When the Actors Protest the Script They Helped Write

Night had begun to settle over Islamabad. The lights of the capital shimmered beneath a sky carrying the dust of another long summer day. In a small tea stall not far from the corridors of power, Baba Tal sat quietly on his wooden chair. The tiny brass bells hanging from his weathered waistcoat occasionally chimed as he shifted his weight. Before us, a television screen showed live scenes from the National Assembly.

Members were taking their seats. Government benches appeared confident. Opposition benches appeared restless. The Finance Minister prepared to present the federal budget. Television commentators described it as a historic day for the nation.

Baba Tal smiled.

“Bacha,” he whispered, “the speech has not even begun, yet the performance is already underway.”

A few labourers stood nearby drinking tea. A rickshaw driver counted the coins left in his pocket. A schoolteacher complained about electricity bills. A shopkeeper wondered how much more expensive business would become after tonight.

None of them would speak in Parliament.

Yet all of them would eventually pay for whatever Parliament decided.

Every year, the same drama returns to Islamabad. The Finance Minister rises to present the budget. Members of the opposition shout slogans. Government supporters thump their desks. Cameras zoom in on angry faces. Television screens fill with scenes of outrage and protest.

For a few hours, the nation is invited to believe that a fierce battle is being fought on behalf of the poor.

Then the curtains close.

The cameras leave.

And the ordinary citizen discovers that the bill has once again arrived at his doorstep.

The strange reality of Pakistan’s budget politics is that many of the loudest voices claiming to defend the people are themselves beneficiaries of the very system they condemn. Government and opposition may wear different political colours, but they often belong to the same privileged circles, enjoy the same comforts, and remain protected from the hardships endured by ordinary citizens.

The worker pays.

The farmer pays.

The teacher pays.

The shopkeeper pays.

The salaried class pays.

But those sitting in the highest seats of power rarely experience the consequences of the decisions they impose upon others.

One government blames the previous government.

The previous government blames the current government.

Both claim to stand with the people.

Yet somehow the people continue standing alone.

The national budget is more than a collection of numbers. It is a moral document. It reveals the priorities of a nation. It tells citizens who is expected to sacrifice and who is allowed to remain comfortable.

The Holy Qur’an reminds us:

“Indeed, Allah commands you to render trusts to whom they are due and when you judge between people, judge with justice.”

(Surah An-Nisa 4:58)

Public money is a trust.

Public office is a trust.

Public authority is a trust.

When citizens hand over a portion of their earnings through taxes, they do so with the expectation that their sacrifice will be used honestly and wisely. The state does not own that money. It merely holds it on behalf of the people.

Yet every year the burden appears to fall upon those least able to bear it.

The poor man cannot hide his income.

The shopkeeper cannot relocate his stall.

The labourer cannot transfer his wages overseas.

The pensioner cannot negotiate with inflation.

The middle class cannot escape utility bills.

But the powerful possess options unavailable to ordinary citizens.

That is why budget speeches often sound different inside Parliament than they do inside homes.

Inside Parliament, numbers dominate the discussion.

Inside homes, survival dominates the discussion.

Baba Tal slowly stirred his tea.

“Bacha,” he said, “have you noticed how every budget speaks the language of sacrifice, yet sacrifice always seems to arrive at the same address?”

His question lingered in the air.

Perhaps the most revealing aspect of budget season is not what politicians say about taxes. It is what they say about themselves.

Whenever new taxes are proposed, politicians rush to express concern for the people. They condemn hardship. They denounce inflation. They criticize economic pressure.

These concerns would be more convincing if accompanied by meaningful reductions in their own privileges.

Why should public representatives hesitate to examine excessive allowances, luxury protocols, unnecessary official expenditures, and the culture of entitlement that has become deeply embedded within governance?

The issue is not whether public officials should be compensated.

The issue is whether they should be insulated from realities faced by the citizens they represent.

The Prophet Muhammad [ peace and blessings be upon him ] said:

“Each of you is a shepherd, and each of you is responsible for his flock.”

(Sahih al-Bukhari; Sahih Muslim)

Responsibility is not measured by speeches.

Responsibility is measured by consequences.

When food prices rise, families suffer consequences.

When utility bills increase, families suffer consequences.

When transportation becomes expensive, families suffer consequences.

When jobs disappear, families suffer consequences.

The true test of leadership is whether leaders are willing to share those consequences.

Another prophetic teaching reminds us:

“The leader of a people is their servant.”

Service and privilege are not the same thing.

Service demands sacrifice.

Privilege demands protection.

A nation prospers when its leaders embrace the first and resist the second.

Meanwhile, outside the halls of Parliament, another Pakistan exists.

A Pakistan where parents skip meals so their children can eat.

A Pakistan where graduates search endlessly for employment.

A Pakistan where elderly citizens choose between medicine and groceries.

A Pakistan where countless households calculate every rupee before making the smallest purchase.

This Pakistan does not appear frequently in televised budget debates.

Yet it is the Pakistan that ultimately finances the state.

The famous British historian Lord Acton warned:

“Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

The warning remains relevant because political power often creates distance between rulers and realities. The farther leaders move from ordinary life, the easier it becomes to discuss hardship in abstract terms.

But hardship is never abstract.

It has a face.

It has a name.

It has a family.

It has children waiting for dinner.
BaBa Tall reads his poetry:
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Before raising another tax, walk once through the alleys of the forgotten.

Listen to the silence of kitchens where the fire has not burned for days.

Watch a mother divide one loaf among three hungry children.

See how hunger now dances in the courtyards of the poor.

Then tell us again that the nation can endure another burden.

The purpose of a budget should not merely be to balance accounts. Its purpose should be to strengthen trust between the state and its citizens. Trust grows when sacrifice is shared fairly. Trust grows when accountability applies to everyone. Trust grows when leaders demonstrate that they are willing to carry part of the weight they ask others to bear.

Otherwise, the annual budget becomes little more than another chapter in a familiar political theatre.

As the debate continued on television, Baba Tal rose from his chair. The tiny brass bells on his waistcoat chimed softly.

Members continued shouting inside the Assembly.

Commentators continued analysing.

Cameras continued recording.

The performance continued.

Baba Tal glanced once more at the screen.

“Bacha,” he whispered, “a parliament proves its love for the poor not by how loudly it protests during a budget speech, but by how much of its own comfort it is willing to surrender afterward.”

Outside, the city lights flickered beneath the Islamabad night.

Inside Parliament, the great budget circus marched on.

And somewhere beyond the walls of power, millions of ordinary Pakistanis waited to learn whether this year’s budget would lighten their burden—or simply teach them how to carry a heavier one.

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