A while back, I was walking along the footpath of a magnificent cantilever bridge across a mighty river, the identity or location of which I can’t reveal because of what I am about to explain. The painted grey cross-girders, hangers, joints and knobs rising above with a perfect blue sky visible in patches through criss-crossing steel angles made for a man-made marvel, not just of engineering, but also of aesthetics. As one naturally does these days whenever wanting to make a thing of beauty (or shocking cuteness or scandalous pleasure) a joy forever, I pointed my phonecam upwards and started to take, what I hoped would be, carefully framed, nice photos of the bridge holding up the sky while hurrying the river below.
‘Hello, hello! What are you doing? What are you doing!’ A constable came up to me as I was about to click a sign on one of the girders that, like him, repeated the same words, ‘Photography strictly prohibited’, in two languages, more for effect than for clarity. Without coming across as being too cheeky, I told him, ‘I’m taking pictures.’ When he said that it’s not allowed, irritated, more by his gullibility to take silly rules seriously than because of being stopped, I asked him point-blank, ‘Why?’
‘Because it’s a rule,’ he replied pointing to the sign. I asked him why there was such a rule. He looked momentarily lost, before quickly remembering the power dynamics at play here and simply said, ‘Because it’s there.’
I could have dug deeper and deeper like an 11-year-old hurling unending ‘Why’s, but I stopped. I told him how the bridge was built in 1943, and in 1945, during World War 2, there were genuine fears that the Japanese would bomb it in their westward advace. Keeping that in mind, the British India authorities must have put up a no-photography sign and rule so that the exact location of the bridge and topography of the area on which it stood didn’t reach any of the Seven Samurai, including the one Subhas sided. But much water has flown under the bridge. Why the prohibition today? Because of, it turns out, ‘Because…’
Over time, I have heard such reasoning (sic) from staff, guards and personnel while walking my dog where dog-walking isn’t disallowed, taking pictures of clothes in a store (to check with the person I’m planning to buy an outfit for), taking photos of the view outside a plane window and of planes in airports (Rule 13 of Aircraft Rules, 1937 only prohibits taking pictures in defence airports), while asking an Uber/Ola driver to turn the airconditioning on (‘Sorry, sir, but we’re not allowed to turn the AC on during nights’), and during the installation of an electric meter (‘But your wife and you have different surnames’).
The petit official wields this power by which he or she cites existing or imagined rules to maintain his sense of worth as entrusted ruleskeeper. The duty constable, party apparatchik, shop attendant, class monitor, building society guard – their desire to put their empowerment on display knows no bounds. ‘Sorry, sir, full pants entry only even on a Sunday,’ an office guard once told me as if quoting from the Constitution.
Political philosopher Hannah Arendt described Nazi operatives ‘merely’ carrying out orders from above unquestioningly as ‘banality of evil’. Such a person ‘never realised what he was doing’, acting without any motive but to advance one’s career with diligence. This ubereaucratic approach is evident in all walks of life – walking along bridges included.
While the need to ‘ease doing business‘ easily trips off their tongues, these overzealous operatives embrace ‘rules’ to feel valuable in an everyone-is-replaceable world. Pointing out the silliness of ‘their’ rules would only mean insulting them, thereby inviting them to bring their danda down on you.