WHILE the national press has always been laden with a fair amount of trash, trawling through that trash every morning used to take some time. Not any more. Newspapers are a quick read these days.

Such has been the success of the policy of free expression that after 14 months of a dispensation whose foremost specialization is emerging as the capacity to put the nation to sleep, there is nothing left to say. After all how many times can you launch the same bromides, utter the same cliches?

It's a funny situation we are in. While the military government proceeds on its chosen path, undeterred by criticism or even quite often the dictates of common sense, the national press, having long arrived at the frontiers of free speech, is beginning to droop and falter, showing unmistakable signs of intellectual exhaustion.

The latest tank armour has plastic material which deflects shells fired at it. A similar protective coating seems to cover this government's leading figures, making them immune to sarcasm, irony or even the brightest shafts of ridicule. General Ziaul Haq, turning hypocrisy into an art form, used to take in criticism but then laugh it away. His successors on the general staff have gone one better than him: they have simply unplugged their earphones and put them aside.

What we have as a consequence are a series of parallel lines: the army high command and the nation, the government and the press, the National Reconstruction Bureau and reality, NADRA and the voting lists, General Moin Haider's liberal hawkishness and the unyielding situation on the ground, Shaukat Aziz's optimism and the contraction of the economy. All these are parallel tracks which do not meet.

At the advent of the October Revolution if the bazaar was depressed, politics was bright with hope, while the national press, always prone to take itself more seriously than the circumstances allow, was swept by the delusion that its hallowed word, burnished by the government's commitment to freedom of expression, would illumine the paths of reform and national renewal.

It was a sign of the times that when General Musharraf's photo appeared with his two pet pups in his arms, the maudlin section of the national press, famous for such intuitive leaps, was quick to label him a liberal reformer. Pups are associated with playfulness. A pair of black and white pups gives its name to a famous brand of Scotch. Perhaps for the first time in recent history were pups in the arms of a Generalissimo taken as symbols of liberal intent.

How long ago all this seems. The press, as already noted, has exhausted its ammunition. The political field presents the aspect of an oasis through which a conquering army has passed. What is there to write about? The politics of the Muslim League, the return of Benazir, the Great Mandate's telephone conversations from the Holy Land, India's extension of a ceasefire in Kashmir, some maulana's antics in a corner of the country, some more tough pronouncements from the interior minister, some more news from the Muslim League battlefront, another bulletin regarding the struggle for democracy from Nawabzada Nasrullah Khan.

Every now and then, even as these exciting events unfold, some politician or newspaper pundit rises from the gloom to helpfully suggest 'exit strategies' for the military government. Nothing is more calculated to tempt a cynic to reach for his gun. Did General Musharraf or the generals who carted Nawaz Shariff off to prison on October 12 (1999) consult any politician or pundit over their 'entrance strategy'? Are they likely to be out of breath for want of an 'exit strategy'?

A chowkidar kicks and screams, a patwari or a thanedar moves heaven and earth, if his job is threatened. And here it is being seriously suggested that the present group of generals are so keenly aware of their mounting difficulties that they are looking for a safe way to relinquish power. For naivete of this order there is no cure.

Tension was writ large on General Musharraf's face at the height of the Kargil crisis. Today he shows every sign of relishing his role as senior statesman, the Lee Kuan Yew of the Islamic Republic. His smile is easier, his gestures more relaxed. Most of the corps commanders too are enjoying their jobs. After all, playing the role of civilian administrators and running hockey and cricket affairs (and in the case of Lt-Gen Jamshed Gulzar assuming, for all practical purposes, the role of Chairman, Municipal Corporation, Rawalpindi) are infinitely preferable to the spartan routine of military supervision.

Lt-Gen Gulzar is not to be blamed. His diocese runs from 'Pindi to the farthest corners of the north. Anyone in his place would find the task of inspecting Rawalpindi's roads and handing out shields to the Islamabad Police (whose senior officers seem to be a bunch of public relations specialists) more fun than keeping his eyes on training or visiting Siachen. This approach betokens the right priorities, for let us not forget that amongst the easiest tastes to acquire is the taste for power. And once acquired it is a hard thing giving up.

The extended tribulations of Mian Azhar, the Chaudries of Gujrat, Exalted Son Ejazul Haq and the other Muslim League hopefuls should fool no one. Military leaders always stand in need of civilian fig-leafs. Ayub needed his Convention League, Yahya his collaborators, Zia his anti-PPP coalition, the ISI its Islami Jamhoori Ittehad. Forget about Pakistan's tin-pot Caesars. Even Stalin, history's most feared despot, was not above using the fig-leaf of democratic or collegial consultation.

Musharraf's military government may be learning on the job (an expensive form of education for which the nation has to pay the bills) but it too will have to abide by the enduring principles of praetorianism. Sooner or later it will require a fig-leaf to cover its nakedness. That is when the Mian Azhars will come into their own. Not to show any exit strategies to General Musharraf, a favour he can do without. But to act as cheer-leaders to the new dispensation when the military government discards its uniform and puts on a sherwani and declares, in accordance with the wishes of the Supreme Court, that democracy has been restored.

As connoisseurs of this political genre will recognize, the script is familiar except for a vital difference. While previous military governments were strong affairs, they had to put up with strong democratic movements. A cynical view of the past should not skate lightly over the democratic resistance to Ayub and Zia (Yahya's being a slightly different case). This time round, seen from any angle, Pakistan has a weak military government, amateurish in performance and unsure of its direction. Yet any strength it has comes in no small measure from the discrediting and disarray of the political parties.

The Daughter of the East in exile, tarred by the brush of corruption. The PPP at home a pathetic collection of flunkeys and underlings with no initiative of their own and dancing to whatever direction they get from abroad. The Heavy Mandate, proving true to its roots, choosing flight over defiance. The Muslim League riven by dissension: one half dreaming of a Nawaz Sharif return, the other frustrated with the military government's failure to take it on board.

Guided by sharper political instincts, Musharraf's generals could have brought about the crack-up of the Muslim League sooner. All they had to do was to pick a favourite horse round which the dispirited battalions of the League, leaving Nawaz Sharif to his fate, would quickly have gathered. The trouble was that in the beginning these generals considered themselves above such games. They saw themselves as Kemalist reformers destined to turn the country's fortunes around. Like other illusions this one too is buried, the old truths of military interventionism reasserting themselves.

So often has this cycle been repeated that it can have little novelty for those who have seen it before. Is it any wonder then if newspapers, which must feed on their environment, are proving such poor starts to the day?