Digital services, physical friction
Why government portals still dodge accountability
Nearly eight decades after Independence, more than two decades into mass internet access, and over a decade into India’s much‑touted digital public infrastructure, citizens still lack basic visibility into many everyday government processes: no clear timelines, no escalation matrix, and very little of the “ease of doing business” that is promised.
In his “Grammar of Anarchy” speech, B.R. Ambedkar warned that people often settle for “government for the people” and neglect “government by the people”. Our digital governance sometimes reflects that temptation: portals are built supposedly for us, but with very little visibility or voice from the end‑user about what happens when an application stalls. Officials still retain a vice‑like grip on the process; the interface may be digital, but much of the machinery remains analogue.
In the corporate world, “digital first” and “digital transformation” have come to mean redesigning processes around the user. In much of the state, these phrases often feel like totems rather than reality. There are welcome exceptions — ministers who are more accessible on social media, or grievance portals that genuinely respond — but for many citizens, escalation still depends more on access and influence than on clear rules.
Bureaucrats understandably need paper trails; petitions collected at a janata durbar are one way of creating that record. Today’s civil servants and senior officials are increasingly adept with technology. At a minimum, they have email addresses listed on departmental portals, though responses to citizen emails often produce mixed results. A generation of digital natives will enter the services soon. The problem, then, is less about individual capacity and more about the approval matrices they are entangled in.
How friction shows up
Another pattern is visible at the front desk of many “digital” processes. The people operating the computers are often contractors or entry‑level staff. They may not fully appreciate that they are dealing with citizens who, by necessity, have learned the system through repeated interactions. Yet these operators are shielded by the power that comes from being the only ones who can decide when to click the button that generates a challan or a registration document.
Karnataka’s trade licence system is one small example of how this plays out. On paper, there is an online way to apply. The web form looks harmless: a few basic fields and a submit button. The real journey begins after you click it. Different wards fall under different authorities — the development authority, village or town panchayats — and the system appears to be built more around which administration collects the tax than around a clear path for the applicant.
The form never explains expected timelines or whom to contact if nothing moves. There is a landline number, but it often goes unanswered, and when it does, the advice is usually: “Come to the office.” For one establishment within city limits, an officer informally discouraged using the online process altogether. Even with a “friendly” official, the process stretched over months, with the business owner and the officer spending weeks just coordinating when and where to finally hand over the licence.
Renewal under a town panchayat was no better. The portal’s best status message was “Pending with Operator”. It never explained who this operator was, what they were supposed to do, or how an applicant could seek redress if nothing changed. After a few days, the status flipped to “Closed by operator”. That was it. There was no way to re‑apply, because the same portal insisted that “this application has already applied for renewal”, even months after it had been closed. Systems like this quietly recreate the long shadow of the licence‑permit raj. The interface might be new, but it does little to reduce opacity.
What this system does, by design or neglect, is remove accountability from the citizen’s line of sight. There are no visible service timelines, so one cannot tell whether a delay is routine or exceptional. And the identity of the decision‑maker is hidden behind generic labels like “operator”. A citizen‑facing system built this way makes it rational for people to seek informal help, pay under the table, or avoid formalisation altogether — the exact opposite of what India’s digital governance story claims to achieve.
One basic statistic would reveal how deep this problem runs: how many establishments are operating without current trade licences despite having attempted to comply? I am not referring to fly‑by‑night outlets, but to legitimate small businesses run by sincere owners. If each licence or renewal demands weeks of follow‑up, how many one‑person establishments simply give up or are nudged into informal payments because it is cheaper than losing more time?
What the state should count
Trade licences usually make news only when an establishment comes into contact with the law. Headlines then declare that “the shop was operating without a trade licence”. The questions that rarely get asked are: Did the proprietor try to apply or renew? How many hours did they lose chasing it? How many times have the rules, forms or authorities changed without clear communication?
From a corporate perch, it is easy to bandy terms like “interactive interface” or “product model”. In citizen–state interactions such as trade licences, the issue is far more basic than return on investment. A government that takes an oath not to leave any citizen behind ends up doing exactly that when scores of people face repeated errors or multiple visits just to find a friendly officer to get a routine job done.
Ambedkar’s warning about preferring “government for the people” over “government by the people” still applies in the age of portals. India’s digital public infrastructure should be judged not only by how many services go online, but by three simpler tests: does the citizen know the rule, the timeline, and the person or office responsible? Is there a clear way to escalate when the system fails? And do we publicly count how many people fall through the gaps? Until the answer to those questions is yes, the licence‑permit raj has not disappeared; it has merely found a new screen to hide behind.