Among the many organs of the state, the bureaucracy might just be the most reviled. A visit to a government office is a chore, especially in a country like Nepal where bureaucrats act like mandarins amid an ageing infrastructure that still relies on massive stacks of perishable paper for its records. And for a country that places so much premium on having the right papers, especially the citizenship certificate, it is maddeningly inconvenient to get any official documentation.

The rules to be followed are intolerantly strict—any slight inconsistency can be grounds for refusal. And, as is usually the case, there is very little information available as to what specifics must be adhered to and in what specific order. A query for information is usually met with a curt reply, which is really no answer at all. And so you end up relying on bits and pieces that can be gleaned from everyone else who are just as confused as you are.

In the past few weeks, I have had the ignominy of visiting a number of government offices for official paperwork, prompting this musing. It must be conceded, however, that things have gotten markedly better. Most official forms are available online for download, even though instructions on filling them out are either completely absent or woefully vague. And there are automated queuing systems in many offices. The process of going from room-to-room for this signature and that stamp has also been streamlined somewhat and bureaucrats are usually present at their desks, more so than they used to be 10 years earlier, going by personal experience. I have also had the pleasure of encountering a number of genuinely friendly and helpful civil servants, though they have been in the minority.

Still, the overarching structure of the bureaucracy remains the same. At its heart, the bureaucracy is the state organ that exercises and projects its power. To paraphrase an old adage, it is not enough to just have power; power must be projected. One of the ways in which the bureaucracy asserts the power of the state is through control and order. It decides who are citizens and also, who are not citizens. It is the power of categorisation and definition. By defining the within, it defines the without. The bureaucracy is, as Max Weber propounded, a system for “domination through knowledge.”

Perhaps no other thinker has ever expressed the strict control and dehumanisation wrought by the bureaucracy as Franz Kafka, whose tales are bleak visions of a world where order and reason are pursued through increasingly opaque rules and regulations. The Trail, where Josef K is persecuted for an unknown crime, contains a simple parable, Before the Law, which stands at the heart of any bureaucracy. In it, a man seeks entrance to the Law but is refused entry by a large gatekeeper. The man, unable to get past the gatekeeper, chooses to wait outside, as the gatekeeper states that it is “possible” he will be allowed entrance sometime. The man waits until he is at his death but is never allowed in. At the end of his life, he calls over the gatekeeper and asks him why no one else attempted an audience with the Law. The gatekeeper replies damningly, “No one but you could gain admittance through this door, since this door was intended only for you. I am now going to shut it.”

This tale illustrates the power of the bureaucracy as exemplified in the gatekeeper but also another of the ways in which power is projected—opacity. By limiting crucial knowledge, while at the same time letting the petitioner know that they are being denied something, a hierarchal relationship is established between citizen and bureaucrat, as seeker and provider. The petitioner invariably comes to see the government official not as a public servant but as a granter of boons and favours. The official is in a position of power and both official and citizen know it. Thus, the citizen must be willing to debase themselves if necessary, if they are to gain access to the state, for all depends on whim. By restricting the amount of information that citizen has access to when it comes to the inner workings of the bureaucratic machine, responsibility is diffused and there is no one to blame when something invariably goes wrong. If the citizen chooses to complain, who really are they going to complain about? Bureaucracy, thus, is the rule of no one.

The ease with which citizens can access the state reflects the overall health of the system. The more opaque and arduous the slog through the bureaucracy, the more ill-functioning the state. It is a sign of the times that there have been improvements, even though many changes have been cosmetic. However, citizens are often just as much at fault. Petitioners swarm windows paying little heed to the dutiful few standing in line and pushing and pulling are still routine. Even with numbered queues, there exist those impatient few for whom numbers don’t mean a thing and waiting for their turn is almost an affront to their propriety. But this is the behaviour that decades of a ragged bureaucracy has engendered—a disrespectful, uncouth population that does not submit to the supposed fascism of the orderly queue.

What I have gleaned from government offices these past few weeks is that the interactions between the bureaucracy and the people are a microcosm of the whole overarching relationship between the state and its citizens, with one side acting like benefactors and the other like supplicants. It is not a sign of a state that serves its citizens but rather, a state that expects its citizens to cater to it. People don’t make up the state; the state makes its people.

The experience has become trite, expect a long slog through the morass of the Nepali bureaucracy whenever you visit a government office. Engaging with the bureaucracy is a Faustian bargain—you get what you want, but you lose a little bit of your soul each time.

(thinkinink.wordpress.com)