■Lines can be changed. Boundaries can be redrawn. Administrative units can evolve. But Pakistan must not bleed.■
Perhaps I have been looking at the map from the wrong direction.
I have been looking at provinces, districts, federal territories, and administrative lines. I have been counting what can be divided.
Then, for a moment, the map went quiet.
Beneath its coloured patches, I began to see another Pakistan—not merely the Pakistan of today’s files and boundaries, but a Pakistan that has been wandering through time for thousands of years.
Before Pakistan was a state, this land was a passage. Before it was a map, it was a meeting.
The Indus carried not only water but memory. The old roads carried not only caravans but languages, crafts, ideas, and stories. What we inherited was never a single thread.
It was a loom.
The old roads did not ask a traveller for a provincial identity before allowing him to pass. People met, traded, argued, learned, married, migrated, and carried pieces of one another onward.
A civilization grows when people meet.
From my little Eyrie in F-10, with Foxy waiting somewhere below and the Margalla Hills watching silently from my western window, the question looks almost embarrassingly simple:
Can Pakistan redraw its administrative lines without redrawing the heart of Pakistan?
I believe it can.
But only if we remember what the pencil is for.
A pencil draws.
A dagger wounds.
Administrative boundaries are pencil lines on paper—not daggers in the flesh of the nation.
The Qur’an gives us a principle that should stand above every administrative experiment:
“Indeed, Allah commands justice, excellence and giving to relatives, and forbids immorality, bad conduct, and oppression.”
— Qur’an 16:90
The question, therefore, is not whether a province is large or small, old or new.
The question is whether the citizen receives justice.
If a farmer must travel hundreds of miles to pursue a land dispute, if a student needs political connections to obtain an opportunity, if a patient must leave his district because a basic hospital cannot function, then the map deserves another look.
There is another question that rulers, administrators, and all of us should keep before our eyes.
The Holy Prophet Muhammad [Peace and blessings be upon him] said:
“Everyone of you is a guardian and is responsible for his charges; the ruler of the people is a guardian and is responsible for his subjects.”
— Sahih al-Bukhari, Hadith 7138
The ruler is not the owner of the map.
He is responsible for the people living on it.
So let us draw the map—not as a decree, not as a dagger, and certainly not as an invitation to tear Pakistan apart.
Let us draw it as a citizen’s proposal.
In the picture I have in mind, Punjab could be administered through North Punjab, Central Punjab, and South Punjab—three practical administrative regions designed to shorten the distance between government and citizen
Khyber Pakhtunkhwa could be organised through North Khyber Pakhtunkhwa and South Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, allowing the administration to respond more closely to geography, population and access.
Sindh and Balochistan should likewise be examined for need-based administrative divisions rather than being treated as untouchable shapes merely because they have existed in their present form.
Islamabad Capital Territory would remain the federal capital.
Azad Jammu and Kashmir and Gilgit-Baltistan would retain their distinct constitutional and administrative frameworks rather than being casually squeezed into a one-size-fits-all provincial formula.
And the most important line of all would not move an inch:
Pakistan’s international frontier would remain Pakistan’s international frontier.
The pencil would move inside Pakistan—not across Pakistan.
The exact administrative lines should follow geography, population, transport links, economic relationships, and the ordinary citizen’s access to courts, schools, hospitals, and government offices.
The map I have drawn is, therefore, a proposal for discussion—not a decree carved into stone.
“Bacha!”
BāBā-Tāl [the Bell-man] was sitting in his chair, dressed in his navy-blue robe stitched with brass bells of different sizes, blue jeans torn at both knees and white joggers. Taking a sip from the tea mug in his hand, he whispered, as he always does:
“Bacha! Look carefully at the lines you have drawn.
“You have created new administrative units within the existing provinces, but you have not erased the historical names that helped give Pakistan its very name.
“P — Punjab.
“A — Afghania, the old geographical reference to (KPK) the Pashtun lands.
“K — Kashmir.
“S — Sindh.
“And -tan — from Balochistan.
“See, Bacha? You have moved the pencil inside the provinces, but you have not taken the provinces out of Pakistan.
“The lines may change.
“The names remain.
“The identity remains.
“Pakistan remains.”
He took a deep breath and another sip of tea.
“Bacha! I am glad you understood the difference. Draw administrative lines if they can bring government closer to the people—but do not draw a line across the heart of Pakistan.
“Simple.
“Careful.
“Good!”
I smiled.
Perhaps that is the answer to the first objection already.
If someone asks, “Who gave you the authority to draw such a map?”
My answer is simple:
I am not drawing a new country.
I am drawing a question.
It is not my duty here to show anyone the secret narrow streets through which some future government might travel to reach such a destination. Those are matters for Pakistan’s constitutional and political institutions.
My job as a writer is much simpler:
To put an idea on the table.
Pakistan’s history itself reminds us that political promises and political realities do not always travel together.
In July 1977, General Zia-ul-Haq promised elections within 90 days after taking power. The elections were postponed, and his rule continued until his death in 1988.
If history allowed a man in uniform to change the political timetable of an entire country, why should a civilian with a pencil not be allowed to draw an administrative map and say:
“This is what I think Pakistan may need.”
A pencil is not a command.
It is an invitation to think.
But thinking alone is not enough.
If new administrative units are created, they must not simply multiply offices, official residences, vehicles, flags, titles, and protocol.
That would only multiply the cost of government.
The purpose should be the opposite: shorter distances, faster decisions, more accessible institutions, and a more accountable public service.
There is nothing sacred about extravagance.
If the Prime Minister of Britain can live at 10 Downing Street, why could a Chief Minister in Pakistan not live in a modest one-kanal official residence?
The state exists to serve the citizen—not to impress the citizen with the grandeur of the ruler.
A new administrative unit must never become merely a new throne.
That would defeat the purpose.
The purpose is the citizen.
Here, Iqbal quietly enters the room:
طرزِ کہن پہ اڑنا، آئینِ نو سے ڈرنا
منزل یہی کٹھن ہے قوموں کی زندگی میں
To cling stubbornly to old ways and fear new ones—this, Iqbal reminds us, is one of the difficult turning points in the life of nations.
But reform must not become reckless surgery.
A surgeon does not cut first and diagnose later.
He studies the patient.
He identifies the disease.
He decides what must be removed and what must be preserved.
Pakistan needs the same discipline.
No province is a diseased organ.
No language is an infection.
No culture belongs on an operating table.
The disease, if we are searching for it, lies elsewhere: excessive concentration of power, administrative distance, inequality of opportunity, bureaucratic excess, and the failure to deliver equal public services.
Cut away unnecessary privilege—but preserve dignity.
Reduce bureaucratic excess—but strengthen public service.
Bring administration closer—but keep Pakistan whole.
If an experiment does not work, the pencil must remain available.
Perhaps ten or fifteen years later, the arrangement may need adjustment. If it works, strengthen it. If it fails, correct it.
That is the beauty of a pencil.
It can be erased.
A dagger cannot.
Revenue must also follow responsibility.
If one administrative unit carries greater geographical distances, weaker infrastructure, or larger development gaps, its financial needs can not be judged merely by the amount of revenue it generates today.
A fair formula must consider population, geography, development needs, service-delivery costs, and revenue capacity.
A smaller administrative unit must not be born financially crippled.
Nor should a new province become another centre of privilege.
The purpose remains the same:
The citizen.
The Qur’an reminds us that our differences are not an excuse for division:
“O mankind, indeed We created you from a male and a female and made you peoples and tribes that you may know one another.”
— Qur’an 49:13
The verse does not ask humanity to become identical.
It teaches us how to live with differences.
Pakistan, too, does not need every part to look identical.
It needs every part to feel protected, represented, and connected to the whole.
And somewhere in the quiet of my Eyrie, I can almost hear the little brass bells.
BāBā-Tāl looks once more at the map.
He does not touch the pencil.
He simply whispers:
“Bacha! Make the administration smaller if it brings the citizen nearer.
“But never make Pakistan smaller in the heart of the Pakistani.”
Then the bells fall silent.
Perhaps the final word should belong to poetry.
POETEARS— [coined by S.T. Hejazi — Where poetry becomes tears, and tears become poetry]
Draw the lines, but do not wound the heart,
Change the map, but keep the whole from falling apart;
Let every road bring justice to the town,
Let every new boundary remain a bridge, not a dart.
Perhaps that is all I have been trying to say.
We do not need another separation.
We need better administration.
We need justice closer to the citizens.
We need smaller distances without smaller loyalties.
We need administrative reform without national fragmentation.
We need a state that understands that a citizen in South Punjab, North Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, interior Sindh, Balochistan, Islamabad, Azad Jammu and Kashmir or Gilgit-Baltistan is not a distant administrative statistic.
He is Pakistan.
She is Pakistan.
Every child standing beneath the same sky is Pakistan.
So let us draw the lines carefully.
Let us draw them with consultation, patience, and responsibility.
Let us draw them with a pencil—not a dagger.
Because the map may change.
The names may change.
The administrative boundaries may change.
But the country must remain.
Pakistan must not bleed.