A FRIEND’S TALE: FROM BALA’S DUSTY ROADS TO OXFORD’S GRAND HALLS

From a modest beginning in southern Punjab to postdoctoral research at one of the world’s most prestigious universities, Dr Muhammad Iqbal Hajana’s journey is a story of perseverance, friendship and an unyielding hunger for knowledge

Mahtab Bashir
03335363248
mahtabbashir@gmail.com
ISLAMABAD

Some journeys are planned around destinations. Others are forged slowly, painfully and patiently until the destination itself becomes a consequence of perseverance. Dr Muhammad Iqbal Hajana’s journey belongs to the latter kind.

Catching up with Iqbal, talking about life, memories and how far we’ve come.

From Jampur in Rajanpur, a relatively remote city of southern Punjab, to the distinguished corridors of the University of Oxford, his story is not merely about academic degrees, professional positions or scholarships. It is about refusing to accept circumstances as a verdict.

It is about a young man who arrived in Islamabad with little more than ambition, discipline and an unspoken conviction that his life could become larger than the geographical boundaries from which he had emerged.

I met that youngster in 2003, in the Computer Sciences Department of Quaid-i-Azam University. Back then, he was simply Iqbal. Many of his friends called him Bala.

There was nothing ostentatious about him. He was quiet, somewhat shy and rarely the loudest voice in a room. But there was something unmistakable beneath that reserved personality: determination.

I had been born and raised in Islamabad, so I had seen countless young people arrive in the capital carrying dreams of education, employment and a better future.

But Iqbal was different.

He did not merely arrive in Islamabad. He gradually conquered the challenges it placed before him. From Jampur to Quaid-i-Azam University

Iqbal came to Islamabad in 2001, shortly after completing his graduation.

Some classmates and teachers encouraged him to consider Quaid-i-Azam University, then, and probably still, one of Pakistan’s most formidable centres of higher learning.

For a young man coming from Jampur, the transition was considerable. But Iqbal did not regard Islamabad as an escape from his past. He regarded it as an opening to his future.

In 2003, he completed his M.Sc in Earth Sciences from QAU. Yet one degree was not enough. He enrolled in the Computer Certificate Programme at QAU’s Department of Computer Sciences. That was where we met, where our paths first crossed, and where fate would eventually bring us together again.

We spent roughly six months in the department together.

I remember Iqbal as hardworking, disciplined and intensely focused. His ambitions were never noisy. They were visible in his conduct. Then came the class elections.

Iqbal was elected Class Representative, while Nazia, another mature and brilliant student from the Anthropology Department, was elected Girls’ Representative.

The choices reflected something simple but important: people trusted them.

Iqbal subsequently entered the M.Phil programme in Earth Sciences, continuing to build the academic foundation that would eventually take him far beyond the boundaries of Pakistan.

A motorbike, a challan and Lahore

Friendship, however, is not built from degrees. It is built from ordinary days. Iqbal and I once travelled from Islamabad to Rawalpindi on a motorbike. On that journey, a traffic warden handed me a challan.

It may have been the first, and perhaps the last, traffic ticket I ever received in Rawalpindi.

The story became even more complicated when I handed the voucher to a colleague, a Daily Times reporter in Rawalpindi, hoping he could help me retrieve my driving licence. He lost the voucher. I eventually stopped pursuing the matter until my licence expired and I had to apply for a new one.

Years later, I still remember that episode more fondly than I remember many serious events of that period.

Life was moving. So were we.

At one point, wedding invitations began arriving from the very people with whom we had once shared classrooms and examinations. The Class Representative and Girls’ Representative were getting married.

Two friends and a dream in Lahore

Iqbal and I also travelled to Lahore to appear in Punjab Public Service Commission (PPSC) examinations.

Those two weeks remain among the more colourful memories of our younger years. We would sit the examinations at Fortress Stadium and then wander through Lahore. We explored its streets, visited its landmarks and sampled its food.

One day, as candidates emerged from the examination centre, we noticed a reporter interviewing them. Iqbal was late. So, I spoke to the journalist and shared my aspirations. The next morning, we bought the newspapers. There it was: “Over 11,000 Youth to Fight for 20 Vacant Posts under PPSC.” I have somehow managed to preserve that newspaper to this day.

When Iqbal finally emerged from the examination centre, I told him about the interview. Then I shared another little incident. “While I was coming out,” I told him, “I heard one candidate ask his friend, what you have written in reply to a question, whether Iqbal was a better Shair (poet) or Hakeem (a healer).” His friend prompted: “Nothing, my friend. I have only just discovered that Iqbal was also a Hakeem.” We laughed. It was a tiny episode in the vast story of our lives.

But decades later, I still remember it.

Perhaps that is the strange mathematics of friendship: some moments become more valuable with age.

The professional world could not contain him

During his M.Phil studies, Iqbal joined Oil and Gas Development Company Limited (OGDCL). The professional world opened another door for him.

He gained practical experience in the energy sector, learned the demands of professional life and established himself beyond academia. But professional stability did not silence his academic hunger.

Instead, it seemed to sharpen it.

He eventually secured a Higher Education Commission scholarship and proceeded to Cardiff University, UK for advanced studies. For someone who had begun in Jampur, Cardiff represented another formidable leap.

But by then, perhaps Iqbal had stopped measuring his dreams by distance.

After returning to Pakistan, he joined Weatherford, a multinational oilfield services company. Later, his professional journey took him through OGDCL, OGTI in I-9 and Weatherford in I-10.

Our meetings continued. Sometimes we would sit over tea. Sometimes over a meal. We would revisit old memories, discuss our respective careers and wonder how quickly the years were disappearing.

Our professions had taken us in different directions. Our friendship had not.

From industry to the classroom

Eventually, Iqbal made another significant decision.

He moved from the corporate oil and gas sector into academia and joined Bahria University Islamabad as a member of its teaching faculty. It was more than a career transition. It seemed to reflect something fundamental about him.

For Iqbal, education was never simply a collection of certificates to be displayed on a wall or degrees to be added to a curriculum vitae.

Knowledge was a lifelong pursuit. He wanted to learn more. Then he wanted to teach. And after teaching, he wanted to discover more. That restlessness eventually took him back to the pursuit of advanced research.

And then came Oxford

Years after leaving Jampur, Iqbal secured another HEC scholarship. This time, the destination was the University of Oxford. Today, he is undertaking postdoctoral research in Earth Sciences at Oxford.

The distance between those two points is difficult to measure merely in kilometres. Jampur to Oxford is not simply a geographical journey. It is a journey across circumstances. Across uncertainty. Across financial and social limitations. Across countless moments when it would have been easier to settle. But Iqbal kept moving.
“Iqbal, do you remember?”

When he recently returned from Oxford during a break, he called me. We met over tea at Super Market in F-6, the very sector where I was born and raised.

As we sat together, the years seemed to collapse. I looked at him and, for a moment, I could almost see the young Iqbal of 2003 sitting before me.

The Earth Sciences Department, The Computer Sciences Department. The class elections. The motorbike. The Rawalpindi challan. The Lahore examinations. The newspaper. The laughter. The dreams.

“Iqbal, do you remember those days?” I asked. Of course, he did. Some memories do not require photographs. They remain preserved somewhere deeper.

The teacher became a mentor

Today, Iqbal’s contribution extends beyond his own academic journey.

He has supervised two PhD students and several MPhil students, while contributing numerous research papers to national and international academic journals.

The young man who once sat beside us in a university department has himself become a mentor to a new generation of scholars.

That, perhaps, is a more profound measure of achievement than any title. Knowledge becomes meaningful when it is passed forward.

A life built together

Iqbal’s personal journey has also been intertwined with academia. He married one of his university colleagues (yeah, GR), who herself is a PhD scholar and faculty member at a reputable public-sector university. Together, they have three children and are currently residing in the UK.

Over the years, he has achieved many of the material comforts associated with professional stability, a home, luxury vehicle(s) and a secure life.

But when I look at his journey, these things appear almost incidental.

The greater achievement is intangible. It is the respect he has earned. It is the students he has inspired. It is the knowledge he continues to create. And it is the distance he has travelled without forgetting where he began.

What Jampur gave him

Iqbal’s story is particularly significant because of where it began.

Jampur did not offer him the same concentration of opportunities available in Pakistan’s major urban centres.

Yet he never treated his birthplace as a limitation. He carried Jampur with him. Then he added Islamabad. QAU. Cardiff. The corporate world. Academia. And finally, Oxford. Each place became another chapter rather than a replacement for the previous one.

That is perhaps the most beautiful aspect of his journey. He did not erase his origins to reach Oxford. He carried them there.

The only missing link 

Amid his many achievements, Iqbal feels the absence of his parents, who are no longer here to celebrate the milestones they helped him reach.

He remembers them with deep affection and gratitude and repeatedly acknowledges that whatever he has become is inseparable from their sacrifices, prayers and upbringing.

For all the universities he has attended, all the scholarships he has won and all the professional milestones he has crossed, there remains a part of the journey that belongs entirely to them.

Perhaps every achievement of his carries an invisible dedication. To his mother. To his father. To the people who believed in him before the world had any reason to do so.

Geography decides where you begin, not where you end

As someone born and raised in Islamabad, I have seen many talented young people come to the capital in search of opportunity.

Some found it. Some lost their way. Some achieved what they came for. Iqbal did something different. He kept expanding the boundaries of what was possible for himself. His journey offers a powerful lesson to young people growing up in smaller cities and less privileged environments:

From Iqbal to Dr Iqbal

When I first met him in 2003, he was simply Iqbal. A shy young man. A hardworking student. A friend. Today, he is Dr Muhammad Iqbal Hajana, an academic, researcher, mentor and postdoctoral scholar at Oxford. Yet, sitting across from him over tea in F-6, I did not see only the scholar. I saw the old friend.

The young man from Jampur who came to Islamabad carrying a dream that was probably larger than he could explain at the time. Perhaps that is why his story touches me personally. Because I witnessed a small part of the beginning.

I watched the journey unfold. And now, from Jampur to Oxford, I can see just how far that quiet determination carried him.

His journey is not over. Perhaps Oxford is not the destination either.

Perhaps it is simply another milestone on a road that began in Jampur and continues wherever his curiosity, scholarship and determination take him.

And if I were to ask him one final question today, sitting across that cup of tea, it would be simple: “Mr. Bala, oh sorry Dr. sb, how far do you think you can still go?” Knowing him, I suspect he would smile quietly, and keep walking.

“TEA IS FANTASTIC” ABHINANDAN’S NEW ANNOUNCEMENT MAY COME FROM AN ATR

IAF fighter pilot moves from the MiG-21 cockpit to a local ATR, leaving behind the dogfight, the Vir Chakra and a famous cup of Pakistani tea.

Mahtab Bashir
0333 53 63 248
mahtabbashir@gmail.com
ISLAMABAD

Once celebrated as the moustachioed face of Indian air force, Group Captain Abhinandan Varthaman is now preparing for a very different kind of flight, training to operate an ATR for Indian regional airline FLY91.

One cannot help wondering: is India's celebrated fighter pilot not capable enough to fly an ATR yet? Perhaps he is. And perhaps that is precisely why he needs the training. After all, the last time he ejected, landed on the Pakistani side and was captured.

He flew a fighter jet into an encounter with Pakistani aircraft, his MiG-21 came down. So, after the MiG-21 chapter, comes the ATR chapter.

Abhinandan sipping tea during captivity in Pakistan

From supersonic fighter sorties to regional passenger flights, from chasing aircraft to chasing schedules, it is certainly an unusual career transition for a man whom India's political and media establishment once turned into a symbol of military heroism.

And somewhere in this curious aviation story, one sentence continues to hover above everything: “Tea is fantastic.”

Those three words, uttered by Abhinandan while in Pakistani custody in 2019, became an unlikely cultural phenomenon in India. The captured pilot, visibly injured but composed, was shown drinking tea and answering questions without revealing information.

But Indian media soon did what Indian media does best when presented with a dramatic television moment: it turned a cup of tea into a national epic.

The man whose aircraft had been shot down and who had subsequently been captured was transformed into a heroic symbol. His moustache became iconic, his photographs appeared everywhere and his name became embedded in India's political rhetoric.

Then came the Vir Chakra.

Abhinandan was decorated with India's third-highest wartime gallantry award, while the episode was increasingly packaged as a story of “extraordinary Indian military valour”.

And that is where the story deserves a little less Bollywood and a little more reality.

There is no question that maintaining composure while injured and in enemy custody is difficult. But composure in captivity and victory in aerial combat are two very different things.

Yet somehow, in the Indian telling of the story, the distinction became rather conveniently blurred.

The fighter went down.
The pilot was captured.
The tea was fantastic.
And the hero was born.

Now, seven years later, the same hero is reportedly preparing to fly an ATR in India's regional aviation sector.

The symbolism is almost too perfect.

The MiG-21 was built for combat. The ATR is built to carry passengers between cities.

One carries weapons. The other carries luggage.

One produces the sort of noise that makes people look up nervously.

The other produces the sort of announcement that makes passengers check whether their flight is delayed.

For Abhinandan, therefore, the aviation vocabulary is about to change dramatically.

“Target acquired” may become “boarding completed.”

“Enemy aircraft detected” may become “cabin crew, prepare for take-off.”

And instead of wondering whether the opposing aircraft has locked on, passengers will presumably be wondering whether their checked baggage has made it onto the plane.

But perhaps the biggest irony lies in the fact that Varthaman's most internationally remembered words came not from a successful fighter sortie, but from his time after that sortie had ended rather abruptly.

“The tea is fantastic.”

It was a remarkable public-relations victory for Pakistan. A captured Indian fighter pilot sitting in Pakistani custody, calmly drinking tea and praising it, became one of the most replayed moments of the confrontation.

India, meanwhile, had a different response: instead of allowing the episode to remain an uncomfortable military episode, it elevated the man at its centre into a national icon.

The medal helped.
The television coverage helped.
The moustache certainly helped.
And the tea? The tea became legendary.

Now imagine the next stage.

A passenger boards an ATR. He looks toward the cockpit. Perhaps he notices the pilot's name.

“Abhinandan Varthaman?”

The passenger might reasonably wonder whether this is the same man whose photograph once dominated television screens across India.

And then comes the announcement:

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard.”

No Pakistani jets.
No dramatic dogfight.
No ejection seat.
No international crisis.
Just an ATR heading toward its destination.

That, perhaps, is the most amusing part of the entire saga.

War propaganda thrives on drama. Commercial aviation thrives on routine.

The first requires enemies, headlines, medals and patriotic speeches.

The second requires punctuality, discipline, navigation and passengers who have remembered to switch their phones to flight mode.

The Vir Chakra cannot help with turbulence.
A patriotic slogan cannot land an aircraft.
And a famous moustache is no substitute for an aviation licence.

Perhaps this is why the ATR chapter is so revealing. It strips away the political theatre and returns aviation to what it actually is: a profession in which performance matters far more than mythology.

If Abhinandan successfully completes his training and begins flying commercially, he will simply become another professional pilot responsible for getting passengers safely from one airport to another.

No national anthem required.
No heroic soundtrack necessary.
And certainly no need to remind anyone about the tea.

Although, given the extraordinary afterlife of those three words, one suspects that whenever Abhinandan is offered a cup of tea before a flight, somebody somewhere will remember:

“Tea is fantastic.”
What a journey.
From the cockpit of a MiG-21 to the cockpit of an ATR.
From aerial combat to domestic routes.
From fighter pilot to commercial trainee.

And from a captured pilot's famous cup of tea to a career where the real test is no longer how convincingly one can appear heroic on television, but whether one can safely land the aircraft.

Perhaps that is the final irony.

The Indian establishment spent years turning a three-day captivity into a legend.

Now aviation may reduce the legend to something wonderfully ordinary:

Captain, passengers are waiting. The aircraft is ready. Please fly.

The writer is a journalist who completed MPhil thesis titled “U.S. Pro Israel Policy: The Rise of Anti American Rhetoric in Pakistan" from Quaid-i-Azam University, Islamabad. 

SYSTEM HAS COLLAPSED, LET’S CELEBRATE IT!

Mahtab Bashir
mahtabbashir@gmail.com
ISLAMABAD

After nearly eight decades of independence, Pakistan has finally achieved something remarkable: we have spent 80 years perfecting the art of making a functioning society look dysfunctional.

Corruption is no longer an aberration but an operating principle; policies are drafted more for files than for implementation; professionalism is often sacrificed at the altar of sifarish; loyalty is measured by personal benefit rather than principle; patriotism appears most passionately on national days, preferably with a flag as a profile picture; and empathy has become an increasingly rare luxury.

From politics to bureaucracy, education to healthcare, media to business, and institutions to ordinary social dealings, the same disease seems to have spread everywhere, rules are negotiable, accountability selective, and merit perpetually homeless. 

And now, after eight long decades of denial, excuses and ceremonial self-congratulation, we are astonished to discover that the system has not merely developed cracks, it has collapsed.

The tragedy, however, is not that we failed to notice the collapse; it is that we spent 80 years calling the falling walls “progress.”

Many moons ago, when a Pakistani swimming contingent returned home after a dismal performance at the Olympics, they faced severe criticism. During a meeting with the swimmers, sports minister congratulated them, saying, “Everyone has returned safely, and, thankfully, no one drowned. Big congratulations!”

Let's talk about Hockey, the sport in which Pakistan once ruled the world and proudly flaunted it as our national game, has now given us another reason to celebrate. The Pakistan hockey team qualified for the World Cup after a hard-fought campaign and managed to win just one match, against Japan. It was, of course, a historic victory: our first World Cup win in 16 years. And, naturally, we also lost to our arch-rivals, India.

But by the time these lines are being written, the celebrations over the thrilling 4-3 victory against Japan may have ended, or perhaps they are still going on. After all, the Green Shirts will now play in the 9th-to-16th-place classification matches. Big congratulations!

On Friday, August 21, England defeated visiting Pakistan by an innings and 120 runs within three days at Headingley, in what was supposed to be a five-day Test match and the first of a three-match series. The second Test will be played at Lord’s on August 27, when Babar Azam is expected to make his comeback.

At Headingley, many people, including the goras, ridiculed Pakistan’s selectors, with some calling it the worst team in the history of Pakistan cricket, or suggesting that perhaps the selectors themselves were the worst. Ali Usman, however, proved them all wrong. He became the first overseas spinner since 1972 to claim a five-wicket haul at Headingley. Yes, Pakistan suffered a massive defeat, but let us not allow that minor detail to spoil the celebration. Big congratulations!

Arshad Nadeem, our champion javelin thrower who stunned the world by setting an Olympic record of 92.97 metres to win gold at the Paris Olympics, suffered an early exit after reportedly feeling cold and groggy. As he himself described it, the cold apparently got the better of him before his javelin throw at the Commonwealth Games in Glasgow, where he finished ninth among 12 competitors.

Arshad managed a best throw of 77.41 metres in his first three attempts. But there was one encouraging sign: thankfully, the javelin (neza) was not frozen, only the thrower seemed to be. Especially the thrower in whom governments and the private sector have invested so heavily. Big Congratulations!

On August 14, the Pakistani government announced a number of civilian awards for people contributing in different fields. The actual conferment, however, will take place on March 23 next year. The decision was widely mocked on social media, with critics arguing that the value of civilian awards has been diluted, not only by some of the recipients, including serving office-holders, but also by those handing them out.

One social media user summed up the sentiment rather brutally: “Those deprived of awards for some reason can always get a Sitara-e-Imtiaz from any outlet of Imtiaz Store.”

Another interesting development came when a lawyer put the Presidency on notice by issuing a legal notice to President Asif Ali Zardari, seeking revocation of the civil awards announced for serving bureaucrats and officials. The petition reportedly invokes Article 259(2) of the Constitution and the Decorations Act, 1975, questioning whether routine official duties can really be classified as extraordinary public service.

Will the Presidency respond? If it does not, perhaps the awardees will simply have to accept the honour. Congratulations!

On the same evening, the Islamabad city administration (ICT) and Islamabad Police organised “A Parade” at D-Chowk as part of the Independence Day celebrations. The public event was largely appreciated, but the appearance of the Chief Commissioner Islamabad, who also happens to chair the CDA, and the Inspector General of Islamabad Police riding together on a buggy certainly added an unexpected royal touch to the proceedings.

Social media, naturally, noticed. The federal interior minister who days earlier had revealed that ‘system has collapsed’, later offered a rather thoughtful explanation: the chief guest was late because of other engagements, and the two senior officers were apparently directed not to give the public any “further pain” by making them wait any longer. So, instead of waiting on the ground, the two high-ranking officials were placed on the buggy. Problem solved, and, apparently, history made.

Days later, however, the prime minister took stern notice, expressing disappointment and displeasure over the display of pomp and show. The officials were advised to demonstrate humility, restraint and dignity, and to ensure that such conduct would not recur.

The public, meanwhile, appreciated the parade. The gathering was somewhat thin, but perhaps that too was part of the national restraint. Big Congratulations!

Most recently, on Monday, August 24, 2026, yet again during the month of our Independence, a group of students at Sarhad University’s Islamabad campus staged a protest over issues about the reinstatement of their Head of Department, fee structure and class arrangements.

The university’s female Head of Student Affairs, approached the protesting students in an attempt to engage with them and resolve their grievances; however, some of the agitated students reportedly misbehaved her. She subsequently called her husband, a serving military officer, for assistance.

Upon entering the university premises, the officer confronted the students; after a quick exchange of harsh words, he scuffled and opened ariel fire, apparently to intimidate protesting students. Several mobile-phone videos, including footage portraying the officer’s conduct during the incident, subsequently went viral on social media.

Having watched all the viral videos circulating on social media and thoroughly examined the matter at the campus, many are now showering praise on the civilian-military couple for their “gallant” intervention in resolving the issue, with some even recommending that the President confer upon them the prestigious Sitara-e-Imtiaz. Big congratulations!

Meanwhile, according to the official version, the officer has since been taken into custody and disciplinary proceedings have been initiated against him. The Pakistan Army has reiterated that discipline, accountability and justice remain its foremost institutional priorities, and that appropriate action will be taken in accordance with the findings of the ongoing inquiry.

Read Also: CONSTITUTION WEEPS, POLITICIANS SPEAK, CITIZENS WAIT IN PAKISTAN

Talking to this scribe, Shahzad Anwar Farooqi, a senior journalist and political commentator, said it was unfortunate and a matter of concern that Pakistan was declining in almost every field, with sports being no exception.

“Over the years, whatever Pakistan has achieved in various sports has largely been because of individual brilliance and natural talent. Teamwork never really worked in our sporting history. Now, unfortunately, those individuals are also missing,” he lamented.

Farooqi said Pakistan no longer produced players of the class of Abdul Razzaq, Shoaib Akhtar and Wasim Akram, to name a few. “Perhaps players of that calibre still exist, but where are the eyes that can identify them and put them into the playing arena?”

He questioned the current selection system, saying policies were often made in closed rooms. “How can a selector identify the quality of a player without watching him in domestic cricket? Statistics can tell you who performed best, but they cannot always reveal a player's real quality under different circumstances, pitch, ground conditions, facilities and other factors, unless selectors are physically present.” So, politics is everywhere, and the system has collapsed, he concluded.

Now, we have reached a point where failure is celebrated as survival, mediocrity as achievement, privilege as merit and misconduct as gallantry. Whether it is sport, education, administration, institutions, or public life, we no longer seem interested in fixing the system; we are merely competing to explain why its latest failure deserves congratulations.

After 80 years, the walls have finally fallen, and instead of rebuilding them, we are busy applauding the collapse. Big congratulations, Pakistan!

Mahtab Bashir is a journalist and holds M.Phil degree in Political Science and International Relations from Quaid-i-Azam University, Islamabad.

YOUR WOMAN IS RESPECTED, EVERYONE ELSE IS UP FOR DISCUSSION?

LALARUKH FAROOQ 
ISLAMABAD

I have always found the sentence, “We respect women,” rather fascinating. Because in our society, even respect seems to come with terms and conditions. The rules are apparently simple, but somehow they change depending on who the woman is, what she is wearing, what family she belongs to, and most importantly, whether she is considered “ours.”

Some women are treated as precious. Some are judged more harshly. And some seem to be missing entirely from the official register of people deserving basic respect.

The difference is often not their character. It is their relationship to us.

I once travelled by train with my sister. Circumstances meant that we had to travel without our father and brothers, so we booked seats in the ladies compartment simply to avoid unnecessary inconvenience.

We do not cover our faces with a niqab, but that certainly does not mean we have no concept of modesty or boundaries. I am not exactly the sort of person who chats with strangers or turns every gathering into a social event. I am rather reserved, quiet and perfectly happy minding my own business.

Anyway, a group of women came and sat opposite us.

They were covered from head to toe in burqas, but the volume of their laughter and conversation suggested that the entire compartment had accidentally become their private living room.

They were accompanied by a man.

He had a beard, wore a short shalwar and a prayer cap. Judging purely by appearance, one might have thought, “Well, what a pious and respectable gentleman.”

There was just one tiny problem.

His eyes kept wandering towards us.

Then this wonderfully respectable gentleman picked up our bags, threw them down beside us, and began arranging his own family’s luggage in the overhead storage space.

We had a couple of shoulder bags and a small suitcase, so we simply kept them beside our seats. It was a five hour journey, and frankly, their constant chatter had already exhausted our patience. We had absolutely no interest in starting a luggage dispute on a moving train.

But the real comedy had not even begun.

As soon as the train started moving, our respectable gentleman ran off to buy juice and Lays, returning like a man feeding his favourite hens.

Then he gave us another strange look and remained nearby. Perhaps he was thinking,

“I really should have brought a burqa and travelled in the ladies compartment too.”

Later, the women removed their burqas.

Fair enough. It was a ladies compartment, after all. There was no particular reason for them to remain covered around other women.

But then, at almost every stop, some man would appear at the window, leaning in for conversation, jokes and laughter.

The volume was impressive. The language was even more impressive.

And the contrast between their appearance and their conversation was so dramatic that I genuinely wanted to ask,

“Who wrote this script?”

Then, about half an hour before our destination, the burqas came back. The niqabs came back. Suddenly everyone was once again perfectly modest, graceful and innocent.

And our respectable gentleman, who had spent most of the journey trying one way or another to create an interaction with us, went off on another important mission.

Our luggage was already safely beside us, so his assistance was not required.

Still, the effort was admirable. The success rate, however, was zero.

And here comes the funniest part.

Read Also: IT'S NOT ABOUT AGE, IT'S ABOUT MINDSET

These were all very respectable, decent and honourable people. Because they had respect. We, apparently, were another category altogether. And that is exactly where the real issue begins. We encounter little scenes like this all the time.

Someone proudly declares, “I respect women.”

Then, five minutes later, a mother or sister becomes the subject of a perfectly fluent insult.

Just stop for a second.

The woman whose name you are using as an insult is also a woman. She simply happens to be someone else’s mother, sister or daughter. And perhaps that is the simplest description of our problem:

Your woman is respected. Everyone else is up for discussion.

Your sister’s clothes?

Absolutely nobody is allowed to comment. Another girl wearing something you dislike? Suddenly everyone becomes a fashion critic, moral judge and character certificate distributor.

Someone looks at your wife? Outrage.

But staring at a girl walking down the street? Apparently that is harmless.

Your woman chooses to cover?

“Of course. She understands the importance of our honour.”

Another woman chooses not to?

“Well, if she is not covering, why should I control my eyes?”

What a fascinating piece of logic.

Apparently modesty is everyone else’s responsibility, while self control is optional.

Then the same pattern appears at workplaces.

Women are judged for what they wear, how they speak, how loudly they laugh, whom they talk to and how friendly they are.

Men tease one another, make comments about women and discuss their appearances.

And somehow, at the end of it all, someone still announces,

“We really respect women.” No.

You do not necessarily respect women.

You respect the women you personally consider yours.

And those are two completely different things.

Real respect is not tested when the woman standing in front of you is your mother, sister, wife or daughter.

Almost everyone knows how to behave then.

The real test begins when the woman in front of you has no relationship with you, owes you nothing, cannot benefit you, does not dress according to your preferences and is completely outside your control.

If you can still keep your eyes, your tongue and your behaviour respectful then, perhaps you genuinely understand respect.

Otherwise, protecting your own women while judging every other woman is not respect.

It is simply favouritism dressed up as morality.

And there is something particularly strange about making a woman’s dignity dependent on her clothes.

If a woman wears a full burqa, does that automatically make her more worthy of respect?

And if another woman chooses not to cover, does that somehow make her less worthy of basic human decency? Of course not.

Modesty can be a religious choice. It can be a personal value. Different people will make different choices.

But basic human respect should not be conditional upon clothing.

Otherwise, the real problem is no longer the woman’s clothes.

It is our own gaze and our own thinking.

What makes this even more ironic is that some people who are extremely strict about women’s clothing seem to give their own language a complete exemption from the same moral standards.

A woman wears something they dislike?

Judgement.

A woman laughs loudly?

Judgement.

A woman speaks to men?

Judgement.

A woman does not dress according to their expectations?

Another judgement.

But when the same person casually uses insults involving someone’s mother or sister?

“Oh, that is different.”

Of course it is.

Apparently their morality comes with a very convenient membership plan called:

Your woman is respected. Everyone else is up for discussion.

If we genuinely believe in respecting women, then the standard cannot be limited to the women we love, belong to, or feel responsible for.

Respect has to exist even when there is no personal connection.

Even when we disagree with someone’s choices. Even when we dislike their clothing. Even when they owe us absolutely nothing. You can disagree with a woman’s choices without humiliating her.

You can hold personal religious or cultural values without turning yourself into the judge of every woman around you.

And you can believe in modesty without believing that women who dress differently have somehow surrendered their right to dignity.

Because the true measure of a person’s character is not how respectfully they treat the women they call their own.

It is how they treat the women who are not theirs. Otherwise, our entire moral system can be summarised rather neatly:

Your woman is respected. Everyone else is up for discussion.

And then, with a completely straight face, we proudly announce,

“We respect women.”

The sentence says “women.”

The mindset says “our women.”

And that tiny difference explains a lot about the double standards we see around us every single day.

Respect should not be a privilege handed out according to relationships.

It should be a basic standard of human behaviour. Otherwise, it is not really respect at all.

It is simply special treatment for the people we claim, and judgement for everyone else.

Lalarukh Farooq is a media professional, analyst and Gold Medalist with an M.Phil. in Media Studies.

CONSTITUTION WEEPS, POLITICIANS SPEAK, CITIZENS WAIT IN PAKISTAN

MAHTAB BASHIR 

ISLAMABAD

If there is one thing Pakistan's political elite excel at, it is the art of doing absolutely everything and absolutely nothing at the same time. August 17, 2026, was a masterclass.

On one side of the city, the Senate Sub-Committee on Devolution declared 25 federal ministries unconstitutional and demanded their immediate abolition. On the other side, the Sustainable Development Policy Institute (SDPI) hosted a seminar where political leaders passionately debated whether Pakistan should create even more administrative units.

The Constitution was invoked, cited, lamented and violated, sometimes by the same people, on the same day, in the same city. One group wanted to shrink the government. The other wanted to expand it.

Neither seemed to know what the other was doing. And both were absolutely certain that they were right. If only they had swapped rooms, they might have saved everyone a great deal of confusion, but that would require the kind of coordination that has eluded Pakistan's politicians for 79 years.

Senate committee: 25 ministries are illegal, throw them out

The Senate Sub-Committee on Devolution, chaired by Convener Senator Barrister Zamir Hussain Ghumro, delivered a scathing indictment of the federal bureaucracy. The committee declared that 25 ministries, including Health, Education, Railways, WAPDA, Petroleum and the Police Service, are operating in "serious and gross violation of the Constitution."

The following 25 ministries, divisions, corporations, and authorities are operating in "serious and gross violation of the Constitution" and must be immediately shut down and/or devolved:

1. Health
2. Education
3. National Food Security
4. Water Resources
5. Climate Change
6. Housing
7. Special Initiatives
8. Culture and Heritage
9. Evacuee Trust Board
10. Zakat and Ushur (collection)
11. Naya Pakistan Housing Authority
12. EOBI
13. Narcotics
14. Police Service
15. PMDC
16. Korangi Fish Harbour
17. Press Information Department
18. SIDCL
19. Railways
20. Industries
21. Statistics
22. Petroleum
23. Inter-Provincial Coordination
24. Planning and Development
25. WAPDA

The committee revealed that even before the 18th Amendment, the federal government had no authority over concurrent matters, yet 17 ministries were unconstitutionally established anyway. Loans were raised against those ministries, plunging the country into a debt trap. Why follow the Constitution when you can just borrow against ministries that should not exist?

"Non-implementation of the 18th Amendment has led to hemorrhaging money," Senator Ghumro declared, helpfully pointing out what everyone already knew. The committee noted that the federal government has "consistently, periodically and brazenly ignored" the Constitution.

Recommendations

The Committee's recommendations constitute nothing less than a constitutional reset for Pakistan:

A) Limit Federal Government to Nine Core Ministries

The federal government must confine itself exclusively to:

• Defence
• Foreign Affairs
• Finance
• Commerce
• Communication (including broadcasting subject to provincial part under Article 159)
• Maritime Affairs on High Seas
• Science and Technology
• Law and Justice (including Human Rights)
• Parliamentary Affairs

These nine ministries have an official budget of Rs 3.3 trillion this year (excluding Rs 130 billion paid by provinces through NFC to the Finance Division for tax revenue collection).

B) Reduce Federal Expenditure from Rs 19 Trillion to Rs 13 Trillion

Pakistan can save Rs 6 trillion annually by faithfully implementing these recommendations, reducing federal expenditure from its current colossal Rs 19 trillion to Rs 13 trillion.

C) CCI Re-constitution on Provincial Equality

The Committee demanded that the CCI be reconstituted "on the basis of equality of Provinces instead of majority of one Province," with the summary sent to the President "who is a symbol of the Federation with immediate effect."

D) Fixation of Essential Commodity Prices in CCI

The Prime Minister must convene CCI meetings to fix prices of petroleum products, gas, electricity, medicinal drugs, and other essential commodities, matters that constitutionally belong to the CCI, not the Federal Cabinet.

Stark reality: Provincial budget laid bare

In a comparison that lays bare the scale of federal overreach, the Committee highlighted the 2026-27 provincial budgets:

Province Annual Budget

Balochistan Rs 1.089 trillion
KP Rs 2.1 trillion
Sindh Rs 3.5 trillion
Punjab Rs 5.9 trillion

The Federal Government illegally and unconstitutionally withholds and wastes the equivalent of Punjab's entire annual budget, a sum that could transform healthcare, education, and infrastructure across the nation.

SDPI seminar: But what if we made even more provinces?

Meanwhile, at the SDPI seminar titled "Should Pakistan create more administrative units?", political leaders from PMLN, PPP, MQM, PTI, JI and JUIF gathered to discuss governance reform. Because nothing screams effective governance like inviting all the parties to one room and asking them to agree on anything.

Syed Mustafa Kamal argued that smaller administrative units could bring government closer to citizens, a revolutionary idea that somehow required a high-level seminar. 

Barrister Aqeel Malik noted that citizens care about roads and sewerage, a shocking revelation that apparently demanded parliamentary attention. Asad Umar warned of declining public trust, as if that needed pointing out.

Salman Akram Raja pointed out that even splitting Punjab into three provinces would leave each unit larger than most European countries. Zahoor Dhareeja made an impassioned case for a separate Seraiki province. 

Dr Farrukh Saleem opposed creating more provinces without fixing institutions first. Fawad Hussain Chaudhry said restructuring needs political consensus.

The participants, in their collective wisdom, reached a "remarkable consensus" that something must be done, without agreeing on what, how, when or who should do it. In short, they agreed that they disagreed, and called it progress. Only in Pakistan can a group of politicians agree on absolutely nothing and still declare it a success.

The irony: Shut down or build up?

The contrasting events of August 17 reveal a uniquely Pakistani talent for contradiction. The Senate committee wants to abolish Health, Education, Railways, WAPDA and 20 other bodies. The SDPI participants want to explore creating new provinces. One group wants to shrink the government. The other wants to expand it. Both are happening simultaneously, in the same city, with many of the same politicians.

The 18th Amendment remains unimplemented on both sides. The Senate committee blames the federal government for violating it. The SDPI participants lament that provincial resources have not reached local governments. Everyone agrees the Constitution is being violated. Nobody agrees on how to stop violating it.

Perhaps the most telling moment came when the Senate committee reminded the federal government that Pakistan is a federation created by its provinces, not a unitary state.

The SDPI seminar boomed similar sentiments, with Qamar Zaman Kaira warning that reform must avoid deepening inter-provincial sensitivities. So everyone agrees on the problem. Everyone agrees on the solution, in principle. Implementation? That is where the magic of Pakistani politics kicks in.

What do we learn?

Pakistan's politicians have once again demonstrated their unparalleled ability to talk endlessly while achieving nothing. They agree the Constitution is being violated. They agree governance needs reform. They agree local governments need strengthening. They just cannot agree on how to do any of it.

The Senate committee has spoken. The SDPI seminar has deliberated. The Constitution has been invoked, cited, lamented and violated, sometimes by the same people on the same day.

Meanwhile, Pakistan's 248 million citizens continue to wait for someone, anyone, to actually do something. Do not hold your breath.

The writer is an Islamabad-based journalist and can be reached at mahtabbashir@gmail.com

IT'S NOT ABOUT AGE, IT'S ABOUT MINDSET

Lalarukh Farooq

Islamabad 
lalarukhfarooq@gmail.com

Age is such a funny thing in our society. Some people hide their own age. Some keep counting everyone else’s. And some completely forget their own age while making someone else’s age their personal national issue.

In my workplace, most people belong to Gen Z or the older generations. What I find amusing is that people who become strangely secretive about their own age, as if asking their age is an interrogation, can be remarkably fearless when commenting on someone else’s.

“You’re older than my mother!”

Okay… and?

Since when did someone’s age become a measure of their intelligence, education, skills, beauty or worth?

If someone’s mother married young, that is not my responsibility. Two women being different in age is neither a crime nor an achievement. It certainly does not tell us who is more intelligent, capable or accomplished.

And wrinkles?

Please.

Pointing out someone’s wrinkles does not make your own personality any smoother.

The real issue here is age-shaming.

Age-shaming is not simply calling someone “old”. It is the deeper belief that as a person grows older, their value somehow becomes smaller.

And here is something worth remembering:

Being younger is not a qualification.

You are younger than me? Congratulations. Your birth certificate has done its job.

But now, let’s talk about the things that actually matter.

Are you respectful?

Are you hardworking?

Are you sensible?

Are you willing to learn?

Can you celebrate someone else’s success without feeling personally threatened by it?

Because age is chronology, not character.

Your age tells me when you were born.

Your choices, discipline, knowledge, skills and behaviour tell me who you have become.

Making fun of someone’s success is easy.

Building your own skills is harder.

Backbiting is easy.

Building character is harder.

Scrolling through reels for hours is easy.

Sitting down to learn something new takes effort.

Taking shortcuts is easy.

Consistency is difficult.

Counting other people’s flaws is easy.

Looking honestly at your own reflection is rather inconvenient.

Perhaps this is one of our biggest social problems:

We are unpaid analysts of everyone else’s lives, yet barely interns in our own.

We have opinions about everyone.

Their age.

Their appearance.

Their wrinkles.

Their clothes.

Their accent.

Their success.

Yet somehow, when it comes to improving ourselves, the meeting is mysteriously postponed.

Making fun of someone’s age will not make you younger.

Mocking someone’s wrinkles will not make you more beautiful.

Diminishing someone’s achievements will not make yours greater.

And calling someone “old” certainly does not make you wise.

Real maturity is being able to respect someone who is older than you, more experienced than you, more educated than you, or simply better at something you are still learning.

That does not mean every older person is automatically right.

Respect is not obedience to age. It is evidence of character.

And perhaps we should collectively learn one simple lesson:

If you have enough time to comment on someone’s age, appearance, wrinkles, clothes, accent and achievements, you probably have enough time to reserve a small slot for your own growth too.

Because, in the end, people will not remember how cleverly you joked about someone’s age.

They will remember what kind of person you were.

Youth is a stage of life.

Maturity is a way of thinking.

Respect is a choice.

So if you are younger than me, by all means, enjoy the privilege.

But please do not confuse being younger with being better.

A birth date can make you young.

Your choices, your character and the way you treat people are what make you mature.

Lalarukh Farooq holds an M.Phil. in Mass Communication, is a gold medalist, and brings valuable newsroom experience along with expertise as a social media professional.

Karoline Says ‘Leave It’ to White House, ‘Mom’ Role Comes First

White House Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt is stepping down from her high-profile position at the end of August to devote more time to her young children and family, President Donald Trump has announced.

At 28, Leavitt made history as the youngest person ever to serve as White House press secretary and became the first person to openly navigate pregnancy while holding the position. 

Despite leaving the post, she is expected to remain close to Trump as an outside adviser and continue to play an influential role in the Republican Party.

Key Points

• Karoline Leavitt will leave the White House press secretary position at the end of August.
• President Donald Trump described her as one of his most trusted aides and praised her performance.
• Leavitt, 28, became the youngest White House press secretary in history in January 2025.
• She became the first White House press secretary to openly experience pregnancy while holding the job.
• She will continue advising Trump from outside the White House.
• Leavitt said her decision was driven by her desire to be a better mother to her two young children.

Trump announced Leavitt's departure in a post on Truth Social on Wednesday, saying she wanted to spend more time with her “beautiful young children and family,” a decision he said he understood and respected.

Trump also said Leavitt would become one of his top outside advisers as his administration prepares for the midterm elections. He praised her work in the White House and described her as one of the best press secretaries in the history of the office.

Leavitt, meanwhile, said on X that her “past year and a half” in the White House had been the “honor and adventure of a lifetime.” She expressed gratitude to Trump for giving her the opportunity to work in the West Wing, spend time in the Oval Office, travel internationally and meet foreign leaders and Americans across the United States.

She said balancing the demanding press secretary role with motherhood had been both challenging and rewarding. However, following the birth of her daughter in May, Leavitt said she realized she could not give her two young children the time and attention they deserved while continuing in one of the most demanding jobs in the world.

“I have felt in my heart that I cannot be the best mom my two young children deserve,” she said, explaining the decision to leave the position.

Leavitt gave birth to her daughter, Viviana, on May 1. She and her husband, Nicholas Riccio, 60, also have a two-year-old son, Niko. She returned to the White House on July 16 after several months of maternity leave.

Her pregnancy itself marked a milestone in White House history. After announcing in December that she was expecting another child, Leavitt became the first White House press secretary to openly navigate pregnancy while serving in the position.

Leavitt assumed the post in January 2025 at the age of 27, becoming the youngest person ever to hold the job. She had previously worked in Trump's White House press office during his first administration and later served as a spokesperson for his 2024 presidential campaign.

She was the only person to serve as Trump's press secretary during his second term. During Trump's first presidency, the position was held successively by Sean Spicer, Sarah Huckabee Sanders, Stephanie Grisham and Kayleigh McEnany.

Although her tenure at the White House podium is coming to an end, Leavitt has made clear that her political career is not. She said Trump had asked her to continue serving as a top adviser from outside the administration and vowed to remain a vocal supporter of the Republican Party and the MAGA movement.

“My fight is entering a new phase, but it is far from over,” Leavitt said.