Patna Durbar

Three days in a month, Chief Minister Nitish Kumar opens the doors of his house to anybody who has a problem.

It’s Monday and almost 10 am. A crowd of well over a thousand has gathered outside 1, Anne Marg, the official residence of Chief Minister Nitish Kumar, a simple whitewashed colonial bungalow. The morning breeze has died down, and the mercury is on the rise. But for the crowd —men and women, young and old, able-bodied and infirm, Hindu and Muslim, mostly poor and a few well off — it doesn’t matter. In a short while, each one of them will get an audience with Kumar to air one’s grievance. For those in the queue, silent long-suffering victims of official apathy, this is one chance to get their voice heard.

 

A small economy has sprung up around the crowd. There are chaiwalas with their sweet tea in plastic cups, application writers huddled over typewriters, sellers of cigarette, chewing tobacco and pan masala, et al. Any man who jumps the queue is sternly dealt with. The gates will close at 11 sharp. Those in by then will get to meet Kumar; others can try their luck some other time. At the entry point there is a posse of policemen. They find out the nature of the grievance of each visitor and then hand him a registration card. Then he is frisked thoroughly.

Inside, there is a huge shed of hard plastic sheets; dozens of pedestal fans are at work to beat the heat. Senior bureaucrats are in huddles of three and four. Then the ministers begin to arrive. The bureaucrats gravitate towards their bosses. Soon, they have all taken their seats in three cramped rows of chairs and tables — the minister and his men. At 10:30 am, Kumar walks in with his entourage, cameramen and television crew in tow. Dressed in white kurta and pyjama, he takes his seat behind two tables arranged one after the other. (For security reasons; nobody can lunge at Kumar from that distance.) There is nothing on the mica-top table except a mike and a telephone from where Kumar can dial anybody. The programme that Kumar calls Janata Ke Durbar Mein Mukhyamantri (Chief Minister in People's Court) is all set to start.

The play of words is interesting. It’s not the chief minister who holds court — it is the people’s court in which the chief minister defends himself. Kumar started the programme five years ago in April 2006 — one year into his first term as the chief minister of Bihar. He was sharp enough to know that the people of Bihar had voted Lalu Prasad and his wife, Rabri Devi, out because there was a complete breakdown of administration during their rule. Kumar’s task was not just to improve governance but also to be seen as delivering governance. Thus was born this programme. “This is his brainchild,” says Kumar’s secretary, S Sidharth. It is held on the first, second and third Monday of every month, except when the state legislature is in assembly. So far, Kumar has met 130,000 people under this programme.

The political gain to Kumar may be much higher. Every problem sorted out means one household of up to eight or ten people becoming his lifelong loyalist. Kumar has never skipped these meetings, not even when his mother died on January 1 this year. Two days later, on January 3, he was there to hear the complaints of the people. “Though for me it was a period of bereavement and my colleagues suggested me to skip the programme, I preferred to hold it as people had thronged my house from far-flung areas and I did not want to discourage them,” says Kumar.

“It’s an amazing programme. I do not think there is any other state where such a programme is being run,” says Renu Devi, the industries minister of Bihar. That may be the adulation of a ministerial colleague. What is true is that it gives Kumar a feel of what is troubling the people. “Kumar has got ideas about several of his popular acts in the state from these meetings,” says an aide. “The Bihar Anti-Graft Act, Right to Service Bill, and Land Reform Tribunal Bill have evolved right here.” These meetings were also where Kumar realised that many people in the state didn’t have fixed addresses — migrant workers who lived wherever their jobs took them. At what address could such people be reached for redress? “If one of them has to get a job, where should we send his appointment letter?” says Kumar. He has thus initiated an exercise to put together a record of all such people in Bihar.

Lalu Prasad, too, had tried something like this but it didn’t click. “In the early days of his regime, Lalu Prasad tried to hold meetings with the people, but the exercise lasted only two or three months. There was no system at all to track those applications as he used to causally hand them over to the officers standing next to him. There was a lack of seriousness in it,” says a senior bureaucrat who has served under both the regimes. “Rabri Devi was too shy to organise such meetings. Even the shed was used for petty purposes.” Lalu Prasad of course makes light of these meetings. “This is nothing but a publicity gimmick. On how many of the complaints filed in these meetings has he taken action?”

As soon as he settles in his chair, Kumar signals to his security officers — let the show begin. Women get to meet him first. The handlers are all women. Two take the application and pass it on to Kumar. The time he gives to each can vary from five seconds to five minutes. Then he tells his aide which minister or bureaucrat should handle the problem. A lady escort takes the applicant to the minister/bureaucrat concerned. There are women in tatters in the queue, some are old, and a few wear a burqa but lift the veil to talk to the chief minister. Quite a few are barefoot. Vidya Kumari, a young girl from Nalanda, wants a hostel in her polytechnic which is 20 km away from her village. Another young girl has come to complain that a coaching centre (for entrance to engineering colleges) isn’t returning her money, though she has opted out. “The chief minister’s secretary has spoken to the owner (of the institute) and he has agreed to return my money,” says she, obviously elated at the instant justice.

Most look dazed after meeting Kumar — a few seconds with the chief minister would be the high point of their lives. But not everybody goes back satisfied. “It’s the third time I pleaded my case before the chief minister,” says Lalita Devi who has come from Muzaffarpur. “However, I am yet to receive any answer from the government.” Sunaina Devi, also from Muzaffarpur, has come to complain about her son’s in-laws — they had recently thrashed him. Kumar directs her to the top police officers of the district. But that hasn’t rid the mother of her anxiety. “They do not understand that my son’s life is in danger.”

Two hours later, all the women have been met. Kumar gets up and walks to where all the disabled are seated. He spends about half an hour there, collecting their applications and listening to their grievances. One of the men sitting in this section says: “In a country where political leaders can be seen only in political rallies or TV channels, it feels great when I see Kumar patiently listening to us.”

Next comes the turn of the men. The women handlers are out; their positions have been taken by men. Many in the queue are overawed by the presence of the ministers and barely manage to speak. Some others, mostly old people, have come with prepared speeches, with the right mix of sarcasm and irony, which are delivered to perfection. Kumar laughs at some, cuts short one or two and generally ignores the barbed shafts. The garrulous are often whisked away by the attendants even while they are talking. Kumar does not lose his cool. Not on the people, at least. During an earlier meeting, one minister had got up and begun to walk towards the chief minister’s house, probably to relieve himself, but was admonished sharply by Kumar. “If I can return from Ranchi by road at five in the morning and sit here, why can’t you?” The minister cringed and went back to his seat.

The complaints and requests are of all types. One Madan Mohan Mishra from the Saharsa district has come to complain about his land being grabbed by goondas. Kumar directs him to the police officers of the district. Government employees often turn up in the queue. Once a senior bureaucrat, a member of the elite Indian Administrative Services, came and complained about office politics. Later, he opted for deputation with the central government. On another occasion, after hearing a complaint against a senior police officer, Kumar dialed his number and was in utter shock when the policeman refused to recognise him. The officer later apologised profusely and clarified that he thought it was an imposter faking Kumar’s voice.

It’s now 1:30 pm. Kumar gets up to address the media. Later, he is back to the shed, listening to complains and giving work to his ministers and bureaucrats.

Is it just a show for the media? Does Kumar monitor the outcomes? How many of the people who come here have their queries answered satisfactorily? Kumar’s aides say 800 to 1,000 people come for each of these meetings. Some get instant redress. However, if it will take time, then one can track the status of one’s application through Internet. But Internet is of little use for the poor people who come to meet Kumar.

So, officers are required to answers all applications within a definite time frame. The outcome is monitored by the chief secretary himself. Apart from that, there is a special IAS officer in the chief minister’s secretariat to track the progress. All district magistrates have to keep a record of the complaints received from their district and the response. But there is no record in the public domain of the outcomes — how many of the petitions received have been dealt with to date.

Meanwhile, the Durbar culture has caught on in Bihar. Now, ministers hold Durbar on Tuesday and IAS officers on Wednesday. Senior police officers do so on Thursday and block development officers on Friday.