitimacy of British authority in India rested on the apparent integrity of the district officer, who could only have governed by giving a free reign to a wide range of subordinates. In response to what it felt obliged to define as an ‘Oriental despotism’, members of the Congress in government felt the need to focus on these particular instances of ‘everyday’ corruption but also re-oriented the discussion more towards the idea of public culpability for acts of illegal gratification.

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Anti-corruption therefore had to involve representatives of the public and nonofficials to be truly effective. From the early 1940s, the impact of the state on every person’s life expanded very quickly, and now came to affect more than ever the basic necessities of life too. Increasingly too, it was necessary for politicians to finance their support networks, and the system of licences and permits provided the ideal opportunity, not least because the structures of the bureaucracy administering them was easily cultivated. The changes of the 1940s, were also to have an effect on the powers of anti-corruption officers and institutions, especially as they were founded on the structures of colonial governance that they were not asked to investigate. Just as the colonial regime had not been able to upset established networks of local power, so, too, the compulsions of electoral politics allowed certain privileges and ‘customs’ to be retained and supported. However, by the early 1950s, because the events of the 1940s had publicised the problems of the colonial regime so starkly, ‘corruption’ and ‘anti-corruption’ became new weapons in the arsenal of politicians and public-minded administrators alike. A new, modernising India needed a new and clean system of administration and politics. But the apparently pervasive evidence of the corruptibility of public servants provided an ideal means to legitimise oneself vis-à-vis another and to make some money in the process.

6

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Maintaining the ‘steel frame’ in the 1950s and 1960s

In his novel Curfew in the City, Vibhuti Narain Rai creates a vivid semi-fictional account of the travails of poor urban communities in the face of a curfew imposed as a result of a riot in a UP city. As well as the police violence in the novel which is principally directed at the poorer Muslim communities in the town, Rai creates a satirical pastiche of the local town politics behind the scenes of the violence. Local politicians compete for influence, and a range of journalists and subversive political parties offer an anti-state critique. The novel depicts the quotidian interactions between local politicians, bureaucrats and police. But it also shows how such interactions, although ubiquitous, are constantly exposed and critiqued both internally and externally. What is particularly apparent in Rai’s work is the working of a symbolic rhetoric of government servant independence and neutrality, alongside a widespread knowledge of and belief in ‘corrupt’ transactions between political leaders and government servants.1 Some of the most interesting interviews and discussions conducted for this book were with Vibhuti Narain Rai himself, who at the time of meeting had been interested in the following events: in the spring of 2008, the recruitment of 18,500 policemen under the previous administration of Mulayam Singh Yadav was cancelled by the UP Chief Minister Mayawati. Almost all of these constables had been Yadavs, recruited to fulfil the agendas of the Samajwadi Party. According to the Mayawati administration, around 22,000 police appointments had been conducted illegally. This involved large-scale bribing, falsification of exam papers and 20–30 second interviews (about 2,500 were managed in one day). Rai suggested a kind of public resignation about this situation. And he also characterised it in terms of a modern-day form of ‘feudalism’ and casteism that had emerged in contemporary India. Clearly these ideas of corruption were closely tied, by Rai, to discourses of arrested modernisation – something brought about by colonial conditions. Yet he and most of the interviewees for this research, characterised the British period as one of relative government integrity.2 The issue of public scandal around political ‘interference’ with policemen and civil servants, is, and was well-known, even in the immediate aftermath of independence. An article in The Leader on 26 May 1949, for example, detailed the ways in which policemen in western UP had been forced to do the bidding of visiting Congress dignitaries, in violently cracking down on opposition party ral-

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lies. The article concluded, ‘During the British regime, the constitutional position . . . was that the Government was the State . . . The rules were interpreted to mean that anti-government activities were political, while pro-government ones were not. . . . the Congress appears to like to keep this intact.’3 We saw in Chapter 5 that the monitoring of policemen and other officials’ activities was based on the assumption that, where possible, officers should be protected from what was considered to be an unscrupulous public hatred. This was particularly the case in the late colonial period, when the civil servant and policeman were particularly marked by nationalist organisations as colonial collaborators. The police had during the British period, protected the interests of the colonial state, and little notice was taken when violence or intimidation was used in what were considered to be necessary episodes of control and coercion of anti-colonial demonstrations. After independence, because similar rights to violence operated at a quotidian level, under the control of a political leader, it was not difficult for the police to become politically partisan in relation to the government in power. This process of political partisanship, in which officers were associated with particular politicians, had therefore developed before 1947. From the early 1930s, the Appointments and Revenue Departments in UP were taken up with consideration of how far government officers could be associated with political movements and campaigns. For example, during the height of the Civil Disobedience campaign in mid to late 1930, the Home Department had to deal with a large number of civil service resignations, in protest against the arrest of M.K. Gandhi, or in general response to the call for resignations. In one such case of the resignation of an officer of the Archaeological Survey of India, the department decided that if the first act of ‘disloyalty’ was the resignation, then the officer could not be dismissed, or forfeit his pension. Interestingly at this stage, the very rules which had been set out to protect officers from the supposed vindictiveness of the public, made it easier for them to safely resign: the dismissal of government servants, as we have already seen, involved the drawing up of charges, a proper enquiry and the opportunity of vindication.4 But there were more direct forms of association between bureaucrats and politicians which were to be of greater relevance for the future. During the elections of 1945–46 as we saw in Chapter 3, floods of letters came in to the UP government that policemen and other lower officials were hindering Congress candidates, and that official action was taking an obviously partisan turn in favour of the Muslim League.5 These elections were, in many ways, quite exceptional, taking place in a period of intense Congress–Muslim League competition as the British sought an exit strategy. However, some of the local patterns of politician–government servant interaction were indicative of later trends. For example, one Resolution of the Bulandshahr District Congress Working Committee claimed that the station officer at the Kotwali in the city, Ghulam Mushir had physically intimidated voters and had ‘dragged the voters inside to cast their votes in his presence.’6 In Farrukhabad and Basti districts, similar complaints were made against policemen and in Muzzafarnagar, Congress complained of deliberate police beatings.7 Policemen and other local state officers then were involved in specific

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The bureaucracy, police and political change 139 associations with political leaders that theoretically compromised their loyalty to the state in some instances, but in ways that was made ambiguous by the colonial context. There was, in many cases, no clear sense of a ‘state’ that guaranteed the rights against everyday conflicts and for much of the late colonial period, there was no easy recourse to a higher agency to seek redress for a wrong. This chapter looks more closely at the nexuses between bureaucrats and politicians, as they developed from the late 1940s to the mid 1960s. The first section sets the scene of civil servant–politician interactions, by surveying how such interactions were changed by the new context of the ‘developmental’ state in UP, and the circumstances of parliamentary democracy. The transformation from a colonial bureaucratic system was complicated by post-war shortages and recruitment crises. And almost immediately, local politicians in UP were able to control and direct bureaucrats and policemen in struggles against rivals and in the distribution of patronage. This section begins to look at how and why examples of these nexuses developed. The second section of the chapter examines how far civil servants at upper levels perceived themselves to have lost executive power in relation to politicians. In particular, it looks at the issue of political neutrality among government servants, and how they were called upon to repeatedly break rules of conduct in their dealings with political leaders. The final section of the chapter looks at networks of politician–bureaucrat influence and interaction which emerged in 1950s and 1960s UP, around specific episodes: first the selection of candidates for the 1951 elections, and second the period of the Sucheta Kripalani administration.

i) UP in the 1950s and 1960s The politics of the first two decades of independent UP have been well covered since the 1960s, by studies in political mobilisation,8 factionalism,9 and more recently the predicament of Muslims and/or ‘backward castes’.10 In nearly all cases, these years have been presented as ones of relative stability and continuity, both in politics and governance.11 However, this chapter will argue that below the surface of Congress dominance and the modernising rhetoric of the Nehruvian state, there were some extremely important developments in popular (and official) views of administrative conduct. Most pertinently, it will explore the specific transformation in perceptions of the role of the state (particularly at local levels) as subjects became citizens. The period of the first three Five Year Plans from 1951 to 1966 was one of massive public sector expansion, with public sector employment tripling over these years. Although most of the basic structures of the administration (as we have seen so far) remained the same, there were some important shifts in the culture of the bureaucracy: perhaps most obvious was a dissatisfaction with the administrative ‘generalists’ from the point of view of economic development and planning, and the suggestion that ‘specialists’ should now take a larger role in planned development.12 However, consistency and continuity in the administration and politics of India in general and UP in particular, was generated by the clear dominance of the Congress up to the late 1960s, although there was decline in electoral dominance between the 1952, 1957 and 1962

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elections. Crucially, fluctuations across UP were largely due to changes in patterns of internal factionalism.13 And it was these patterns of internal competition which in turn played a significant role in the forms of political control of bureaucrats and politicians over these years. In the literature on early independent UP, two specific transformations in UP political culture are commonly cited as being important to the changing roles of the civil services and police. First, as Brass and Hasan noted, contemporaries interviewed in the 1960s suggested that there was an ethical change in political leadership over the course of the first decade of independent India, from the politics of older nationalists, to a newer generation of career politicians. For example, a commonly cited case is that of the movement from the Chief Ministership of G.B. Pant (1937–39; 1946–50, 1950–52 and 1950–54) – the old hand of the late 1930s Congress administration in UP to leaders like C.B. Gupta (Chief Minister between 1960 and 1963). This transformation is particularly significant, as we will see in the third section later, to the idea of ‘corruption’ in government services, since the newer generation of career politicians were driven less by ideology than the requirements of electoral mobilisation.14 Second, the work on the organisation of politics at district and state levels has shown that patronage and factions were extremely important, particularly around specific personalities.15 Systems of patronage had to be supported, resourced and financed and this could involve the assistance of government servants. The latter could therefore be employed in illicit systems of faction protection (for example, via policemen), or illicit schemes of finance (involving, for example, supply officers). However, very little of the work on UP political history over the two decades after independence, has looked in any depth at the intricate and detailed mechanisms of politician–administrator interaction.16 Part of the reason for this dearth is that such material does not commonly appear in the routine papers of either departments or political parties. This chapter aims to remedy this dearth of work, using specific case studies in later sections. By way of introduction, some broad, less well-known research projects exist from the period: a study of interactions between administrators and politicians in Meerut district UP, carried out under the auspices of the Indian Institute of Public Administration in the early to mid 1960s conducted a range of general field interviews across government departments and cadres. The specific provenance of each set of interviews was not provided in detail. However, some interesting patterns emerged which shed some different light on the research carried out by political scientists and historians of 1950s and 1960s UP. About one third of the interviewees from all departments felt dissatisfied with the rigidity of ‘inherited’ colonial procedural rules in handling local situations and problems, which they felt to be overly hierarchical and complicated. The study also noted however a ‘gradual erosion, under compulsions of development administration, of the legitimacy of the colonial bureaucracy without crystallisation of newer, unambiguous developmental norms.’17 In other words, most of the civil servants interviewed for the research felt (like many of the interviews for this research), that the ‘steel frame’ of the colonial bureaucracy was illsuited to the demands of a democratic developmental state, but that where changes

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The bureaucracy, police and political change 141 had occurred, they had not established a clear and legitimate administrative alternative. This tension was also evident in interviewees’ suspicions about politicians and ministers. 69.8 per cent and 24.5 per cent of the interviewee sample agree or partially agreed respectively, that ‘adherence to rules and regulations’ protected administration from unreasonable demands and influences.18 The suspicion of political leaderships and the embracing of internal hierarchies and structures was seen as a ‘hang-over’ from pre-independence times. For example, 73.6 per cent felt that an administrator ‘must not’ take action against subordinates on the insistence of political leaders.19 The study concluded that this demonstrated a longstanding culture of defending administrative autonomy, and with a surprisingly negative orientation towards representative politics, given nearly two decades of independence. However, from the bureaucrats’ point of view, this was a balancing act: when asked the more nuanced question about the importance of maintaining ‘good relations with local leaders who have backing of the people’, 71.7 per cent agreed that it was of high importance.20 Civil servants and policemen then, particularly at the upper levels of district administration were ambivalent about the colonial legacy, and defensive about their work in relation to political leaders. This is supported by the work of David Potter for this early independence period which suggested that ‘the whole experience showed generally that the relationship between elected democratic politicians and political administrators representing an older tradition remained a difficult one, produced in part by having retained an ICS tradition of administration in a changed political context.’21 It was also clearly evident in most of our interviews with retired IAS officers.22 Yet, at the same time, discussions about political interference and manipulation in official circles owed much to older colonial ideas of regime protection. And there was a class-based and cultural dynamic to this divide between administrator and local politician. As more grass-roots, and less-anglicised career politicians took power in UP, the IAS, drawn largely from professional middle classes were clearly distanced from what they perceived as the vulgarities of local political leadership.23 Importantly, this reflected the class divisions within the civil service and police too. In other ways, as work on contemporary India has suggested, many administrators felt that political leaders were ‘politicising’ issues of governance, and that they were powerless to do anything about it.24 Another way to look at these pressures, and the changing culture of a range of government departments and government servant activity after independence, is to survey the area of planning. In 1962, P.N. Masaldan published a detailed and enlightening study of planning at the state level in UP – a project sponsored by the Research Programmes Committee of the Planning Commission in the Government of India. Masaldan’s report provides some important clues about the structures and traditions which, alongside the background of colonial governance looked at in previous chapters, contributed to changing ideas about official/administrative ‘misconduct’. It also provides a useful context for understanding cultures of professional dominance and submission in the workplace, which contributed to the

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process whereby politicians gained direct access to the resources, manpower and influence of civil servants and policemen. A recurrent theme of Masaldan’s study is the gulf between the upper level of planning, and decision-making in the UP Secretariat and its implementation on the ground. This was not just a case of structural problems, but also a case of how authority was exercised and subverted. For example, the State Planning Commission, chaired by the Chief Secretary to Government, although holding a great deal of prestige, was not closely linked to (or even responsible for) the execution of programmes in the field. Instead, the range of different institutions involved in development were described as, in many cases, forms of self-contained bureaucratic fiefdoms that were incompletely connected. Another theme in Masaldan’s report is one of multiplication and complexity in bureaucratic functions. As well as individual departmental decision-making bodies and working groups that coordinated development planning in multiple areas,25 there were a range of intermediate and cross-cutting committees, whose functions often overlapped. These included the State Planning Board, The State Planning Committee, the Development Coordination Committee and the Manpower Officers’ Committee.26 One head of department remarked to Masaldan that ‘if he were to attend all the meetings he would never be able to attend his office’.27 Alongside this committee structure were a group of ‘Coordinating agencies’ connected to each department, exhibiting institutionalisation of staff functions, aversion to new ideas, an inability to see things in their entirety and a feeling of superiority. This Byzantine structure, and the equally complex bureaucratic mindset that went with it, tended to delay the implementation of policy decisions. The examination of a matter hardly ever took less than a week, even in minor issues. The Kafka-esque nature of departmental overlap and conflict provided Masaldan with some gems: in 1959, special schemes for the development of backward areas of Bundelkhand were implemented with a Government of India loan. The Finance Department asked the Industries Department to obtain from the Planning Department the terms of the loan granted by the Government of India. The Industries Department replied that this information should be available at the Finance Department itself, leading to further argument and delay.28 Similar conflicts of interest and culture were noted between the Appointments Department and the Public Services Commission. The pertinence of this for anti-corruption was that just as small matters of loan terms could be delayed by weeks, decisions on the matter of government servant rules, forms of punishment and censure, and means of prosecution were even more delayed. Yet, while UP government departments took their time over these matters, the political economies of corrupt activity shifted rapidly. We have already seen how the old colonial rules for civil servants, including those governing conduct, survived for a very long time after independence. In some cases, new rules that were being drafted in the early 1940s, were not complete until the mid 1950s. Added to this delay, were the new sets of rules which had to be devised for new kinds of posts, such as the Block Development Officers. These took over four years to be finalised from their first drafting. After 1947, governments at all levels were instructed to aspire to democratic and developmental goals which were

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The bureaucracy, police and political change 143 intended to bring together a corporate sense of Indian political identity, social change and nationally-driven economic development. Yet the detailed functions of that process, through the multifarious traditions and procedures of the civil services, remained largely unchanged from the late colonial period. Masaldan summed this up neatly in his analysis of bureaucratic rules, which had remained unchanged for most departments since the period of diarchy in the 1920s.29 In the mid 1980s, the UP government set up a Commission to look into district-level administration, and some of its findings dovetailed with the memories of PCS, IPS and IAS officers, in their discussions of relationships between civil servants and politicians from an earlier period. The second chairman of the Commission was T.N. Dhar, who we interviewed in his capacity as the head of the UP Indian Institute of Public Administration.30 The opening statements of the Report mirrored the earlier 1950s and 1960s reports on discipline and administration – the Gorwala, Masaldan and Santhanam reports. Like the latter, they set out the over-complex and inefficient scenario of rules, orders and bills, but this time in a background of administrative breakdown, and the deliberate contravention of the rules themselves. The report detailed the rapid rise of UP government employees since the early 1950s, creating posts without proper job descriptions, proper infrastructure or adequate supervision. The growing army of petty bureaucrats, Dhar argued, only added to the ‘class-ridden administrative ethos’.31 The report identified a (familiar) long-term structural problem in the administration which allowed local politicians to use development resources as a form of patronage: in many of the larger districts it became difficult for officers such as tahsildars, to supervise subordinates such as lekhpals, who could then fall under local political influence. Lekhpals and patwaris were responsible for the maintenance of land records in a circle of around eight to ten villages, and were generally subordinated to the subdivisional and tahsil level revenue officers such as SDOs, tahsildars and naib tahsildars. This lack of supervision then had a knock-on effect on other administrative cadres.32 Perhaps most importantly, it was noted that ‘The old psyche of mistrust of local officers inherited from the British colonial rule is at the root of inadequate delegation of powers. The higher level feels that the lower level will abuse the power.’33 These structural problems, which generated bureaucratic autonomy at certain levels was also recognised in the work of lekhpals in the 1950s. One wit in a UP Assembly debate on lekhpal corruption on 22 September 1954 suggested that it would be better to describe lekhpals as ‘Rajyapals’ – a group of officials who exercised local fiefdoms of power. Another MLA pointed out that lekhpals had apparently refused the payment of ex-zamindar grants unless they were bribed.34 In concluding the debates, Chaudhari Charan Singh suggested that the root of the problem essentially lay in the somewhat distant relationship between village officials and superior revenue officers. For him, longstanding bureaucratic hierarchies made it difficult for local officials to do anything but act on their own initiative.35 For Charan Singh, the ease with which lowerlevel administrators were able to take bribes with impunity, related to their longstanding relative autonomy, isolated from the sealed off ‘benevolent’ caste of mandarins in the ICS and IAS.36 The relative freedom of action of lekhpals and

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patwaris in some cases also related to the sheer volume and detail of work that needed to be done at the village level, which a higher-level officer could not have hoped to accomplish or even oversee. Because the supervision of subordinate by superior officers was lax or ambivalent, it became easier for politicians to connect up with a relatively free-floating lower-level officer. And it was at this level of the state that most UP citizens had contact with administrators. As a result, when the 1986 Commission interviewed members of the public, it was not surprised to find that ‘generally people look up to muscle power, political patronage and money power for protection and their well being, rather than to the observance of law and the normal administrative apparatus.’37 Where nexuses between politicians and bureaucrats also involved powerful business interests, the stakes were higher: . . . in departments like irrigation, PWD and Medical and Public health, where tenders are floated for works/supplies involving huge amounts, the entrenched contractors come heavily armed and do not allow others even to bid. We are told that the auctioning authorities are bribed or threatened or coerced.38 The use of force and coercion made political protection become all the more important for officers. But in order to maintain their authority, politicians also allocated resources to supporters, backers and election mobilisers: BDOs, the Commission stated, were distributing aid on the basis of political patronage and ‘It has been complained to the Commission that in complete disregard of government orders, the tubewells and roads are allocated legislator-wise . . .’39 For the ordinary citizen, this meant that ‘. . . government employees at all levels, and specially at the local levels do not assist an ordinary citizen even in routine matters unless he uses political influence or lobbying or jumps the queue through improper action.’40 For most bureaucrats at all levels, the period from the late 1940s to the mid 1960s, was not one of business as usual, but a phase of rapid change, adjustment and expansion. This is particularly evident in interviews with retired district officers of 1950s batches, and who usually made a career in the civil services on the basis of genuine aspirations towards national ‘service’, or as ‘agents of change’ and development.41 The role of political leaderships shifted rapidly over this phase following the first general elections to the late 1960s, in relation to the everyday work of administrators. The culture of transfers and subordination to political factions developed apace, as a new generation of administrators familiarised themselves with a system of political control (as we will see more later). A retired IAS officer who had served at a district level in Saharanpur, Allahabad, Moradabad and Aligarh in the late 1950s and early 1960s, argued that by the late 1970s, 75 per cent of all ‘illegal earnings’ of civil servants or ‘bribes’, were passed up to politicians and that the significant shift came after the Emergency in the mid 1970s. Yet he was clear that although he had been part of an inherited colonial system, there had at least been a ‘culture of integrity’ in the early part of his career.42 However, executive cadres of the civil service still maintained a defensive attachment to older colonial ideas of hierarchy and systems of rules, which meant that

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The bureaucracy, police and political change 145 there was some continuity in the experience of the ordinary citizen in coming into contact with the village, tahsil or district-level official policeman. Effectively, the political system of post-independence UP mapped onto the framework of existing administrative and police cultures: administrators had always played a ‘political’ role and the Congress party had developed institutions around colonial structures. The following sections will look in more detail at how the links between bureaucrats and politicians were entrenched through systems of political mobilisation and the electoral process. First, we will consider this from the perspective of the civil servant and policeman, and the extent to which bureaucrats were able to break the conditions of their service rules, particularly those pertaining to political neutrality. Second, the chapter will go on to explore the dynamics of political coercion and influence applied by powerful political leaders and ministers in parts of UP, to the administrative system. This section will look at two specific phases – first, the period of the first General elections around late 1951, and second, the development of political–administrative networks in the mid 1960s, around Sucheta Kripalani’s ministry in UP.

ii) Bureaucrats, policemen, and political neutrality One of the most oft-repeated characteristics of the civil services in mid twentieth century India, is the shift from serving a colonial to a democratic state. The implications specifically for government servants of this political balancing act between Raj and Congress, were far-reaching but have been relatively underexplored. On the one hand, political ‘neutrality’ and loyalty to the state after 1947 was complicated by the position of bureaucrats who had joined anti-colonial protests and been punished for political disloyalty. Congress’s legitimacy was based on its claims to represent all Indians interested in political freedom, and opposed to foreign domination. And in this guise, the party had, in different local and national campaigns upto 1947, highlighted the ‘corruption’ and brutality of the colonial services. In section (iii), we will look at the extent to which local politicians were able to build up credit by association with anti-colonial activities. After independence, this also applied to certain administrative officers, who could represent their interests within the special category of ‘political sufferers’ to the post-independence regimes. On the other hand, the post-independence Congress regimes decided to maintain the old colonial structures of bureaucracy and police, and the men who had worked them. A distinction was therefore made in the early 1950s, between the professional obligations of officers as civil servants and the citizenship rights of officers as members of the public. However, as we will see later, this distinction was not easily enforced in day-to-day politics. In fact, the nature of the political transition over the 1940s and 1950s and the bearing it had on bureaucratic work, empowered politicians in securing the personal loyalties of bureaucrats and policemen. Although conduct rules theoretically prevented participation in politics, there were ambiguities surrounding the political role of district-level bureaucrats and policemen, especially shortly after independence. On the one hand, civil servants

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were governed by rules which set out the imperative need for them to be politically neutral. Rules 18, 19 and 20 of the Government Servants’ Conduct Rules were aimed at ensuring the observance of ‘complete political neutrality by government servants’ and their not taking part in controversial matters by writing to the press or otherwise. Rules 2 to 14 and rules 10, 12, 13 and 15 concerned the impact of political influence, preventing government servants from receiving gifts and presents and other pecuniary assistance, borrowing money, dealing in properties, etc. Yet as the last chapter discussed, the complexity of these rules created loopholes, bearing in mind the relatively informal nature of personal politics in UP in the 1950s and 1960s. Some of these ambiguities were contained in the rules themselves and had precipitated the decisions in the mid 1950s to define and reinterpret them more carefully. For example the Central Government in 1952, after looking into scandals of government servant partisanship, felt that the definition of family members (who were also barred from certain political and commercial activities) needed to be more carefully set out and defined.43 The basic rules framework of the colonial period was theoretically designed to create a neutral civil service. However, this was often compromised by the nature of relationships between government servants and the public which were shaped by class and racial hierarchies. In practice, political neutrality for the ICS officer meant something quite different to neutrality for the non-gazetted officer, or lower-level police constable. As Chapter 2 explored, political aloofness for the ICS officer, and high-ranking policeman related strictly to the racial and social distances between subject and state agent, in which the notion of esprit de corps governed the actions and behaviour of the government servant. Yet at the same time, district officers played an intensely political role in monitoring, controlling, silencing and punishing expressions of party politics, and not just in the areas where it threatened the operation of the state. The two most regularised functions of the district officer were revenue collection and the maintenance of law and order, which involved local political surveillance. At a conference of Commissioners held in Naini Tal on the eve of preparations for the 1937 elections, this contradiction between the statement of the rules and the intense political role of the district officer was palpable. In the minutes of that conference, held on 11 June 1936, the views of the Home Member were that: the less the District Magistrate does the better in his own interest as otherwise every party that secures power in the future will want to use the District Officer to keep them in power. But (1) the District Officer should express his views condemning the Congress, (2) He can help in reducing suicidal competition among anti-Congress candidates, (3) he should refrain from issuing letters.44 Agreeing, the Minister for Local Self-Government commented that ‘. . . if the local authorities were not going to help, the right type of men will not get elected . . . the District Officer must observe the rules, but should compose differences among zamindar candidates . . .’ The UP Governor expressed the contradiction perhaps most plainly of all:

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It was essential that the District Officers should not act in conflict with the Government Servants’ Conduct Rules and that they should retain an impartial attitude but they should stress the general attitude of Government towards Congress policy which would have a considerable effect in itself. Government servants cannot take part in organising public meetings but non-official activities in that direction could be encouraged.45 There were ambiguities here then for civil servants after 1947, who had served in a colonial system in which the district officer was in theory neutral, but in practice anti-Congress. Studies of the Indian state have suggested that this ‘colonial version of bureaucratic absolutism’ was not confronted with difficulties until the 1967 election and its aftermath,46 when party alternation began in earnest. But there were problems with the doctrine of ‘neutrality’ much earlier. Not only was the superstructure of the state machinery kept intact immediately after independence, but the same officers who had served under British district officers, were rapidly promoted en masse, as a manpower shortage was created with the departure of British and Muslim officers. These promotions took place in a civil service culture in which the rules of political engagement were dramatically tilted towards the governing regime. Both before and after independence, the mechanisms of authority were geared towards the surveillance and control of any kind of opposition to established political masters. David Potter has suggested in a general sense that this made the work of district officers difficult after independence.47 Yet, at the same time, the IAS at least wanted to preserve most of its old powers. The Administrative Reforms Commission, set up in 1965 and which started its work in 1967, revealed the extent to which IAS officers wanted to hold onto their privileges and elitist culture and to block reforms of the basic structure of administration.48 The position of the non-gazetted officers was perhaps even more ambivalent. Strict punishments were heaped upon Indian non-gazetted officers and policemen, for any public or recognisable association with the ‘wrong’ kind of party politics and (upto the interwar period) rewards could be granted to loyal officers at moments of anti-colonial resistance. The central and provincial government went to considerable lengths to ensure that the ‘wrong’ kinds of candidates were excluded from appointment at all levels of the civil service. During 1930–31 for example, at the height of the Civil Disobedience movement, district officers were instructed to prepare lists of students who would be unsuitable for government employment, and requested that each applicant should have a reference from an educationalist about whether or not he had Congress sympathies.49 As late as 1937–38, the Government of India was checking the political activities of applicants to the ICS and even excluding candidates who had taken part in student left-wing organisations.50 Rewards to officers also illustrated the shallowness of government servant rules right upto the period immediately preceding provincial autonomy. During Congress’s Civil Disobedience (1930–34), as during Non-Cooperation (1920–22) and the Great War, rewards were given for loyalty to the Raj which sometimes

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involved the distribution of titles and tracts of land.51 In 1932–33, there was some discussion in the UP Government about the continued application of this policy. Awards were granted on the understanding that the status acquired by special official recognition, even if it was just the presentation of a sanad (certificate of merit), would bring better career prospects in the services for such candidates. This was certainly the case, as Chapter 3 explored, for lower-level officers, who could use evidence of family loyalty to support claims for promotion. This was particularly important for petty officials such as tahsildars, naib tahsildars, supervisor kanungos and patwaris, who could not qualify for titles.52 Most importantly, there were some who felt that the sense of reward could more explicitly entail preferential treatment in promotions, in such a way that completely contradicted the stated official basis of government neutrality in relation to the Raj’s subjects. Around the time of Civil Disobedience, a powerful figure in the UP government suggested that: Government should be very generous in recommending for Indian titles persons who sometimes at great cost openly support them at this critical juncture . . . Titles still appeal to many people and given on a generous scale will have far more effect than mere assurances of Government’s sympathy . . . I have another suggestion to make, viz. that it should be made clear that persons who have loyally and openly stood by Government during this crisis will have preferential claims in respect of nominations to appointments for their near relations. [italics added]53 Compromising of the theoretical principle of civil servant neutrality therefore entailed an official acquiescence (at moments of crisis) in systems of nepotistic appointment. After independence, this process of punishment and reward was continued, albeit not overtly on the basis of ‘family loyalty’. But from the late 1940s, the definition of subversive activities among civil servants involved allegiance to the radical left, the Hindu right (shortly following the assassination of M.K. Gandhi and the subsequent banning of the RSS) and to Pakistan. The Ministry of Home Affairs between 1948 and the mid 1950s was preoccupied with the disciplining of government servants who had been involved with the Communist Party of India,54 the RSS55 and in a more complex way, as we will see later, with Pakistani and Muslim organisations felt to threaten state security.56 Government Servant Conduct Rule 5 (1) stipulated that no officer could take part in political activities or parties designed to ‘embarrass or subvert government’. In UP in 1949, this involved for example, The Communist Party of India, The All India People’s Theatre Association, The All India Progressive Writers Association, The Friends of the Soviet Union and the Jamiat I Islami.57 It was in this context that applicants to civil service posts, particularly at the nongazetted levels, sensed that political ‘neutrality’ was inconsistent. Participation in a political event, or political partisanship was officially defined as a problem of ‘misconduct’. But, as we have already seen, punishing authorities had to get around

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The bureaucracy, police and political change 149 pre-existing political contacts and patrons that certain cadres (particularly in areas like rationing and the police forces), mobilised for professional support and protection. As a result, serious cases of corruption and misconduct were commonly dealt with internally and departmentally, as a result of the inadequacy or failure of civil proceedings, and the over-burdened courts.58 As we saw in the last chapter, mechanisms for ‘anti-corruption’ worked through many different institutions and organisations, principally the SPE. Yet over the period of late 1949 to 1951, the SPE in UP was rarely able to investigate more than four cases per quarter.59 The government assumption that lower-level government officers and policemen were relatively prone to the temptations of misconduct also continued after independence, as a dynamic of ongoing class and status differences between different cadres.60 Certainly, the very complexity of bureaucratic procedures, especially around licences and rationing of goods, meant that higher-level officers often let their subordinates get on with the day-to-day management of large sums of money or valuable goods. Common in the 1940s and 1950s were departmental cases of embezzlement in which, after investigation, punishing authorities decided the cause of the loss could be put down to ‘poor supervision of subordinates’ in charge of cash registers. One complex case in the office of the SDO in Mohanlalganj in May 1947 was the result of trust placed by the SDO in a range of subordinates, whose complex networks of payments were never properly checked.61 And in this case, as in many others, officers protected themselves via local political patrons. In the UP PWD in 1950, a specific effort was made to prevent appeals by officers directly to MLAs who put pressure on government, in an attempt to protect their interests.62 But there was another factor at play here – one in which a Congress-led tradition of anti-state protest had, in the past, allowed government servants to take an active role in anti-colonial protests, by joining informal political movements. If government servants were now serving a state effectively appropriated by a party which claimed to be a harbinger of political freedom, and free political association, how legitimately could the state continue to restrict officers’ rights as citizens? Shortly after the inauguration of the constitution in 1950, debate revolved around the ways in which symbolic professions of political neutrality debarred government servants from all kinds of political activity, where that activity may have been of an indirect nature. For example, around the elections of 1951–52, the Government of India considered the question of whether a government servant could propose or second a candidate for an election. Government decided that this broke rule 23 (2) of the Government servant conduct rules. But this did not mean that it was not permissible in a general sense and there was a feeling that such a rule may infringe the fundamental rights of all citizens of India to freedom of speech and expression, as guaranteed by article 19 (1) (a) of the constitution. In the case of Raj Krushan Bose v Binod Kanungo and others (1954 SCR 913) and Dev Bushari v Padam Dev (1954 SCJ 764), the Supreme Court had decided that so far as election law was concerned, the subscribing of a nomination paper by a government servant as a proposer or seconder, or the appointment of a government servant as a polling agent, was as much permissible as in the case of any other person. However, the

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Court decided that this did not mean that he could do so within his own service rules. The proposing and seconding of a candidate could be seen as part of a larger ‘plan of help’ to candidates for election, which also brought into force section 123 (8) of the Representation of the People Act 1951. This forbade the obtaining or procuring of any assistance for the furtherance of election of any person serving under the Government of India or any state.63 A separation was therefore made between a government servant’s rights as a citizen and his or her obligations as a government servant. Yet, as we will see more later, those obligations, when it came to political processes such as elections, were entirely ambiguous and shaped by the circumstances of local power. These political balancing acts of bureaucrats and policemen were taking place against the background of other dramatic pressures. Independence had not only led to political change in terms of the inauguration of democratic conventions, but also a mass transfer of populations between India and Pakistan. As we have already seen, Muslims made up a significant proportion of certain cadres of the UP bureaucracy – particularly in the areas of policing, and revenue administration for much of the late colonial period. Most serious of all was the depletion of the upper levels of the civil service and police, which had to be rapidly filled in emergency recruitment in 1948. A powerful group of UPites who migrated to Pakistan were to become a key political and administrative elite in their new homeland. More than 60 per cent of India’s ICS officers were lost in 1947–48, and only ten out of around 103 Muslim ICS officers remained.64 Subsequently, a good proportion of initial migrants to Pakistan returned very quickly after their initial emigration from India. And many were entitled to reinstatement in their original posts.65 However, despite the letter of the law permitting their return to their old jobs, these men’s association with Pakistan meant they were subject to official surveillance, especially since they were re-entering government service. The evident mistrust of UP Muslims who had made this double journey could be seen in the numbers of files, parliamentary questions and appeals from political organisations to disallow their re-entry into government service. The Honorary Secretary of the Congress Central Relief Committee, Ghanashyam J. Shivdasani, wrote to Sardar Vallabhai Patel on 18 April 1950 that Is it not strange that such employees should have been allowed to continue to remain in service? Is it not clear from their action in having sent their families to Pakistan that their love and loyalty is for that country and that they are here in India with a view to exploit it for selfish gain and also to help Pakistan indirectly. Can one rely on the loyalty of these servants to the Indian Government or the Indian Nation?66 There were also a large number of Muslim government servants who had sent their families to Pakistan, and although the Government of India was not sympathetic to the wholesale discharge of all Muslims associated with the other state, it had ruled strictly in the cases of officers separated from their families. Instructions were sent out to Chief Ministers of all states by the Revenue Minister, Krishna Vallabh

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The bureaucracy, police and political change 151 Sahay, to ask Muslim employees who had sent their families to Pakistan, to bring them back within a month. In response to Shivdasani’s letter, the Establishments section of the government pointed out that ‘It will be seen from para 2 of our orders that it was due to this questionable loyalty of these Govt servants that the orders in question were issued.’67 As we have already seen in previous chapters, associations of Muslim officers with Pakistan shed a different light over the charge of ‘political intrigue’, and altered discussions of government servant corruption. In cases where police officers or civil servants had allegedly absconded to Pakistan, the charge of political disloyalty was particularly pronounced. Movement to Pakistan was commonly viewed by governments at the national and state levels as part of a project of displacement and property removal. Also, those Muslims apparently holding sympathies for Pakistan were considered to be a direct threat to the state in ways that other punished officers were not. This extra level of concern was illustrated in the embezzlement case in Gorakhpur Collectorate in 1950, in which the sum of Rs 12,669 was gradually accumulated by Nazrul Hasan, a Nazir in the Collectorate, before leaving for Pakistan. In response, the Revenue department made a point of listing the various ‘developmental’ schemes that the money could have been used for and pursued Hasan’s vacated property to make good the sum. Unfortunately, his house had been declared as ‘evacuee property’. But the Revenue department did not let it rest there either, and attempted to mobilise section 409 of the Indian Penal Code to get control of his house.68 Given official attitudes towards Pakistan and the category of the Muslim ‘intending migrant’, government sensitivity about officers’ potential ‘communal’ bias was enhanced in new ways. Many of the contemporary case studies of civil servant/policeman–politician interaction in studies of post-independence Indian politics revolved around the theme of the delicate political manoeuvres required in dealing with violent ‘communalism’ and the need to engage with elected politicians, who were ‘using’ such violence for direct political purposes.69 The government servant’s predicament of maintaining ‘political neutrality’, in a context in which he could be influenced by political leaders, was a problem that occurred for all cadres as we will see in section (iii) later. At the top, as B.K. Misra, another IAS officer who spent most of his career in UP put it, civil servants had to be ‘constantly on guard against impending changes in the ministry’. This was also clear from our interviews: M. Subramanyam, retired IAS officer posted to UP told the story of how in the late 1960s, he approached the UP Chief Minister for a transfer to Bhutan. He was told (over a whiskey) that since he had been granted this favour, he might be called upon to return the favour at a future date.70 B.K. Misra framed this in terms of his mid 1970s experiences, and loyalty demanded during the Emergency.71 From the bottom too, politicians were easily able to take advantage of the often extensive decision-making powers of development administrators (such as Block Development Officers or BDOs) as they emerged in the 1960s. Ashwini Kumar, who worked as a district officer in several districts in UP, described the formation of the National Extension Service Blocks, each of around 100 villages headed by the BDO. The gradual process in which BDOs became less

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interested in improvements than the farmers themselves was palpable to Kumar: by the year 1967, it was common knowledge that they ‘rarely stirred out of the Block HQ and the Gram Sewak [next level officer down in charge of about ten villages each] was seldom seen in the villages’. Instead they were mostly interested in basing themselves at the credit extending institutions, where there were rich pickings to be made in ‘processing’ loan applications. The reasons for this decline for Kumar were obvious: ‘The BDO, placed under the control and annual character roll entry of the periodically elected Block Pramukh, became a political tool’, through which the Pramukh (Officer in charge of a ‘Block’) maximised financial resources and local patronage. Kumar concluded, ‘The process of centralising authority, carving out empires and fiefdoms and making weak and ineffective the regular administrative machinery, devised by our colonial rulers and preserved by us all along, continues unabated.’72 From the point of view of government servants and policemen then, involvement in political activities was theoretically disallowed by a series of detailed rules and regulations of conduct. Colonial policy-makers in UP had asserted the principle of government servant ‘neutrality’, but the roles of bureaucrats went beyond simply ‘serving’ the government in power. Civil servants, particularly at the gazetted level, were expected to positively promote the interests of the colonial regime and to actively discourage anti-colonial activity. This situation had farreaching implications after independence, but not simply because the Congress system took over where the colonial had left off. More significant were the ways in which bureaucratic and police structures allowed specific local leaders to influence individual officers, particularly those at lower levels. Here, a central factor was the combination of outdated and unreformed procedures and hierarchies, against the rapidly changing array of public functions and projects directed by government servants. Local political leaders, as we will see later, were not only able to gain the political loyalty of certain government servants, but were also able to manage them for more direct projects of illegal gratification.

iii) Bureaucrats, politicians, elections and the UP Public in the 1950s and 1960s This book has so far argued that during times of rapid state transformation, questions surrounding government integrity became particularly sharp and urgent. In general, by the early 1950s, and especially around the time of the first general and state assembly elections, ‘corruption’ scandals mapped onto networks of district and state-level factional politics. Indeed, specific areas of official ‘misconduct’ – in the area of black-marketing and the use of permits, began from this period to be shaped by the shifting political landscape of UP, via considerations of political alliance, favour, disfavour and division. This section will take the 1951 elections as its case study to look at these networks. It will examine how discourses of ‘corruption’ played a role in the exercise of political competition and factionalism in UP, around the scandals surrounding black-marketing of goods, ‘casteism’ and ‘communalism’. Here, political rivalry helped to uncover webs of influence which

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The bureaucracy, police and political change 153 connected politicians to powerful business interests and to government servants. The factional politics of the District Congress Committees also related such accusations about integrity to election fraud and the use of marpit (violence). Finally, there were more general accusations of ‘corruption’ in how local politicians used the government machinery to ‘further their ends’, particularly through interference in litigation, or in the use of police forces. We will be looking at this specifically in three regions – western UP, in particular Meerut, Bulandshahr and Bijnor districts; central UP around the Lucknow, Kanpur and Hardoi districts and regions and finally, eastern UP in the Azamgarh area. Traditional political analyses of India have shown that the ‘one party dominance’ of the Congress over the Nehruvian period created complex factional networks within the main ‘party of moderate consensus’.73 Because the Congress was so politically dominant, factions within it often tended to work like opposition parties. Important in the Indian ‘system’, and something that sets it apart from other comparable states, was the existence of particular forms of patronage linking higher levels of political power down to the grass roots – which could revolve around, for example, caste and kin. Also somewhat unique to different localities of India, was the existence of link men between powerful district and state-level Congressmen and their constituents.74 The operation of this complicated political framework necessitated a balancing act between the maintenance of party discipline and the operation of an adversarial political system. The nature of Congress factions were however different to the working of opposition parties, since groups within an opposing faction in the Congress would be privy to more inside party information on their rivals. And at the same time, movement between the different factions was more fluid, with alliances shifting and changing relatively easily over time.75 This meant that direct attacks on the integrity of rivals were relatively low risk, since the opportunities for building new alliances were always evident. On the other hand, such alliances would not easily be built between the perpetrator of accusations and the accused, since the publication of doubts about a man’s integrity and honour were not quickly forgotten. There were also important resource implications here. The existence of a single party of consensus entailed factional leaders’ maintenance of a complex series of vertical and horizontal alliances. This meant that such leaders needed to find incentives for drawing link men, agents and political retainers into the system of alliances. Since the Congress was the dominant and legitimate party of consensus, it was relatively easy for those working in its political name to justify the control of a range of financial resources and incentives, in order to drive systems of patronage and control. A consideration in the control of resources was the building of relationships with formally ‘non-political’ government servants. It is important to stress the point of their ‘non- political’ activities being only formally set up here, as has been suggested in the previous section. Moreover, one of the main Congress critiques of colonialism was the charge that the ‘colonial’ bureaucracy had perpetuated a system of Oriental despotism. And this also came to form part of the discourse of anti-corruption, and was used by some leaders to accuse rivals of acquiescence in a colonial system of governance.

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Because accusations of ‘corruption’ had by the early 1950s become a weapon in the political arsenal of competing Congress factional leaders, the higher or broader the influence of a particular politician in UP, the greater the number and seriousness of the accusations brought up against him or her. Key to this process too, was the repeated accusation that such leaders’ networks of influence operated through the existing administrative machinery. Because the district-level administration and police had, in particular, been associated for a long time with a complex public discourse surrounding integrity and public morality, the apparent superimposition of factional politics upon this was convincing across the political spectrum. In fact, the more powerful local leaders had been expected by their followers to manipulate the administration. This was after all, a key dynamic of a colonial state structure, in which, as we have already seen, the issue of political neutrality among civil servants and policemen had been ambivalent for a very long time. This situation was particularly true of two key Congress figures in UP in the 1950s – Chandra Bhan Gupta and Chaudhuri Charan Singh. Charan Singh is the subject of an extensive political biography, and so will only be covered lightly here, but his connections to other leaders across the state are important.76 C.B. Gupta’s career was something of a departure from the older Congress nationalism of the likes of G.B. Pant, very much representing the newer approaches of the career politician, and less connected to the ethical principles of the freedom struggle. Gupta, born in 1905, was from a Bania family in Aligarh district, who participated in the Congress movements of the 1930s and 1940s and a Congress socialist who decided to remain within the Congress after the socialists’ separation. He was a protégé of G.B. Pant and an opponent of Rafi Ahmed Kidwai.77 Most importantly for our purposes, C.B. Gupta was Minister for Food and Civil Supply under the third Pant administration (1950–52), and in this capacity, linked to many of the scandals outlined in the last chapter. His base was in Lucknow and so his immediate political reach connected to figures in that district and those surrounding it, such as Hardoi and Kanpur. However, as a minister, his influence spread across the state. It was publicly acknowledged by the early 1950s that the problems of hoarding and black-marketing involved a complex web of bureaucratic and political connections, as Chapter 5’s section on Food Control showed. And the involvement of both politicians and bureaucrats in public discussions of black-market activity, certainly affected the procedure of candidate selection during the 1951–52 elections. In fact, as we will see later, the most common range of accusations of ‘corruption’ related to the issue of control of goods, the granting of licences and permits. The issue of black-marketing in goods had become such a common part of public life that newspapers were saturated with not only reports of covert operations to uncover the perpetrators, but also of the very open nature of the market itself. For example, in the Central Legislative Assembly on 7 April 1951, the Deputy Speaker stopped an adjournment to discuss the ‘open black-marketing’ in sugar, as moved by Shibbanlal Saxena. The latter focussed his attention on the problem in UP, maintaining that free sugar was being sold by Kanpur factories at Rs 60 per maund (37.32 kg) when the controlled price was Rs 32. In ruling

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The bureaucracy, police and political change 155 out the motion, the Deputy Speaker declared that ‘Black-marketing has become a day-to-day affair [loud laughter]. It is not, therefore, an urgent matter to be discussed through an adjournment motion.’78 If there was ever an example of the open acknowledgement and toleration of everyday corruption, involving all levels of political life then it was here. In discussing the ‘grow more food’ campaign, the central government even used evidence of high black-market prices in foodgrains to argue that the movement was not a failure, since the price differential of blackmarket rates compared to the controlled prices indicated that there was clearly great demand.79 Yet in most discussions in the UP Legislative Assembly, the onus of the problem was frequently linked to the control of wayward administrators and low-level bureaucrats. It was also, revealingly, related to the very working of Indian democracy itself, and the problems of ruling according to a popular mandate. If hoarding and the black market were ‘everyday’ affairs, then powerful business interests would aim to elect leaders who would protect their black-market profits. The Minister for Food and Civil Supply in the central government, K.M. Munshi, reported in the Assembly on 6 April 1951 that the problem in enforcing hoarding and black-marketing laws was down to the inability of state governments, based on a popular mandate, to implement such laws, and because of the corruption in the ‘administration’ of food and civil supply.80 The ‘openness’ of the black market, as suggested in Chapter 5, moulded public expectations about the relationship between supply bureaucrats and local politicians. In the same April 1951 debates in the central Legislative Assembly, Shibbanlal Saxena from UP criticised the policy of partial decontrol of sugar as a ‘criminal’ policy, which had created a ‘legalised black market’. Favouritism was being shown to certain mills, Saxena claimed, who were allowed to sell 80 per cent of their production in the open market while others were only allowed to sell 10 or 20 per cent.81 This kind of criticism reached from the centre down to district politicians and defined the cut and thrust of mutual recrimination between leaders. In a public meeting in Aminabad park, C.B. Gupta suggested that there was a correspondence between those making political capital out of anti-corruption and the beneficiaries of black-market activities: ‘The tragedy is that those who indulge in black-marketing in Aminabad during the day and encourage corruption, change their skin and start condemning black-marketing and corruption in the evening.’82 At a simultaneous People’s Congress meeting, Triloki Singh charged the government directly with ‘inefficiency and corruption’. He suggested, among other things, that the rich were at liberty to get larger rations. Most significantly, he went on to accuse ‘big Congressmen’ of being in alliance with the black-marketeers. He saw no reason, he said, why the Chief Minister shielded his corrupt party colleagues.83 Significant too in this contest was that most of the audience to the speeches would have been refugees, since Aminabad Park was a central area of initial refugee settlement in Lucknow.84 Because of the repeated public controversies involving food control, rationing, licences and black-marketing in the towns and markets of UP, it was relatively easy for C.B. Gupta’s rivals to make political capital out of his position. In the first two weeks of November 1951, Gupta was faced with a range of allegations

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of ‘corruption’ in his capacity as Food and Civil Supplies Minister in UP. These included a charge that he had been offered Rs 300,000 to arrange the decontrol of sugar and gur (jaggery); the ‘unfair’ distribution of quotas to fabricators who were ‘political sufferers’; the handing out of ration shops to supporters; the release of black-marketeers charged in Budaun, the granting of coal and fuel licences to Congress sympathisers, and the giving out of licences to friends and supporters. Gupta nicely summed up the political intricacies of Food and Supply in a defensive letter to Nehru: I can assert that I have seldom exercised my discretion in matters where powers of patronage could be used. It should be remembered that the number of licensees for various commodities in the Uttar Pradesh will be probably over two lakhs and the number of applicants who want this or that permit will run into several times that number. There must be hundreds of Congressmen who could be holding this or that permit but the accusers seem to have taken special pleasure in picking out a few Congressmen who are not associated with their group in the Congress, even though these persons have obtained their licenses [sic] through the normal channel.85 As we will see later, Gupta was right that there were many Congress leaders who faced accusations of permit distribution, although the charges levelled at Gupta were relatively very serious. We have already had the beginnings of an insight into how this worked from the side of food and supply bureaucrats in the last chapter. Clearly, as was the case with the chequered career of the K.B. Misra, ARO in Kanpur in 1951, who was constantly seen in Lucknow mobilising MLA support, officers needed to have powerful political patrons, to help in times of career crisis and public scandal.86 This was something which, in the early years, citizens’ organisations were often set up to combat. For example, a resolution urging the Banaras authorities to eradicate corruption from supply offices and asking local MLAs not to suppress cases of corruption was passed at a ‘meeting of residents’ on 4 January 1948.87 However, with the right kind of political support or cover, the bungling of procedures or rules became much easier, and the interjection of local power brokers allowed such misdemeanours to be overlooked by departmental enquiries. The specific accusations against C.B. Gupta came particularly to the surface around the selection of candidates for the 1951 state elections. The process of candidate selection was one of the most important points of connection between the state and district-level party organisations, since District Congress Committee (DCC) members would make recommendations to the State Parliamentary Board. The latter could either accept these recommendations, or could select its own candidates. The factional groups based in the DCCs then, had to engage patronage networks and leaders at a state level, in order to get their men selected.88 The AICC followed a practice whereby members of the party and unsuccessful candidates for selection could appeal against a decision, or make a representation against the nomination of a rival candidate. In this sense, the AICC acted as a kind of

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The bureaucracy, police and political change 157 arbitrator for disputes. This was a system which most Congressmen never fully accepted as ensuring fairness. Instead, wherever a decision went against a faction, this was put down to ‘corruption’ or ‘betrayal’. Also common were associations between such factional quarrels and administrative structures. The associations between west, central and eastern UP Congressmen around ‘corruption’ scandals revealed the extent to which the networks of ‘influence’ connected district with state in their political retinues. What follows are descriptions of corruption allegations from files of complaints on individual Congressmen, contained within the AICC papers themselves. In many cases, these accusations were probably exaggerated or fabricated, but the issue of veracity is not the only point of enquiry here. In fact, in most cases, it is impossible to categorically prove whether or not certain allegations were either fully or partially based in truth, or entirely false. The very existence of the accusations suggested that allegations of corruption had, by the early 1950s become a means of building up political capital by tarnishing the reputation of rivals. In the case of C.B. Gupta, the complications surrounding candidate selection was brought into stark relief in a ten-page representation sent in by a political opponent, Balkrishna Sharma, making detailed and extensive accusations of his misuse of official position. One of the central scandals involved the alleged freezing of rice stock (in which merchants were allowed to continue to trade after agreeing to make a payment) and the freeing up of gur trade outside the state (against government orders), for large ‘considerations’.89 In the latter deal, Hoshiar Singh, General Secretary of the Meerut DCC was described as the ‘link’ man between Gupta and Charan Singh and the merchants, in which over Rs 300,000 allegedly changed hands. These corrupt transactions were then allegedly used to build systems of wider political patronage. This took place via alleged links between Gupta’s ministerial authority, through Food and Civil Supply administrators and other Congress clients in different parts of Gupta’s sphere of influence. Balkrishna Sharma accused Gupta of distributing licences and permits to favoured men, which he could allegedly ‘do with impunity, because as Minister of Civil Supplies he had the opportunity as well as the means for corrupting Congress workers of the province on as large scale as he might deem necessary.’90 Sharma went on to list 21 separate instances of such deals across UP, involving the illegal distribution of Gupta’s patronage: members of the Lucknow City Congress Committee were allegedly ‘bought’ by the distribution of permits – for example, G. Patel, Secretary of the Lucknow Congress Committee was granted an iron and steel quota for box-making factories, even though he had no such factory. The same favour was allegedly shown to the Treasurer of the City Congress Committee, Kishori Lal Agarwal, although after he was investigated, the grant was changed to one of mill cloth, arranged via one of Gupta’s Kanpur agents and allies Ram Ratan Gupta (who will be discussed again later in this chapter). A host of other members of the Lucknow City Congress Committee were granted similar quotas, including the Vice President and Secretary. When one member of the committee was caught selling grain on the black market, the case against him was, according to Sharma, withdrawn under the influence of Gupta.91 Such activity, Sharma claimed, meant that C.B. Gupta

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had to be on top of the process of bureaucratic transfers, to ensure that all civil servants in posts responsible for the distribution of permits were amenable to the granting of quotas to favourites. In Budaun in April 1951 the City Magistrate and other officials were, according to Sharma’s testimony, telegraphically transferred because they insisted on prosecuting three yarn black-marketeers of the district. The accused marketeers had to be released from detention on account of ministerial pressure brought about by local Congress office-holders who themselves were thought to be involved as partners in the deal.92 When it came to the maintenance of political support networks, because so much was at stake in the distribution of patronage, refusal to be won over, despite inducements or favours could have consequences, it seemed, for a local leader who fell under the purview of a powerful district/state level leader. This appeared to be the case for one S.N. Bose, a bench magistrate and returning officer during the DCC elections in Lucknow in 1950. Having revealed a host of irregularities in connection with the Gupta clique (the official Congress group in the district) in one of the elections, Bose had declared a seat unanimously elected. Signatures had been forged, electors had been disqualified from voting for not wearing khadi, and voter list inflation.93 In the end, the election was re-held. Appealing to the UPPCC President, P.D. Tandon evidently did not have any kind of effect in a previous case in which Bose had attempted to expose Gupta, and he had been promptly transferred. However, B.D. Sanwal who was at that time Lucknow City magistrate, had contacted Bose in the first ‘run in’ Bose had had with Gupta in 1946, reiterating the faith he had in him as a ‘man of integrity.’94 In an interview with B.D. Sanwal in 2005, the retired civil servant made a point of his pride in standing up for what he described as the ‘good administrators’, who had worked with ‘integrity’.95 Gupta’s networks also reached to the east as well as the west of the state, with connections to a leader we will look at in a little more detail later, Algu Rai Shastri. Here, we can see the ways in which ministers were able to directly influence the course of prosecutions, when one of their contacts was in the dock. The main scandal associated with Gupta’s name was the alleged granting of licences to Ram Gopal Khandelwal and Radhey Raman Agarwal of Azamgarh district in eastern UP. The complaints from Balkrishna Sharma here, however, related to the extent to which ministers were able to directly influence police investigations and prosecutions. In this case, the prosecution of Khandelwal was completely dropped because, Sharma alleged, he was in the pocket of Gupta. Indeed, the latter had defended Khandelwal from accusations on the floor of the Legislative Assembly, claiming that the case against him was a weak one. Nevertheless, one of Khandelwal’s associates was convicted and sentenced to six months – a result, Sharma claimed, which knocked the bottom out of Gupta’s claims that the case was weak.96 Gupta and his agents were also adept in managing the press at critical moments, as was the case with powerful bureaucrats apparently implicated in the permits scandals over the late 1940s and early 1950s. One of the key financial-backers of the Gupta group, who also had political links to Algu Rai Shastri in eastern UP, was Ram Ratan Gupta – a powerful businessman of Kanpur, who in 1951, stood

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The bureaucracy, police and political change 159 for the Hardoi (north) seat in the State Legislative Assembly elections. Ram Ratan Gupta was from a Bania family of Kanpur cloth dealers, and built up an industrial empire in the city over the 1930s and 1940s. Over much of that period, he sponsored organisations of the Hindu right, but came to the Congress as a means of opposing the influence of Shiv Narain Tandon (who had allegedly championed a strike in one of his mills) in the City Congress Committee.97 From the early 1950s, as we will see, Ram Ratan Gupta was the subject of a range of accusations and counter accusations, many of which passed through the press. These involved associations with the Hindu right and large-scale promotion of black-marketing.98 In November 1951, two articles appeared in The Pioneer and The Hindustan Times, which detailed the apparently fruitless searches of Ram Ratan’s Gupta’s premises for evidence of black-market activity. Clearly, some sympathetic journalism had allowed those exposed to scandals to put a lid on them for a time, as The Pioneer put it: Registering of bogus reports with the police and the enforcement staff against prospective Congress candidates, despatch of telegrams to the Central El. Committee under fictitious names and trunk calls to convey ‘history sheets’ are the highlights of the game of mud-slinging that seem to have gained momentum at Kanpur.99 A different candidate in another Hardoi constituency was not so able to avoid more thoroughgoing accusations of interference with the local administration for his own benefit. In this case, Cheda Lal Gupta, the incumbent MLA for Shahabad (Hardoi east), was the subject of a file of complaints that came into the AICC in early 1951. Key in this leader’s alleged manipulation of the administration (in particular the police and courts), were long-standing accusations that he had been instrumental in allowing bundles of foreign cloth to be sold during Civil Disobedience in 1930. In general though, it was clear that his apparent attempts to influence civil servants and policemen had taken place in a public way. He had allegedly acquired businesses in almost all of the controlled commodities in the name of his nephew, Shirish Chandra Agarwal, because being an MLA, he exercised considerable influence on the District Magistrate. Other allegations included his use of undue pressure on local zamindars to secure cultivable land free of cost, his interference in the day-to-day administration of the district and in the administration of justice in which he allegedly wrote letters to presiding officers of the courts. He was also allegedly ‘in the habit’ of receiving and calling police subinspectors at his residence and he misused his influence and position by forcing them to ‘do wrong acts’.100 The ability to control judicial officers and enforcing officers in the areas of controlled commodities allowed Cheda Lal to carry on his activities with impunity. In the year 1946, the Deputy Commissioner of Hardoi had apparently caught one of Cheda Lal Gupta’s agents M/s Chandra Sen Duli Chand (who had, under pressure of the MLA, been previously appointed as purchasing agents in the district for grain), red-handed in the adulteration of kerosene oil with diesel oil. But through the influence of Cheda Lal Gupta, they escaped

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prosecution. Instead, the detection of the crime resulted in the dismissal of the Assistant District Supply Officer (ADSO), Hardoi.101 More direct evidence of interference by Cheda Lal was sent by a member of the Hardoi DCC from an opposing faction. Here, the details of a court decision were sent with the complaint. Cheda Lal wrote a letter to the Sub Divisional Magistrate (SDM) Sandila (Hardoi) in connection with a case in which the SDM had already written and announced the judgement. The SDM, on receipt of the letter reopened the case and changed the judgement. The complaint of this DCC member went on to suggest that he had received 300 acres of land from different vested interests in the district in return for giving them favours from the local authorities.102 Another powerful figure, who, like Ram Ratan Gupta, was linked from the 1930s with activities of Hindu nationalist organisations was Algu Rai Shastri – General Secretary of the UPCC in the early 1950s, and a key Congress leader in Azamgarh district.103 In the 1930s, Shastri had encouraged close links between the Congress in UP and the Arya Samaj and this was later reflected in his backing of P.D. Tandon in his struggle against Nehru as Congress President. Because of Shastri’s connections to the UPCC, and despite his initial difficulties in dominating the Azamgarh DCC in the late 1940s and early 1950s, he was able to get himself elected. In a similar vein to the complaints against the Hardoi leaders, Shastri’s opponents made specific points about how he had used his political influence to control and guide bureaucrats. He was described as a close associate, friend and supporter of ‘the well known black marketers of the district – Ram Gopal Khandelwal, Seth Sagar mall and others’. Here, Shastri’s initiative in helping Khandelwal was brought up again. He was described as ‘a terror to district officials . . . Those who could not dance to his tune have been transferred’ and the complainants named one Rajeshwari Prasad Mathur, District Magistrate of Azamgarh in 1948–49.104 Finally, he was allegedly unscrupulous in employing district officials to do things which would maintain his power. Dwarka Prasad Mishra, the Deputy SP for example was, the complainants urged, used by him to influence members of the DCC or to harass them as it suited him.105 Once again, it is impossible to ascertain whether any of these accusations were entirely based in truth and no other evidence exists to test their veracity. But it was clear that Shastri had made a number of political enemies willing to use the taint of specific forms of corruption to question his integrity. But perhaps the most developed networks of these kinds appeared around western UP. The two key leaders in this respect, both with state-level political power and office, were Chowdhury Charan Singh and Govind Sahai, whose roots were Meerut and Bijnor districts respectively. Paul Brass has suggested that Charan Singh’s career was punctuated by sincere attempts to combat what he saw as the increasing criminalisation and ‘corruption’ of political life.106 However, this did not mean that he was able to escape the vicissitudes of political rivalry, as Brass himself amply demonstrates. In fact, his very attempts to present a front of ‘anticorruption’ exposed him even more to charges from rivals. Most importantly, these accusations, as was often the case in other districts, were linked to the frameworks of factional politics. We have already seen how, in his ministerial position, Charan

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The bureaucracy, police and political change 161 Singh was connected to C.B. Gupta (although, by the late 1950s, they became rivals),107 in relation to the allegations about black-marketing and the fixing of quotas and contracts for favoured agents. However, the more in-depth accusations revolved around detailed political corruption in the affairs of the Meerut DCC. These accusations, which were for the most part eventually proven to be false and malicious, ranged from attempts to misuse DCC funds, to violence on the part of his relatives, and the putting of placemen and favourites in DCC staff positions. Another recurrent theme of accusations against Charan Singh within Meerut itself, again largely unfounded and repeatedly refuted with evidence by Charan Singh, were claims that he only favoured Jats, and that he was aiming for the establishment of ‘Jatistan’. More specific were accusations that he used his influence with the Chief Minister in the courts, to help members of his family to appropriate land in the district, through the control of low-level revenue officers.108 The accusations of caste bias levelled against Charan Singh, as a form of corruption was not specific of course to Meerut but spread out to other districts. In Bulandshahr district too, where Ch. Mohan Singh stood for the north east constituency, complaints came into the AICC about how he aimed to create ‘Jatistan’. The accusations were given stylistic weight suggestions of communalism as well as casteism: Mohan Singh allegedly wanted the expulsion of all Muslims from the Bulandshahr region and was involved in the Garmukhtesar massacres in 1947. And the icing on the cake of these accusations was the smear of past loyalty to the Raj: Mohan Singh had apparently not been arrested in August 1942, because he had supplied a large number of recruits for the army.109 Perhaps the most direct complaints and allegations related to Govind Sahai in his selection for the Bijnor North constituency in 1951. Sahai was a resident of village Gajrola, in district Bijnor, and came from a relatively prosperous, but by no means wealthy kisan (farmer) family. He became a parliamentary secretary in 1947, and later became General Secretary of the UP Congress Committee (see in detail later). One of his enemies – S.K. Sharma, the General Secretary of the DCC – claimed that Sahai had, before his election to the assembly, managed to live on an income of Rs 50, and was ‘dependent on the bounty of friends’. Now, according to Sharma, he was running two farms, had purchased two cars and ‘spent money extravagantly’. This accretion of wealth was then allegedly used to generate greater fortunes through the control of traders and businessmen by distributing molasses permits. The questionable morality of Sahai was also pointed out by Sharma with the claim that he had ruthlessly ejected his tenants.110 In defence against the accusations of involvement in black-market deals and the molasses scandal, Sahai wrote to Naidu on 6 November 1951 that I have had nothing to do with the civil supplies department at any time . . . This department has been under the charge of Hon’ble C B Gupta, whose politics, I have been opposed to. I am not inclined to believe that Syt C B Gupta would have spared me, had there been any such thing against me. Where he had been involved in the allotment of molasses, it had, he claimed, only been done to the benefit of ‘needy refugees’.111

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However, from other quarters, the allegations about Sahai’s involvement in black-marketing in Bijnor were more specific and involved reference to his abuse of position as parliamentary secretary and his ability, in that role, to influence individual administrators. His alleged influence in the granting of grain and molasses permits was linked to a specific company – M/s Radhey Lal and Pearey Lal of Dhampur, Bijnor. During the period of four years in which the permits were given, this company allegedly made unusually large profits, despite both partners being arrested for black-marketing and detained for several months. Sahai also allegedly secured trade permits for a range of others in his political retinue, and ‘got electricity connections through his official pressure’, as well as heavy iron permits for one businessman of Chandausi. The accusations included a claim that he managed to obtain a permit for paddy for M/s Om Parkash of Bijnor, of about 2,000 maunds which was sold in the black market, with Om Prakash being subsequently arrested: ‘Govind Sahai Ji tried his level best to bear his official pressure with a view to hush up the case by the case [sic] was convicted.’ More directly, the complainants stated that Shri Govind Sahai ji while Parliamentary Secretary interfered in day to day local administration. Besides so many cases, one scandal case is of his writing directly to the DM to suspend the patwari of his village under signature as a Parliamentary Secretary. The Commissioner took exception to this procedure and reinstated the patwari.112 As we will see more later, these accusations followed Govind Sahai through his career into the mid 1960s, and were elaborated in more detail in a range of other corruption scandals which appeared in the UP press. Leading up to the next General Elections in 1957, the AICC kept a file on complaints against Congress MLAs and MPs from UP, and again, similar accusations and complaints surfaced. But this time, the focus was on the use of undue influence within a position of power, rather than simply as a means to gain political support and authority in the lead up to elections. Apparent in this long list of complaints (which of all the MPs and MLAs in UP runs to 51 individual representations), is how accusations now involved more serious allegations of political conspiracy and even murder. Such alleged violence appeared to be particularly pronounced among the western UP politicians: Khub Singh, one of the MLAs for Bijnor, allegedly had a hand in the murder of his political opponent, and there were also complaints against him for the abduction of a village girl for marriage to his brother-in-law. Accusations were made against Siv Swarup Singh, MLA in Moradabad, who was allegedly involved in the murder of Malkhan Singh, a Congress member of the District Board. Similar complaints were made against one of the MLAs from Aligarh. Alongside these dramatic representations, were the usual ubiquitous complaints about casteism and the manipulation of permits and black-marketing. The MLA for Bareilly, Nawal Kishon of Bareilly was accused of involvement in the black market in opium, Mukund Lal Agarwal in large-scale coal black-marketing and permit scams and Ramdasji Arya, MLA of Muzzafarnagar allegedly took bribes for the granting of permits for bricks.113

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The bureaucracy, police and political change 163 By the mid 1960s, the power that MLAs and ministers wielded meant that recourse to legal remedies to overcome the use of undue influence by politicians became very difficult. The private papers of Sucheta Kripalani provide a fascinating and varied insight into the processes whereby politicians protected their interests and those of their family, using the machinery of the local administration. A range of serious accusations and scandals for example, surrounded the Law Minister in the UP administration in the early to mid 1960s – Syed Ali Zaheer. Before independence, Zaheer had been a rival of Chaudhuri Khaliquzzaman in Lucknow politics – a contest which had underpinned Shia– Sunni conflict in the last years of British rule. Zaheer had then become Law Minister in Nehru’s first cabinet at the centre and had previously acted as India’s ambassador to Iran. These high flying national positions did not allow him to escape, however, the routine ‘corruption’ scandals at local levels. Some of these were large affairs made out of relatively very minor misdemeanours. In an Encroachment issue in Lucknow between 1964–65, the Sadachar Samiti forwarded a complaint sent to them by Dr A.J. Faridi, Member of the Legislative Council (MLC), to the UP government, which alleged that Sri Ali Zaheer had encroached upon public land. On 19 January 1965, a prominent two-column article in The Pioneer described how the mayor of Lucknow was afraid of Zaheer and was unable to summon the courage to prosecute him, since as Minister of Law he had influence with the judiciary.114 However, this affair was complicated by the fact that Zaheer was part of a dissident group within the cabinet, with each side using controversies such as these to further their position. Around the point when this scandal was reaching a head, Zaheer wrote to Kripalani suggesting that she was trying to defame him.115 Around the same time a spate of charges followed another man in a position to influence local bureaucratic control of development funds – the UP Irrigation Minister – Chaudhuri Girdhari Lal. The minister had allegedly acquired land by misusing his official position, and in the accusations, additional charges of caste prejudice were included. The land in question, approximating an area of 139 acres, was not recorded in the minister’s name, but in that of his nephew – Madan Lal Sahayak. But Kripalani’s note on the affair suggested that I am quite sure that the complainant has brought about these charges just before the election simply to malign him, as he is an old feudal antagonist and bears personal as well as class enmity towards a humble Scheduled Caste Congressman.116 Lal himself argued that the complainant, who had tried to get similar complaints published against him in the newspapers, ‘still considers himself a zamindar and does not want to see people flourishing in an area which in the past he virtually ruled.’ More pertinently, the complainant had previously only paid Rs 540 canal dues, but under Kripalani’s administration this had been changed to Rs 3,000 (a transformation which no doubt also owed something to personal rivalry with the Irrigation Minister).117 However, the minister himself had been able to take advantage of a loophole in the Zamindar Abolition Act, in which a period of time up to

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May 1951 had allowed for transfers of land. It was also suggested that in settling a separate loan application for Rs 10,000, the Irrigation Minister set an ‘All-India Record’.118 But perhaps the greatest scandal involving land occupation by leading UP politicians was connected to a former minister and General Secretary of the UP Provincial Congress Committee already introduced for the early 1950s period – Govind Sahai. The ex-minister had acquired valuable tracts of land and allegedly misused his position, influence and power to develop the land at the cost of ‘other common people of the area’. His son was also alleged to have embezzled money in the local cooperative banks as its Director. In addition were the allegations of his ‘high handedness’, such as his ambiguous involvement in the murder of a local forest official and the murder of a fakir and his wife. Sahai only admitted to holding 200 acres of land, but documents clearly indicated that the size of his farm was 600 acres. It was also established that a state tubewell was installed for his farm through his vigorous effort and influence, and against departmental findings, but that despite this victory, the tubewell had to be abandoned thereby causing waste of public funds.119 Sahai’s hereditary landed assets certainly appeared to have mushroomed too after independence, despite zamindari abolition. In 1947, he owned about 22 bighas (roughly seven acres) of agricultural land and an ancestral house. In 1950, he took on lease about 700–800 bighas of forest land for agricultural purposes from the nearby Kashipur estate. His son, Kranti Kumar, managed a cooperative farm, which also appeared to be a family- run exercise, as the partners in this cooperative farm were all friends and relatives. The original farm of 700–800 bighas at Ganga Ram Wala was then extended by another 200–300 bighas, by ‘encroaching’ upon the adjoining forest land. Some minor attempts were made by the Forest Department to fix boundary pillars to demarcate the forest, but allegedly the threatening manner of one of Sahai’s henchmen made the job impossible. As in the case of bureaucrats under scrutiny, a common pattern in the building of accusations against politicians, involved the gathering of information about an individual’s private affairs and assets. The complaint of Tukman Singh Chowdhry to Kripalani listed Sahai’s other assets which included a tubewell worth Rs 8–10,000; a share in another tubewell in the village, worth around Rs 5,000; improvements to his ancestral home amounting to a value of around Rs 8,000; a car worth Rs 8,000 and a jeep valued at Rs 5,000. Sahai also maintained three establishments, one at Lucknow, one at Gajrola and one at Ganga Ram Wala. He was reported to have spent a sum of Rs 10,000 on the education of his first daughter and her wedding.120 Most revealing of all though, were the alleged connections between one of Sahai’s men, Kranti Kumar and the criminal underworld. The complaint against Sahai gave details of the criminal gangs used by the ex-minister in helping to protect his rights and properties: The Ganga Ram Wala farm of Sri Kranti Kumar is reported to be an abode of bad characters. It is said that history-sheeters and dacoits get shelter there on payment of share money to Kranti Kumar. One Mushtaq of Bijnor and Inayat

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of Barhapur were reported to be the main lieutenants of Kranti Kumar. The bad characters, under the influence of Kranti Kumar, exercise a reign of terror over the persons who do not see eye to eye with Sri Govind Sahai, politically or otherwise.121 As in the case of illicit deals on the black market, ministers and party political figures did not tend to do much of the dirty work themselves, but fostered connections with groups who could wield muscle power for them. Civil servants and policemen, in many cases, also fulfilled this role as agents for political leaders, and would act in a routine manner with reference to those leaders. This was particularly the case, when individual officers may have been recruited as a result of the largesse of a minister or other political figures. Our interview with a retired member of the CBI, elaborated on the processes in which policemen were now prone to only act after making a call to their political mentor.122 But beyond the systematic political influence on local administrations, affecting routine work, scandals surrounding elected leaders transformed public discourses about illegal gratification. In many of the cases cited earlier, the extent to which ministers and factional leaders really were engaged deeply in schemes for private profit or the distribution of patronage is very hard to judge. Direct evidence, beyond rivals’ complaints is rarely available. However, the very issue of ‘corruption’ and ‘anti-corruption’, usually configured around the ‘black market’, ‘licences and permits’, marpit (violence) and ‘intrigue’, became a form of political practice itself in terms of how it was used in public denunciations. It became common practice, in competing as a candidate (or backing another candidate) for a particular constituency, to tar opponents with these accusations. Importantly, they related to personal morality, notions of loyalty to the state, the idea of wastage and theft in the context of poverty and development, and communal bias. The political economy of the everyday state was punctuated by a much less clear set of ‘state’ driven objectives in terms of development and welfare then, than general accounts of Nehruvian India would suggest. And this situation was muddied by constant political rivalry, patronage of civil servants and police, and allegations about the siphoning off of public money.

Conclusion Most of the interviewees for this research who had been recruited into the civil services or police in the 1950s and 1960s, tended to look back on the early part of their careers as a time of relative integrity – one which had not been affected by what they saw in the 1980s as the criminalisation of politics and increase in ‘casteism’. However, this view is not borne out by the archival material or the newspapers: the systematic nexuses between politicians and administrators/policemen were already developing by the first general elections. And this was supported by the interviews with a younger generation of administrators: a meeting we had with the District Magistrates of Hardoi and Sitapur in the UP State Archives in the early part of 2008 threw an interesting light on the voices of retired officers. When the

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two officers entered the reading room, the subordinate staff of the archive buzzed around them in a deferential manner. As we talked, one of the men glanced over some files being consulted on policing misdemeanours from the late 1940s. The two officers, smiling and laughing together, insisted that the tendency of their predecessors was to view ‘decline’ towards the end of their careers. In fact, what they saw in the papers for the 1940s and 1950s was very similar to their own experiences. The difference now, one of them stated, was that officers were beginning to be obliged to pass on much more information to the general public, as a result of the Right to Information legislation. At every level and for every generation, there was a sense within the civil service and police that ‘integrity’ and the working of administration on the basis of rules was a desirable thing in itself. And there was also a very common suspicion about the ‘criminalisation’ of political life, in which the work of an ostensibly neutral and independent administrator was hindered by political inducements and punishments. To some extent, and particularly for the older generation, this defensiveness was produced by the transformations from a colonial, autocratic system of administration, in which officers really were ‘political administrators’ to one in which the exercise of their power had been diverted or appropriated. In this process, the disjuncture between the overarching ideals of government servant neutrality and the realities of political engagement were crucial. The late colonial and early independent UP governments publicly espoused the notion of government ‘service’ – a form of administration which had to be neutral, because its primary aim was to systematically administer. But the extent to which the ‘service’ primarily revolved around the state itself, or the general public was never clear. On the one hand, if these servants were serving a state, their interests and motivations were skewed by popular understandings of what the state actually was: in a period of rapid political change, displacement and violence, the actual quotidian powers of the state at an everyday level could be, and were dispersed. On the other hand, if these men (and increasingly women) were serving the public as citizens, the definitions of citizens and citizens’ rights was also problematic in a period where new kinds of political loyalty were demanded. The category of ‘refugee’ suggested a liminal space between citizen, denizen and unwanted alien, as did the category of Muslim ‘intending migrant’. The assertion of rights as a citizen was most easily achieved, as time went on, through contact with a local political leader, rather than through recourse to universally defined rules of governance and justice. What does seem to have developed over the mid-century period, was the inescapable importance for civil servants of engagement with political patrons. Just as UP’s subject/citizens increasingly turned to political leaders to ‘get things done’, so too did civil servants need to engage with these men and women, if only for the sake of their careers.

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Conclusion

At the root of Indian democracy and the idea of India itself, lies a tension between national promises of freedom, social justice, development and prosperity, and the very different, often brutal quotidian realities of everyday life. One scholar of post- independent India has represented this dichotomy in terms of the coexistence of two Indias: on the one side are the modernising visions of the Indian state, represented in concrete terms in its capital projects, and in popular terms, by the success of its participatory democracy. On the other side is the continued or even increasing pertinence (particularly in state-level and district-level politics) of caste and religious communities, illustrated in the political struggles between the Bahujan Samaj Party (BSP) and Samajwadi party in Uttar Pradesh and the ongoing prominence of parties of the Hindu right.1 Also highly pertinent to this tension or dichotomy, are public ideas about ‘corruption’. Nearly all of the interviewees for this book brought up the subject of ‘corruption’ in our conversations, with no prompting. Any discussion of Indian governance it seemed to them, could not ignore the subject: it was integral to India’s shift from foreign colonial power to political freedom. There was a common thread running through all discussions of the subject: things ought to have been different. Among higher-level civil service and policemen, this was often expressed in terms of incomplete or skewed ‘modernisation’, in which official promises could not be fulfilled, and public irresponsibility thwarted the fair distribution of the few resources available. For one interviewee, India was a place in which everyone had an electrical connection, but there was no power; a place also where, since men and women were ‘not prepared for democracy’, democracy could do little for them; a place where the public were more aware of their rights than their duties.2 For other interviewees, the problem was largely about the implementation of the ‘rule of law’. This was expressed in terms of the problems of a state that was unable to effectively enforce its laws. For one retired policeman, instead of having a healthy respect for laws and truths, the average Indian citizen had a healthy contempt for laws and truths.3 Another argued that the attitude of the public had changed over his period of service since the 1950s, and that now people believed that law could be broken with impunity. In the event of an accident on the road, the ex-policeman suggested, witnesses would start beating the person responsible. Even then, he went on, the police or government would rarely take action against

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the people responsible. Delay in the judicial system, the lack of efficiency therein and perhaps most importantly, political help, meant that ‘crimes’ could be transformed into ‘political’ acts. As a result, people increasingly felt that they were deprived of justice and this in turn lead to anarchy.4 For many of these men, there often seemed to be something inherently ‘corrupt’ about Indian society. For many of our non-official interviewees too, particularly those working for anti-corruption organisations, there was a strong sense that ‘corruption’ had an almost ubiquitous place in Indian politics, particularly at an everyday level. For one volunteer of a NGO fighting against local corruption, there was a strong societal basis to government corruption, even though most of his organisation’s energies were geared towards exposure of links between local officials and district mafia. The situation was more complex: in our generation it’s a done thing to take bribes and to give the same . . . It is tough to undo this. This is something that has been going for a long time . . . from the British period. Even he who does not ask for a bribe is given one. This is how the legal system works.5 For another interviewee working for the same organisation, this interaction between the public and officials was symptomatic of a wider moral malaise, which involved notions of self-respect. It was crucially important he felt, that the illicit manufacture of liquor had financed organised systems of payment to local police in a local corruption scandal in Hardoi district, and that as the trade was assisting the local mafia, so too was it morally corrupting the people themselves.6 This book has argued throughout that the very conditions of colonial governance and the bureaucratic ideals surrounding them in the transition to independence, were at the roots of this discourse about the social ubiquity of ‘corruption’, which then materially affected how state agents interacted with social interest groups. As the earlier informants suggested, when it came to assessing the culpability for any particular acts of ‘corruption’, it was difficult to choose between the proverbial briber and the bribe-taker. In this connection, and as this book has also suggested, it is very difficult to conceptually separate ‘state’ and ‘society’. And the fuzziness of the boundary between the two ideas is particularly well-illustrated through the phenomenon of ‘corruption’ – as both a discourse and a practice. It is here that the overlapping indices of state and society are constituted. And it is through the very breaking of expected rules and laws that the public and the everyday state reflect back upon one another. The brief views on corruption in India cited earlier, also suggest that a common perception of this ‘problem’ engages notions of private and public morality, and responsibility. Chapter 2 looked at the background to these formulations of public morality in the late colonial and early independent UP civil services. It argued that there were powerful social dynamics at work in the bureaucracy and police, informed by official ideas of racial difference, which created the framework for common assumptions about government servant ‘corruption’. These survived through our period, although they were affected by the changing contexts outlined above. The entire raison d’etre of the ICS and IAS was

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Conclusion 169 that such cadres would naturally act with ‘integrity’, often by virtue of the families and traditions from which they originated. In these representations of the ‘heavenborn’ administrators, social distinction and the behaviours that went with it, were a characteristic of ‘good family’, and could be inherited and passed between men of ‘loyal’ and ‘respectable’ backgrounds. By contrast, in the eyes of colonial officialdom, lower cadres, recruited locally and via the social institutions against which the purity of the ICS/IAS was juxtaposed, might bring for these men alternative forms of income or influence. These civil servants and policemen – the lower and middle-level revenue officers of lekhpal, naib tahsildar or kanungo for example – lived and worked in a different official world. Whereas ICS/IAS professional conduct formed part of a national project, the political world of the PCS officer or subordinate bureaucrat was the tahsil, district and at its widest, in the province/state. For these men, evidence of low social standing could be set up as an explanation for dubious public morality in the eyes of the state. But at the same time, their local knowledge was a crucial aspect of colonial (and to a different extent) postcolonial state control. The public’s awareness of this hierarchical difference in government had a cumulative effect on the workings of some departments, since the maintenance of systematic illegal gratification depended upon an array of transactions between public and official. This was made particularly evident in civil service and police recruitment, whereby official anticipation of the different public moralities surrounding lowerlevel officials were reflected in formal recognition of particularistic community rights. Chapter 3 explored the significance of the late colonial politics of community and caste in recruitment policy. The lower-level revenue administrator and policeman (the two essential arms of the local state), were required to directly navigate the complex world of local politics. That endeavour often involved caste and religious community issues, and so recruiters felt it necessary to take community into account. By the late 1930s too, long-standing bureaucratic ethnographies informed the calculations of Indian political parties, aiming to control local administrations. Added to this was a high-level official assumption (which also survived after 1947), that middle and lower-level administrators would be more likely swayed by caste and communal considerations than the ICS/IAS. But there was perhaps an even more important shift here from the perspective of officialdom, between the 1930s and 1960s. In the earlier period, the idea of ‘communal balances’ as a form of social justice was little more than an official rhetoric, below which raison d’etat reigned supreme. The smooth collection of revenue and the maintenance of law and order sometimes required the calculation of caste and community interests. From the late 1940s, the principle of social justice was taken more seriously inside government. Yet the low-caste lobbying organisations, which had for a long time based their claims on the principle that social injustice was created by caste prejudice, put pressure on government in relatively consistent ways from the 1930s to the 1950s. They continued to critique the basic assumptions of official ethnographies which privileged the innate behavioural characteristics of different communities and their preparedness for the ‘responsibilities’ of govern-

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ment service. The system of caste reservations that emerged after Indian independence was an attempt to move away from older colonial notions of communal representation. However, because it was based, in its origins, in similar forms of local negotiation and pressure group activity, it reinforced the local power of groups best able to acquire information on recruitment policy. Those with the ear of appointment authorities, therefore did well in filling the important cadres of the civil service and police. In this sense, pressure could be applied to favour one’s community because of the very mechanisms of communal recognition set up in the late colonial period and reinforced in different ways thereafter. This was, of course, to have important implications after independence as Chapter 6 explored. Throughout however, but especially in Chapter 4, this book has suggested that the definition and significance of ‘corruption’ was frequently uncertain, even when it described overtly illegal activity. The descriptions and representations of all manner of interactions between government servants and members of the public changed over time. In particular, certain acts described in outright terms as ‘corrupt’ by the 1950s (particularly routine matters of petty bribery), was represented in a different lexicon under the colonial regime, and very often with reference to ‘custom’ and ‘tradition’, suggesting colonial views of the ‘natural’ corruptibility of ‘Oriental’ society. The words ‘corrupt’, ‘corruption’, or their closest Hindi equivalents, ‘bhrasht’, ‘bhrashtaachaar’, were fluid as concepts, with no universally fixed characteristics, yet with a connection to the dynamics of state servants–subject/citizen interactions. These representations and descriptions of corruption also changed at important moments of political transformation, for example, over the 1940s. They were not just matters of representation and description either. How an act was described encapsulated its moral content, and thereby determined popular views about how far things could be ‘done’ for them by the local state. Neither does this mean that corruption should be seen in historically ‘relative’ terms. The fact that a colonial official might have chosen to describe a particular moment of bribery as ‘dasturi’, tells us more about the colonial officer’s perception of the everyday state than it does about the act itself. There were also moments in time and places or contexts in north India, where there was a great deal of support for the idea that a particular individual or group had been corrupt, or were habitually corrupt. No doubt, the power of ‘corruption’ as a descriptive term, an accusation or label, meant that it frequently became a political device. The success or failure of powerful individuals, parties or regimes was repeatedly assessed in terms of its ‘corruption’. And in these projections of the term, it became a particular kind of political discourse, as Chapter 6 argues. But such accusations were always made with reference to the idea that corruption created winners and losers; or that it was a systematic exercise in the subversion of social justice. What this suggests is that ‘corruption’ needs to be historicised, since its significance and multiple meanings changed in important ways between different historical contexts. This book has argued that there were particular moments and phases, especially in the late colonial and early independent period of India’s history, in which the purchase of ‘corruption’, in terms of the ideas it conveyed and the ‘scandals’ it exposed, was politically enhanced. Some of the main reports on

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Conclusion 171 the phenomenon in mid twentieth century India have argued that such phases can be related to real increases in the amount of corrupt activity among government servants and politicians.7 These projects in measurement often say as much about the positivist and modernising agendas of Nehru’s generation, as they do about the detailed realities of social interaction which underpinned corrupt transactions. This book has been wary of such measurements. However, there is little doubt that at times when the overarching agendas and ideologies of state power came under the pressure of criticism, or were exposed by rapidly changing circumstances, the historian comes across a perceptible increase in public interest in corruption. There is no doubt that the colonial system was subjected to such pressures around and shortly after the outbreak of the Second World War. Between 1937 and 1939, governmental and executive power was gained by a political party which sought to expose the essential ‘corruption’ of colonial power. The central ideological plank of the Congress (although often compromised by its regional and local avatars), was that the Raj rested upon large-scale and ‘immoral’ drain of resources at an imperial level, and the extraction of profit and advantage at a local level via its bureaucratic and police agents. An example of Congress critiques of colonial ‘corruption’ could be seen in the 1938 Report of the Anti Corruption Committee, under G.B. Pant’s ministry. Unable to serve under an imperial system which waged war without consulting Indian opinion, Congress left office in September 1939, and the colonial state flexed its muscles, with renewed and expanded powers and responsibilities from the early 1940s. Such powers were useful for the British in containing the greatest ever uprising against the Raj in August 1942. However, it was barely able to manage the expanded functions of state power and intrusion into everyday lives, being based on the same, thin line structures and manpower of an earlier phase. This problem of state over-extension was clearly illustrated in the area of food and civil supply policy, rationing and controls. As Chapter 5 showed, it was here that north Indian subjects came into contact with the local state’s agents most directly and painfully. And the existence of such controls, administered by a bureaucracy unable to fully contain the local opportunities for profit and the distribution of patronage that a system of permits, licences and rationing threw up, had dramatic implications for public perceptions of bureaucratic integrity. The nature of quotidian state–society interactions over the Second World War then in north India, changed suddenly and in a way that shifted popular perceptions of government servant conduct. Most significant of all in this changing history of state–society interaction, were the moments of raised public expectations about what Blom Hansen has described as the ‘sublime’ functions of the state. Between independence and the first General Elections of 1951–52, a powerful government rhetoric projected the national state in India as the leading force for economic development, social transformation and the protection of democratic rights. In this project, India’s political future was described as one in which traditional and particularistic ‘customs’ might be swept away in an effort to create modern India. Here again, the ‘cleaning up’ of government corruption was a key element. Indeed the period between 1948 and the mid 1960s was one in which the project of ‘anti-corruption’ was most forcefully and

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optimistically set up, at least by the UP Government. Like colonial officialdom before them, the leaders of early post-independent UP believed that the problems of everyday government servant and police corruption, could be found in antiquated social customs. However, unlike the British, there was little to no doubt for these men that it was the duty of governments and the state to remove these aberrations. Anti-corruption committees, government responses to press reports, initial attempts to redraw rules of conduct, changes in policing and the establishment of the Special Police Establishment were all therefore attempts to forward a new ‘anti- corruption’ agenda. This state agenda engaged with projects of social change too, albeit in a somewhat artificial way: the problems of bureaucratic and police corruption, being linked (in many people’s minds in the 1950s and 1960s), with social customs mediated by colonial power, would eventually fall to pressures of social change. The establishment of a ‘socialist’ society would destroy casteism, communalism and petty-minded bureaucratic opportunism, as India progressed into modernity. However, as parts of Chapter 5 and Chapter 6 argued, this was a pipe dream, and the modernising agendas of the state were superficial. In ruling India via a disaggregated bureaucratic culture which privileged local differences and traditions, and preconceived hierarchical practices, the Raj’s rules of bureaucratic conduct were riddled with exceptions, complications and inconsistencies. And these complexities survived into the 1960s. The means of judicial redress were more useful to the furtherance of factional conflict and political rivalry than they were for the investigation and punishment of official misdemeanour. Very rarely were corruption cases quickly decided on the basis of straightforward evidence, and implicated officers more often used the court system to mobilise political protection or support against enemies. The press might have occasionally exposed corruption scandals, particularly around issues such as licence and permit scams. But it just as often served as an organ for political one-upmanship. The recourse across our period was to internal punishment – to the minimal lessening of ‘opportunities’ of misdemeanour on the part of suspected officers. As a result, more innovative mechanisms for anti-corruption such as the district-level anti-corruption committees, and the SPE were ill-equipped to deal with a phenomenon in which internal departmental arrangements protected its perpetrators. Finally, from the late 1930s, as well as lining the pockets of officials and their families, official misconduct (however variously and ambiguously defined), served other purposes. This was a phase, as Chapter 6 showed, in which the local power of bureaucrats and policemen was becoming useful for politicians staking out networks of power in the rapidly expanding sphere of electoral politics. The control of licences, permits and rationing entailed opportunities for the distribution for patronage, and the contours of district Congress politics mapped well onto its local transactions. This marriage of bureaucratic power and profit with political mobilisation could be particularly close, where the networks of misappropriation were systematic: much was to be gained by all involved in widespread networks where political protection shielded local officers, and where profits were passed up to the patron. However, the period around the first two general elections was one in

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Conclusion 173 which the state still aspired (as Chapter 5 suggested) to transform older corrupted colonial structures of governance. Evidence of political involvement in corruption scandals, via bureaucrats and policemen, was therefore used in the adversarial arena of political competition. Accusations of ‘corruption’ therefore entered the political lexicon in particularly fierce ways in the lead up to the selection of candidates for the 1951–52 elections. As such, its descriptive powers changed yet again, to forge clearer links between particular cadres and local political patrons. Most of the informants for this research suggested that government corruption in India entered a new phase from the late 1960s. The relative decline of the Congress in the 1967 elections (albeit in relatively short-term state governments) indicated the beginning of dramatic political change across India. After these elections, opposition party alliances won control of Bihar, Kerala, Orissa, Punjab and West Bengal. Electoral defeats for the Congress encouraged even more dissidence within the party, which quickly brought down Congress governments in Haryana, Madhya Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh. In UP, this phase of change in the late 1960s is associated with the rise of Chaudhuri Charan Singh, a fierce proponent of ‘anticorruption’, who was nevertheless also the focus of opponents’ accusations of corrupt political mobilisation. However, the changed circumstances in which the Congress now faced serious political challenges across India, also transformed the nature of bureaucrat–politician interactions along party political lines, and later along the lines of caste/community based parties. Most of our retired civil servants and policemen looking back from this phase, as is the wont of those thinking over their careers, depicted a golden age in which a rot eventually set in. However, the structures and discourses for what they saw as the decline of public and political morality in India, had already taken root within the colonial system, and particularly over the phase of India’s transformation to political freedom.

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Notes

1 Introduction 1 Barry Bearak, ‘Azamgarh Journal’, 24 October 2000, in http://archiver.rootsweb.com/ th/read/APG/2000–2010/0972414732, (accessed 12 October 2004) also appeared in ‘Back to Life in India, Without Reincarnation’, in The New York Times, 24 October 2000. 2 The Hindu, 9 April 2005; interview with H. Anon, Lucknow, 4 February 2008. 3 One of our interviewees, RS (Anon), IPS (1962), Lucknow, interviewed 8 May 2008, described this process of the popular/public expectation about everyday corruption in relation to the police. See Chapter 4 for more details. 4 Subrata K. Mitra, The Puzzle of India’s Governance: Culture, Context and Comparative Theory, London: Routledge, 2006, pp. 9–12; James C. Scott, Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985. 5 See for example, the comparative work in Paul Heywood, Political Corruption, Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1997. 6 N. Vittal, Central Vigilance Commissioner, ‘Initiatives for tackling corruption in public life in India’, Paper presented at the International Video Link session with British and Indian participants at the British Council, New Delhi, 20 March 2002, available at the Lal Bahadur Shastri Academy of Administration, Mussoorie. 7 The Central Vigilance Commission was set up on the basis of the recommendations of the Santhanam Committee report (discussed in detail later) in 1964. It is the ‘apex’ vigilance institution which deals with matters relating to the central government. Its limited powers at the state level reflect the history of the Special Police Establishment (SPE), which will be dealt with in Chapter 5. 8 Mark Philip, ‘Defining Political Corruption’, in Paul Heywood, Political Corruption, Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1997, pp. 29–30; Mark Robinson, ed., Corruption and Development, London: Routledge, 2002. 9 Some significant examples here would include, B. Harriss-White, India Working: Essays on Society and Economy, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003; S. Saberwal, India: The Roots of Crisis, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1986; S. Corbridge and S. Kumar, ‘Community, Corruption, Landscape: Tales from the Tree Trade’ Political Geography, 21, 6, 2002, 765–88. 10 Akhil Gupta, ‘Blurred Boundaries: The Discourse of Corruption, the Culture of Politics, and the Imagined State’ in American Ethnologist, 22, 2, May 1995, 375–402; Jonathan Parry, “The Crisis of Corruption” and “The Idea of India”: A Worm’s Eye View” in I. Pardo, ed., The Morals of Legitimacy, New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2000, pp. 27–55; S. Visvanathan and H. Sethi, Foul Play: Chronicles of Corruption, 1947–1997, New Delhi: Banyan Books, 1998. 11 Robert Frykenberg, Guntur District, 1788–1844: A History of Local Influence and Central Authority in Southern India, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1965.

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12 The Indian Papers of the Rt. Hon Charles John, Earl Canning, ‘Letters to the Secretary of State, June 1858–59’, Reel 20. Brotherton Library, University of Leeds. 13 Robert Eric Frykenberg, ‘Elite Groups in a South Indian District: 1788–1858’, The Journal of Asian Studies, 24, 2, February 1965, 261–81. 14 C. A. Bayly, The Local Roots of Indian Politics: Allahabad 1880–1920, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975. 15 David Washbrook, The Emergence of Provincial Politics: The Madras Presidency 1870–1920, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976. 16 Francis Robinson, ‘Municipal Government and Muslim Separatism in the United Provinces, 1883–1916’, Modern Asian Studies, 7, 3, 1973, 389–441. 17 Rajnarayan Chandavarkar, The Origins of Industrial Capitalism in India, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. 18 David Washbrook, ‘Country Politics: Madras 1880–1930’, Modern Asian Studies, 7, 3, 1973, 475–531. 19 This idea is developed by Vincent Fitzsimons, in ‘The institutional structure of corruption: firm competition and the choice of institutional strategy’, Paper presented at Institute for Development Policy and Management and Global Poverty Research Group conference ‘Redesigning the State? Political Corruption in Development Policy and Practice’, Dalton-Ellis Hall, University of Manchester, UK, Friday 25 November 2005. 20 Richard Dawkins, ‘Selfish Genes in Race or Politics’, Nature, 289, 5798, 1981, p. 528. 21 Matt Ridley, Nature via Nurture, London: Fourth Estate, 2003, pp. 237–38. 22 N.H. Leff, ‘Economic Development through Bureaucratic Corruption’, in A.J. Heidenheimer, M. Johnstone and V.T. LeVine (eds), Political Corruption: A Handbook, London: Transaction Publishers, 1993, pp. 389–403; J.S. Nye, ‘Corruption and Political Development: A Cost Benefit Analysis’, in ibid., pp. 963–83. 23 S.S. Gill, The Pathology of Corruption, New Delhi: Harper Collins, 1998, p. 230. 24 See Craig Jeffrey, ‘“A Fist is Stronger than Five Fingers”: Caste and Dominance in Rural North India’ Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, 25, 2, 2001, pp.1–30; Barbara Harriss-White, India Working: Essays on Society and Economy, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003; S. Corbridge, and S.Kumar, ‘Community, Corruption, Landscape: Tales from the Tree Trade’. Political Geography, 21, 6, 2002, pp. 765–88. 25 Fitzsimons, in ‘The Institutional Structure of Corruption: Firm Competition and the Choice of Institutional Strategy’. 26 Quoted in ‘Citizen Feedback Surveys to Highlight Corruption in Public Services’, Working Papers, Transparency International, Bangalore, Lal Bahadur Shastri Academy of Administration, Mussoorie. 27 Lynn Zastoupil, ‘J.S. Mill and India’, Victorian Studies, 32, 1, Autumn 1988, pp. 31–54. 28 Thomas R. Metcalf, Ideologies of the Raj, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. 29 Lynn Zastoupil, ‘J.S. Mill and India’, Victorian Studies, 32, 1, Autumn 1988, p. 51. See also Eric Stokes, The English Utilitarians and India, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1959, Chapter 4. 30 See David Washbrook, ‘Law, State and Agrarian Society in Colonial India’ Modern Asian Studies, 15, 3, 1981, 649–721. 31 See, for example, B.B. Misra, The Administrative History of India, 1834–1947: General Administration, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970. 32 ‘Instructions regarding intercourse between European officials and Natives, issued by Sir John Malcolm, Agent of the Governor-General, in his Minute, dated the 28th June 1821, to his assistants in Central India’, in Appendix, ibid. McWilliam Papers, CSAS.

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Notes 177 33 R.S. Chandavarkar, Imperial Power and Popular Politics: Class, Resistance and the State in India, c. 1850–1950, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. 34 Stokes, The English Utilitarians and India, pp. 321–22. 35 Clive Dewey, Anglo-Indian Attitudes: The Mind of the Indian Civil Service, London: The Hambledon Press, 1993, pp. 5–10. 36 For example, Dewey describes the ‘humanist’ intellectual background of Malcolm Darling, a civilian in the Punjab in the 1920s and 1930s, ibid., pp. 103–45. 37 Maria Misra, ‘Colonial Officers and Gentlemen: The British Empire and the Globalization of ‘tradition’, Journal of Global History, 3, 2, 2008, 135–61. 38 John Gallagher and Anil Seal, ‘India Between the Wars’, Modern Asian Studies, 15, 3, 1981, 387–414. 39 See B.B. Misra, The Administrative History of India. 40 Partha Chatterjee, The Nation and its Fragments: Colonial and Postcolonial Histories, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993. 41 For example, K.M. Pannikar, The State and the Citizen, Bombay: Asia Publishing House, 1960; Gunnar Myrdal, Asian Drama: An Enquiry into the Poverty of Nations, Vols. I and II, Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1968; Myron Weiner, Party Politics in India: The Development of a Multi-Party System, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1957; Ralph Braibanti and Joseph J. Spengler, eds, Administration and Economic Development in India, Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1963; Donald Eugene Smith, India as a Secular State, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1963. 42 For example, Interview with Surendra Singh, IAS (1959), 4 August 2004, New Delhi: . . . most of us young men and women at the universities, used to have this feeling that from the point of view of what we could contribute to the system, we felt that in the IAS, we could contribute a lot through public service in the building up of what we thought would be modern India. 43 Stanley J. Heginbotham, Cultures in Conflict: The Four Faces of Indian Bureaucracy, New York: Columbia University Press, 1975; B.B. Misra, Government and Bureaucracy in India: 1947–1976, Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1986; Subhash C. Kashyap, The Politics of Power: Defections and State Politics in India, Delhi: National Publishing House, 1974; See also Zoya Hasan, S.N. Jha and Rasheeduddin Khan, eds, The State, Political Processes and Identity: Reflections on Modern India, New Delhi: Sage, 1989. 44 Myrdal, Asian Drama, Vol. II, Chapter 20. 45 J.S. Furnivall, Colonial Policy and Practice: A Comparative Study of Burma and Netherlands India, New York: New York University Press, 1956. 46 Report of the Committee on the Prevention of Corruption, New Delhi: Government of India, Ministry of Home Affairs, 1964, p. 101. The Committee is often referred to as the Santhanam Committee after its chairman. 47 Lloyd I. Rudolph and Susanne Hoeber Rudolph, In Pursuit of Lakshmi: The Political Economy of the Indian State, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987, pp. 68–74. 48 Eleanor Newbigin, ‘The Hindu Code Bill and the Making of the Modern Indian State’, Unpublished PhD dissertation, University of Cambridge, 2008. 49 For example, B.B. Misra, Government and Bureaucracy in India: 1947–1976. 50 Sarah Ansari, Life After Partition: Migration, Community and Strife in Sindh, 1947–1962, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005; Vazira Yacoobali Zamindar, The Long Partition and the Making of Modern South Asia: Refugees, Boundaries, Histories, New York: Columbia University Press, 2007; Joya Chatterji, The Spoils of Partition: Bengal and India 1947–1967, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. 51 Thomas Blom Hansen, The Saffron Wave: Democracy and Hindu Nationalism in Modern India, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999, pp. 26–27.

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52 C.J. Fuller and John Harriss, ‘For an Anthropology of the Modern Indian State’, in C.J. Fuller and Véronique Bénéï, The Everyday State and Society in Modern India, London: Hurst and Co., 2001, pp. 22–23. 53 Craig Jeffrey and Jens Lerche, ‘Dimensions of Dominance: Class and State in Uttar Pradesh’, in Fuller and Bénéï, ibid., pp. 91–114. 54 Akhil Gupta, ‘Blurred Boundaries: The Discourse of Corruption, The Culture of Politics, and the Imagined State’, American Ethnologist, 22, 2, 1995, 375–402. 55 Jonathan Parry, ‘The Crisis of Corruption and the “idea of India”: A Worm’s Eye View’, in I. Pardo, ed., The Morals of Legitimacy, pp. 27–55. 56 Rajnarayan Chandavarkar, ‘Customs of Governance: Colonialism and Democracy in Twentieth Century India’, Modern Asian Studies, 41, 3, 2007, 441–70. 57 The Prevention of Corruption Act, Act No. II of 1947, New Delhi: Government of India, 1947. 58 See David Potter, India’s Political Administrators, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986. 59 See for example, Vazira Zamindar, The Long Partition; Yasmin Khan, The Great Partition: The Making of India and Pakistan, London: Yale University Press, 2007; Joya Chatterji, The Spoils of Partition. 60 For example, the work of Zoya Hasan, Paul Brass and Craig Jeffrey. 61 For example, Interview with C.R. Arun, IPS, (1965), 28 January 2008; Interview with F (Anon), IPS, (1955), Lucknow, 2 February 2008; Interview with P.C. Kakker, IPS (1953), Lucknow, 10 April 2008. 62 For example, B.B. Misra, The Administrative History of India; B.B. Misra, Government and Bureaucracy in India. 63 Aijaz Ahmad, ‘Class, Nation and State: Intermediate Classes in Peripheral Societies’ in Aijaz Ahmad, Lineages of the Present: Political Essays, London: Verson, 1996, pp. 44–72. 64 To quote just one set of figures – the number of employees in administration at the Centre was 2,094,000 in 1961. Ten years later, it was 2,920,500. In 1980 it had risen to 3,678,000. See Rasheeduddin Khan, ‘The Total State: The Concept and its Manifestation in the Indian Political System’ in Zoya Hasan, S.N. Jha and Rasheeduddin Khan, eds, The State, Political Processes and Identity: Reflections on Modern India, New Delhi: Sage, 1989, pp. 33–72. 65 Interview with P.C. Kakker, IPS, (1953), Lucknow 10 April 2008. 66 For example, B.D. Sanwal, based in Lucknow, who was recruited in 1942. Interviewed 11 November 2005. 67 Where interviews are anonymised, the initials used bear no relation to the name of the interviewee. 2 Administrative power and public morality: hierarchy and corruption in late colonial and early independent UP 1 N.H. Leff, ‘Economic Development through Bureaucratic Corruption’, in A.J. Heidenheimer, M. Johnstone and V.T. LeVine (eds), Political Corruption: A Handbook. 2 Work on contemporary India has explored this issue through specific case studies: Craig Jeffrey, ‘“A Fist is Stronger than Five Fingers”: Caste and Dominance in Rural North India’; Barbara Harriss-White, India Working; Corbridge, and S. Kumar, ‘Community, Corruption, Landscape: Tales from the Tree Trade’. 3 Francesca Orsini, The Hindi Public Sphere 1920–1940: Language and Literature in the Age of Nationalism, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2002, pp. 14–16. Varna refers to the broad four-fold social division mentioned in hymn 10.90 in the Rig Veda in terms of the four parts of the cosmic being, and in texts such as the Bhagavad Gita

Notes 179

4 5 6

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7

8

9

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

20 21

and described in the Manusmrti. Jati refers to specific birth groups, which traditionally relate to occupational functions. S. Visvanathan and H. Sethi, Foul Play: Chronicles of Corruption, 1947–1997. Vishvanathan and Sethi have identified this issue in a more general sense by arguing that ‘somewhere in the nexus of family and state lie the problems of modern India’. Partha Chatterjee, Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World: A Derivative Discourse?, London: Zed Books Ltd., 1986. The best example in this field would be Charu Gupta, Sexuality, Obscenity, Community: Women, Muslims, and the Hindu Public in Colonial India, New Delhi: Permanent Black, 2001. For example, Elizabeth Collingham, Imperial Bodies: The Physical Experience of the Raj, c. 1800–1947, Cambridge: Polity, 2001, and Mrinalini Sinha, Colonial Masculinity: The ‘manly Englishman’ and the ‘effeminate Bengali’ in the Late Nineteenth Century, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1995. The work on literary spheres in north India is quite extensive, but the best works dealing with colonialism and transforming public morality would include Vasudha Dalmia, The Nationalisation of Hindu Traditions: Bharatendu Harischandra and Nineteenth Century Benaras, Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1999 and Francesca Orsini, The Hindi Public Sphere. A recent work on music and theatre also deals with similar themes, Janaki Bhakle, Two Men and Music: Nationalism in the Making of an Indian Classical Tradition, New York: Oxford University Press, 2005. Clive Dewey however, has examined in detail, the ICS as an extension of the Victorian and Edwardian intelligentsia, through a close study of two district officers – Malcolm Darling and Frank Brayne. Clive Dewey, Anglo-Indian Attitudes. He self- consciously builds on the older work of Eric Stokes, The English Utilitarians and India. Bernard Cohn, Colonialism and its Forms of Knowledge: The British in India, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996. One of the main histories of the ICS has developed this idea: David C. Potter, India’s Political Administrators, 1919–1983, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986. See the work of B.B. Misra, Government and Bureaucracy in India. Words of Lady Birdwood, quoted in Charles Allen, ed., Plain Tales from the Raj, New edition, Abacus: London, 1988. Potter, India’s Political Administrators, p. 59. Clive Dewey, Anglo-Indian Attitudes. Phillip Mason, quoted in Potter, India’s Political Administrators, p. 74. Collingham, Imperial Bodies, pp. 117–28. This is set out well by Charu Gupta, Sexuality, Obscenity, Community, pp. 34–38. See also Kenan Malik, The Meaning of Race: Race, History and Culture in Western Society, Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1996. Mrinalini Sinha, in Colonial Masculinity, also examines this process in a different way, looking at notions of gender and sexuality in the late nineteenth century. Ann L. Stoler ‘Making Empire Respectable: The Politics of Race and Sexual Morality in 20th-Century Colonial Cultures’, American Ethnologist, 16, 4, November 1989, 634– 60; Philippa Levine ‘Orientalist Sociology and the Creation of Colonial Sexualities’, Feminist Review, 65, Summer 2000, 5–21; Sudipta Sen ‘Colonial Aversions and Domestic Desires: Blood, Race, Sex and the Decline of Intimacy in Early British India,’ in South Asia: Journal of South Asian Studies, 24, supp. 1, 2001, 25–45; Lionel Caplan ‘Iconographies of Anglo-Indian Women: Gender Constructs and Contrasts in a Changing Society’, Modern Asian Studies, 34, 4, October 2000, 863–92. Durba Ghosh, Sex and the Family in Colonial India: The Making of Empire, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. See Gyanendra Pandey, The Ascendancy of the Congress in Uttar Pradesh: A Study in Imperfect Mobilisation, Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1978, and William Gould, Hindu Nationalism and the Language of Politics in Late Colonial India, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004.

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22 For a detailed survey of these critiques, and the exercise of colonial coercion and violence in response, see Taylor Sherman, State Violence and Punishment in India, London: Routledge, 2009. 23 Collingham, Imperial Bodies, pp. 134–36. 24 J.D. Shukla, Indianisation of All-Indian Services and it Impact on Administration 1834–1947, New Delhi: Allied, 1982, p. 315, 351–52. In 1927, there were 311 Indians in the ICS, which roughly corresponded to 25 per cent of the total. In the IPS in the same year, they held 105 posts, only 15 per cent of the total. By 1933, the proportion of Indians in the ICS had risen to just under 37 per cent, and 23 per cent in the IPS. In 1940, the figures for the ICS and IPS were 39 per cent and 24 per cent respectively. In April 1947, the figures for ICS and IPS were 43 per cent and 34 per cent respectively. 25 Lecture of M.G. Hallett, in Wykhamist, 16 February 1937. The Papers of M.G. Hallett, MSS.EUR.E.251, Oriental and India Office Collections (hereafter OIOC), British Library. 26 The Spectator, 14 August 1942, in L/I/1/162, file 21/1, OIOC. 27 ‘To India by Car’, 535/1939, 4 May 1939, in L/I/1/162, file 21/1, OIOC. 28 The Sarishtadar was traditionally responsible for the maintenance of provincial revenue records. 29 ‘Memorandum on the Subject of the Social and Official Intercourse between European Officers and Indian Gentlemen’ (Calcutta, 1913) in McWilliam Papers, Centre of South Asian Studies, Cambridge (hereafter, CSAS). 30 ‘Instructions regarding intercourse between European officials and Natives, issued by Sir John Malcolm, Agent of the Governor-General, in his Minute, dated the 28th June 1821, to his assistants in Central India’, in Appendix, ibid., McWilliam Papers, CSAS. 31 For example, interview with C.R. Arun, IPS (1965), Lucknow, 24 January 2008. 32 ‘Instructions regarding intercourse between European officials and Natives, issued by Sir John Malcolm, Agent of the Governor-General, in his Minute, dated the 28th June 1821, to his assistants in Central India’, in Appendix, ibid., McWilliam Papers, CSAS. 33 ‘The Work of the ICS’ by Sir John Crerar, The Scotsman, 6 July 1936. 34 R.C. Dutt, ‘The Civil Service Before and After Independence’ in Raj K. Niyam, ed., Memoirs of Old Mandarins of India: The Administrative Change as the ICS Administrators Saw in India, New Delhi: Documentation Centre for Corporate & Business Policy Research, 1985, p. 60. 35 Interview with P.K. Kaul, Noida, 5 August 2004; interview with Surendra Singh, Delhi, 4 August 2004. 36 This was evident in many of our interviews, for example, interview with Trivedi, R.K., PCS/IAS (1943), Lucknow, 30 October 2005; interview with Gupta, K.L., IPS (1965), Lucknow, 30 March 2008; interview with J.N. Chaturvedi, IPS (1951), Dehra Dun, 25 October 2005. 37 K.N.V. Shastri, ‘The District Collector under the Republican Constitution of India’ in B.B. Majumdar, ed., Problems of Public Administration in India, Patna, 1952, p. 131. 38 Ibid. p. 129. 39 B.K. Misra, The Heirs Apparent To the Men Who Ruled India, Lucknow: Indian Institute of Public Administration, UP Branch, 2000. Available in Indian Institute of Public Administration (IIPA), Lucknow. 40 See, for example, Ashwini Kumar, ‘Administrative Serfdom’, IIPA: Experiences and Thoughts of Senior Administrators, Lucknow: Indian Institute of Public Administration, UP Branch, 1995, pp. 27–30. Available in IIPA, Lucknow. 41 Extract from Official Report of the Legislative Assembly debates, 10 August 1938, ‘Members of the Scheduled Castes Employed under the Government of India’, UP debate, 3 February 1938.

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Notes 181 42 Anand Sarup, ‘Random Reflections: The Early Years’ in Experiences and Thoughts of Senior Administrators Vol. II, Lucknow: Indian Institute of Public Administration, UP Branch, 1995, p. 24. 43 The most famous examples would be E.M. Forster, A Passage to India, London: Penguin, 1924; George Orwell, Burmese Days, London: Penguin, 1934 and Edward Thompson, An Indian Day, London: Penguin, 1927. 44 Jawaharlal Nehru, An Autobiography, London: The Bodley Head, 1936, pp. 28–29. 45 Transcription of oral interview with S.K. Das, MSS.EUR.T22, OIOC. 46 Stanley J. Heginbotham, Cultures in Conflict, pp. 39–41, 95–97. 47 ‘Verification of character and antecedents of candidates under state employment’, Appointments, Box 295, File 321/1947 Uttar Pradesh State Archives, Lucknow, (hereafter UPSA). 48 Charu Gupta, Sexuality, Obscenity, Community, pp. 243–49. 49 In 1938, the UP Government set up its first thorough enquiry into government servant corruption, and a formal complaints box system was instituted. See Chapter 5. 50 Anonymous complaint ‘by those who know’ to The Collector of Central Excise, n.d., ‘Complaints regarding bribery and corruption’ Home Department, SPE, F 34/1/47 National Archives of India, New Delhi, hereafter NAI. The term ‘daali’ or ‘dallie’, was used to describe a ‘customary’ present or gift, but its meanings were more complex as will be discussed in Chapter 4. 51 Anonymous complaint ‘by those who know’ to The Collector of Central Excise, n.d., ‘Complaints regarding bribery and corruption’ Home Department, SPE, F 34/1/47 NAI. 52 ‘Calling of Deputy Collectors on Superintendents of Police’, Appointments, Box 172, File 149/1931 UPSA. 53 Interview with K (Anon), Lucknow, 4 February 2008. 54 ‘Government Servants’ Conduct Rules’ AICC Papers, Election matters and parliamentary files ‘PG’, File 2941-/1960, Nehru Memorial Museum and Library, hereafter NMML. 55 S.P. O’Donnell to Kunwar Jagdish Prasad, 2 November 1920, ‘Delegation of the Powers to Punish Officers’, Appointments, Box 143, File 61/1921 UPSA. 56 ‘Rules of Conduct Regulating Civil Servants’, Appointments, Box 86, File 315/1908 UPSA. 57 Note of Bharat Narain, 29 January 1950, ‘Rules to Regulate inquiries into the conduct of Government servants under the Rule making control of the Secretary of State’, Appointments, Box 247, File 641/1941 UPSA. 58 See ‘Delegation of the Powers to Punish Officers’, Appointments, Box 143, File 61/1921 UPSA. 59 Memorial to Sir Malcolm Hailey, April 1934. ‘Representation of the Subordinate Executive Services Association’, Appointments, Box 201, File 134A/1934 UPSA. In most cases, a Lambardar was a village headman (usually in the Punjab area), appointed by the provincial government and involved in the maintenance of land records and revenue collection. 60 Interview with P.C. Kakker, IPS (1953), Lucknow, 10 April 2008. 61 C.B. Rao, District Magistrate, Ballia to Christie, 15 November 1944, ‘Recruitment to the UPC (Executive Service) in 1945’, Appointments, Box 254, File 8/1944 UPSA. 62 Ibid. 63 Maharao Raja of Bara Raj to Christie, 20 November 1944, ‘Recruitment to the UPC (Executive Service) in 1945’, Appointments, Box 254, File 8/1944 UPSA. 64 See Chapter 3 for a detailed discussion of this aspect of civil service recruitment. 65 Mujtaba Husain, MBE to Mudie, 4 April 1943, ‘Appointment of Probationary Deputy Collectors’, Appointments, Box 252, File 102/1943 UPSA.

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66 B.J.K. Hallowes, Commissioner, Agra Division to Chief Secretary to Government, 24 December 1942, ‘Appointment of Probationary Deputy Collectors’, Appointments, Box 252, File 102/1943 UPSA. 67 Letter from Harbans Narain Singh, Asst Secr, UP Fruit Development Board, to Home Secretary, Gov. of UP, 29 April 1948. 68 Narayan Pratap Singh to Minister for Police and Transport, 12 November 1947, ‘Recruitment of Deputy Superintendents of Police by Selection’, Appointments, Box 272, File 639/1947 UPSA. 69 B.B. Misra, Government and Bureaucracy in India, pp. 104–9. 70 For example, Interview with J.N. Chaturvedi, IPS (1951), Dehra Dun, 25 October 2005. 71 Santhanam Report, pp. 7–8. 72 B.B. Majumdar, ‘Public Administration and Public Opinion in India’, in B.B. Majumdar ed., Problems of Public Administration in India, Patna: 1952, p. 13. 73 Ibid. 74 A.D. Gorwala, Report on Public Administration, Planning Commission, New Delhi: Government of India, 1951. 75 K.N.V. Shastri, ‘The District Collector under the Republican Constitution of India’, in B.B. Majumdar ed., Problems of Public Administration, pp. 80–81, p. 127. 76 K.V. Rao, ‘The Problem of Public Administration in India’, ibid. 77 B.B. Majumdar, ‘Public Administration and Public Opinion in India’, ibid. p. 12. 78 Ibid. p. 16. 79 The report will be investigated in more detail in Chapter 5. 80 Report of the Disciplinary Proceedings Inquiry Committee, Lucknow: Government of Uttar Pradesh, 1954, pp. 30–33, in ‘Disciplinary Proceedings Enquiry Committee Report’, Home (General), Box 25, File 611/53 UPSA. 81 Paul H. Appleby, Public Administration in India: Report of a Survey, Delhi: Manager of Publications, 1953. It was on Appleby’s suggestions that the Indian Institute of Public Administration was established in 1954. 82 The Gorwala Report, for example, discussed the ‘very special measures’ required in a country where biraderi and ‘brotherhood’ lead to the setting up of networks of patronage. A.D. Gorwala, Report on Public Administration, p. 19. 83 This sense continued well into the first generation of ICS inheritors in the Indian Administrative Service. For example, one serving officer, who had his first posting in 1991, suggested that the IAS man was felt to be ‘the person who is to be trusted. People count on you. We are carrying on that tradition of the British.’ Interview with R. (Anon), Lucknow, 11 August 2004. 84 For some of the theoretical literature that has more recently appeared on this subject, see for example, Sudipta Kaviraj, ‘On State, Society and Discourse in India’, in James Manor, ed., Rethinking Third World Politics, London: Longman, 1991. 85 Premchand, The Gift of A Cow, New Delhi: Permanent Black, 2002, p. 128. 86 George Orwell, Burmese Days, London: Penguin, 1986, p. 3. 87 The importance of this point for the Bombay police has been emphasised in Rajnarayan Chandavarkar, Imperial Power and Popular Politics, p. 227. 88 The word ‘ma-bap’ or ‘maa-baap’ literally translates as ‘mother-father’, and referred to a popular expectation of paternalistic but benevolent government. 89 Interview with P.C. Kakker, IPS (1953), Lucknow, 10 April 2008. 90 The fullest histories of the Indian Civil Service have been produced by David Potter, India’s Political Administrators and the more institution-focussed B.B. Misra, The Administrative History of India. There have been specialised studies of particular administrators, for example, Clive Dewey, Anglo-Indian Attitudes, but these have concentrated almost exclusively on the ICS or the upper levels. There has been extensive work on particular development projects and contemporary bureaucratic organisation at district levels, and a great deal of the Indian material on this can be

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found at the Indian Institute of Public Administration, Delhi. But much less is known, from a historical perspective, about subordinate cadres for particular regions. Akhil Gupta, ‘Blurred Boundaries: The Discourse of Corruption’, pp. 375–402. After 1892, the uncovenanted services were reorganised into the Provincial Civil Services and Subordinate Civil Services, with the lowest revenue grades in the latter. Recruitment rules were framed by provincial governments. B.B. Misra, The Administrative History of India, pp. 201–22. The Deputy Collector was usually in charge of a territorial subdivision of a district and the tahsildar was the head of a territorial unit immediately below the subdivision. For example, Misra wrote in 1970, Functionally . . . the distance between the two Services was being reduced with the passage of time, but not so educationally and intellectually. Within the framework of its political objective, the government of India tried to introduce a uniform standard of selection. But regional imbalance in educational development operated as a serious handicap. (Misra 1970: p. 222)

95 Ibid. p. 224. 96 See, for example, Anil Seal, The Emergence of Indian Nationalism: Competition and Collaboration in the Later Nineteenth Century, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968. 97 Interview with G (Anon), PCS, Lucknow, 3 April 2006. 98 Interview with W (Anon), PCS (1961), Lucknow, 30 October 2005. 99 T.S.R Subramanian, Journeys Through Babudom and Netaland: Governance in India, Delhi: Rupa Books, 2004, pp. 50–51. 100 For more detail on this, see Chapter 3. 101 ‘Complaint made by the High Commissioner for the UK in India against the dismissal of one Mr E.M. Harris, late Deputy Superintendent of Police, United Provinces’, Ministry of Home Affairs, Ests. File no. 60/109/49 NAI. 102 Note, dated 21 May 1955, ‘Creation of Posts of Deputy Superintendent of Police. Complaints’. Home Police (A) Box 76, File 402/55. 3 Religion, caste and government servant recruitment 1920s–1950s 1 P. Abrams, ‘Some Notes on the Difficulty of Studying the State’, Journal of Historical Sociology, 1, 1, 1988, 58–89 and T. Mitchell, ‘The Limits of the State: Beyond Statist Approaches and their Critics’, American Political Science Review, 85, 1, 1991, 77–96. Even more marked however than the theoretical literature on the state, is the tendency to generalise from western European notions of the nation-state – a weakness for studying India that was recognised at least as early as Paul R. Brass, Language, Religion and Politics in North India, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974, pp. 14–15. 2 The two earliest and fullest studies of this process, see Francis Robinson, Separatism among Indian Muslims: The Politics of the United Provinces’ Muslims, 1860–1923, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974; Paul Brass, Language, Religion and Politics. 3 Susan Bayly, Caste Society and Politics in India from the Eighteenth Century to the Modern Age, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999, pp. 268–70. 4 See, for example, ‘Return of Kuswaha Kshatriyas in the forthcoming census’, Home Dept, File 45/6/31–Public NAI; ‘Complaints or representations from organisations representing different communities about matters of communal interest arising in regard to the census enumeration’ Home Dept. File no. 45/11/41–Public, NAI. 5 For more detail on this, see Christophe Jaffrelot, India’s Silent Revolution: The Rise of the Lower Castes in North India, London: Hurst and Co., 2003, pp. 195–96; 206–9.

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6 Ibid. 220–29. 7 The Mandal Commission was established in 1979, to identify the socially and educationally backward and to redress their disadvantage in particular spheres of civic and political life. The principal proposals of the Commission involved the extension of the idea of reservations to an additional group of disadvantaged castes, known as ‘Other Backward Castes’, over and above the existing reservations for Scheduled Castes and Tribes. 8 The most recent and compelling manifestation of this work includes Christophe Jaffrelot, India’s Silent Revolution. 9 The literature here is very extensive, but some of the most important and significant debates are summarised analytically in Ornit Shani, Ethnicity and Violence in India: Communalism, Caste and Hindu Nationalism in Gujarat, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. 10 Interview with Ishwar Dwivedi, IPS (1955), Lucknow, 11 August 2004; Interview with P.C. Kakker, IPS (1953), Lucknow, 10 April 2008. 11 Interview with J.N. Chaturvedi, Dehra Dun, 25 October 2005. Chaturvedi’s detailed commentaries will be revisited in Chapter 5. 12 The Communal Award, instituted in 1932, extended the principle of separate electorates for Muslim minorities, and allowed Muslim majorities to dominate the provinces of Bengal and Punjab. It also proposed the setting up of separate electorates for ‘Depressed Classes’ – an initiative passionately opposed by M.K. Gandhi, whose protesting fasts formed a prelude to what came to be known as the Poona Pact. This agreement, involving B.R. Ambedkar, resulted in a system of reservations in elected institutions instead. 13 Article 16 in the ‘Fundamental Rights’ section of the Indian Constitution deals with ‘Equality of opportunity in matters of public appointment’. Under subsection (4A), it states that Nothing in this article shall prevent the State from making any provision for reservation in matters of promotion . . . to any class or classes of posts in the services under the state, in favour of the Scheduled Castes and the Scheduled Tribes . . . Constitution of India (Updated upto 93rd Amendment Act), Government of India, Ministry of Law and Justice, p. 7. Accessible at: http://indiacode.nic.in/coiweb/welcome.html 14 Historians have been slow to pick up on these ambiguities and overlaps between state agents and dominant local elites, although it has formed the focus of social science literature quite recently. See, for example, Rene Veron, Stuart Corbridge, Glyn Williams and Manoj Srivastava ‘The Everyday State and Political Society in Eastern India: Structuring Access to the Employment Assurance Scheme’ The Journal of Development Studies, 39, 5, June 2003, 1–28. 15 C.J. Fuller and John Harriss, ‘For an Anthropology of the Modern Indian State’, in C.J. Fuller and Véronique Bénéï, The Everyday State and Society, pp. 22–23. 16 This kind of approach is followed for example, by Akhil Gupta, ‘Blurred Boundaries: The Discourse of Corruption,’ and Craig Jeffrey and Jens Lerche, ‘Dimensions of Dominance: Class and State in Uttar Pradesh’. 17 Thomas R. Metcalf, ‘Social Effects of British Land Policy in Oudh’, in Robert E. Frykenberg, ed., Land Control and Social Structure in Indian History, Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press, 1969, pp. 146–47. 18 Potter, India’s Political Administrators. 19 Interview with M. Subrahmanyam, Lucknow, 12 August 2004; interview with P.K. Kaul, Noida, 4 August 2004. 20 For more detail on this, see Gyanendra Pandey, The Ascendancy of the Congress

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24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

in Uttar Pradesh and William Gould, Hindu Nationalism and the Language of Politics. The Award proposed the extension of the principle of separate electorates (already given to Muslims and Sikhs), to ‘Depressed Classes’, or officially defined low castes. Notes and Orders, ‘Minority Communities in UP’, Appointments, Box 162, File 477/1929. United Provinces State Archives, Lucknow (hereafter UPSA). This was partly the result of constitutional definitions during the early 1930s, which defined what later came to be known as ‘Scheduled castes’ as ‘Depressed Classes’. In other discussions, caste or religious community reservations were also compared to possible reservations in government employment for members of the ‘tenant class’. Notes and Orders, ‘Minority Communities in UP’, Appointments, Box 162, File 477/1929, Lucknow UPSA. There has been specific work on the British colonial tendency to define communities in gendered terms, most prominently in Mrinalini Sinha, Colonial Masculinity. ‘Notes and Orders’, in ‘Reservation of services and posts for a particular sex under section 275 of the Government of India Act 1935’, Appointments, Box 212, File 724/1935, Lucknow UPSA. Section 275 of the Government of India Act prescribed that a person could not be disqualified by sex for appointment to certain civil services or posts. Note of Harry Haig, 16 June 1936; ‘New Appointments’, ‘Reservation of services and posts for a particular sex under section 275 of the Government of India Act 1935’, Appointments, Box 212, File 724/1935. Note of G.B. Pant, 5 August 1937, ‘Reservation of services and posts for a particular sex under section 275 of the Government of India Act 1935’, Appointments, Box 212, File 724/1935. Note of Malcolm Hailey, 23 November 1931, ‘Communal Representation’, Appointments, Box 181, File 777/1931. Note by J.M. Clay, 6 February 1934. ibid. Ibid. pp. 24–30. The UP government also made reference to the 60:30:10 ratio in response to a UP Hindu deputation, calling for better Hindu recruitment into the executive services in early August 1936. G.A. Tweedy of Bareilly, 25 January 1908, ‘Rules re. Apps. to executive branch of PCS’, Appointments, Box 95, File 67/1909 UPSA. P. Wyndham to S.P. O’Donnell, 9 May 1918, ‘Maintenance of the proper proportion between the number of Hindu and Muslim officers of the district executive staff’, Appointments, Box 133, File 133/1918. Letter of S.H. Butler, Lucknow, 11 January 1908, ‘Rules re. Apps. to executive branch of PCS’, Appointments, Box 95, File 67/1909 UPSA. Note of Malcolm Hailey, 23 November 1931, ‘Communal Representation’, Appointments, Box 181, File 777/1931. G.P. Sinha to M. Nand Ghildyal, ibid. Note of Muhammad Ahmad Sa-id Khan, 24 November 1933, ibid. Kanungos were revenue officers who supervised the work of, on average, around 10 to 20 patwaris – officers working at the level of the village. ‘Change in the method of recruitment of supervisor kanungo’, Revenue Box 989, File 612/1930 UPSA. These documents were set out to determine recruitment, promotion and in some respects disciplinary procedures for government servants. Notes by J.M. Clay and E.A.H. Blunt, ‘Harijan Uplift Work’, 6 September 1934, ‘Communal Representation’, Appointments, Box 181, File 777/1931 UPSA, p. 45. Table of Communal Returns, ibid. pp. 24–27. R.A. Horton to H. Bomford, 3 June 1936, Appointments, Box 181, File 777/1931 UPSA. C.L. Wallace, Farrukhabad to Commissioner, Allahabad Division, 3 September

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49 50 51 52 53 54

55

56 57 58 59

60 61

62 63

Notes 1934, ‘Selection of Dy Collrs. for charges of districts’, Appointments, Box 208, File 328/1934 UPSA. Lloyd I. Rudolph and Susan Hoeber Rudolph, In Pursuit of Lakshmi, pp. 249–53. The most obvious manifestation of this argument was produced by Anil Seal in John Gallagher, Gordon Johnson and Anil Seal, Locality, Province and Nation: Essays on Indian Politics 1870 to 1940, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1973. Deputation, contained in Vikramjit Singh to Major Brett, 3 August 1936, ‘Communal representation in services (Hindu deputation on the subject)’, Appointments, Box 181, File 777/1931 UPSA. William Gould, Hindu Nationalism and the Language of Politics in Late Colonial India, Cambridge: Cambridge University Presss, 2004, Chapter 5. Deputation, contained in Vikramjit Singh to Major Brett, 3 August 1936, ‘Communal representation in services (Hindu deputation on the subject)’, Appointments, Box 181, File 777/1931 UPSA. ‘Communal Representation in the Services, including Railways and Increased Representation of Muslims in the Public Services’, L/SG/7/30, OIOC. Resolution of the Hindu Yuvak Sabha, 28 July 1935, L/SG/7/30, OIOC. Extracts from the Representative of Depressed Classes, Agra, to Willingdon, 20 February 1936, Appointments, Box 181, File 777/1931 UPSA. Meeting of Adi Hindu Depressed Classes, 5 August 1942, under pres of Shyam Lal Vaidya at Santasram, Tundla, district Agra; Address of the Kumaun Shilpkar Sabha to Maurice Hallett, 27 September 1943, ‘Representation from Associations and Bodies regarding representation of their communities in services.’ General Administration Department, Box 619, File 42/1942 UPSA. Syam Lal, President of the Adi-Hindu Depressed Classes Association, Allahabad, to the Governor of UP, 18 June 1941, in ‘Scheduled Caste candidates. Govt. Services Complaints that Candidates not belonging to the Scheduled Caste get entrance into Govt. services by falsely declaring themselves as members of that caste’, Appointments, Box 243, File 75/1941 UPSA. In 1942, Rs 50,000 was granted across UP from Reclamation, which was to be disbursed in the following way: Rs10,000 for starting cottage industries, Rs 23,000 for housing and sanitation and a further Rs11, 043 for ‘general uplift’. Special meeting of the Executive Committee of the UP Adi Hindu Depressed Classes Association held on 27 June 1942, ‘Memorial of the Adi-Hindu Depressed Classes Association’, Harijan Sahayak Dept, Box. 4, File 113/1942 UPSA. The following people made up the committee: Munshi Hari Prasad Tamta (Almora), B. Ram Sahai, (Lucknow), Shyam Lal (Allahabad), Dr Manik Chand (Agra), Bhojraj Singh (Etah), Hari Lal Jaiswar (Allahabad) and Tilak Chand Kureel (Kanpur). Representation from the District Jatava Conference, Meerut, 2/3 June 1944, ‘Representation from Associations and bodies regarding representation of their Communities in Services’ General Administration Deparment, Box 619, File 42/1942. Kanungos formed the supervisory link between the Tahsildar or Naib Tahsildar at the level of the tahsil and the Patwari at the level of the village. ‘Extract of notes and orders from Revenue Department File no. 368B/1940 relating to petition from Harnath Prasad, MLA Basti reg. selection of a scheduled caste candidate for the Kanungo Training School from the Gorakhpur Division’, Appointments, Box 243, File 75/1941 UPSA. Lachman Pd Gupta, Government of India Press, Aligarh, 25 February 1947, in ‘Complaints regarding bribery and corruption’, Ministry of Home Affairs, File no. 34/1/47, SPE NAI. ‘Proceedings of a Conference of the Depressed Classes of Ghazipur district’, 24 May 1942. ‘Representation from Associations and bodies regarding representation of their

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66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75

76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86

Communities in Services’, General Administration Deparment, Box 619, File 42/1942 UPSA. Assembly question of Kanhaiya Lal, no. 33 – for period March 1939–June 1946, ‘Complaint from all DMS UP reg. Begar’ Harijan Sahayak Dept, Boxes 8 and 9, File 175/48 UPSA. This was the case in Budaun. Letter from D.S. Barron, DM, Saharanpur, to chief Secr, 2 October 1946; Letter from Superintendent of Police (M. Uddin Ahmad), Muzaffarnagar, to UP government, 21 October 1946. ‘Complaint from all DMS UP reg. Begar’ Harijan Sahayak Dept, Boxes 8 and 9, File 175/48 UPSA. A. I. Bowman, District Magistrate Mirzapur to Secretary to the Government of UP, 26 September 1946, ‘Complaint from all DMS UP reg. Begar’ Harijan Sahayak Dept, Boxes 8 and 9, File 175/48 UPSA. ‘Increase in the number of carts etc used by SDOs’ Revenue B, Box 101, File 103B/1947 UPSA. Note of V.P. Shukla, 5 September 1950, ‘Complaint against the proprietor of the Salampur estate, dist Lucknow’ Revenue A, 58, 280/48 UPSA. Note of H.S. Visen, 11 September 1950, ‘Complaint against the proprietor of the Salampur estate, dist Lucknow’ Revenue A, 58, 280/48 UPSA. Satish Chandra, Secretary of the district Congress election campaign committee to the Home Secretary, UP, 23 October 1945. ‘Prohibition of Government servants from taking part in elections’. Appointments Box 260, File 861/1945 UPSA. Qaumi Awaz (Lucknow), 13 February 1946. Adhikar, 27 February 1945. G.B. Pant to H.J. Frampton, 16 November 1945, ‘Prohibition of Government servants from taking part in elections’. Appointments Box 260, File 861/1945 UPSA. Note by Frampton, 24 February 1946, ibid. T.N. Dhar, ‘Six Months in Meerut: A Recollection’ in Indian Institute of Public Administration: Experiences and Thoughts of Senior Administrators, Volume II. The Indian Institute of Public Administration, UP Regional Branch, available at the Indian Institute of Public Administration Archive, New Delhi, 1995. Interview with P. Anon. (PCS) conducted in Lucknow, 14 August 2004. For detail on the representational politics of the Adi Hindu Sabha and similar movements, see Nandini Gooptu, The Politics of the Urban Poor in Early Twentieth Century India, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. ‘Some Papers Relating to the Fixation of Percentages in the Services’, ‘Communal Representation in the Services, including Railways, Anglo-Indians’, L/SG/7/31, OIOC. For details on this change, see B.B. Misra, District Administration and Rural Development in India: Policy Objectives and Administrative Change in Historical Perspective, Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1983, pp. 292–97. Sampurnand note, 18 April 1955, in ‘Creation of Posts of Deputy Superintendent of Police, Complaints’, Home Police (A) Box 76, File 402/55 UPSA. William Gould, ‘Congress Radicals and Hindu Militancy: Sampurnanand and Purushottam Das Tandon in the Politics of the United Provinces, 1930–47’ Modern Asian Studies, 36, 3, 2002, pp. 619–56. Report of the Backward Classes Commission, Vol. I (Simla, 1955), ‘Representation of Backward Classes in Government Services, Central and State’, pp. 125–45. ‘Representation from communal bodies regarding their representation in public services’, Appointments (B), Box 18, File 26/49, 1949 UPSA. ‘Notes and Orders’, Appointments (B), Box 28, File 159/1952 UPSA. ‘Government of India, Ministry of Home Affairs, 28 January 1952. Office memorandum, subject – Supplementary instructions with the orders on communal representation in the services’. Appointments (B), Box 28, File 159/1952 UPSA. In the majority of the interviews for this research, ex-IAS officers expressed the view

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91 92 93 94

Notes that political interference had been a defining and increasing characteristic of their careers through the 1950s and 1960s. This observation is supported by David Potter, India’s Political Administrators, pp. 152–58. ‘Interpretation of Scheduled Castes in Uttar Pradesh under the Constitution of India’, Appointments (B), Box 23, File 29/51, 1951 UPSA. Note by H.K. Tandon, 1 December 1952, Appointments, Box 28, File 159/1952 UPSA. ‘Interpretation of Scheduled Castes in Uttar Pradesh under the Constitution of India’, Appointments (B), Box 23, File 29/51, 1951 UPSA. ‘Resolution passed by the UP Kori Mahasabha’, in Appointments (B), Box 32, File 64/1953 UPSA. Extract from Hindustan Standard, Delhi, 1 August 1952, ‘Representation of Scheduled Castes and Tribes in Public Services’, Appointment (B), Box 28, File 159/1952 UPSA. Robert Wade, ‘The System of Administrative and Political Corruption: Canal Irrigation in South India’, Journal of Development Studies, 18, 3, 1982, p. 318. ‘Amendment of para. 1699 of Revenue Manual requiring inspecting authorities to see that there is not a preponderance of the persons of any one caste in tahsils’, Revenue (B), Box 155, File 126(B)/52. This kind of argument is also presented in Sudipta Kaviraj, ‘On State, Society and Discourse in India’, pp. 72–99.

4 Imagining corruption: languages and symbolism in administrative and police power in north India 1 Quoted in Guharpal Singh, ‘Corruption in Contemporary Indian Politics,’ in Paul Keyword, ed., Political Corruption. 2 Parry, ‘The Crisis of Corruption’. 3 Akhil Gupta, ‘Blurred Boundaries: The Discourse of Corruption’. Gupta clarifies his approach to state discourses in these terms: ‘Instead of treating corruption as a dysfunctional aspect of state organizations, I see it as a mechanism through which “the state” itself is discursively constituted’. Gupta sees this in terms of ‘the multilayered and pluricentric nature of the state’. 4 Akhil Gupta, ‘Blurred Boundaries: The Discourse of Corruption’, p. 381; Craig Jeffrey, ‘The Crisis of Corruption’, pp. 26–30. 5 Examples of this across north India can be found in the papers of civil servants held at the Centre of South Asian Studies, Cambridge: H.J. Frampton, F.G. Cracknell, A. Clow, Barkeley Smith Papers, for UP; H.L.L. Allanson, ICS officer in Bihar and and Orissa, between 1912 and 1928; M. Darling, William Cowley, A.J.V. Arthur and J. Anderson papers, for the Punjab, for the period of 1918 to 1947; M.L. Ferrar, J.T.D. Donnova, F.O. Bell, and E.B.H. Baker for Bengal. 6 Michael Carritt, A Mole in the Crown: Memories of a British Official in India Who Worked with the Communist Underground in the 1930s, Hove: 1985, pp. 53–55. 7 Ibid. 8 Philip Mason, The Men Who Ruled India, Abridged edition, London: W.W. Norton and Co., 1985, p. 381. 9 Carritt, A Mole in the Crown, pp. 61–65. 10 Ibid. 11 ‘Government servant conduct rules’ Box 158, File 749/1927 UPSA; ‘Government Servants’ Conduct Rules’ AICC Papers, Election matters and parliamentary files ‘PG’, File 2941/1960, NMML. 12 Interview with C.R. Arun, IPS (1965), Lucknow, 24 January 2008. 13 Parry looks at this morality surrounding ceremonial gifting and bribery in ‘The Crisis of Corruption’, pp. 16–17.

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Notes 189 14 For example, T.S. Subramanian discussed how, when posted to Moradabad in 1962, he was guided in this respect by a sub-divisional magistrate, who advised him never to commit his position to writing on issues of importance. T.S. Subramanian, Travels in Netaland and Babudom, pp. 4–6. 15 Oral interview with Eugene Pierce, MSS.EUR.T52, OIOC, pp. 19–21. 16 Ibid. p. 24 17 G.B. Lambert, Chief Secretary to the Government, to all Commissioners of Divisions, UP, Allahabad, 2 July 1926, in ‘Confidential GO of July 2 1926 addressed to all Commissioners of Divisions, in which instructions were issued to them for the eradication of the evil of corruption from the public services’, Appointments, Box 224, File 859/1937 UPSA. 18 Commissioner, Agra Division to C.W. Gwynne, 3 April 1937, ‘Presentation of certain articles by the Raja of Mursan to the Collector, Aligarh, on the occasion of his marriage’ Appointments, Box 223, File 532/1937 UPSA. 19 ‘Government servant conduct rules’ Box 158, File 749/1927 UPSA. 20 H. Bomford, Chief Secretary to UP Government to Commissioners and District Officers, 8 September 1936 in ‘Confidential rolls of officers and the bribery evils’ Appointments Department, Box 216, File 569/1936 UPSA. 21 R.A. Horton to Bomford, 17 August 1936 in ‘Confidential rolls of officers and the bribery evils’ Appointments Department, Box 216, File 569/1936 UPSA. 22 Premchand, Godaan, p. 13. 23 Munshi Premchand, Sevasadan, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005, translated by Snehal Shingavi, p. 1. 24 Thomas Williamson, East India Vade-Mecum, VOL I., London: Black, Parry and Kingsbury, 1810, p. 204. 25 This idea was acknowledged by European observers of markets in mid nineteenth century Calcutta, the most famous being J.H. Stocqueler Hand Book for India and Egypt, London: W. H. Allen and Co. 1841, p. 477. 26 Henry Yule, Hobson-Jobson: A Glossary of Colloquial Anglo-Indian Words and Phrases, and of Kindred Terms, Etymological, Historical, Geographical and Discursive, New edition edited by William Crooke, B.A., London: J. Murray, 1903, p. 334. 27 Edward Hamilton Aitken, Behind the Bungalow, London: Thacker, Spink and Co., 1889, p. 51. 28 See, for example, Zanzibar Gazette (1928) It is dasturi to do this and not dasturi to do that, and between the two the finicking path of conduct and action is mapped out with the extreme of accuracy . . . dasturi to the Englishman assumes almost the attributes of the Deity, p. 51, quoted from Garth Andrew Myers, ‘Sticks and Stones: Colonialism and Zanzibari Housing’, Africa: Journal of the International African Institute, 67, 2, 1997, 252–72. 29 Parry, ‘The Crisis of Corruption’, pp. 49–53. 30 See, for example, the annually compiled lists in ‘Exclusion from Government Service of persons on account of misconduct’, PWD (B), Box 967, File 9EG/1948 UPSA. 31 A.D. Gorwala, Report on Public Administration, p. 11. 32 Ibid. p. 12. 33 Ibid. pp. 13–15. 34 Ibid. p. 19. 35 Ibid. p. 18. 36 Interview with G (Anon), Lucknow, 3 April 2006. 37 Interview with Mr. Pelly by Prof. F de Caro and Rosan A Jordan, 012a, p. 6, Digitised Interviews, Centre of South Asian Studies, Cambridge.

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38 ‘Petition from Brij Bahadur Sahai of Etawah praying for his reinstatement’, Revenue (B) Box 188, File 702B/1946 UPSA. 39 HMR Note, Revenue (B), Box 188, File 702B/1946 UPSA. 40 Notes and Orders, ‘Minority Communities in UP’, Appointments, Box 162, File 477/1929, United Provinces State Archives, Lucknow UPSA. 41 In the mid 1930s, Joseph M. Clay was Finance Member to the Government of UP. 42 Notes of P. Mason, 23 November 1932, H. Bomford, 24 November 1932 and J.M. Clay, 24 November 1932, ‘Extract of notes from Municipal Department, file no. 252/1932, in ‘Canvassing by Govt. servants for their near relations for appointments under local boards’, Appointments, Box 186, File 303/1932 UPSA. 43 R.H. Williamson to J.M. Clay, 15 October 1935, ‘Regarding Canvassing by relations or friends of Candidates for nomination from districts and divisions for appointment as Tahsildars, naib-tahsildars or sub-inspectors’, Appointments, Box 261, File 830/1935 UPSA. 44 Note on file, 4 June 1951, in ‘Complaints against Govt. Servants – Brij Raj Bahadur’, PWD (B), Box 927, File 76B/1949 UPSA. 45 ‘Amendment to the Service Rules of Tahsildars, Naib Tahsildars and Peshkars’, Revenue (B), Box 94, File 818/1947 UPSA. 46 B.N. Jha to all HoDs and Principal Heads of Offices, 15 May 1952, Revenue (B), Box 137, File 1252B/1949 UPSA. 47 Note of 17 November 1956, pp. 113. ‘Verification of character and antecedents of candidates under state employment’, Appointments, Box 295, File 321/1947 UPSA. 48 Ibid. 49 Note of 25 December 1960, ibid. 50 Aaj (Allahabad), 11 January 1948. 51 The Pioneer (Lucknow), 9 January 1948. 52 The Pioneer (Lucknow), 13 January 1948. 53 ‘Suchna Sanchaalan Vibhag’, cutting, 20 November 1948, held in Home Police (A), Box 26, File 4589/1948 UPSA. 54 For a detailed sense of the Hindi newspaper and publishing outputs from this period, see Francesca Orsini, Hindi Public Sphere. 55 Interview with J.N. Chaturvedi, IPS (1951), Dehra Dun, 25 October 2005. 56 Copy of letter no. PL-17(49) dated 24 December 1951, from the Deputy Secretary to the Government of India, Ministry of Labour, New Delhi to All State Governments. Subject ‘Abolition of Forced Labour’ ‘Increase in the number of carts etc used by SDOs’, Revenue B, Box 101, File 103B/1947 UPSA. 57 Interview with Y (Anon), Police Constable (1945), Lalpur, 11 November 2005. 58 Interview with A (Anon), Lalpur, 11 November 2005. 59 See Anthony Parel, Gandhi: Hind Swaraj and Other writings, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997, Introduction; Joseph Alter, Gandhi’s Body: Sex, Diet and the Politics of Indian Nationalism, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000. 60 The Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh is a militant Hindu nationalist organisation, founded in 1925. Members of the RSS were responsible for the assassination of M.K. Gandhi on 30 January 1948 and the organisation was subsequently banned for a short period of time. 61 ‘Exclusion from government service of persons on account of misconduct’, PWD(B), File 9EG/1948 UPSA. 62 ‘Annual Reports’ PWD, Box 933, File 10B/1948 UPSA. 63 Bhargava to Secretary to Government (secret), 17 June 1949, ‘Recruitment of tahsildars etc., for the vacancies for the calendar year 1949’. Revenue (B) Department, Box 55, File 115/48 UPSA. 64 D.D. Attra to the Secretary to the Government of UP in Public Works Department’, 8 May 1952. ‘Alleged contempt of court by officials in connection with the claims of D.D. Attra, Contractor’. PWD (E), Box 954, File 136 EBR/50 UPSA.

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Notes 191 65 Jonathan Spencer, ‘Collective Violence and Everyday Practice in Sri Lanka’, Modern Asian Studies, 24, 3, 1990, p. 617. 66 Paul Brass, The Politics of Northern India: 1937 to 2007, Vol. I: An Indian Political Life: Charan Singh and Congress Politics, 1937 to 1961, (Forthcoming), 2011. 67 Jonathan Spencer, ‘Collective Violence and Everyday Practice in Sri Lanka’, p. 617. 68 For discussion of positive and negative rights, see Stuart Corbridge and John Harriss, Reinventing India: Liberalization, Hindu Nationalism and Popular Democracy, Malden: Polity Press, 2000. pp. 203–5, 234. 69 Rajeswari Sunder Rajan, The Scandal of the State: Women, Law, and Citizenship in Postcolonial India, Durham: Duke University Press, 2003, p. 80. 70 Rita Menon and Kamla Bhasin – Borders and Boundaries: Women in India’s Partition, New Brunswick, Rutgers University Press, 1998, and Urvashi Butalia, The Other Side of Silence: Voices from the Partition of India, London: Hurst, 2000. 71 ‘Reporting of govt. charges of torture or ill treatment against police’. Police Department, Box 106, File 89/1911 UPSA. 72 David Arnold, ‘The Police and Colonial Control in South India’, Social Scientist, 4, 12, July 1976, 3–16. 73 ‘Making of enquires into the complaints of misconduct on the part of the police and the visit of the superior police officers at the scene of serious crime’ Police Box 109, File 228/1912 UPSA. 74 Denzil Ibbetson, A Glossary of the Castes and Tribes of the Punjab and North-West Frontier Province, Reprint, New Delhi: J. Jetley, 1990, p. 283. 75 Ray, Kahar Jati aur Varnavyavastha, quoted in William R. Pinch, Peasants and Monks in British India, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996, p. 111. 76 Findings of SP, H.G. Richardson, 31 March 1909, Police Department, Box 109, File 228/1912 UPSA. 77 Ibid. 78 Jonathan Spencer, ‘Collective Violence and Everyday Practice in Sri Lanka’, Modern Asian Studies, 24, 3 (1990), p. 617. 79 ‘A case of bribery in which a head constable and a constable of Jhansi were suspended’ Police, Box 281, File 1408/1939 UPSA. 80 Note of 2 April 1938, ‘A case of bribery in which a head constable and a constable of Jhansi were suspended’ Police, Box 281, File 1408/1939 UPSA. 81 Interview with RS (Anon), IPS (1962), Lucknow, 8 May 2008. 82 Confidential Note, Inspector CID, ‘A case of bribery in which a head constable and a constable of Jhansi were suspended’ Police, Box 281, File 1408/1939 UPSA. 83 Paul R. Brass, Forms of Collective Violence: Riots, Pogroms and Genocide in Modern India, Gurgaon: Three Essays Collective, 2006. 84 Home Police, Box 26, File 4589/1948‘cutting from various newspapers against police officers’ UPSA. 85 ‘Refugee demonstration in Lucknow’, National Herald (Lucknow), 21 January 1948, p. 3; ‘Bid to buy property at cheap rates: capitalists among refugees behind communal troubles’, ibid., p. 3. 86 National Herald, 28 March 1948. 87 Paul Brass, ‘The Partition of India and Retributive Genocide in India’, in Forms of Collective Violence, pp. 29–31. 88 Anoop Sundar Lal to Purushottam Das Tandon, 1 September 1947, Tandon Papers, File 301.,NAI. 89 ‘Note on the visit to Anandpur Mela’ 24 March 1948, Sarabhai to Nehru, KC Neogy, Lady Mountbatten, Rameshwari Nehru, Governor of East Punjab and Sardar Swaran Singh. Mridula Sarabhai Papers, File no. JN/1, 1947–48 ‘Communications to Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru (Prime Minister of India) by Mridula Sarabhai. Reel no. 1, NMML. 90 ‘Report of my visit to Agra on 21.10.1948’, Mridula Sarabhai, Reel no. 1, NMML.

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91 See, for example, the cases of Muslim police abduction reported in National Herald, 6 January 1948. 92 For a recent article looking at organisational culture in relation to corporate corruption, see Tim Hallett, ‘Symbolic Power and Organizational Culture’, Sociological Theory, 21, 2, 2003, pp. 128–49.

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5 The rise of anti-corruption: government servants and ‘citizens’, 1940–1952 1 ‘Government of the United Provinces, General Administration Department, 11 May 1938, Notification, Report of the Anti-Corruption Committee’’Report of the AntiCorruption Committee’, General Administration Department (hereafter GAD), Box 594, File 70/1938, Pt. III of file. 2 G.B. Lambert, Chief Secretary to the Government, to all Commissioners of Divisions, UP, Allahabad, 2 July 1926, in ‘Confidential GO of July 2 1926 addressed to all Commissioners of Divisions, in which instructions were issued to them for the eradication of the evil of corruption from the public services’, Appointments, Box 224, File 859/1937 UPSA. 3 Pre-1938 attempts to combat the problem of daaliis does appear to have been halfhearted. It was largely acknowledged that something like too much gift-giving was going on, especially in the police in 1936, but no proposals were made to remedy the problem. See ‘Confidential rolls of officers and the bribery evils’, Appointments, Box 216, File 569/1936 UPSA. 4 ‘Report of the Anti-Corruption Committee’, General Administration Department (hereafter GAD), Box 594, File 70/1938, Pt. III of file. 5 Maurice Hallett was the Governor of UP at the time of the report’s release, having moved from Bihar. He was later to acquire a notorious reputation as a ‘hardliner’ in the early 1940s. 6 Minute of M.G. Hallett, 24 June 1938, in ‘Report of the Anti-Corruption Committee’, GAD, Box 594, File 70/1938, Pt. I of file. 7 Ibid. 8 ‘JMC, 17.7.36’, ‘Confidential rolls of officers and the bribery evils’, Appointments Department, Box 216, File 569/1936 UPSA. 9 Ibid. 10 R.A. Horton to Bomford, 17 August 1936, ibid. 11 Ibid. 12 Minute of M.G. Hallett, 24 June 1938, in ‘Report of the Anti-Corruption Committee’, General Administration Department (hereafter GAD), Box 594, File 70/1938, Pt. I of file. 13 The members of the 1938 anti-corruption committee included Syed Abha Haider, MLC, R.S. Pandit, MLA, Shaikh Saiduddin Ahmad, MLA, Pandit Bishambhar Dayal Tripathi, MLA, H.G. Walford MLA and C.W. Gwynne. 14 Minute of M.G. Hallett, 24 June 1938, in ‘Report of the Anti-Corruption Committee’, General Administration Department (hereafter GAD), Box 594, File 70/1938, Pt. I of file. 15 See ‘Compulsory retirement of the official after completing the service of 25 years or attaining the age of 50 on the grounds of efficiency’, Revenue B, Box 121, File 1082B/1948 UPSA. 16 ‘Survey of the Working of the UP Government (1946–1951) Being a Report to the UP Congress Committee’ by Govind Ballabh Pant, 15 September 1951 in P.D. Tandon Papers, file 11, pp. 32–33, NAI. 17 ‘How to check corruption in the services’, by T.C. Gupta, National Herald, 8 January 1948, p. 6. 18 Ibid.

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Notes 193 19 ‘Copy of extract from letter dated 19 February 1970 from Sir George Pearce, former IGP, UP’, MSS.EUR.F.161/208, OIOC. 20 ‘Grant of special pay of Rs. 100 pm to Mr T.P. Bhalla, IP and Mr J Ferguson, M.C., IP, while holding the temporary post of Anti-Corruption Officer, United Provinces’. Home Department, F. 101/4/41 – Police, NAI. 21 ‘Copy of extract from letter dated 19 February 1970 from Sir George Pearce, former IGP, UP’, MSS.EUR.F.161/208, OIOC. 22 B.B. Misra, Government and Bureaucracy in India, pp. 273–75. 23 ‘Question in the Constituent Assembly by Prof. N.G. Ranga’, Ministry of Home Affairs SPE File no. 12/5/48, NAI. 24 In 1948 it was admitted that in some areas there were not enough special magistrates to deal with the sheer volume of work produced by the SPE. See, for example, ‘Appointment of special Magistrates to try SPE cases in Calcutta(case of SC Mittel)’, Ministry of Home Affairs, File no. 7/4/48, SPE NAI. 25 See ‘Method of investigation conducted by SPE in the corruption cases against Railway officers and the need of dealing with the ordinary cases departmentally’ Ministry of Home Affairs, File 37/29/50 – P II, NAI. 26 ‘Question in the Constituent Assembly by Prof. N.G. Ranga’, Ministry of Home Affairs SPE File no. 12/5/48, NAI. 27 ‘Request to the Press Information Bureau to accord publicity to convictions in SPE cases’ Ministry of Home Affairs, File no. 11/16/52 – P II, NAI. 28 ‘Question in the Constituent Assembly by Prof. N.G. Ranga’, Ministry of Home Affairs SPE File no. 12/5/48 NAI. 29 Ministry of Home Affairs Police II, File no. 37/27/49, NAI. 30 Aitizas-ud-Din, SPE, Government of Pakistan to T.A. Bambawale, 31.3.49, Ministry of Home Affairs Police II, File no. 37/27/49, NAI. 31 ‘Interrogation of certain persons at the request of the Govt of Pakistan in connection with their SPE cases’, Ministry of Home Affairs Police II, File no. 37/27/49, NAI. 32 ‘Question in the Constituent Assembly by Prof. N.G. Ranga’, Ministry of Home Affairs SPE File no. 12/5/48, NAI. 33 Throughout the period from 1948 to the mid 1950s, parliamentary questions to the Ministry of Home Affairs concerning ‘government servant corruption’, and the activities of the SPE were plentiful. In 1948, eight specific parliamentary questions concerning either government servant corruption or SPE successes appear in the indexes of the Ministry of Home Affairs; In 1949, 1950 and 1952, there were 9, 16 and 12 respectively. 34 ‘A Short Note on the History of the Police’, MSS.EUR.F.161/126, OIOC. 35 S.M. Farooq Qureshi (Rewari) to The Secretary Corruption Section, 9 January 1947 ‘Complaints regarding bribery and corruption’, Ministry of Home Affairs, File no. 34/1/47, SPE NAI. 36 Ch Sahib Ram, MLA, Punjab Legislative Assembly to V.B. Patel 10 April 1947. ‘Complaints regarding bribery and corruption’, Ministry of Home Affairs, File no. 34/1/47, SPE NAI. 37 V.D. Moray to Secr to Gov of Bombay, 12 April 1947, ‘Progress of the anti corruption work in the provinces’, Ministry of Home Affairs, SPE File no. 31/8/47 NAI. 38 ‘Question in the Legislative Assembly by Rohini Kumar Choudhuri regarding police officers deputed to provinces to detect cases of corruption and misappropriation by Government servants’ Home Department, File no. 40/1/46, SPE NAI. 39 See ‘Question in the Legislative Assembly by Ahmed E.H. Jaffer regarding number of Government servants tried and convicted of bribery’ Home Department, File no. 40/2/46, SPE NAI. 40 R.N. Phillips, 12 December 1950, ‘Enquiry into allegations against Shri D.R. Kohli and others’, Ministry of Home Affairs, File no. 22/10/50 – PII, NAI. 41 Railway Corruption Enquiry Committee. Report, Delhi: Government of India, 1955, p. 48.

194 42 43 44 45

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46

47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70

Notes Interview with RS, IPS (1962), Lucknow, 8 May 2008. Railway Corruption Enquiry Committee. Report, p. 35. Interview with C (Anon), PCS (1956), Lucknow, 29 October 2005. ‘Question of corruption and black marketing inside and outside Depts. (question by RK Sidhwa)’ Ministry of Home Affairs, File no. 1/23/47 Public (A) NAI. ‘Secret File: Note on the proposal to introduce a scheme to ensure prompt and effective action on complaints received against subordinate Government staff of all departments, including that of the police force.’, in ‘Creation of Posts of Deputy Superintendent of Police. Complaints’, Home Police (A), Box 76, File 402/55 UPSA. ‘Note for the Council of Ministers’, Home Police (A), Box 76, File 402/55 UPSA. Note of 21 May 1955, Home Police (A), Box 76, File 402/55 UPSA. Note U.S. (B), 16 April 1957, Home Police (A), Box 76, File 402/55 UPSA. H.K. Kerr to B.L. Chak IAS, February 1957, in Home Police (A), Box 76, File 402/55 UPSA. Report of the Disciplinary Proceedings Inquiry Committee, Lucknow: Government of India Press, 1954, p. 3. B.B. Misra, Government and Bureaucracy, pp. 281–83. Ibid. p. 19. Ibid. p. 29. Report of the Sub-Committee appointed by the Disciplinary Proceedings Inquiry Committee to make recommendations for combating inefficiency and corruption in government administration, Lucknow: Government of Uttar Pradesh, 1953, p. 13. Ibid. pp. 15–20. ‘Measures to Fight Corruption: Pant’s Discussion with District Committees’, National Herald (Lucknow), 16 April 1951, p. 3. ‘Letter from Sri Q.M. Ahmad, Under Secretary to Government, UP to all District Magistrates’, 16 July 1955. Subject: ‘District Anti-Corruption Committees’, in Home Police (A), Box 76, File 402/55 UPSA. Report of the Disciplinary Proceedings Inquiry Committee, p. 4. The Santhanam Committee proposed the simplification of government servant conduct rules in 1964, with just one set of Discipline and Appeal Rules. Note of A.N. Jha, 18 August 1954, in ‘Government Servants’ Conduct Rules: Revision Of’, Appointments Department, Box 29, File 118/1954 UPSA. ‘The Government Servant Conduct Rules: Applicable to Services other than those under the control of the Secretary of State for India’, pp. 2–3, Appointments Department, Box 29, File 118/1954 UPSA. Ibid. p. 4. A.N. Jha, Chief Secr to Government to All Heads of Departments, Principal Heads of Offices etc. 26 October 1956, ‘Government Servants Conduct Rules’, Irrigation (A), Box 2, File 298B/1949 UPSA. ‘A Look at CBI’s Functioning: Connivance, Convenience and Corruption’, Tribune (Chandigarh), 14 December, 1999. See C.D. Deshmukh, Report of the Study Team on Machinery of the Government of India And its Procedures of Work, Administrative Reforms Commission, New Delhi: Government of India, 1968. ‘Probity in Governance’, in ‘Combating Corruption’ – Seminar held at the Lal Bahadur Shastri Academy of Administration, 10 October 2004. This was the perception, at least, of those who assisted in the compilation of the Santhanam Anti Corruption Enquiry Report. Stanley Kochanek, Business and Politics in India, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974. Gopalakrishnan, Fourth Report of the Commissioner for Finance and Re-organisation (District Administration), Lucknow: Government of Uttar Pradesh, 1950. Ibid.

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Notes 195 71 Interview with P.C. Kakker, IPS (1953), Lucknow, 10 April 2008. 72 Yasmin Khan, ‘India Divided : State and Society in the Aftermath of Partition : The Case of Uttar Pradesh, 1946–52’, Unpublished PhD dissertation, University of Oxford, 2005, p. 139. 73 Food and Civil Supply, Box 40, File 167/1946, UP Foodgrains Provisioning Order. 74 Foodgrains CO, 1943; Flour, Rice and Dal Mills CO 1943; Foodgrains (Movement) CO, 1943; Foodgrains Supplementary (Movement) CO, 1943; Poultry (Movement) CO, 1943; Sheep, Goats and Pigs (Movement) CO, 1943;Ghee (Movement) CO, 1944; Fish (Movement) CO, 1944; Fruit CO, 1944; Vegetable (Movement) CO, 1944; Cattle, Sheep and Goats (Slaughter) CO, 1943; Regulation of Local Purchase CO, 1944; Gur CO, 1943; Foodgrains Distribution Order, 1943; Starch Manufacturing CO, 1943; Restriction of Foodgrains Purchase Order, 1944. 75 Question by R.K. Sidhwa about corruption and black-marketing inside and outside departments’, Ministry of Home Affairs, File no. 1/23/47 Public A, NAI. 76 Letter issued to All Provinces from the Secretary of GOI (ICS). Subject: tightening up of legal enforcement of all Food Control and Rationing Orders. Ministry of Home Affairs, File no. 1/23/47 Public A, NAI. 77 ‘Note AGS, 3 August 1944’, ‘Supply of Foodgrains to Ordnance depots’ in Food and Civil Supply, Box 36, File 178/48 UPSA. 78 ‘One more rationing employee suspended’, National Herald (Lucknow), 7 January 1948. 79 ‘Inspection note of Commissioner, Gorakhpur Division, 29 January 1944’. Food and Civil Supply, ‘Commissioner’s Conference at Government House to discuss the supply situation’, Box 37, File 974/43 UPSA. 80 ‘Alleged extortion from cartmen’, National Herald (Lucknow), 13 January 1948, p. 4. 81 L.P. Hancox, Secretary to the Government of India, 30 September 1943, ‘Commissioner’s Conference at Government House to discuss the supply situation’, Box 37, File 974/43 UPSA. 82 See also ‘Foodgrains Decontrol’, National Herald (Lucknow), 9 January 1948, p. 4. This leading article discussed the question of an acceptable minimum wage at which a working family should be allowed to continue to receive ration cards after derationing. 83 See for example, ‘Who Gains from Cloth Decontrol?’ Magazine section, National Herald, 11 April 1948, p. 2. 84 Jawaharlal Nehru to Pant, 13/4/51, Pant Papers, reel 1, NMML. 85 Jawaharlal Nehru to Pant, 8/2/1952, ‘Secret Note’, Pant Papers, reel 1, NMML. 86 Interview with R.K. Trivedi (Lucknow), PCS/ICS (1943), 30 October 2005. 87 Note of Bharat Narain, 29 January 1950, ‘Rules to Regulate inquiries into the conduct of Government servants under the Rule making control of the Secretary of State’ Appointments Department, Box 247, File 641/1941 UPSA. 88 ‘Office Memorandum, JD Banks (For Commissioner) to Hony Secr, Beopar Mandal, Dehra Dun’, ibid. 89 ‘Hony Secretary of Beopar Mandal, Chowk Bazar, Dehra Dun, 3 October 1946 to Commissioner for Rationing and Civil Supplies, UP, Lucknow’. ‘Foodgrains Control Order’, Food and Civil Supply, Box 34, File 135/43 UPSA. 90 For example, ‘In the Court of Civil Judge, Aligarh. Pauper Suit no. 11 of 1956. Radha Kishan s/o Jai Narain, partner of Firm Radha-Kishan Sannamal, a present residing in Lachmi Narayan Temple Daughali, Goberdhan District Mathura – Plaintiff Versus 1. The State of Uttar Pradesh, summons to be served on Secretary to Ministry of Food and Civil Supplies, Uttar Pradesh, Luknow. 2. Shri Bhaskar Rao Sharma, at present District Supply Officer, Kanpur’ in Personal file of B.R. Sharma, FCS, Box 6, File 155/44 UPSA. 91 The United Provinces Food Consumption Restriction Order 1948, Food and Civil Supply, Box 60, File 120/1948 UPSA.

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92 Citizen Weekly, (Kanpur), 12 February 1949. 93 Residents of Agra to Minister for Food and Civil Supply, 27 August 1950, in ‘Sri H.G. Jhangiani ASO Agra (Personal File)’Food and Civil Supply Box 24, File 629/49 UPSA. 94 Ganga Prasad Gupta, President of Dist Samaj Sahayak Sangh to Hon’ble Minister for Justice and Civil supplies, Uttar Pradesh, 18 August 1958. ‘Sri S.S. Tandon, personal file of’ FCS, Box 5, File 141/44 UPSA. 95 B.R. Sharma, to the District Magistrate, Jalaun, 19 April 1944, ‘personal file of B.R. Sharma’ Food and Civil Supply, Box 6, File 155/44 UPSA. 96 Reference note of Hari Shanker Civil Judge, Etawah. 21 December 1936 and Vice President DCC, Raj Bahadur Sinh, Zila Congress Pres, Faizabad, D. Sharma and three others, to Minister for Civil Supplies, Uttar Pradesh, 30 November 1960. ibid. 97 G.N. Tiwari, Ex AFGI, Allahabad, June 1954. Personal file of B.R. Sharma, FCS, Box 6, File 155/44 UPSA. 98 ‘Personal file of K.S. Sirohi’, Food and Civil Supply, Box 12, File 864/45 UPSA. 99 ‘Representation regarding R.S. Jouhri character roll, personal file Food and Civil Supply’, Box 14, File 839(P)/45 UPSA. 100 Sultan Ahmad to C.H. Crooke, ‘Prohibition of Government Servants from taking part in elections’, Appointments, Box 260, File 861/1945 UPSA. 101 Extract from F and C S (C) Deptt. File no. 1140/1951 reg. Embezzlement in Town Rationing Office (Issues) Allahabad, Shyam Bahadur Singh Visen DSO/TRO (personal file of), FCS Box 24, File 619/49 UPSA. 102 ‘Report of inspection on the quantity accounts of the office of the Dy Town Rationing Officer (Issue), Allahabad for the period from April 1, 1950 to December 31, 1951’ ‘Embezzlement in TRO Office, Allahabad’, Rent Control C, Box 2, File 1140/1951 UPSA. 103 Kanhaiya Lal Sharma, Rajkiya Press Mazdoor Sangh to GB Pant, 30 Jan 1961, in ‘Sri Saraswati Prasad, personal file’, FCS, Box 13, File 960/45 UPSA. 104 Parvatiya, 15 March 1956. 105 D.O. No. 38/ST-59 (DSO), 30/3/59, ‘Personal file of K.S. Sirohi’, Food and Civil Supply, Box 12, File 864/45 UPSA. 106 ‘Members of DSO staff – complaint’ 14 May 1955, ‘Personal File of Sri Syed Ahmed’, Food and Civil Supply, Box 21, File 791/45 UPSA. 107 Jagnnath Prasad Srivastava, to Minister for Food and Supplies, 13 September 1950; 11 October, ‘Mr Mohammad Izharul Haq (personal file)’, Food and Civil Supply, Box 20, File 734/45 UPSA. 108 D.O. No. 309/ST, 6/5/59 from DM, Jhansi ‘Appointment of Sir Syed Mohd Hasan Khan Nawab, DSO/TRO’ Food and Civil Supply, Box 14, File 964/45 UPSA. 109 Amar Chand, District Congress worker to the Chief Minister, UP, Lucknow, ‘Complaint against Sri SMH Khan Nawab, District Supply Officer Hamirpur’, 14 July 1952, ‘Appointment of Sir Syed Mohd Hasan Khan Nawab, DSO/TRO’ Food and Civil Supply, Box 14, File 964/45 UPSA. 110 Confidential letter, dated 9 July 1953, from DM, Allahabad, ‘Embezzlement in TRO Office, Allahabad’, Rent Control C, Box 2, File 1140/1951 UPSA. 111 ‘Report of cases’ 25 January 1950, in ‘Compulsory retirement of the official after completing the service of 25 years or attaining the age of 50 on the grounds of efficiency’, Revenue B, Box 121, File 1082B/1948 UPSA. 112 The Hind Rakshak Dal was a Hindu ‘defence’ organisation set up by Tandon in the lead up to independence. It received the support of local institutions of the Hindu right in UP, as well as a range of Congress organisations. See William Gould, Hindu Nationalism and the Language of Politics, Chapter 5. 113 From refugees at Saharanpur, Mangal Sen, Chimman Lal Sharma, Bhagwan Das, Vali Ram, Divan Chand – Punjabis to PD Tandon, 9 November 1947 No. 184. Tandon Papers, File 301, NAI.

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Notes 197 114 The representative of the Sindhi Hindu Refugee Panchayat, Jaipur, Durgapur Camp, Gopaldas H Ladhani, Congress Social Worker to PD Tandon 29 January 1950, Tandon Papers, File 301, NAI. 115 ‘Refugee demonstration in Lucknow’, National Herald (Lucknow), 21 January 1948, p. 3; ‘Bid to buy property at cheap rates: capitalists among refugees behind communal troubles’, ibid. p. 3. 116 V.D. Dantyagi to Bhagwan Sahay, 27 August 1949, ‘Administration of Evacuee Property in UP – Method and Tracing out’ Relief and Rehabilitation, Box 41, File 552/49 UPSA. 117 Interview with R.K. Trivedi (Lucknow), 30 October 2005; Interview with K.L. Gupta (Azamgarh), 30 March 2008. 118 The most thorough and interesting study was carried out by Robert Wade, but the subject enters most studies of ‘corruption’ in South Asia. Wade, R. ‘The System of Administrative and Political Corruption: Canal Irrigation in South India’ Journal of Development Studies, No. 18 (1982), pp. 287–328. See also, for example, Akhil Gupta, ‘Blurred Boundaries: The Discourse of Corruption, the Culture of Politics, and the Imagined State’ in American Ethnologist, Vol. 22, No. 2., (May 1995), Craig Jeffrey, ‘“A Fist is Stronger than Five Fingers”: Caste and Dominance in Rural North India’ Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 25, 2, 2001, pp. 1–30. 119 See Chandavarkar, ‘Customs of Governance’, pp. 8–9. 120 The patron–client links between politicians and locally powerful men, or middlemen, has been described in relation to the political process in early independent India by Paul Brass, ‘National Power and Local Politics in India: A Twenty Year Perspective’, Modern Asian Studies, 18, 1, 1984, pp. 89–118. 121 ‘Complaints against government servants – Brij Raj Bahadur’, PWD (B), Box 927, File 76B/1949 UPSA. 122 ‘Alleged contempt of court by officials in connection with the claims of D.D. Attra, Contractor’, PWD (E), Box 954, File 136 EBR/50. 123 Interview with MN (Anon), PCS (1963), Lucknow, 30 October 2005. 124 I.J. Johnson, ICS to A.D. Pandit, ICS, Secretary to Government, PWD, 15 October 1949, ‘Inquiry into a conspiracy between Daleep Singh Contractor and certain PWD officials of Banda, in connexion with black-marketting [sic] in cement’, PWD (B), Box 915, File 122, BBR/1949 UPSA. 125 ‘Inquiry into a conspiracy between Daleep Singh Contractor and certain PWD officials of Banda, in connexion with black-marketting in cement’, PWD (B), Box 915, File 122, BBR/1949 UPSA. 126 ‘List of persons debarred from Government Service for the period from 30 June 1950 to 30 June 1951’, ‘Exclusion of persons from government service on account of misconduct’, PWD (B), Box 967, File 9EG/1948 UPSA. 127 ‘List of persons debarred from Government Service for the period from 30 June 1951 to 30 June 1952’, ‘Exclusion of persons from government service on account of misconduct’, PWD (B), Box 967, File 9EG/1948 UPSA. 128 Office Order, 30 January 1950, A.D. Pandit, ‘Government Servants Conduct Rules’, Irrigation (A), Box 2, File 298B/1949 UPSA. 129 Jonathan Parry, ‘The Crisis of Corruption’ pp. 27–55. 130 Interview with J.N. Chaturvedi, IPS (1951), Dehra Dun, 25 October 2005. 131 Ibid. 132 Ibid. 133 ‘Appeal against the candidature of Shri Saroop Krishna Bhatnagar’, AICC Papers, Election Files, File 4650/51, NMML. 134 Paul Brass, An Indian Political Life, Chapter 9.

198

Notes

6 The bureaucracy, police and political change: maintaining the ‘steel frame’ in the 1950s and 1960s 1 2 3 4

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5 6 7 8

9 10 11

12 13 14 15 16

17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

V.N. Rai, Shahar Mein Curfew, Delhi: Sahitya Upkram, 1988. Interview with V.N. Rai (Lucknow), 23 February 2008. The Leader (Allahabad), 26 May 1949. ‘Question whether a government servant who resigns his appointment for political reasons may be allowed to do so or shd. he be dismissed instead of accepting his resignation’, Home Department, Public File No. 50/5/1930, NAI. G.B. Pant to H.J. Frampton, 16 November 1945, in ‘Prohibition of Government Servants from taking part in elections’, Appointments, Box 260, File 861/1945 UPSA. ‘Resolution of the District Congress Working Committee, Bulandshahr, 3 December 1945’, Ibid. ‘Prohibition of Government Servants from taking part in elections’, Appointments, Box 260, File 861/1945 UPSA. Zoya Hasan, Dominance and Mobilisation: Rural Politics in Western Uttar Pradesh, 1930–1980, New Delhi: Sage Publications, 1989; Harold Gould, Grass Roots Politics: A Century of Political Evolution in Faizabad District, New Delhi: South Asia Books, 1994. Paul Brass, Factional Politics in an Indian State: The Congress Party in Uttar Pradesh, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1965. Mushirul Hasan, Legacy of a Divided Nation: India’s Muslims since Independence, Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1997; Christophe Jaffrelot, India’s Silent Revolution. This presentation of the first two decades of independent UP was echoed by most of our interviewees for this research, who claimed that the most significant political and administrative changes took place from around the late 1960s. For example, Interview with C.R. Arun IPS (1965), Lucknow, 24 January 2008. David Potter, India’s Political Administrators, pp. 158–61. Paul Brass, Factional Politics, pp. 27–30. Ibid. pp. 33–61. Although this has been most clearly illustrated in the work of Paul Brass, it is also clearly evident in specific district studies, such as Zoya Hasan, Dominance and Mobilisation. A recent exception to this example is that of Paul Brass, An Indian Political Life. There has been a lot of work on contemporary Indian governance, some of which relates back to the 1950s and 1960s, see for example, Subrata K. Mitra, The Puzzle of India’s Governance. Kothari and Roy, Relations Between Politicians and Administrators, New Delhi: Indian Institute of Public Administration, 1969, pp. 40–45. Ibid. p. 46. Ibid. pp. 53–54. Ibid. p. 57. David Potter, India’s Political Administrators, p. 158. For example, Interview with P.K. Kaul, IAS (1951), Noida, 4 August 2004; Interview with D (Anon), IPS (1965), 25 January 2008. Lloyd I. Rudolph and Susanne Hoeber Rudolph, In Pursuit of Lakshmi, pp. 77–78. Subrata Mitra, The Puzzle of India’s Governance, pp. 188–92. For example, Agriculture, Irrigation, Power, Financial Resources, Village and Small Industries, Education, Health, Housing and Urban Development, Social Welfare and Backward Classes, Transport and Communications. P.N. Masaldan, Planning in Uttar Pradesh: A Study of Coordination of Planning at State Level in UP, Bombay: Government of India, 1962, pp. 12–16.

Notes 199 27 28 29 30 31

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32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

44 45 46 47 48 49

50 51 52 53

54

Ibid. p. 15. Ibid. p. 19. Ibid. pp. 24–25. Interview with T.N. Dhar, IAS, Lucknow, 2 February 2008. Commission on District Level Administration. Report, Vol. 1, August 1986, p. 2. Accessed at Indira Bhavan, Lucknow. Ibid. pp. 48–53. Ibid. p. 79. The Pioneer (Lucknow), 23 September 1954. Ibid. See also, ‘Participation of Govt Officers in Politics and Elections’ AICC Papers, Election Matters and Parliamentary Affairs Files (P.G.), File 2761, NMML. Commission on District Level Administration. Report, Vol. 1, August 1986, p. 67. Indira Bhavan, Lucknow. Ibid. p. 68. Ibid. p. 69. Ibid., p. 71. Interview with P.K. Kaul, IAS (1951), 4 August 2004. Interview with BR (Anon), ICS, Noida, 4 August 2004. B.D. Tewari, Deputy Secretary, 1 November 1954, Government Servants Conduct Rules – Proposing or seconding of candidates of persons for election to Legislative bodies by Government servants in violation of – Fundamental rights vis-à-vis rules regulating conduct and other conditions of service of Government servants – Attorney General’s opinion. Min of Home Affairs, File no. 25/59/52–Ests. (A) NAI. ‘Extracts from the progs. of the Commissioner’s Conference held at Naini Tal, 11/6/36’, Appointment Department, Box 215, File 224/1936 UPSA. Ibid. Rudolph and Rudolph, pp. 74–75. David Potter, India’s Political Administrators, p. 158. Ibid. pp. 168–70. Commissioner, Allahabad, Kunwar Maharaj Singh to Jagdish Prasad, 9 May 1930. ‘Excluding Candidates who are in sympathy with civil disobedience movement from appointment to service under the local government’ General Administration Department, Box 515, File 241/1930 UPSA. For details of the often comic surveillance of student applicants, see ‘ICS Examination 1937, exclusion of undesirables’, L/SG/7/147 OIOC and ‘Indian Candidates: Report of Selection Committee’, L/SG/7/185 col. 3/42/C/A OIOC. ‘Grants of land revenue to Indian officers of the Army for distinguished services rendered during the great war’. Revenue Department, Box 964, File 375/1920 UPSA. R.B. Saksena, 17.8.33, in ‘Grant of Sanads as a reward for good work’ General Administration Department, GAD, Box 530, File 168/1932 UPSA. Commissioner, Allahabad, Kunwar Maharaj Singh to Jagdish Prasad, 9 May 1930 ‘Excluding Candidates who are in sympathy with civil disobedience movement from appointment to service under the local government’ General Administration Department, Box 515, File 241/1930 UPSA. See, for example, the focus on even lower-level clerks in the central and provincial governments, who had connections to the Communist Party or similar organisations: Action against government servants under the civil service (safeguarding of national security) rules against Mr S A Pradhan, a temporary Lower Division Clerk in the Officer of the Textile Commissioner, for his alleged association with Communist activities’, Ministry of Home Affairs, File No. 23/31 1950 – Ests. NAI; ‘Disciplinary Action against Mr Ravinder Nath Ghosh, a tempy. U.D. Clerk in the Officer of the Regional Commissioner of Disposals for involvement in Communist activities. Ministry of Home Affairs, File No. 23/47 1950 – Ests. NAI.

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55 For example, ‘Departmental action against Mr Kashmiri lal Sharma, for his alleged participation in the RSS, under the civil service (safeguarding of national security) rules’ Ministry of Home Affairs, File No. 23/23 1950 – Ests.; and ‘Exclusion from government service and question whether participation in the RSS should debar a candidate from employment under government’ Ministry of Home Affairs, File No. 611950 – CS, NAI. 56 For 1950 and 1951, the Establishments section of the Ministry of Home Affairs produced dozens of case files on Muslim government servants who had initially migrated to Pakistan, but then finally opted for India. See, for example, ‘Government servants whose families are staying in Pakistan’, Ministry of Home Affairs, File No. 25/56 1950 – Ests. NAI. Unfortunately, a large proportion of these files are no longer available, and have been destroyed or not transferred for public viewing. 57 Ministry of Home Affairs, Officer Memorandum, 28 November 1949, ‘Government Servants Conduct Rules’, Irrigation (A) 2, File no. 298-B/1949 UPSA. 58 This formed the subject of discussion in ‘Disciplinary cases against employees charged with corrupt practices – procedure for speeding disposal of’, Ministry of Home Affairs, File No. 39/18/48 – Ests. NAI. 59 For example, ‘Statement showing the activities of the anti-corruption department in the Province of UP for the quarter ending 31 March 1950’ from N.S. Saksena, IP, Superintendent of Police, CID, UP, Lucknow, in ‘Periodical Reports on the Activities of anti-corruption police in States for the quarter ending 31st March 1950’ Ministry of Home Affairs, File No. 37/38/50 – P II NAI. 60 This was also made clear in our interviews, for example, Interview with Shariq Alavi, IPS (1959), Lucknow, 28 October 2005. 61 ‘Embezzlement in the office of the SDO Mohanlalganj’, Revenue (C), Box 54, File 90C/49 UPSA. Also, see for example, ‘Embezzlement in the TRO Office, Allahabad’, Rent Control (C), Box 2, File 1140/51 UPSA; ‘Embezzlements by Shiam Behari Lal, police accountant’, Police Box 157, File 117/1925 UPSA. 62 Letter to Chief Engineer, B and R, Irrigation, Food Development, 31 January 1950, ‘Government Servants Conduct Rules’, Irrigation (A) 2, 298-B/1949 UPSA. 63 Government Servants Conduct Rules – Proposing or seconding of candidates of persons for election to Legislative bodies by Government servants in violation of – Fundamental rights vis-à-vis rules regulating conduct and other conditions of service of Government servants – Attorney General’s opinion. Ministry of Home Affairs, File no. 25/59/52 – Ests. (A) NAI. 64 B.B. Misra, Government and Bureaucracy, pp. 95–96. 65 For more detail on this process, see Vazira Zamindar, The Long Partition. 66 Ghanashyam J. Shivdasani, Hon Secretary of the Congress Central Relief Committee to Sardar Vallabhai, 18 April 1950, ‘Government servants whose family are in Pakistan. Congress Central Relief Committee ref.’ Ministry of Home Affairs, File No. 43/10/50 – Ests. NAI. 67 ‘Ministry of Home Affairs Establishments section. S1. No. 1 (Receipt) PUC’, ‘Government servants whose family are in Pakistan. Congress Central Relief Committee ref.’ Ministry of Home Affairs, File No. 43/10/50 – Ests. NAI. 68 Copy of letter, dated 12 August 1953 from the evacuee property UP Lucknow to the District Magistrate (DM), Gorakhpur, in ‘Embezzlement of Sri Nazarul Hasan in the Gorakhpur Collectorate’, Revenue (B), Box 131, File 71B/51 UPSA. 69 See, for example, Ram Sahay, ‘Communal Riots in Allahabad’, in IIPA: Experiences and Thoughts of Senior Administrators, Lucknow: The Indian Institute of Public Administration, UP Regional Branch, n.d., pp. 14–15. IIPA; S.C. Singha, ‘Random Thoughts’, in ibid.. pp. 22–23, IIPA. 70 Interview with M. Subramanyam, Lucknow, 19 March 2005. 71 B.K. Misra, ‘The Superior Administrative Class in India’, IIPA: Experiences and Thoughts, pp. 32–33, IIPA.

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Notes 201 72 Ashwini Kumar, ‘Administrative Serfdom’, IIPA: Experiences and Thoughts, pp. 27–30, IIPA. 73 Paul Brass has suggested that from 1951, the two main political extremes were removed from the Congress in UP – from 1948, the Socialists were removed from the party and in 1951, the Hindu right was electorally defeated. See, Paul R. Brass, ‘Factionalism and the Congress Party in Uttar Pradesh’, Asian Survey, 4, 9, September 1964, 1037–47. 74 See Rajni Kothari, ‘The Congress ‘system’ in India’, Asian Survey, 4, 12, December 1964, 1161–73. 75 The best early examples of this for UP can be seen in Paul Brass, Factionalism in an India State and Harold Gould, Grass Roots Politics. 76 Paul Brass, An Indian Political Life. 77 Brass, Factionalism in an Indian State, pp. 43–44. 78 ‘Black-Market in Free Sugar: Adjournment Motion Ruled Out’, National Herald (Lucknow), 8 April 1951, p. 1. 79 ‘Increased Quota of Foodgrains to States not Possible: We are Struggling hard, says Munshi’, National Herald (Lucknow), 8 April 1951, p. 4. 80 ‘Extension of Grow More Food’, National Herald (Lucknow), 7 April 1951, p. 4. 81 Ibid. 82 ‘Mike War in City Park at Close of National Week: Triloki Accuses while C B Gupta Extols Govt’, National Herald (Lucknow), 14 April 1951, p. 4. 83 Ibid. 84 Interview with Ram Advani, Lucknow, 15 December 2007. 85 C.B. Gupta to Jawaharlal Nehru, forwarded to Pant, 11 November 1951, Pant Papers, reel 1, NMML. 86 See ‘Personal File of Sri K.B. Misra, ARO’, FCS, Box 21, File 790/45 UPSA. 87 ‘MLAs asked not to frustrate Anti-Corruption Activity in Banaras’, National Herald (Lucknow), 7 January 1948, p. 8. 88 Paul R. Brass, ‘Factional Politics in India’, p. 1043. 89 ‘Appeal of Balkrishna Sharma’, in ‘Representations against Sri Chandra Bhan Gupta for selection to the State Assembly Elections’, AICC Papers, File 4709 1951, NMML. 90 Ibid. 91 Ibid. 92 Ibid. 93 S.N. Bose to Chairman of the Central Parliamentary Board, 5 November 1951,’Representations against Sri Chandra Bhan Gupta for selection to the State Assembly Elections’, AICC Papers, File 4709 1951, NMML. 94 B.D. Sanwal to S.N. Bose, 15 August 1946, ‘Representations against Sri Chandra Bhan Gupta for selection to the State Assembly Elections’, AICC Papers, File 4709 1951, NMML. 95 Interview with B.D. Sanwal (Lucknow), 11 November 2005. 96 Appeal of Balkrishna Sharma’, in ‘Representations against Sri Chandra Bhan Gupta for selection to the State Assembly Elections’, AICC Papers, File 4709 1951, NMML. 97 Paul Brass, Factional Politics, pp. 173–76. 98 See ‘Representations against Sri Ram Ratan Gupta for Hardoi District (North) in the State Assembly Elections’, AICC Papers, File no. 4674 1951, NMML. 99 The Hindustan Times, 12 November 1951; The Pioneer, 12 November 1951. 100 ‘Complaint against Cheda Lal MLA, Shahabad (East), Hardoi, from Bisheshwar Baksh Singh, (PCC) to Chairman Central Election Committee’, ‘Representations and Allegations in Hardoi’, AICC Papers, Election Files, File 4713B 1951, NMML. 101 Virendra Nath Misra, DCC, Hardoi, 28/2/51, and copy sent to Minister of Civil Supplies, UP, Lucknow. ‘Representations and Allegations in Hardoi’, AICC Papers, Election Files, File 4713B 1951, NMML.

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202

Notes

102 Virendra Nath Misra to AICC. ‘Representations and Allegations in Hardoi’, AICC Papers, Election Files, File 4713B 1951, NMML. 103 For detail on the connections between Shastri and Hindu nationalism, see William Gould, Hindu Nationalism and the Language of Politics, Chapter 5. 104 See, for example, the testimony of Representation of Yaduvir Singh, Tej Bahadur Singh, Umaro Singh, Shyam Bahadur Lal, Shripati Narain Jaswal, Faruque Nomani and Brij Bihari Misra, in ‘Representations against Algu Rai Shastri, Azamgarh district (East), cum Ballia district (West)’ AICC Papers, Election Files, File 4617A 1951, NMML. 105 Ibid. 106 Paul Brass, An Indian Political Life; Paul Brass, Factional Politics in an Indian State, pp. 139–43. 107 Ibid. pp. 149–50. 108 For details of these complaints, see ‘Allegation against the proposed candidature of Ch. Charan Singh from Bhagpat (west) of Meerut district’ AICC Papers, Election Files, File 4602, NMML. In response to the accusation that he was interested in packing Congress bodies with Jats, Charan Singh wrote to Pant on 14 November 1951, showing that whereas on the previous district board there were 13 or 14 Jat members out of 42 and there was a Jat chairman, in the present board there were 14 or 15 Jats out of 61, and that the chairman was a non-Jat. All the Jat members were described as ‘jail goers’. 109 ‘An Appeal against Ch. Mohan Singh for north east constituency (Bulandshahr)’, AICC Papers, Election Files, File 4652, NMML. 110 Representation from S.K. Sharma (gen sec of DCC) against Govind Sahai, for UP State Assembly election, in Najibabad (north), Bijnor, 12.11.51, in ‘Allegations against Govind Sahai’, AICC Papers, Election Files, File 4607, NMML. 111 Govind Sahai to Padmaja Naidu, 6 November 1951, ibid. 112 Representation from Tahsil Congree Committee of Najibabad, 7.11.51, ibid. 113 ‘Allegations against M.P.s and MLAs of UP’, AICC Papers, Election Files, File 4832 1956, NMML. 114 Sucheta Kripalani to G.L. Nanda, 10 February 1965. Sucheta Kripalani Papers, File 1, NMML. 115 Zaheer to Kripalani, 3 March 1965. Sucheta Kripalani Papers, File 1, NMML. 116 ‘Illegal Occupation of Land: Papers concerning Ch. Girdhari Lal, Minister, Irrigation’, Sucheta Kripalani Papers, File 2, NMML. 117 ‘Note’, ibid. 118 Ibid. 119 Complaint of Tukman Singh Chowdhry, Meerut, to Sucheta Kripalani, nd, ‘Illegal Occupation of Land: Papers concerning Sri Govind Sahai, ex-Minister’, Sucheta Kripalani Papers, File 3, NMML. 120 Ibid. 121 Ibid. 122 Interview with F, IPS (1955), Lucknow, 2 February 2008. Conclusion 1 Sunil Khilnani, The Idea of India, London: Penguin, 1999. 2 Interview with P.C. Kakker, IPS (1953), Lucknow, 10 April 2008. Kakker argued that the term ‘Haq banta hai’, in terms of ‘this right accrues to you’, no longer applied in UP, since rights were demanded without the exercise of social responsibilities and duties. 3 Interview with F (Anon), IPS (1955), 2 February 2008. 4 Interview with E (Anon), IPS (1964), 25 January 2008. 5 Interview with N (Anon), Lalpur, Hardoi, 28 March 2006. 6 Interview with L (Anon), Lalpur, Hardoi, 28 March 2006. 7 This was a characteristic of the Santhanam Committee Report for example in 1964, as we have seen throughout.

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Index

Adi Hindu Depressed Classes Association 62, 63, 64, 68, 185–6 Administrative Reforms Commission 41, 121, 147 Afghanistan 3–4 Agra 62, 64, 71, 85, 101–2, 123, 127 Aligarh 17, 64, 84, 94, 128, 144 All-India People’s Theatre Association 148 All-India Progressive Writers Association 148 All India Yadav Mahasabha 49 Allahabad 38, 63, 71, 100, 101, 123, 125, 127, 132, 144 Almora 50 Ambedkar, B.R. 49 anti-corruption committees 106, 109, 115, 118, 121, 171, 191 Appelby, Paul 41, 181 Appointments Department (UP) 33, 35, 37, 44, 45, 48, 50, 53, 58, 64, 67, 71–2, 75, 85, 86, 92, 107, 138 Arya Samaj 160 Assistant Collector (see also ‘Deputy Collector’) 33–4, 68 Awadh 52 Azamgarh 2, 158, 174 Backward Classes Commission (Kakasaheb Kalelkar) 49, 70, 73 Backward Classes Federation (UP) 50 Bahujan Samaj Party 167 bakshish 44, 80, 88 Ballia 37, 127 Banaras 101, 123, 127, 129, 156 Banda 132 Bara Banki 90, 124 Bareilly 67, 100, 101, 162 Basti 129, 138

begar 61, 64–6, 93 Bengal 28, 69 Bentham, Jeremy 9 bhrashtaachaar 91–2, 130, 170 Bihar 28, 50 Bijnor 160–2 black market 123–30, 152, 154–7, 158–62, 165 Block Development Officer 32, 70, 142, 144, 151–2 Bourdieu, Pierre 13, 103 bribery: general 4–5, 9, 15, 78, 89, 91, 109–10, 111, 115, 118, 168; for appointments and court decisions 34, 42, 89, 108, 118; prosecutions for 45–6, 94; ambiguities surrounding 82–6, 99, 170, 187; involving PWD 95, 118, 133, 144, 162; involving policemen 99–100, 108–9, 118, 137, 190; involving politicians 157–62 Budaun 65, 127, 156, 158 Bulandshahr 67, 94, 101, 130, 138, 161 Canal Department (UP) 90 Carritt, Michael 81–2 caste: general 22, 23, 48–76, 177–8, 182–7; ‘casteism’ 15, 36, 161, 171; reservations 30, 48–9, 50, 52–4, 60, 66, 69; and civil service/police recruitment 37, 40, 44, 48–76, 90, 169–70; ‘Scheduled Castes and Tribes’ 48–9, 58, 61, 62–4, 70–4, 184–7; violence against low castes 97–9 Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI) 50, 120, 133, 165 Central Vigilance Commission 5–6, 121, 174 character roll 91, 94

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Index

Charan Singh, Chaudhuri 17, 117, 143, 154, 160–1, 173, 200–1 Circle Inspector 45, 81, 100, 116 Civil Disobedience Movement (1930–4) 27, 53, 59, 108, 138, 147–8, 159 Civil Services (Classification, Control and Appeal) Rules 119 Collector see District Magistrate colonial ethnography 27, 71–3, 75–6, 169–70 Communal Award 48, 50–1, 53, 57, 58, 183–4 ‘communalism’/communal violence 33, 40, 96, 100, 101–2, 112, 129–30, 151, 152–3, 171, 183 communal lobby groups 51–2, 60–4, 68, 70–6, 120, 169–70, 183–5 communal reservations/proportions 45, 48–9, 53–60, 169, 183–4 Communist Party of India 148 Community Development Programme 69 Congress see Indian National Congress Constituent Assembly 123 Constitution of India 49, 70, 71, 117, 183 Co-operative Department (UP) 54 Crerar, Sir John 30 Curzon, George Nathaniel 91 daalii (gift) 15, 33–4, 35, 80, 82–5, 103, 106–7, 191 Dalal see middleman dasturi 80, 85–7, 88–9, 103, 170, 188 Dehra Dun 45 Delhi 19, 94, 101, 102, 111, 134 Delhi Special Police Establishment Act 111, 112 Deshmukh, Punjabrao 49 ‘Depressed Classes’ see caste: ‘Scheduled Castes and Tribes’ Deputy Collector 18, 34, 35–6, 37–8, 42, 43, 182; recruitment of 51, 56, 59–60, 89–90, 181; promotion of 122 Deputy Superintendent of Police 38, 45, 68, 182 Deputy Superintendent of Police (Complaints) 115–16 Disciplinary Proceedings Enquiry Committee (UP) 41, 116–18 District Magistrate: general 19, 40, 60, 81, 84, 85, 86–7, 98, 108–9, 146–7, 165–6; social authority 6, 32, 34–5, 89; and caste claims 72; and food control policies 125–30 District Officer see District Magistrate

District Rationing Officer (DRO) see Town Rationing Officer East India Company 10 Education Department (UP) 54 elections 139–40, 197–201; (1945–6) 67, 138–9; (1951–2) 51, 135, 149–50, 152, 170, 172–3, 197–201; (1957) 162–3; (1967) 17–18, 147, 173; local 95, 158 embezzlement: general 9, 15, 87, 94; in Allahabad 128, 129, 195; in Gorakhpur 151, 199 Emergency 12, 144, 151 Engineering Department (UP) 59 Esprit de corps 11, 24–30, 41–2, 57, 74, 76, 146 Etah 71, 95, 132 Etawah 89, 124, 127 evacuees 17, 122, 129–30, 150, 151, 166 ‘everyday state’ 13–14, 20, 52, 95, 98, 102–3, 120, 177, 183 Executive Engineer 45 family 24, 26–7, 30–8, 43, 56, 61, 69, 106, 108, 127, 148, 169, 178, 189 Farrukhabad 60, 67, 71, 138 feminists 54–5 First World War 37, 147 Five Year Plans 38, 69, 139 Food and Civil Supply (UP) 20, 104, 115, 123–30, 154–6, 161, 194–6 Food Consumption Restriction Order (UP) 126 food control 69, 82, 104–5, 109, 121–30, 154–6, 170, 194–6 Food Grains Control Order (UP) 123, 124, 126 Forest Department 56 Foucault, Michel 13, 14 Gandhi, Indira 12 Gandhi, M.K. 41, 60, 63, 92, 94, 138, 189 gender 24, 25–6, 51; and civil service recruitment 54–5, 57, 184; and violence 101–2 Ghazipur 45, 64 Girdhari Lal, Chaudhuri 163–4 Gorakhpur 35, 46, 124, 129, 151 Gorwala, A.D. 39 Gorwala Report 39–40, 47, 81, 87–8, 143, 181 Government of India Act (1935) 27, 48–9, 84, 105

Index 215

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Government Servants’ Classification and Control Rules 58 Government Servants’ Conduct Rules 35–6, 82, 85, 119–20, 146–7, 148, 149, 193, 197 Gupta, C. B. 17, 124–5, 140, 154, 155–6, 157–9, 151, 200–1 Gupta, Ram Ratan 126, 157, 158–9, 200–1 Gurgaon 94 Habermas, Jürgen 22 Haig, Harry 54, 108 Hailey, Malcolm 55, 60 Hallett, Sir Maurice 28, 37, 106–9, 135, 179, 191 Hamirpur 65, 71 Hardoi 65, 67, 93, 154, 159, 168 Hathras 71 Hindi 23, 70, 78, 80, 178: Hindi press 47, 80, 91–3 Hindu Mahasabha 53, 61–2, 68 Hindu Yuvak Sabha (Punjab) 62 Hyderabad 39 ‘illegal gratification’ 87, 94, 111, 115, 135 Indian Administrative Service (IAS): general 2, 4, 19, 117, 141, 168–9; Officers’ Association 2; retired officers 12, 30, 53, 151, 167–9, 176, 179; social/educational status 19, 23–4, 26, 30–2, 74, 92, 181; and politicians 53, 68, 130–1, 143–4, 147; and caste mobilisation 71 Indian Chamber of Commerce 5 Indian Civil Service (ICS): general 19, 41–4, 141, 178; history 6; educational background 11, 25; and social hierarchy 18, 19, 23–4, 26, 29, 30–2, 50, 71, 74, 81; protests against 27, 31–2; recruitment 27–9, 147, 179; ideals of integrity 42–3, 47, 82, 84, 89–90, 117, 130–1, 168–9, 181–2; and partition/independence 122, 150–1 Indian Institute of Public Administration 19, 20, 40, 140, 143, 179–80, 181 Indian National Congress: general 18, 153–4; protests against civil services 27–8, 41, 108, 129, 145, 149, 153, 170; and caste mobilisation 50, 73; anti-colonial mobilisation 53, 62, 116–7; Ministry in UP (1938–9) 64, 99, 105–9; and elections 67, 135, 139–40; and food control policies 124–5;

influence over civil servants 137–8, 145; District Congress Committees 153, 156–8, 160–1; Town Congress Committees 157–8, 159 Indian Police Service (IPS): general 19, 43, 108, 110, 122, 143, 167–9, 174, 181, 190–2; protests against 27–8, 96; recruitment 90, 115–6, 179; and violence 95–102, 138, 190–1 ‘Indianisation’ 27–8, 53, 179 Information Department 28 integrity certificates 90–1, 117–18 Jamiat I Islami 148 Jhansi 56, 99 Jones, Richard 9 Judicial Department 54 Kahars 97–8 Kanpur 65, 92, 94, 123, 124, 126, 127, 129, 154, 159 Kanungo 58, 64, 67, 148, 169, 185 Kautilya 40–1; Arthasastra 9 Khaliquzzaman, Chaudhuri 163 Kheri 67 Kidwai, Rafi Ahmed 128, 154 Kori Mahasabha 72 Kripalani, Sucheta 17, 163–4, 201 Kumaon 56 Kumaun Shilpkar Sabha 63, 185 Lahore 112 lajja 98 Lakhimpur Kheri 68, 128 Lekhpal 2, 4, 18, 47, 143, 169 Lok Pal 121 Lok Sabha 77 Lucknow 19, 20, 38, 64–5, 66, 67, 85, 93, 100, 123, 129, 154, 155, 156, 157, 163, 174; Aminabad Park 155 Ma bap governance 42, 61, 83, 181 Madras 58 Mainpuri 38, 71 Malabar Rebellion 53 Malcolm, Sir John 10, 29, 179 Mandal Commission 50, 70, 183 Manual of Government Orders 82, 85 Marx, Karl 9 Masaldan, P.N. 141–3, 197 Mayawati 137 Medical Department (UP) 54, 56, 113–4, 144

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216

Index

Member of the Legislative Assembly (MLA) 114, 121, 155–6, 162–3 Meerut 17, 68, 82, 94, 97, 140, 160–1 middle classes 14, 23, 25–6, 32, 78, 88, 93, 96, 114, 141 middleman 7, 13, 37, 83, 85, 104, 128, 129, 130–5, 196 Mill, James 9, 10 Mill, John Stuart 9: On Representative Government 10 Moradabad 90, 128, 144, 162, 188 Munshi, K.M. 155 Muslim League 67, 69, 129, 138 Mutiny-Rebellion (1857) 38 Muzaffarnagar 37, 65, 67, 126, 130, 138, 162

Provincial Civil Services (PCS): general 19, 30, 42, 43–4, 68, 75, 88, 95, 130, 143, 169, 182; social/educational status 19, 24, 30–2, 47, 71, 92; recruitment to 38, 50, 56–7, 61, 69, 179 Public Services Commission 51, 55, 71 Public Works Department (UP) 20, 45, 80, 88, 90, 94, 95, 118, 131–3, 144, 149, 189, 196 punishments 36 Punishment and Appeal Rules for Subordinate Services 119 Punjab 89, 94, 101, 114, 176 Quit India Movement 37–8, 62, 170

‘Orientalism’ 9–10, 25, 29, 39, 135, 170, 175 Orwell, George 42, 43 Other Backward Castes (OBC) 49, 50

race 24–6, 28, 29, 58, 146 Railway Corruption Enquiry Committee 81, 115 railways 84, 92, 120; officers 83, 114–15 Rajak Sabha 64 Ramanandis 97 Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) 94, 148, 189 rationing 69, 121–30, 134 Reclamation Department (UP) 63 refugees 13, 17, 101, 102, 104, 124–5, 129, 155, 161, 190 Relief and Rehabilitation 101–2, 129 Representation of the People Act 1951 150 Revenue Department (UP) 45, 56, 58, 64, 80, 86, 88, 89–91, 122, 138, 151 Revenue Manual (UP) 54, 64, 74, 82, 89 Right to Information (RTI) 5, 93 Round Table Conference 27, 48, 49, 53

Pakistan 94, 101–2, 109, 112, 113, 129, 150–1 Pant, Govind Ballabh 17, 27, 41, 49, 55, 67, 90, 99, 109, 115–16, 118, 130, 140, 154, 170 partition: violence 96, 100–2, 177, 190; evacuees 39, 129–30, 150–1; independence 87, 115, 121 Pasi Mahasabha 63 Patel, Vallabhai 150 patwari 18, 64, 65, 143, 148 Planning Commission 39, 141–2 police see Indian Police Service, and Uttar Pradesh Police Constable 59 Premchand, Munshi 42, 85–6, 188 Prevention of Corruption Act 15–16, 110–11, 113, 123

Sahai, Govind 160–2, 164–5, 201 Saharanpur 65, 67, 100, 129, 144 Samajwadi Party 137, 167 Sampurnanand 17, 46, 69–70 Santhanam Committee (Report) 12, 39, 81, 105, 121, 143, 174, 175, 202 Sanwal, B.D. 158 Sarabhai, Mridula 101–2 Sarishtadar 29 Schedules Castes and Tribes see caste Scheduled Castes Federation (UP) 71 Scheduled Castes Order (1936) 51, 58 Second World War 37, 77, 82, 111, 115, 121–5, 170 sexual morality 25–6, 32, 33–4, 178 Shastri, Algu Rai 158, 160 Sindhi Hindu Refugee Panchayat 129 Singh, Triloki 155

naib tahsildar 18, 35–6, 42–3, 56, 59, 63, 90, 143, 148, 169, 185 Naidu, Sarojini 126 National Extension Service 69, 70, 151 nazrana 65 Nehru, Jawaharlal 12–13, 32, 77, 94, 101, 125, 156, 171 newspapers 47, 71, 77, 80–1, 91–3, 104, 158–9, 162, 163, 189–91 Noida 19 Non-Cooperation 62, 147 Non-gazetted services 11, 18, 24, 29, 43, 111, 113, 117, 119–20, 147, 182

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Index 217 sifarish (recommendation) 15, 80, 89–90, 91–2, 106, 107 Special Police Establishment (SPE) 111–15, 120, 123, 149, 171, 174, 192 Sri Guru Sabha 62 Sri Lanka 98 Sub-Deputy Superintendent of Police (Complaints) 46 Sub-Divisional Officer (SDO) 65–6, 114, 143, 149, 160 Sub-Inspector of Police 42, 59, 67, 85, 97–8, 108, 110, 159 Subordinate services 42, 50, 69, 75, 111, 114, 117, 131, 182 Superintendent of Police (SP) 34, 65, 68, 85, 86, 98, 107, 110 tahsildar: general 18, 19, 67, 143, 148, 169, 182, 185; and conduct rules 35–6, 42–3, 44, 47; recruitment of 51, 56, 59, 89–90; punishment of 65, 94 Tamilnadu 32 Tandon, Purushottam Das 101, 124, 129, 158, 195 tout see middleman Town/District Rationing Officers / Supply Officers: general 18, 19, 102, 104, 156,

159–60; and food control policies 123–30, 194–6 UP see Uttar Pradesh UP Provincial Services Association 2 Uttar Pradesh (UP): general 1, 4, 14, 16–21, 22, 24 ; rural 13, 61, 95; elections 17–18, 51, 153–63; political protest in 27; communalism 33; government of 36, 37–8, 44, 46, 49, 50, 52, 54–5, 59–60, 64, 65–6, 71, 90, 104–5, 109, 119, 125, 163–4; police in 55–8, 85, 91, 96–102; Legislative Assembly 64, 102, 143, 155, 158; press 71, 77, 80–1, 91–3, 104, 158–9, 162, 163 UK: corruption in 3 Willingdon, Marquess of 62 Yadav, Mulayam Singh 137 Zahir, Syed Ali 163 zamindari/landlords (UP) 57–8, 65, 83, 97, 106, 119, 146, 159; zamindari abolition 60, 163–4 zulum 64