Obviously, my central argument here is that accumulation of wealth in India is often at the expense of widening India’s frightful income inequality. So then, I ask, why should it be in the interest of the wealthy to improve the condition of the poor? Why should we be surprised if the rich get richer and the poor even more impoverished?
Economic necessity often creates a tight network of relations for ‘wheeling-dealing’. In India, the rich need the poor—the wealthy get major benefits from maintaining an economic structure that ensures the financial exploitation of the poor. The two ends of the spectrum need to coexist, with as much disparity between them as possible, for maximum profitability for those who are already wealthy. It is this tightly knit structure which I believe also provides an ideal breeding ground for corruption.
We should be careful with the assumed causality between poverty and corruption, but corruption does easily infest an established and well-oiled ‘need-based’ structure between the rich and the poor. Corruption is not just monetary. When juxtaposed with a pre-existing need-based structure, it becomes a gradual institutionalization of misbehaviour, which contributes to legitimizing that behaviour and socializing others into it too. It is a process—one that leads to an overall ‘culture of corruption’.10 In such a scenario, in which corruption operates as an institutionalized practice, individuals who are not corrupt would need to engage with the corrupt structure. In India, corruption has entered a pre-existing structure that provides financial gain to the group that holds the most power. The outcome could be anything—the corruption of one or several members within an organization, individuals acting on behalf of the organization, or the entire organization.
Chirag and I were told that we were lucky to have been granted an audience by the South Delhi Municipal Corporation’s development councillor himself. Indeed, we were privileged beneficiaries of the long-standing symbiotic relationship between the Jindal Group and the local outfit. I had been introduced to the councillor by the company just a day ago. Now, in his office at the scheduled time, the councillor’s attendants explained that their boss would be away for a short while to clear out an illegal occupation of the city’s public space by homeless squatters.
Sitting in the damp room, I looked around at the walls lined with old, stained file-stacked cupboards. The table in front of us had more papers and a plate of fresh fruits, sliced up and waiting for the councillor. Across the table was a tired faux leather swing chair, its head covered with two faded pink hand towels, its arms cracking to reveal yellow sheets of foam.
The councillor, once he arrived, wiped off the sweat beads from his forehead with one of the towels on his chair, and dug his stainless steel fork into the sliced mango on the plate before him.
‘Is this a commercial or a residential street in Green Park?’ Chirag asked, pointing his finger at a map of Delhi spread open on the table.
‘Depends on what you want it to be,’ the councillor replied, munching on his fruit.
‘The rules are not clear in the book,’ said Chirag, gently pushing a fat print publication, pretentiously titled Delhi Rule Book 2017, across the table.
‘Yes, these rules do get complicated. Come back tomorrow. I will ask my team to search our files and tell you.’
There was no news from the councillor the next day. Two days later, and after another hour’s wait in his office, we were blessed to meet him again.
The councillor arrived, patting away the sweat dripping from his neck, and seated himself in his chair. Just then, an elderly woman entered his office unannounced, and placing her hands on the table, begged him in a high-pitched voice to help her stop her tenant from taking over her two-room apartment. She explained that her family members were all dead, and the tiny apartment was her only asset and source of income. It was her twentieth visit to the councillor and she needed his help to turn the goons out of her house.
After having his attendants dismiss the woman, the councillor turned towards us.
‘She has no work . . . keeps coming and screaming in my office,’ he remarked.
He then announced that the street Chirag had identified for his office location was for residential purposes only.
‘I would highly recommend that you follow the rules, but if you absolutely insist on building a commercial establishment in a residential area, we can help you do that as well . . . of course, for a price,’ the councillor explained.
‘Will I get a receipt for the money I pay you?’ asked Chirag.
The councillor laughed. ‘No, no, there is no receipt!’
‘Then what if someone from your office later tells me that my commercial establishment is illegally built in a residential area? I will have no proof that I paid for it,’ Chirag asked, genuinely bewildered.
‘In that case, choose another spot for your business,’ the councillor advised with a straight face.
Chirag immediately resumed his hunt for the ideal property. The property owners Chirag met over the next few months were just as bizarre, never missing a chance to make a quick buck.
‘Is this your property?’ Chirag asked one of them, Mr Marwah, while visiting a posh ground-floor commercial property.
‘Yes, it is,’ answered Mr Marwah.
‘What will the rent be?’
‘Rs 2 lakh per month, plus a one-time broker fee to me.’
‘If you are the owner, why do you charge a broker fee?’
‘My brother and I own this place. He charges the rent and I take the broker fee,’ Mr Marwah explained.
There
