Ahmed has dreamed… a morning where bureaucracy finally worked like clockwork instead of a clogged drain. With calloused hands and papers clutched tight, Kissan Ahmed marched into the Tehsil office, bracing himself for the usual Olympic-level hurdles: missing files, chai-paani negotiations, and the classic line — “kal aa jana.”
But this was no ordinary Tehsil office. This was the Tehsil office of his dreams.
The revenue clerk, instead of looking like a gatekeeper of doom, rose from his chair with the aura of a saint. “Welcome, Kissan Ahmed,” he said, smiling like a toothpaste ad. “Your file is already on my desk.” When Ahmed nervously waved the official receipt, the clerk shook his head with dignity: “Government ki fee is enough. My salary is my reward.”
Then came the Kanungo. No tapping of fingers, no coded coughs for chai-paani. Instead, he slid a cup of steaming chai across the table. “Every person we serve,” he declared with the passion of a TED Talk speaker, “is a brick in the foundation of Roshan Pakistan.” He signed the papers with a flourish so smooth it could have been calligraphy.
Next, the Tehsildar arrived — not with the usual raised eyebrow of “samajh to gaye na,” but with the calm of a philosopher. “This system is made for people, not against them,” he said, introducing digital reforms like he was unveiling the next iPhone. No envelopes, no “heavy papers,” no hint of speed money. Just a straight lecture on transparency.
Within hours, Ahmed’s mutation was approved. Yes, approved! Not “stuck for verification,” not “pending for approval,” not “file misplaced.” No chai-paani, no token of appreciation, no chai-biscuit politics. Done. Finished. Mutated.
As he stepped out, the world felt brand new. The sun shone brighter, the birds chirped in tune, and even the politician leaving the office nodded respectfully at him. Respectfully! Not a smirk, not a dismissive glance — but respect, as if both were equal citizens. In this dream, there were no VIPs, no sifarish, just justice for all.
Ahmed’s heart swelled. This wasn’t just about a land mutation. This was about the mutation of the entire nation — a Roshan Pakistan where honesty was the only currency, and chai was for refreshment, not negotiation.
And then… thud.
The dream broke.
Ahmed opened his eyes to the reality of his charpai, the smell of damp earth, and the same papers clenched in his hand. Tomorrow awaited him — the real Tehsil office, where chai wasn’t free, where chai-paani wasn’t optional, and where files didn’t move unless palms were greased.
He sighed. The dream had been beautiful — perhaps too beautiful. But even as he stared at the papers, he reminded himself that not every official had sold their conscience. There were still clerks, Kanungos, and Tehsildars who tried to work honestly, who resisted chai-paani, who believed that service itself was dignity.
Because in Pakistan, land may mutate… and the system too is slowly mutating. The process is still in progress, but every honest officer, every upright signature, and every refusal to take a bribe is a small step forward. The finishing time is still waiting for a good day — and it will come, built quietly by those who are still committed to deliver.
Disclaimer: This is a work of satire. Any resemblance to actual revenue clerks who smile, Kanungos who serve free chai, or Tehsildars who refuse chai-paani is purely coincidental — and frankly, miraculous. If you do meet such an officer, please let us know immediately, because that would truly be the real “Roshan Pakistan.”
