Bachao! They are making us Info Commissioners! PART - 2
Krishnaraj Rao
Two minutes after he entered the gents’ toilet, the handsome man in Kashmiri shawl emerged, dragging Jolly Knowledgeable Chap by the arm. “He didn’t even let me zip up, yaar!” spluttered JCK indignantly. “Hey Naaraj, do you know this guy? He is mumbling something inappropriate -- something about DoPT making me Information Commissioner. Don’t they have a proper gentlemanly way of doing these things?”
The man resumed his seat – half and half between chairs, but not quite occupying the second chair. JCK straightened his clothes and lit a cigarette. “Sir, do you have painful piles? Why don’t you fully occupy a single seat?”
“Please try and understand my predicament,” replied the man with injured dignity. “I have to keep one seat warm for my successor while ensuring that the other seat doesn’t get taken in my absence. And you fellows aren’t making my life easy, let me tell you! If you keep delaying my successor’s appointment like this, I will get tailbone problems, and it will be your fault.”
“Naaraj, who is this joker?” said JCK, laughing.
“I’ll explain,” I replied. “You know how many Information Commissioners are ‘has-beens’? Bald tyres retreaded and given a second career after 60?”
“Yeah, I know that!” said JCK.
“And you know how the cadre of about-to-retire bureaucrats is full of wannabe Information Commissioners?” I continued.
“Yes, I know that too… but so what?” snapped JC, getting impatient. He didn’t like guessing games.
“So… this guy is the baap of them all. He is the grand-daddy of has-beens and he is simultaneously a wannabe too!” I replied.
“You are being unnecessarily cruel, young man,” moaned the man.
“So we should address him as Hasbeen Wannabe?” joked JCK, ignoring him.
“Yeah, or Wannabe-but Hasbeen. WH for short,” I grinned. “Will that be ok, Sir?”
WH shrugged with a pained expression.
“Mr WH has a proposal for us,” I said. “Pray, continue Sir!”
“Whatever I had to say, I said in the toilet,” said WH sourly. “Now is your time to respond. Just shut up and send your biodatas to DoPT.”
“Naaraj, I smell a conspiracy,” said JCK. “Before the elections, a Delhi activist named Militant Somebody submitted his biodata. But in that round of selections, they went and made Babu Moshoi’s lady friend the commissioner, because BM wanted a safe place for her in case the election results didn’t return him to power. However, it turned out that BM returned to power and became FM, and she rejoined him in his office, resigning her post in the Commission. They are now living happily-ever-after.”
“So? What is your point?” I asked.
“So, my naïve friend, MS and his colleague Cagey Wall couldn’t criticize this selection because they had tried to take advantage of the crooked system of selection instead of opposing it,” retorted JCK. “If you and I send in our CVs, we will be making the same mistake. Somebody will use our candidature to cover up his favourite bureaucrat’s appointment, aur phir apnee bhi bolti bandh!”
“Don’t be taken in by JCK’s lies, my boy,” countered WH gently. “JCK has a chronic allergy that weakens his chances of becoming CIC, and so he want to prevent you from becoming one too.”
“Is that true, JCK?” I demanded.
Silence. JCK hung his head.
“Is it true, my friend? You can tell me,” I said gently.
“Tell him. Tell him the truth. He deserves to know,” said WH.
“The part about the allergy is true,” said JCK reluctantly, stubbing out his cigarette. “I can’t stand BS, which is the official language in all Information Commissions. My whole body breaks out in rashes when I am near BS. And CIC is full of BS. So is APSIC. Every file, every cupboard, every table oozes BS. There is BS coming out of these people’s pores, I tell you!”
“BS? As in Bull Shit?” I asked. JCK nodded, tears of desperation were running down his face. The place on his arm where WH had held him was covered with red rashes.
“You can write your orders in any language you like – English, Hindi, Telugu, Urdu -- but strictly according to the Govt of India’s BS protocol,” said WH, who was now in his element. “JCK refuses to take treatment for BS intolerance. But you, Mr Rowdy, have no problems with BS. In fact, DoPT has analyzed all your writings with electronic BS detectors, and found significant amounts of BS. So prepare to join the Information Commission, my good man.”
“Sir, what is the government’s BS protocol? Please elaborate,” said I, with new-found respect and awe for WH.
“The first principle of the BS protocol is that when you want to turn left, you give the right signal 70% of the times. This is called the Left-Turn Right-Signal principle. The remaining 30% of the times, you give the left signal or turn without a signal; this prevents non-bureaucrats from cracking the code, but is perfectly understood by those with IAS background,” he said.
“Sir, all this is theory. How is BS applicable to RTI appeals in actual practice?”
“A minimum of 75% second-appeal orders must be pro-disclosure, and over 31% orders must be remanded back to First Appellate Authority, just to show everybody who is the boss. At least 27% orders must threaten to serve show-cause notices while directing PIO to give information, but show cause must actually be served in only 3% of the cases. Only in 1.2% of show-cause notices must penalty hearings actually be carried out. Only 0.24% of the ones found guilty in penalty hearings must actually be slapped with penalty. And penalties must be actually collected into the treasury in the rarest of rare cases; not more than 0.07% of those slapped with penalty must be actually made to pay. And the overall information given to applicants and appellants in the system must be over minus-47%,” replied WH triumphantly.
JCK was having a violent reaction. He was bent over a wall and vomiting noisily.
“How can minus-47% information be given? You can’t give minus-information,” I argued, struggling to stay focussed. I was getting cross-eyed with all these statistics.
“Oh yes, we routinely create and disseminate minus-information, my boy,” asserted WH, enjoying himself. “There are two ways in which the ultimate information given is of minus-value. Firstly, on an average, 12 man-days per year of thousands of activists are diverted into frustrating first and second appeal processes, causing high burn-out rate among activists. And secondly, the information that is given in slow-motion, after months or years of delay, is worse than useless, because the appellant is exhausted after diverting his energies to getting these useless shreds of information. He has no energy left to devote to his original purpose, for which he wanted information. This is minus-information. Get it?”
“So the job of Information Commissioners is to give minus-information?” said I in a dull voice. I had a pounding headache, and dull black patches were dancing in front of my eyes. Was this an allergic reaction to BS?
“Indeed, my boy,” said WH. “The best way to defend government functioning is to hand-pick Information Commissioners who write BS and believe in it.”
“Even the Guiding Saint?” I gasped breathlessly.
“Especially the Guiding Saint. He is now Sailing Gently, giving Central Information Commission a good name by churning out large numbers of BS orders, reducing pendency with his incredible performance. Remember the Left-Turn Right-Signal principle? He is signaling that he tirelessly defends the integrity of the RTI Act. But surprise, surprise! Not too information is coming out, is it? All the RTI sections that you guys keep screaming about – Sections 7(1), 7(2), 18, 19(5) and 20 – are unused and almost forgotten. We love doctors like SG who prefer homeopathy when a patient is dying of kidney failure, and publicly advise against dialysis and surgery,” said WH, smirking. “No, don’t say a word now, Mr Rowdy. Save your breath now.”
I was having a severe asthma attack, and was gasping for breath. JCK had passed out on the floor. My mobile beeped; it was an SMS from Voracious Giver. “If WH tries to talk to you, beware. He has been sent to eliminate us with a toxic mixture of BS and truth.”
“Too late,” I replied, pressing the ‘send’ button before collapsing on the floor.
WH smiled and stood up, throwing his Kashmiri shawl jauntily around his shoulders. “Two down. How many more to go?” I heard him ask on his mobile, striding towards the toilet again.
My friend Singapore Airlines appeared on the scene.
“SA! SA, look at me! Come here!” I managed to croak before I completely blacked out.
-- Crisp Naaraj Rowdy