ECONOMY (CLUTCHING AT STRAWS)

A present-day 'dhaba' 

CLUTCHING AT STRAWS 

By: Nasser Yousaf 

WHEN you next hear someone of Pakistani origin, or more precisely a denizen of the province of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, talking of a revolution, be assured that it has got nothing to do with unrestrained mayhem or bloodshed directed at bringing about a change in the country’s doddering system of governance. 

In fact, the matter in the foregoing case could be as simple, if not frivolous, as bringing down the prices of tomato through governmental intervention, which the eager beavers in the bureaucracy would describe as ‘revolutionary,’ on banners hung from the skies. 

Similarly, making the wretched of the land pay through their noses to fill up the empty official coffers is also regarded as a matter that must also be dyed in revolutionary hues in the bureaucratic machinery so as to present it as a glorious achievement of the government of the day. 

Keen to present its humane face while also wary of its meagre kitty, the Government of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (GOKP) has announced cuts in various categories of sales tax on services. This is as good as it could get, especially from the point of view of the end consumers on whom the incidence of sales tax on services fall. 

But wait! The policy, as apparent from the advertisement announcing reductions in the tax rates, could not have been more bizarre, and indeed absurd, as it stipulates a tax @1 % on ‘dhaba.’ 

Typically, a ‘dhaba’ is a roadside eatery in the mainstream South Asian countries. A ‘dhaba’ (which also finds mention in some English-language dictionaries) caters to the gastronomical requirements and tastes of labourers and travellers, notably truck drivers travelling at night time. It provides very sweetened milk tea called doodhpatti’ to its weary customers who relish it no end. Rest of the menu consists of traditional lentils, an assortment of vegetables, fried minced meat and chickpeas. 

An average meal for one person at a ‘dhaba,’ invariably washed down with a cup of tea, comes @ Rs. 150/. No hard math is involved in calculating tax @1 % on this paltry sum. Certainly, in fewer if any, cases would the bill go up to Rs. 200/. 

In the last mentioned case the tax liability from a customer availing services at a ‘dhaba’ would come out to be Rs. 2/. Now, since the Sales Tax Law allows certain adjustments to be made out of those two rupees to the restauranteur in lieu of utilities expended in the preparation of food served, the final amount payable as sales tax on services to the tax authority would be reduced further. 

In the absence of any verifiable information as regards the total number of ‘dhabas’ in KP, one could safely assume that the number must be in many thousands. A ‘dhaba’ sits snugly ensconced in popular perception, as one could literally bump into one around every next corner across the urban and rural landscapes, particularly on our road networks. 

Certain assumptions would help us understand the quantum of revenue from the levy of sales tax on ‘dhabas’ very easily. If, as a result of a survey we come to know that there are 5000 ‘dhabas’ in KP, where an average of twenty five persons consume meals @ Rs. 200/ on daily basis, sales tax @1 per cent would give us a daily revenue of Rs. 50/ from each of these places where food is served. The annual revenue from the ‘dhabas’ would thus be: 50 × 365 × 5000 = 91, 250, 000/ (nearly half a million US dollars). 

We must know that the foregoing numbers in terms of total servings per eatery are highly exaggerated in favour of the tax authorities. The actuals could be far less as most of the wretched ‘dhaba’ owners barely manage to carry out their businesses on day-to-day basis, neither do people at the lowest rungs have the power to spend Rs. 200/ on one meal. 

Any professional and savvy tax officer would know what it would take in terms of human and technical resources to reach out to 5000 ‘dhabas’ in the informal sector spread out over an area of nearly 75 thousand square kilometres. Of course, a dabbler would never know this, and we have many of them here in the system in Pakistan. 

Unfortunately, the cost of collecting half a million US dollars would be four times as much as the total product, if at all the quixotic product is achieved. But the gravest cost of such a policy would be inflicting unimaginable misery on the poorest of the poor. 

It is better not to mention how fraught the sales tax on services is with a myriad intricacies and litigations. Basically, a western concept, a society keen to levy sales tax must have a culture conducive to the object for it to be effective and productive. 

But dabblers always have their way. and they are the favourites of the officials in the donor agencies. The officials rolling their ‘r’ and drumming their ‘d’ during their bi-annual tours to Pakistan love to interact with officials least equipped with knowledge of the subject matter. 

In 2018, one of the leading donor agencies told KP that it could easily garner eight billion rupees annually from the hospitality sector. Hospitality sector comprises hotels, restaurants and wedding halls. The donor, out of sheer vanity and basing its conclusions on econometric models having little to do with ground realities, found little difficulty in convincing a callous and ignorant audience. 

At that very point in time, both Punjab and Sindh were collecting sales tax of less than two billion rupees each from their vast and prosperous networks of hospitality sectors. 

The point to make here is that the world is falling apart due to rampant lack of intellectual integrity.

TRAVEL (WHERE THE INDUS COMES OF AGE)

Road to Thakot and Indus surging ahead towards the historical bridge.

WHERE THE INDUS COMES OF AGE

By: Nasser Yousaf

It was quite tempting to know that the newly built road to Thakot had finally been opened for traffic. The prospects of a hassle-free, faster journey to the northern areas of the country never looked so brighter as now, and hence all the more enticing.

The summer monsoon, after a rather dull and late start, had, after gaining some strength, extended into early September. With plenty of rainfall, one couldn’t risk delay the journey on the newly built road any longer. One was already familiar with the area, but it was essential to see it farther afield, the heretofore unseen sleepy hamlets in the hills and the smoke rising from the chimneys.

It is always reinvigorating to get on to a smooth and placid surface after suffering a bumpy ride on a rutted, potholed road. So was the case on the fifth day of September 2020, when we started our journey from the cacophonous urban sprawl of Abbottabad for Thakot, the end point of the newly built road.

The limits of the already operational Hazara motorway have now been extended to the interchange that lands one in the district of Mansehra. From here onwards, it is a single carriageway for approximately eighty kilometres, falling shy of the old Pakistan China Friendship Thakot Bridge over the Indus by just about five kilometres.

This entire stretch offers beautiful views of the hills and fields on both sides of the road. There are four tunnels on the road, two of them of a little less than three-kilometres length each. The people of Hazara region appear to be quite excited about the new road as it has undoubtedly lessened their travails of numerous journeys across the country.

The old road, though no less scenic, could no more take the ever increasing burden of the traffic. One of the charms of the old track was Chattar Plain, which one would keenly await to reach so as to take a much deserved breather at a serene teashop. One could still enjoy the quietude of Chattar as an access to it is available on the new road, as indeed to all the places known to the regular travellers in these climes.

The best part of the whole project is the fact that it has curtailed the long journey to the extremities of Gilgit and Baltistan by a good two hours. It wasn’t the long distance to the enchanting beauty of the north that would keep the tourists away, but the infamy of the broken down road notwithstanding its romantically sounding silky name.

Thakot may offer little to the kind of tourists that we have been compelled to reckon. It has a small dusty bazaar, and its hot and humid climate, especially in summers, is not all that inviting. But to a discerning tourist there is a latent beauty in the make up of Thakot that would forever remain intact, or one would hope so.

Thakot’s fame is owing to the Pakistan China Friendship Bridge on the River Indus, a beautiful piece of archaic architecture and a symbol of connectivity although it has a short span. On the right bank of the river is the district of Battagram, which lies in the Hazara division while immediately across the bridge starts the limits of the district of Shangla in the Malakand division.

This administrative bifurcation is indeed peculiar as beyond the limits of Shangla lies the district of Kohistan, which again is a part of the Hazara division. This arrangement, or disarrangement, is a question that begs an answer. But till that is done, one must explore in some detail the land that endlessly witnesses the Indus surging ahead in its glorious journey.

Perhaps we all know Dervla Murphy, and her beautiful account titled ‘Where the Indus is Young,’ it is time now to know something about where the Indus comes of age. It certainly does at Thakot, after foaming and frothing, for many hundreds of kilometres from the shackles of the mountains.

Early in September this year, as probably it might be so every September, Indus with its earthly greyish green water was flowing slowly under the Thakot Bridge. It looked as though the river was carrying a heavy load on its shoulders in the shape of millions of tons of silt, added to its burden by the numerous tributaries.

In some years, a giant dam with a power generation capacity of 4800 mw would be built upstream to be called Diamer-Bhasha Dam. Once imprisoned upstream, the flow of water at Thakot would be remote controlled, out of the bounds of Nature.

What is so fascinating about beholding water, for hours on end, flow in the Indus in its natural strides? A romantically inclined visitor may find it uplifting, though people in close proximity to the river, and accustomed to its sights and sounds, may not be all that enamoured of its existence. For instance, one of the most spectacular views in this landscape is a mountainous road on the right bank of the Indus. This narrow road, with its sharp bends, ascends to a town called Allai in Battagram.

The people of Shangla are economically disadvantaged. Whenever we hear of body bags being carried from a coal mine of Balochistan, we should not discount a very high probability that the same are destined for Shangla. This settles the question as regards the hardiness of the local folks and their willingness to travel extra miles to earn their bread and butter. All these people, as indeed most of others living on the banks of Indus right up to Attock in Punjab, are Pashtuns.

Indus in these lands is referred to as ‘Abaseen.’ Abaseen is a common refrain in Pashto poetry and folklore. In the last leg of its journey before entering the Arabian Sea in the province of Sindh, Indus gets another baptism and is henceforth called ‘Sindhu.’ This changing of names is the profoundest form of love that a people could bestow on a river.

This account would suffice for a few hours stay in the company of Indus. But before parting one must ask: what are the policemen posted at the two ends of the Thakot Bridge supposed to be doing, guarding the bridge from the mischief makers or searching the boots of the cars to seize one odd flask or a few tumblers and a small piece of cloth bought at the small Dandai bazaar in Shangla? Is this not the job, if at all it is one, of the Customs Department? How refreshing would it be once everybody in Pakistan focuses only on his or her job!

ARCHITECTURE (THE VANISHING MASONS)

THE VANISHING MASONS 

By: Nasser Yousaf 

Men working as stone masons could no more be found at will in the hilly areas.There are not many of them left as people have switched over either to the kilns-baked bricks or the easiest mode of construction in which cement blocks are used. Riaz, as seen in the pictures above, is one of the few surviving masons sought by the few people who are still fascinated by the old style of construction. 

One could cite many reasons for this change over but the foremost remains the astronomical increase in the size of population during the last about two decades. This new mode of construction has also changed the mountainscapes. In what were previously regarded as hill stations where the affluents would make themselves large colonial style bungalows with thick stone walls and slanted rooftops made of corrugated iron there now appears little to distinguish the hills from the urban sprawls elsewhere. People complaining of the rising temperatures in the hills are loathe to realizing that the heat affecting them is owing in no small measures due to the new facile mode of construction.