Growing up in the ’60s, every mother, mine included, wished her daughter married a CSP officer. The competition exam for the Civil Service of Pakistan (CSP) attracted the best and the brightest. As successors of the ICS (Indian Civil Service) these young men led charmed lives right from the time they were handed charge of a district, division or a government department. They were the unchallenged masters, viewed as benevolent rulers enjoying absolute powers vested in them by the Centre or the governor of the province where they served.

Not all, but most CSPs developed outsized egos. Some took themselves too seriously. Others acted arrogantly — after all they were a prized commodity! Even the young wives, winsome and wealthy enough to bag a CSP, were conscious of their status as the begum sahibas terrorising lesser beings serving their husbands. Their brats too enjoyed their daddies’ pelf, power and perks, while family members and even the outliers tried using their connections for getting petty work done.

But let it be said that the CSPs of those halcyon days were not a corrupt cadre. Nor were they hustlers (except for one or two) jockeying for prized jobs. They were plain boring paper-pushers earning the title of bureaucratic “babus”. The diligent ones among them brought home a box full of files every night that needed close scrutiny and quick decisions. Disposing off public business was the training ingrained into them from the beginning. The common man received swift, fair and transparent hearing from these officials, albeit stiff-necked with shades of brown sahib still prevalent in their carriage despite the Brits having quit our soil in 1947.

Surviving the Wreck by Syed Munir Husain details the rise and fall of a CSP officer in particular and the premier service in general

My school friend Zenobia Khurshid married a CSP. He was 15 years her senior. Rafiq Akhund was the most eligible bachelor going in town. It was love at first sight. He saw Zenobia at a party and promptly sent off a proposal to her family in Lahore. The next 45 years of their marriage was a journey in parallels — personal and political. Together they trekked the rocky road through which Pakistan’s rulers chugged along, faltering, falling and rising. Though Rafiq was a Sindhi, most of his service years were spent in Punjab and at the Centre. Governor Kalabagh took a shine to this young officer and made him his secretary industries. One day, an industrialist by the name of Mian Mohammad Sharif turned up at Rafiq’s office carrying Rs20 million in cash. He wanted a license for Ittefaq Foundaries. “Rafiq had never seen so much cash, he didn’t know what to do with it,” Zenobia tells me when I go to condole Rafiq’s passing away last month. “Mian Sahib said to Rafiq that he had pounded iron with his own hands to set up his steel factory and had saved money to now expand his business horizons.”

As federal secretary heading the finance and economic divisions, Rafiq was a savvy civil servant with a smart head over his shoulders refusing to buckle under pressure from various civilian or military rulers whom he variously served. It was an era of decorous politeness in the corridors of government. “There was a lot of respect for bureaucrats,” says Zenobia whose praise for Zia and Sharifs may not win many approving nods. “I have been a witness to Rafiq’s integrity, hard work and his lack of tolerance for dishonesty,” she adds. In Benazir Bhutto’s second term, Rafiq’s economic expertise earned him the role of a supra-secretary. He became Secretary-General Finance, but his contract was terminated when he refused to accommodate Asif Zardari’s wrongful orders. A Sindhi sacking a Sindhi! “We were told to vacate the house immediately,” says Zenobia. And thus began Rafiq Akhund’s second brilliant career that took them to the Asian Development Bank in Manila and later to Karachi where he worked as a consultant till cancer drew out the last breath in this brave man. “Allah Hafiz”, his last words to his wife.

But let it be said that the CSPs of those halcyon days were not a corrupt cadre. Nor were they hustlers (except for one or two) jockeying for prized jobs. They were plain boring paper-pushers earning the title of bureaucratic “babus”. The diligent ones among them brought home a box full of files every night that needed close scrutiny and quick decisions.

My only CSP relative was my cousin Syed Munir Husain. He and his beautiful wife Maliha made a dashing couple serving in the most glamourous posts one could dream off. Once I overheard my mother ask him to find a “nice” CSP officer for me. Munir was chief secretary NWFP when the 1977 general elections took place. His 25-year career as an honest CSP officer nosedived after he refused to testify against prime minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto ordering him to rig the elections in the Frontier. “If I were to save my skin, I should disclose his [ZAB’s] illegal acts,” he writes in his book, Surviving the Wreck — A Civil Servant’s Personal History of Pakistan. “The abhorrent practice of securing statements of helpless civil servants against their former bosses had a very harmful impact on their morale and character,” he writes.

Chief Martial Law Administrator Gen Zia never forgave Munir for his one single act of defiance. Munir, now in his 80s, purposely delayed writing his book because telling the truth can hurt those who are still alive. It was an agonising decision but at last he took the plunge and laboured in longhand until he had written the last word. It took his sweat, toil and even tears, but in the end he succeeded in recording everything. There is enough spice, zing and pizazz to keep the reader interested in wanting more on the idiosyncrasies, egotism, naked quest for power and sinister hypocrisy of men who ruled Pakistan. Gen Zia, in particular, displays his cartoonish craving for foreign journalists when he chases a junior French radio journalist to interview him. The woman who barely spoke English looked flabbergasted when “Zia escorted her personally to the official car” saying “Thank you very much for your gracious visit. You will be government’s guest throughout your stay in Pakistan.” Zia’s servility was legendary. At Sibi, ZAB asked Munir who was chief secretary Balochistan: “Why did Ziaul-Haq stoop low to greet me? He is the COAS and should behave like a full general.’”

With time a bureaucrat became a “pejorative word” or as many would call a civil servant a “civil serpent”. The service according to Munir was dogged by “corruption, arbitrary decision-making, perfunctory commitment and inefficiency.”

The acronym CSP has since died taking with it the gold standard that it emblazoned.

Published in Dawn, Sunday Magazine, January 31st, 2016