Seven trips, seventeen queues and a rejection

mumbai: it all began when the democratic front government magnanimously decided - for the third consecutive year - to waive the entertainment tax on navratri jamborees. the sankalps and club millenniums had been threatening to call off their extravaganzas on the ground that they barely managed to break even, and that any tax would finish them. the government evidently bought that line.we didn't. our logic was clear. in a country where everything from salt to life-saving drugs is taxed, should commercial shows, which reportedly rake in crores of rupees, be spared the taxman's noose? that too at a time when millions are reeling under drought and could do with some help from the state exchequer? our logical destination, therefore, was a nondescript, peach-facaded building on annie besant road, the office of the charity commissioner, where public trusts are monitored and tabs kept on money collected from the public. here, tucked away inside the dust-laden files was the information that could corroborate or destroy the navratri mandals' argument. the balance sheets that would say it all. all we had to do was get our hands on them. (not for a moment did we realise how spectacularly naive we were being, but that comes later.) it was a sultry friday when we first entered the charity commissioner's office. our first stop - after a dozen peons and clerks - was deputy charity commissioner, d.b. mahale. mr mahale, after dismissing our request out of hand (``rubbish, why should you see the papers?''), ostensibly relented when we told him it was in the public interest, and asked us to file an application. ``i'll pass an order immediately,'' he said. presuming this meant that we would get to see the papers the next day, we scrawled out a brief handwritten application, explaining that as presspersons, there should be no objection to our looking at the documents. when we handed over the application to a clerk outside, as directed by mr mahale, the former looked shifty and redirected us to mr mahale - who promptly sent us back to the clerk. in all this backing and forthing, neither the clerk nor the deputy charity commissioner told us that an application without a court fee stamp would be immediately rejected. saturday. we breezed in, all set to unravel the balance sheets. what we encountered instead was a rejection letter. reason? no stamp affixed to application, no `independent prayer clause', and no connection to the trusts, which meant we were not `interested persons' as defined under section 2 (10) of the bombay public trusts act, 1950. astounded, we went up to mr mahale's cabin again. when we finally caught him after a two-hour wait, he refused to clarify anything. why was the application rejected, we asked him. read the order, he said. what was an independent prayer clause? why should i tell you, he retorted. so, what should we do now? i'm not obliged to tell you, but an application once rejected is rejected for life, he said. we asked for the order so that we could file an appeal. you can't get the order, said mr mahale triumphantly, file an application for a certified copy of it. very indignant by now, we went to charity commissioner d.b. jadhav. ``what?'' he demanded succinctly on espying us outside the door. we explained the situation to him, but he didn't look too moved. ``file an application, i will pass an order,'' he said. (mr jadhav is a man of few words - on a previous occasion, when casually asked how many trusts came under his office, he had responded with `file a written application for the information'.) so when should we come back? ``11 a.m. monday, no, tuesday,'' said mr jadhav. tuesday. armed with a sheaf of one-rupee stamps (sold for rs 2 within the office), we straggled into the building again. the sleepy corridors came alive as sundry peons, clerks and chowkidars jostled each other to inform us that saheb was not in - didn't we know he spent every alternate day in mantralaya? the pro, taking pity on us, told us conspiratorially to apply as hindus, not journalists, ``since hindus fit the definition of interested party for this issue''. wednesday. we were back and the office was grinning again. this time, we were informed that mr jadhav was too busy to see us. that did it. we threw a tantrum a la anupam kher of saaransh, and barged in. mr jadhav was still unmoved and palpably unapologetic about his skipped appointment with us. ``file your applications, we will communicate with you in writing,'' he said, waving away our signed, court-stamp-affixed, prayer-laden applications. rattled by the thought of receiving a postal rejection a month later, we proclaimed that we'd come personally. ``okay, friday,'' said mr jadhav. outside, a bunch of bureaucracy victims came up to tell us horror stories about the long years they'd spent in the corridors for minor procedures. friday. the rejections were ready when we got there. the hindu card hadn't worked. ``merely being hindu does not acquire any status unless and until his\her interest is real, substantive and existing one..application is nothing but vague and it deserves to be rejected,'' said mr mahale's order. he had even dug up a 1942 madras judgment to put us in our place. wednesday. we trudged wearily back, consoling ourselves that since all we wanted was certified copies of the rejections, it couldn't take that long. live and learn. it took eight queues and two-and-a-half hours to complete the paperwork. we were called back after four days to pick up the certified copies. the question uppermost in our minds after this kafkaesque episode was: if the charity commissioner's office existed to protect the public interest, shouldn't its documents be made available to the public? wouldn't the iron barricades put up at this office cloak possible hanky-panky? who, then, were the state's 400,000 trusts accountable to? it was time to look for some answers. (this is the first part of a series on the office of the charity commissioner and the need for accountability in public trusts.)