The old man was weeping. I had seen him for years at party gatherings, a distinguished looking figure, erect in his late 70s or early 80s, in a neat off white or beige jubba (short kurta), always carrying a furled umbrella. He usually had a friendly smile but today his expression was sombre, even grieving. “What is the matter?” I asked, and he broke down.
For a year I have asked your staff to get my grandson a job at the Technopark. And they have done nothing for me. What is the point of having been a swatantra senani (freedom fighter) and making so many sacrifices for the party if you can’t even do this for me?
I called my staff over and demanded an explanation. It turned out that the boy was a humanities student and a poor one at that, who had failed to get admission to an LLB programme. Thiruvananthapuram’s Technopark, a hub of IT and software development and BPOs, had no use for him.
The old man was disconsolate.
My son says he has no choice but to try his luck outside. I have no option but to commit suicide…. But if my grandson leaves Kerala and is not there to light my pyre, what fate will my soul face in the afterlife?
I looked at him with compassion, told him to stay strong, thanked him for his services to the party and promised him that we would try something with another company, but not at the Technopark.
He wasn’t buying it.
One phone call from a minister and this will get done in half an hour. But you all won’t do this for an old freedom fighter.
Nepotism: What Does It Say About Our Political Culture?
How does one explain to an old gent, struggling with his emotions and the attendant loss of dignity, that no company these days would hire an unsuitable candidate merely because of a call from a minister? How does one explain that the reward for being a freedom fighter is freedom but not necessarily jobs for his descendants? How does one explain that loyalty to an MP’s party does not automatically entitle one’s family members to out-of-turn privileges that they would not deserve on merit?
And what does it say about the statism, sifarish culture and mutual favour-mongering that infects the political system we have built, that an MP’s work should be judged by his ability or otherwise to deliver such favours?
That it is, above any other yardstick, became apparent to me soon after my election; at the “Meet the Public” sessions I hold regularly in the MP’s office – our equivalent of what British MPs call “surgeries”.
A British MP, on a busy day, might see six or seven constituents. I see some 250 at a time, all bearing requests, petitions, grievances and complaints that they expect me to resolve. Ninety-five percent of these relate to personal favours – requests for jobs, transfers and regularisations (of temporary positions to permanent ones) being the most common.
In a State that Values Education, the Most Common Request is College Admissions
Each time there are at least 30 people bearing letters summoning their sons or daughters for a job interview, who want the MP to put in a word for them to the agency or authority (it’s almost always a governmental or public sector body) ahead of the interview.
At least 25 carry letters on behalf of constituents serving with the para-military forces (BSF, CRPF, and the rest) assigned to places like Nagaland, Chhattisgarh and Kashmir, who all seem to have aged fathers, ailing mothers and pregnant wives clamouring for them to be transferred on compassionate grounds to Kerala.
There are also dozens of people who have been appointed to temporary positions or a series of short-term contracts who, after many years, feel entitled to the security, benefits and pension possibilities of regular posts for which they are not eligible.
The next most common request, in a state that values education, is for admission to a good school or college. Then there are assorted people looking for financial assistance – for education, for a child’s marriage, for home repairs, to help pay off loans, and above all to cope with illness.
Of that last category, major cases are referred to the Prime Minister’s Relief Fund, the Health Minister’s Rashtra Arogya Nidhi, or the Chief Minister’s Distress Relief Fund. Some who have exhausted those possibilities, or are ineligible for them, I help myself, doling out small sums through a foundation I have established for the purpose in my late father’s name.
A Lesson For the MP: Do Whatever You Can
No one is sent away with a negative response. That is what I was advised after I frankly expressed my inability to help people with one or two outlandish requests early in my career. A shocked party worker told me,
No politician says no to a constituent. You may think his request is improper or unfeasible, but you are his MP. It is your duty to say yes and do whatever you can. He may not get his wish, but at least you will have tried.
A frequent example that was often cited was of the time a popular Chief Minister of Kerala was approached by a constituent requesting a letter to President Bill Clinton for some absurd purpose.
While a lesser mortal like me might have hesitated, knowing I would make a fool of myself by signing such a letter, our heroic CM gladly obliged. Perhaps he reasoned that Clinton would never read the letter; but even if he did, what Clinton might think of him mattered much less to the CM than the gratitude of the constituent.
Retail Politics: A Means to an End
This is all far removed from what I had naively imagined I would be spending my time on when I entered politics. Policy issues, development challenges, crop up relatively rarely. Most of an MP’s time is spent on “constituent services” – which means doing favours for voters.
I tell myself that retail politics is a means to an end – to preserve the viability that allows an MP to make a bigger impact on the national stage. But the realisation that the issues I care about are not what voters care about gives me pause….
(Former UN under-secretary-general, Shashi Tharoor is a Congress MP and author.)
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