BISE nukaat-i-agenda

Are you one of those people who worry about evil computers taking over the world? Do you feel that basic pen-and-paper record keeping is far more preferable to computerisation of records? Do you ever get the feeling that something bigger than yourself is going on around you and yet, you have no idea what it is? If you’ve answered yes to any of the questions above, chances are that you’re an employee of the Board of Intermediate and Secondary Education, also known as BISE.

BISE is a peculiar animal, in that it is headed by a former chemistry teacher and consists entirely of balding, middle-aged men who have nothing better to do all day than to play Dangerous Dave on their circa 1980s 386 desktop computers, which were rendered obsolete as soon as electricity was invented. Since the BISE is based in Lahore, any electrical appliance installed there would be useless to begin with, so the balding, middle-aged men don’t really care. As long as they have Dave and porn is still accessible.

However, in the Year of our Khadim 2010, these bloated, corrupt (only morally) and bald men received the shock of their lives: a computer upgrade. In his all-seeing, infinitely wise way, Super Sharif Jr had mandated that all students must register for exams online, ostensibly to wean the children away from online dirt and divert their attention towards more constructive pursuits i.e., dreaming up ways to hack into the poorly-firewalled BISE mainframe. But since this is Pakistan and not every Intermediate student is flunking out, no such creativity was witnessed.

This threw a spanner in the Khadim’s works, because he desperately needed an untraceable protégé to hack into the Pee Pee Pee’s central database of evil. Foiled again, he did the last thing one could’ve expected him to do; he ordered the computerisation of the entire Intermediate examinations procedure in such a way that all of the results could be made available online. This accomplished nothing, save costing the Punjab government oodles of rupees and sending shivers down the spines of the perverts hiding behind mountains of question papers in BISE offices across the province. This is probably how that awkward conversation went:

BISE Fat Man: “Computerise? How can they? We’ll have to sift through all of this and then (cringe) burn the lot!”

BISE Bald Man: “Worry not, my friend. I have a cunning plan that will put an end to this computerisation business.”

Amrish Puri: “Mogambo khush hua! HOOHOOHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Alright, so I may have made up the part about Amrish Puri coming back to life, but you get the idea. This whole episode was just the clerks’ way of keeping their jobs safe. Who cares about transparency, fair play and polishing the future of the country anyway? What good can possibly come from computerising the most decadent and obtuse system of grading in the world? This will only dent union membership, because a single computer operator will replace at least four not-so-highly-paid-but-still-living-comfortably-off-kickbacks clerks. This could’ve proven catastrophic for the economy of Punjab, which is already running on overdraft. Besides, everyone knows that your average student doesn’t ever pass an exam without some palm-greasing by his/her parents. So, these sad old men thought, let’s give these newfangled computers a run for their money and see how well it works out. What, they reasoned, could possibly go wrong?

Apparently, a whole lot. You see, while the clerks were busy messing up procedures, throwing away answer sheets and mismatching candidates and their marks, trouble was brewing in parliament. And as the Inter-gate protests struck the streets of Lahore, Gujranwala, Faisalabad and Multan, it was painfully obvious that the Khadim’s enemies were exploiting the situation to its fullest. The battle, as Gandalf would say, was joined. The Pee Pee Pee and its cohorts, who are always ready to pounce on Super Sharif Jr, had a field day with protests so synchronised they could qualify as an Olympic event.

In the midst of all this chaos, one lonely former chemistry teacher sat in his room and pondered the fate of his crumbling empire. He was in a contemplative mood because he was now cornered. Having had no part to play in this entire saga, he knew that he would be condemned to take the blame for his staff’s self-serving activities. According to some accounts, he knew about the misappropriation of results beforehand, but chose to remain silent. Silent, even when students from his own alma mater committed suicide. Silent, even when they came with bricks to break his windows. Silent, because he knows that heads must roll. His silence will be his undoing.

I’m not one to laugh in the face of a man condemned. But somehow, the opportunity just lends itself. Kashmiri Saheb, grow a spine, please. And come clean. That’s all we ask.