Charged with electoral malpractice in 1975, Indira Gandhi remarked that corruption was a global phenomenon. She was right, of course, but not the only one to have her say. Everyone from Nietzsche to Justice Santosh Hegde has expanded on the subject, including the wag who upended Lord Acton’s adage to ask, “If absolute power corrupts absolutely, where does that leave God?”
Even when visible, corruption is not always easy to nail down. It damaged Rajiv Gandhi’s image and led to his defeat in the 1989 elections but, in the end, the Bofors trail went cold. Others paid heavily for it: stock market fixer Harshad Mehta, for example, who died a broken man, swamped in notoriety and litigation, at the age of 48. It ruined Ramalinga Raju of Satyam, who’s in and out of jail, and suffering from serious health problems. Recent reversals include the DMK’s humiliating rout in the Tamil Nadu elections and the Karnataka chief minister losing his job. Still, the general impression is that somehow the big fish get away. The perception remains strongly rooted in the public mind — and not in India alone.
In Britain, the furore over the phone-hacking scandal has led to a string of high-profile arrests and sackings – the prime minister’s aides, top police officials, publishing executives and journalists – but media baron Rupert Murdoch, whose empire is at the heart of the scandal, is by and large unaffected. True, he had to shut down one paper and withdraw his takeover of a TV channel but these are a blip on the vast sweep of his global radar. He calmly told MPs during a quizzing session that News of the World was such a small part of his international holdings that how could he have known the dirty tricks some of the staff was up to. His executives and editors are in jail for having spent thousands of pounds in criminal snooping and bribes but he’s ok.
Fuelled by similar popular notions that the very powerful are immune to punishment, India’s anti-corruption campaigners have stepped up their fight. But they have hit a parliamentary roadblock over the Lok Pal Bill. Their current situation is a bit like the character in Stieg Larsson’s bestselling novel who remarks, “Dear Government... I’m going to have a serious talk with you if I ever find anyone to talk to.” The intransigence of Anna Hazare and his crusaders is compounded by authoritative demands and delivered in godlike voices. They are either arrogant or inept negotiators, invoking the view that so much power in the hands of a few reformers could potentially be as corruptible as those in power.
If one long fast follows another, media interest and public sympathy begin to wane. When the anti-corruption brigade’s attempts to grab eyeballs seem to be running out of steam, it comes up with ineffectual schemes like conducting polls in Kapil Sibal’s constituency. As the Delhi police explained to them in a letter this week, space in the capital gets limited on August 15 because other agitators, too, have a right to protest.
Delhi’s Tihar jail is already filled to capacity with once-powerful figures charged with corruption. The main difference between them and those arrested in Britain is that the latter are able to exercise their legitimate right to bail. The public is confident that charges will swiftly come to court and punishment, whether convictions or penalties, handed out before the next scam erupts. A commission will investigate the nexus and cover-ups between media and public officials to establish clear rules for future conduct.
In India, the legal procedure could drag on for years and the government has no stomach to lay down strict new guidelines. If Anna Hazare and his crusaders focused their attack on such failures, they would stand a better chance of bringing about reform. But what they want is more laws — and in their own hands. The last word on corruption is possibly the oldest, and has senator Tacitus of the Roman Empire (AD 56-117) saying, “In a state where corruption abounds, laws must be very numerous.”
