Maharaja and Patwari

This anecdote was once narrated by a Director of the Civil Services Academy, Lahore, to a batch of young CSP officers under training in the early 1960s. It was told with humour, but its lesson seems even more relevant today than it did then. One day, Maharaja Ranjeet Singh summoned his Minister of the Lands and Revenue (may have had a different nomenclature then) to the royal court. Curious about how his land revenue collection and management functioned, he asked him to explain his duties. The Minister spoke confidently about supervision and oversight, but every few sentences he referred to his subordinates. The Maharaja, with his characteristic sharpness, asked that one of them be called. Thus began a procession through the ranks - each officer, when questioned, explained that he merely reviewed or forwarded the work of his subordinates.

At last, a humble Patwari was brought before the Maharaja. "And what do you do?" asked Ranjeet Singh. "Maharaj," the Patwari replied, "I measure the lands, record the holdings, and prepare the revenue rolls. These papers then travel upward for checking and approval." The Maharaja smiled wryly, looked at the long line of officers, and said, "So, the work begins and ends with this man. The rest of you merely carry his papers up and down! Keep the Patwari - and let the others go home."

He said it with a touch of humour, but no one dared smile. Then, turning his one sharp eye toward the assembly, Ranjeet Singh added quietly, "Do not think that because I am one-eyed, I cannot see. I see everything - perhaps more clearly than you all." The court fell silent. The Maharaja's words, part jest and part judgment, carried a truth that transcended centuries: when the machinery of supervision grows fatter than the substance of service, governance becomes ceremony.

What Ranjeet Singh observed in a single afternoon seems to have become the permanent condition of Pakistan's civil services. The structure is heavy, the hierarchy elaborate, and yet efficiency and integrity have steadily declined. The famed "steel frame" of the early CSP - once admired for discipline, competence and impartiality - has corroded under layers of politicisation, complacency and corruption. At Independence, the civil service inherited the best administrative traditions of the Indian Civil Service. It was small but proud, efficient and accountable. Over time, however, political interference, ad hoc reforms and expedient appointments began to erode its character. Today, the civil service mirrors the very ills it was designed to cure.

Files still move endlessly from table to table, burdened with notes and initials but barren of outcomes. Officers prefer caution over initiative, rhetoric over results. Fieldwork - once the hallmark of administrative leadership - has been replaced by drawing-room decision-making and ceremonial meetings. Like Ranjeet Singh's courtiers, most officers now "forward" rather than "perform".

Corruption, too, has seeped deep into the administrative fabric. It no longer appears as a moral lapse but as a tolerated habit. Transfers, postings and procurements have become lucrative transactions, while honest officers are sidelined as "rigid" or "inflexible". The introduction of quotas and political patronage has further weakened meritocracy. Recruitment meant to reward intellect and integrity now bends to regional and political pressures. Competence, once the benchmark, is often replaced by convenience. In many offices, merit survives only as a slogan. Efficiency reports are perfunctory, promotions are influenced, and accountability is cosmetic. The honest civil servant, rather than being respected, often finds himself isolated - a misfit in a system that rewards mediocrity and submission.

The politicisation of bureaucracy has been perhaps the greatest single cause of its decline. Officers today are more concerned about the pleasure of their political masters than the satisfaction of the public. The once sacred principle of neutrality - that the civil servant serves the state, not the party in power - has been reduced to fiction. Political transfers destroy continuity; patronage kills fairness. When every major posting depends on influence rather than merit, loyalty shifts from the Constitution to the politician. It is then unrealistic to expect administrative courage or moral independence. The result is visible everywhere: files pending for months, projects mismanaged, and public confidence eroded. The citizen, standing before a counter or seeking a signature, sees only the face of inefficiency but not its cause - the bureaucratic decay behind the desk.

The malaise deepens as the service distances itself from the field. The officers who should understand the realities of the people now prefer air-conditioned offices to dusty districts. The Patwari, symbolic of grassroots governance, still carries the burden - measuring land, handling records, facing the public's anger - while those above him remain content with noting and forwarding. The pyramid has turned upside down: the base bears the weight while the top merely comments. True supervision has been replaced by ceremonial oversight.

Reform must begin not with another commission but with a renewal of purpose. The spirit of public service has to be restored - that old pride in competence, courtesy and integrity. Recruitment must be strictly merit-based, training must cultivate intellectual depth and moral discipline, and accountability must be real, not ritual. Equally, political leadership must allow bureaucracy to function professionally. When officers are made to serve shifting political interests, their institutional loyalty dies. A weak bureaucracy cannot deliver strong governance.

The old Civil Service of Pakistan was not perfect, but it possessed two priceless virtues - honour and autonomy. Both have been squandered. Without them, no reform can succeed. The Director who told that story in the 1960s concluded with a quiet reminder to his young audience: "Gentlemen, remember - the Patwari may still be in the field, but if those above him don't add value to his work, they only add weight to it." Those words ring even truer today. Until our civil service learns to replace hierarchy with honesty and procedure with purpose, the Maharaja's quiet warning in the Lahore Darbar will remain the most fitting commentary on Pakistan's governance.

It would be grossly unfair to discuss Raja Ranjeet Singh's era from any perspective without mentioning the Faqir family - that powerful triumvirate of three Muslim brothers in the Maharaja's court. Their role in the Khalsa Sarkar warrants a separate article altogether. The Fakir family still curates a wonderful and astonishing Museum in the Walled City of Lahore. For now, I rest my thoughts with a couplet of my own:

Samajh rahey ho jisay tum Fakir Khana hai,

Wahan to hashmate Ranjeet ka khazana hai