"Done basis paar case ho jaye ga?" A question most Pakistani lawyers hear all the time. This simple phrase says everything about not only how this country’s justice system actually works and how we think about it, but it also speaks volumes about how we are as a society. We complain that the system only listens to those with sifarish, and then, shamelessly, we go looking for the same sifarish ourselves.
Culture of Shortcuts
There is an old saying: as people are, so will their rulers be. Nowhere is this saying more aptly demonstrated than in Pakistan. Our society has built up a culture where, as a default, we look for shortcuts, where getting something done matters more than getting it done right. Ironically, when the people who are handed power act in the same way, we act surprised and rage at officials who bend the rules for their own benefit. However, when problems arise and we need something done, the first question is never what the right process is; it is, “who do I know who can get this done?”
The legal profession has become one in which connections are increasingly valued over competence, integrity is placed at a disadvantage, and a troubling message is sent to future generations
This culture is prevalent in the legal system as well, where shortcuts over integrity are increasingly rewarded, and it has enabled certain members of the legal profession to exploit the system by offering services on a so-called “done basis”, where favourable outcomes are promised through influence rather than law. The 26th and 27th Constitutional Amendments risk further entrenching this culture by facilitating the appointment of judges perceived to be amenable to influence, while sidelining those who refuse to conform through punitive transfers.
A Profession in Decline
Internationally, the legal profession is regarded as one of honour and is often termed the profession of “Lords”. In Urdu and Arabic, a lawyer is a wakil, one of the names attributed to Allah Himself. In Pakistan, however, the profession has increasingly become associated in the public imagination with hooliganism and corruption. Years of such practices have steadily eroded public confidence in the justice system. This has been caught on by litigants as well, who now know that a “clean” case is a gamble, so they either pay a premium for a lawyer who guarantees the outcome, or they skip the courtroom altogether and settle quietly outside it.
These practices have led to honesty being bad for business. A lawyer who has mastered his field can lose out to one who has mastered nothing except securing favourable outcomes through illicit means, since the latter promises something the first won’t, which is a guaranteed win. The inevitable consequence is that competence is overshadowed by connections, and integrity becomes commercially unsustainable. The honest lawyer, who knows the law, watches his practice shrink, whereas the one who knows the right people and can bend the system to his will thrives. Resultantly, many capable lawyers are forced to abandon the profession or struggle to sustain their practice simply because they refuse to compromise their ethics.
The Impact of the 26th and 27th Amendments
The clearest blow, though, came from the 26th and 27th Amendments. Together, they hollowed out the Supreme Court’s constitutional authority and handed it to a newly created Federal Constitutional Court, one whose judges are now appointed through a process of executive capture. The timing tells its own story: the court was born out of a legal necessity. Since the incumbent government had been under siege since 2022, ranging from a vote of no confidence to the subsequent elections, building itself a court it could trust was a necessity to ensure legitimacy and favourable outcomes. The same court is reportedly hearing NAB references too, which are cases with no constitutional character at all.
This raises a pivotal question for litigants, the only question that matters to them: can a court built to shield the state from liability ever be expected to rule against it? Whether or not that perception is justified, it shows the sad reality that once litigants begin to believe that the outcome of constitutional litigation is predetermined, many lose faith in the courts altogether, and it is the legal profession that ultimately bears the cost as fewer citizens turn to litigation in search of justice. This makes one realise that "Ay bik gaye ay gormint" is not just a meme; it is the verdict litigants have already reached, and it is lawyers who pay for it.
Secondly, and more fundamentally, these amendments reshape the judicial appointments process by significantly enhancing executive influence over who ascends to the bench. The judges are drawn almost exclusively from their own inner circles: former chamber fellows, juniors, bar-political loyalists, caste favourites, and members of entrenched patronage networks—reducing judicial elevation to an exercise in cronyism rather than constitutional merit. The fear that judges may feel beholden to those responsible for their elevation, or apprehensive of the consequences of resisting them—as evident from the consequences faced by judges of the Islamabad High Court—undermines public confidence in judicial impartiality.
For litigants, this creates the perception that success depends less on the strength of legal arguments than on access to those who wield influence over the judge’s future. Resultantly, the legal profession has become one in which connections are increasingly valued over competence, integrity is placed at a disadvantage, and a troubling message is sent to future generations of lawyers: that shortcuts and patronage, rather than legal excellence, are the surest path to success.
The fix, uncomfortably, starts with us. Bulleh Shah put it best: "Larda roz shaitan day naal, tay kadi nafs apnay naal larya na"; you fight the devil every day, but never once fought your own self. We can demand a Federal Constitutional Court that answers to the law and not to those who built it. We can demand judicial appointments be made public, on record, and on merit. But none of it holds if the referral still comes from a judge’s chamber, or a senior lawyer's office, pointing a client toward the man who can “manage” a result rather than the one who can argue it.
The bar councils have the power to cancel the licences of those running this trade; what they have lacked, so far, is the will. Until that changes, every "done basis paar case ho jaye ga" is a question we keep answering with a yes. And the profession of the wakil will keep being sold, one favour at a time, by the very people meant to guard it.