Suhail Khan
“For ordinary citizens, stepping into a government office often feels less like seeking a service and more like enduring an ordeal—marked by long waits, unclear procedures, and the quiet fear of being ignored, delayed, or humiliated.”
The last time I visited a government office, the scene unfolding before me felt painfully familiar. A long queue stretched through a narrow corridor, curling past cracked walls and faded notice boards. People stood silently, files clutched under their arms, eyes fixed on a wooden door that opened only when an official chose to appear. Conversations were hushed, faces anxious. At the far end of the line stood a frail old man, leaning heavily on his walking stick, his back bent not only by age but by exhaustion.
Out of curiosity, I asked him how long he had been waiting. He smiled faintly, as if apologising for his own misfortune, and replied that it was his seventh day at the office. “Roz aata hoon,” he said quietly—I come every day. His work, however, remained unfinished.
This story is not unusual. Across India, similar scenes play out daily, especially in tehsil offices and revenue departments. For ordinary citizens, interacting with the state often feels less like accessing a service and more like enduring an ordeal. Long waits, unclear procedures, selective attention, and the unspoken belief that work moves faster if one has influence or connections have become deeply embedded in public experience. People do not enter these offices with confidence; they walk in with apprehension—fear of delay, rejection, or humiliation.
Revenue offices occupy a particularly sensitive place in this ecosystem. They control land records—documents that determine ownership, inheritance, compensation, and access to credit. For farmers, traders, and families, these records shape economic security and social standing. Yet for decades, land records have remained inaccessible, buried in complex paperwork and opaque procedures. Ambiguity became power. Delay became routine. Officials, willingly or not, turned into gatekeepers of rights. Corruption thrived quietly—not always through bribes, but through endless postponements, unclear answers, and repeated visits.
It is within this entrenched and deeply mistrusted system that Sheikh Tariq, the Tehsildar of Sopore in north Kashmir’s Baramulla district, has begun to make a difference. He has done so without slogans, without publicity campaigns, and without claiming credit. Instead, his approach rests on something both simple and radical in today’s bureaucracy: transparency, accessibility, and respect for people’s dignity.
Rather than accepting opacity as inevitable, Sheikh Tariq chose to bring governance into the open—quite literally.
One of the most significant steps he initiated was the public reading of digitised Jamabandis, the foundational land ownership records. In villages across Sopore, land records are read aloud in public gatherings. People listen attentively as their names, land details, and boundaries are announced. They ask questions, point out discrepancies, and seek clarifications. What was once locked inside files and accessible only through intermediaries is now shared openly with the community.
For many villagers, this marks the first time they truly understand their own land records. Information that once inspired fear and confusion now brings clarity and confidence. Transparency here is not abstract—it is participatory. It restores a sense of ownership over rights that had long felt distant.
Another quietly transformative practice is Sheikh Tariq’s decision to engage with people in open spaces. Meetings are often held under the open sky, away from closed rooms, desks, and rigid hierarchies. Without walls and doors, conversations change. People speak more freely. There are no whispers, no backroom negotiations, no sense that decisions are being shaped invisibly. The message is unmistakable: there is nothing to hide, and everyone has a right to be heard.
What makes this approach particularly powerful is that it does not rely on individual charisma alone. Over time, the culture of openness has begun to permeate the tehsil office itself. Staff members guide people instead of sending them away repeatedly. Queries are addressed with patience rather than irritation. When transparency becomes systemic rather than personal, corruption finds little space to survive.
The impact of these changes is deeply human.
People feel seen. Their time is respected. Their dignity is acknowledged. For citizens long accustomed to being ignored, spoken down to, or endlessly postponed, this shift is transformative. It alters how they perceive the state—not as an adversary or obstacle, but as a service meant to function for them.
There are tangible benefits as well. Clear and accessible land records reduce disputes, enable farmers to access bank loans, and provide families with security about their assets. Transparency at the grassroots level strengthens local economic activity in quiet but lasting ways. It allows people to plan, invest, and move forward without fear of sudden bureaucratic roadblocks.
In a region like Kashmir, where trust in institutions has been eroded by years of conflict, uncertainty, and administrative distance, such governance carries even greater significance. Here, legitimacy is not built through speeches or announcements, but through everyday fairness. When people experience the state as responsive and just in small matters, confidence grows in larger ones too.
Sheikh Tariq’s work offers an important lesson not only for Jammu and Kashmir, but for the country as a whole. We often speak of governance reform in terms of new policies, digital platforms, and ambitious frameworks. Yet the real crisis of governance lies at the last mile—in the everyday encounters between citizens and officials. Transparency does not always require new laws or large budgets. Sometimes, it only requires intent, empathy, and the courage to challenge entrenched habits.
That old man at the end of the queue should never have had to return for seven days just to be heard. In Sopore, a conscious effort is being made to ensure that such stories gradually disappear.
Sometimes, restoring faith in governance does not begin in conference halls or policy documents. Sometimes, it begins when an officer steps outside, opens the records to the public, and meets people not as files, but as fellow human beings.
The author is a journalist. He can be reached at khansuhail309@gmail.com
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