The 4th Shusha Global Media Forum and Azerbaijan?…

In the winter of 1979, a neighbour’s house caught fire. The Soviet Union had marched into Afghanistan, and the flames of war were licking at the walls of Kabul. From across the ocean, a distant power arrived at Pakistan’s door. It did not come with soldiers. It came with money, guns, and a promise: *”Let us fight this fire together. Use your roof. Use your roads. We will stand with you. We will not let the fire reach your house.”* Pakistan opened its door. What else could it do? The Soviet army sat on its western border. The world was divided into two camps, and neutrality was a luxury no frontline state could afford. For ten years, Pakistan became the staging ground for a war that was not its own. It hosted three million refugees. Its cities swelled. Its tribal areas became training grounds for fighters armed and funded by outside money. Weapons arrived by the shipload through Karachi. Pakistani officers coordinated strategy. Every bullet fired at a Soviet convoy in the Hindu Kush passed through Pakistani hands. The distant power paid the bills. It sent the Stinger missiles. It called the resistance fighters “freedom fighters” and Pakistan a “frontline state.” But the war was never truly about Pakistan’s safety. It was about bleeding the Soviet Union in a distant mountainside, using Pakistani soil as the operating theatre and Afghan bodies as the currency. Then, in 1989, the Soviet Union withdrew. The fire in the neighbour’s house went out. And the distant power that had promised eternal friendship turned its attention elsewhere. The billions dried up. The diplomatic interest evaporated. Afghanistan, the battlefield, was left to warlords who turned the weapons on each other. Pakistan was left with three million refugees who would not go home, a Kalashnikov culture that would not disappear, and a border that would never again be quiet. The weapons that had been given to fight the Soviets did not rust. They remained. They moved into streets, into disputes, into corners of the country where the state had never fully reached. The guest who had brought the fire extinguisher had started a blaze that spread to the host’s own house — and then moved to a new neighbourhood. The distant power won its strategic objective at the cost of Afghan and Pakistani soil, then walked away. Its own cities were never bombed. Its own children never became refugees. Its economy never staggered under the weight of someone else’s war. Pakistan, which had signed no formal treaty of alliance but had acted as an ally in every meaningful sense, was left holding the pieces. This is what happens when alliances are forged in the middle of a fire. The stronger partner does not need your victory. He needs your usefulness. He needs you to hold the front, to absorb the blow, to stand in a place where he does not wish to stand. And when the war ends, he will shake your hand and go home — while you remain amid the embers, wondering why the fire you helped extinguish has reignited in your own courtyard. History records a curious pattern. The alliances that have endured — the ones that outlasted their founders and shaped the world for generations — were almost never built while the house was burning. NATO was forged in 1949, not because the bombs were falling on Paris, but because the memory of war was still fresh and the desire to prevent it was shared. The parties had time to read the text, to negotiate the terms, to build institutions that could survive a change of government on either side. An alliance born in the middle of a fire is a different creature entirely. It is an emergency measure. And emergency measures have a way of becoming permanent arrangements that no one planned and no one fully controls. When you sign while the heat is at your back and the smoke is in your eyes, you do not have time to ask who owns the hose, who pays for the water, and who walks away when the flames are out. The Afghan episode is not ancient history. It is in our own lifetime. It is written in the smoke that still rises from our western border. And it is written in the simple fact that the weapons once aimed at a northern invader eventually turned inward, because no one had written a clause for what happens after the guest leaves. Pakistan has every right to defend itself. Pakistan has every right to seek friends in a dangerous world. But history offers a quiet observation for those who are listening: **the strongest alliances are built in peacetime, not borrowed in panic.** The fire is real. The neighbour’s house is burning. Yet the hand that offers protection in the middle of a war is holding a different ledger than the hand that offers partnership in the middle of calm. That is not a warning against friendship. It is simply what the record shows.

The geopolitical partition of the Indian subcontinent in the mid-twentieth century and the subsequent emergence of two sovereign nation-states remain among the most complex and defining chapters in modern global history. Within constitutional studies, postcolonial scholarship, and international affairs, this monumental shift has often been viewed through overly reductive lenses—frequently chalked up to imperial haste, nationalist fervor, or entrenched religious polarization. Yet, evaluated through a critical, detached twenty-first-century historical paradigm, a far more nuanced reality emerges: the creation of Pakistan was neither the product of a singular conspiracy nor a sudden historical accident. Rather, it represented a profound tripartite structural crisis triggered by Britain’s post-war imperial retreat, the Indian National Congress’s persistent anxiety over central authority, and the All-India Muslim League’s long-standing constitutional struggle to secure the political rights, economic safeguards, and existence of the subcontinent’s Muslim minority. To comprehend the foundational tier of this historical watershed, one must first analyze the global political economy and British colonial strategy of the 1940s. The devastation of the Second World War eroded the financial, administrative, and military underpinnings of the British Empire. British India—once celebrated as the crown jewel of the realm—had transmuted into an unsustainable administrative burden for Clement Attlee’s post-war Labour government in London. Official imperial correspondence compiled in The Transfer of Power 1942–47 exposes an unmistakable truth: London’s primary objective was no longer to establish an equitable political settlement in South Asia, but rather to execute a swift, low-cost exit that mitigated further economic and military liability. This imperial burnout precipitated Lord Mountbatten’s rushed exit strategy, which abruptly advanced the timeline for the transfer of power from June 1948 to August 1947. The human and spatial catastrophe that followed was exacerbated by the Boundary Commission led by Sir Cyril Radcliffe—a man with no prior familiarity with the subcontinent’s intricate demographic and cultural fabric, tasked with carving borders across maps in a matter of weeks. The chaotic fallout of the Radcliffe Award, the controversial inclusion of Muslim-majority tehsils like Gurdaspur into India, the bloody bifurcation of Punjab and Bengal, and the largest forced migration in human history were ultimately the catastrophic human costs paid by millions of South Asians for a retreating empire’s hasty flight. The second dimension of this tripartite framework involves the political, ideological, and constitutional stance of the Indian National Congress—a position frequently mischaracterized in one-sided narratives as sheer personal hubris or partisan bias. A rigorous, objective historical analysis of the Congress leadership, particularly figures like Jawaharlal Nehru and Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, reveals that their overriding strategic fear was the “Balkanization” of the subcontinent into scores of autonomous, warring princely states. The Congress maintained that governing a vast, culturally diverse land mass under a weak central power alongside sprawling princely domains was fundamentally unviable. They advocated for a highly centralized state capable of driving industrialization, economic cohesion, and geopolitical stability. Consequently, Congress consistently resisted flexible federal structures that granted extensive provincial autonomy, fearing that a weak central government would inevitably lead to the fragmentation of India’s geographical and political integrity. However, the third and arguably most crucial ideological and legal dimension was the constitutional resistance led by the All-India Muslim League under Quaid-e-Azam Muhammad Ali Jinnah—a struggle born out of the inherent limitations of majoritarian, “Westminster-style” numerical democracy. In culturally homogenous Western societies, the principle of “one person, one vote” forms the bedrock of democratic governance. Yet in the deeply stratified, multi-religious reality of the subcontinent, strict numerical majoritarianism effectively condemned a twenty-five percent Muslim minority to permanent political subordination under a seventy-five percent Hindu majority. For the Muslim population, this contest was never merely about securing a share of administrative power; it was a fundamental fight for legislative self-determination, economic survival, and cultural preservation. A close reading of the subcontinent’s constitutional trajectory demonstrates that the demand for Pakistan did not originate as a call for immediate territorial separation. From the Simla Deputation of 1906 and the constitutional reforms of 1909 to the Lucknow Pact of 1916, Jinnah’s Fourteen Points of 1929, and the Government of India Act of 1935, the primary objective of Muslim leadership was to secure provincial autonomy, separate electorates, and robust constitutional safeguards within a unified Indian federation. As the eminent Cambridge historian Ayesha Jalal highlighted in The Sole Spokesman, the demand for Pakistan functioned for a long time as a sophisticated strategic bargaining chip aimed at securing equal constitutional weight at the center, ensuring minority rights could not be overridden by sheer majoritarian dominance. The pivotal turning point occurred following the 1937 provincial elections. When the Indian National Congress formed unilateral governments across most of British India while sidelining minority representation, its twenty-month tenure transformed the Muslim League’s theoretical anxieties into stark political reality. The final, most promising opportunity for a united, decentralized India was the Cabinet Mission Plan of 1946. It proposed grouping British Indian provinces into three autonomous tiers, restricting the federal center strictly to defense, foreign affairs, and communications. Demonstrating extraordinary political foresight and statesmanship, Jinnah accepted the Cabinet Mission Plan despite heavy internal dissent, striving to preserve the geographic unity of the subcontinent while securing constitutional autonomy for Muslims. This fragile compromise collapsed in July 1946 during a press conference in Bombay, where Jawaharlal Nehru declared that Congress would enter the Constituent Assembly “unfettered by agreements” and free to modify the Cabinet Mission Plan. In his seminal work Partition of India: Legend and Reality, renowned Indian jurist and constitutional historian H. M. Seervai meticulously documented how Congress’s rigid insistence on hyper-centralization and rejection of a loose federation torpedoed the Cabinet Mission Plan. At that crucial juncture, the demand for a separate, sovereign state ceased to be an idealistic campaign; it became the sole viable, logical pathway to guarantee political equality, dignity, and constitutional security for millions of Muslims. Underpinning this prolonged political contest was an essential socio-economic reality often overlooked in conventional historiography. In British India, commercial networks, civil administration, and industrial capital were predominantly concentrated within the Hindu middle class, leaving the Muslim agrarian class, tenant

Every 14 August, Pakistan awakens to the familiar colours of green and white. Flags appear on buildings, national songs fill the air, children dress in traditional colours, and speeches once again remind the nation of the sacrifices that accompanied independence. Yet Independence Day is not merely an occasion to celebrate the Pakistan we inherited; it is an opportunity to ask a more demanding question: What have we done with the Pakistan that was entrusted to us? On 14 August 1947, independence transformed millions of lives. Pakistan emerged from one of the most extraordinary political movements of the twentieth century, carrying the hopes of Muslims of the subcontinent for political security, social justice, dignity and the freedom to shape their collective future. Nearly eight decades later, the country possesses a substantial population, strategic importance, nuclear capability, a young generation, a resilient economy and a remarkable human resource. But the distance between Pakistan’s original aspirations and its contemporary realities remains a serious national question. The first mistake would be to interpret patriotism as silence about national shortcomings. Genuine patriotism requires the courage to identify weaknesses as well as the wisdom to recognise achievements. A country cannot strengthen itself by denying its problems. Nor can it progress through perpetual pessimism. Pakistan’s challenge in 2026 is therefore to move beyond both exaggerated self-congratulation and destructive cynicism. The political history of Pakistan demonstrates the consequences of institutional instability, confrontation and the excessive personalisation of politics. Governments have changed, political alliances have shifted, constitutions have been amended, and civilian and non-civilian institutions have repeatedly struggled over the appropriate boundaries of authority. The result has often been a political culture in which winning power becomes more important than strengthening institutions. This is particularly dangerous for a federation as diverse as Pakistan. Punjab, Sindh, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Balochistan, Gilgit-Baltistan and the regions of Azad Jammu and Kashmir possess distinct histories, cultures and political concerns. National unity cannot be imposed through administrative uniformity. It must be constructed through justice, representation, constitutionalism and an equitable distribution of opportunity. The recent political and social tensions surrounding Azad Jammu and Kashmir offer another reminder that national integration cannot depend exclusively upon slogans. Reports of violent protests, deaths and political grievances in the region demonstrate how quickly unresolved questions of representation, economic opportunity and political legitimacy can become matters of national concern. At the same time, the ongoing electoral process indicates that democratic participation remains an important mechanism through which political differences can be addressed. The lesson for Pakistan is broader than any particular political dispute: the federation becomes stronger when citizens believe that institutions listen to them. Religion presents another essential dimension of Pakistan’s identity. The country was created in the name of a political and social vision deeply connected with the religious consciousness of the Muslims of the subcontinent. But Islam cannot be reduced to national symbolism, political slogans or ceremonial references. Its deeper teachings demand justice, honesty, compassion, accountability, dignity and responsibility. The Qur’anic concept of Ummah is fundamentally connected with moral solidarity. It does not mean that differences disappear; rather, it teaches that human beings and communities are bound by principles of justice and mutual responsibility. The Qur’an repeatedly places justice at the centre of social life. Consequently, a religiously inspired Pakistan should not merely ask whether society looks Islamic from the outside. It should ask whether the weak receive justice, whether public resources are protected from corruption, whether the powerful are accountable, whether minorities live with dignity, and whether the poor have meaningful opportunities to improve their lives. Pakistan’s constitutional framework itself reflects this relationship between Islamic values and democratic citizenship. The Objectives Resolution, incorporated into the Constitution, describes democracy, freedom, equality, tolerance and social justice as principles to be observed, while also affirming the rights of minorities to freely profess and practise their religions and develop their cultures. This constitutional balance is important because religious identity and citizenship should not be presented as competing ideas. A confident Islamic state does not need discrimination to demonstrate its faith. It demonstrates its moral strength through justice. Protection of minorities is not a concession to another culture; it is part of the constitutional and ethical responsibility of the state. Pakistan’s social crisis, meanwhile, is perhaps more complicated than its political crisis. Millions of Pakistanis continue to demonstrate extraordinary resilience, entrepreneurship and generosity. Pakistani professionals have achieved distinction around the world, while ordinary citizens routinely support relatives, neighbours and communities in times of hardship. Yet social inequality, unemployment, educational disparities, population pressure, inflationary pressures and unequal access to healthcare continue to limit the potential of a large part of the population. The most important national resource is not the country’s geography, minerals or strategic position. It is its people. A nation with a young population cannot afford an education system that merely produces certificates. Pakistan needs education that produces critical thinkers, scientists, entrepreneurs, skilled workers, ethical professionals and responsible citizens. Artificial intelligence is rapidly transforming economies and professions, making it even more urgent for Pakistan to reform its educational priorities rather than simply expand enrolment. The same principle applies to women and young people. A country cannot speak convincingly about development while large sections of its human capital remain underutilised. Pakistan’s future competitiveness will depend increasingly upon the quality of its education, digital capacity, scientific research, vocational training and entrepreneurial ecosystem. Independence also has an international dimension. Pakistan’s geography has historically placed it at the intersection of major geopolitical interests. Its relationship with China, Saudi Arabia, Türkiye, the Gulf states, the United States, Europe, Afghanistan and other regional partners reflects the complexity of its strategic environment. But the strongest foreign policy is ultimately built upon domestic strength. Economic stability, political credibility, social cohesion and institutional continuity provide a stronger foundation for diplomacy than dependence upon temporary geopolitical alignments. National security, therefore, should be understood in a broader sense. A secure Pakistan is not merely one with strong borders and capable armed forces. It is also a Pakistan where a child can

These days, one phrase echoes throughout our country: “Pakistan’s system has collapsed.” If we translate the word collapse into plain, colloquial language, it means that our so-called system has completely broken down, gone to ruin, or become utterly dysfunctional. Therefore, the argument goes, the country now needs a new system. This, they claim, can only happen if, instead of the existing four provinces, Pakistan is reorganized into thirty or thirty-two new provinces. Such a restructuring, they believe, would push aside the traditional politicians and allow a new generation of political leaders to emerge. Otherwise, they warn, just as in India, there will be an uprising of the “cockroaches”—that is, the youth—which will force this collapsed, rotten system to surrender. At first glance, these words appear attractive and appealing. They express not only frustration and disgust with our current political situation but also offer hope to the younger generation, particularly Generation Z. It is as if they are saying: “Dear frustrated young people! We are opening the doors to your future. You will rise, dominate the scene, and sweep away all the debris of the past—that is, the traditional politicians—with the force of your determination and enthusiasm.” However, this humble writer sees, behind these beautiful words, not a bright future but the same worn-out and ugly mirage of the past. In reality, those who are truly responsible—the real culprits—cleverly distance themselves from blame, divert the attention of the youth toward others, and then present themselves as the young people’s sympathizers and supporters. In our poetry, it is through such tricks that the beloved murderer becomes an innocent beloved, and the criminal appears as the trusted confidant. But this humble writer calls it what it really is: “the thief making the loudest outcry.” Our national poet, Iqbal, once wrote: There is an outcry that Muslims have vanished from the world; We ask: Were true Muslims ever really present? In appearance you resemble Christians, in civilization the Hindus; These are the Muslims before whom even the Jews would feel ashamed. If, in today’s circumstances, you replace the word “Muslims” with “system,” the verses take on a striking new meaning: There is an outcry that the system has vanished from the country; We ask: Was there ever really a system to begin with? If we were to parody the remaining verses, they might be difficult for some to digest. Suffice it to say that those in power never truly allowed a genuine system to develop here. And whenever, after much struggle, some semblance of a system did emerge, there were always certain “respectable gentlemen” who seemed to have taken an invisible oath—or perhaps a vow of deliberate silence—that it must never be allowed to function. In the eyes of this humble writer, our system truly collapsed on 16 August 1946, when, under the guidance of the British establishment, the Direct Action Day was observed, reducing the foundations of any future system to rubble. From that point onward, the struggle was no longer for a functioning system but for personal rule. That struggle strangled democracy, human rights, liberty, and freedom, and instead built a grand highway of coercion and dictatorship. Anyone who dared to step off that path or disagree with it was labeled a traitor, an enemy of the nation, an Indian agent, or part of the so-called “Fitna-e-Hind” (the Indian conspiracy). These labels were then applied to whomever those in power wished. The first victim was Dr. Khan Sahib’s democratically elected provincial government in the North-West Frontier Province (now Khyber Pakhtunkhwa), which was dismissed within the very first week. Soon afterward, the same authoritarian mentality struck the government of Ayub Khuhro in Sindh. It was also decided that any cabinet member who failed to say “Yes, Sir” to the Governor-General would be considered dispensable. Once the founding generation established such principles of governance, why would later generations lag behind in following them? Thereafter, the race for personal power was inevitable. In the end, victory was bound to go to whoever possessed the greater force—whether the power of the stick or the gun. How could it be otherwise? If, instead of making the Constitution and the rule of law your source of authority, you rely on personal superiority, intimidation, prestige, and the power of office, then someone carrying a gun will inevitably dominate the throne of personal power. And once that happens, the cycle simply continues. It is a law of nature that the bigger fish eats the smaller fish. Muhammad Ali Jinnah, Liaquat Ali Khan, Ghulam Muhammad, and Iskander Mirza all played their respective roles. Later, when greater power confronted lesser power, the result was the rise of powerful military rulers such as Ayub Khan, Agha Yahya Khan, Zia-ul-Haq, Pervez Musharraf, Ashfaq Parvez Kayani, and Qamar Javed Bajwa. (To be continued)

The Pakistan Muslim League (N)’s power show in Muzaffarabad during the Azad Jammu and Kashmir election campaign was far more than an ordinary political rally. To me, it marked the re-emergence of Nawaz Sharif as the central figure in Pakistan’s political landscape. The message from Muzaffarabad was unmistakable. Nawaz Sharif spoke of development rather than division, construction rather than confrontation, and public welfare rather than political vendettas. His interaction with the crowd was genuine and heartfelt. One symbolic moment that captured public attention was his light-hearted remark expressing a desire to become the Prime Minister of Azad Jammu and Kashmir. It reflected his affection for the region and the deep emotional bond he has always maintained with the people of Kashmir, whose support has remained consistent throughout his political career. Having covered Pakistani politics for nearly three decades and followed Nawaz Sharif closely since his arrival in London from exile in 2006, I have witnessed every major phase of his political journey. From Duke Street in London, where he addressed party workers during years of political exile, to the massive public gathering in Muzaffarabad, I saw the same determination and resilience that has defined his politics for decades. Few political leaders in South Asia have experienced the highs and lows that Nawaz Sharif has endured. His elected government was overthrown by General Pervez Musharraf in 1999. He was prosecuted, imprisoned and later forced into exile. Years later, he returned to Pakistan and regained political power, only to face another period of legal and political challenges following the Panama Papers case. In my view, elements within the state establishment and parts of the judiciary played significant roles during different phases of these political confrontations. Regardless of differing opinions on those events, what remains remarkable is that every major attempt to end his political career has ultimately been followed by his return to the centre of national politics. Many analysts predicted that the 2024 general elections would mark the end of Nawaz Sharif’s political dominance. I never shared that assessment. Throughout my television appearances and reporting, I consistently argued that he remained the principal decision-maker within the PML-N and that no major political decision was taken without his approval. One of the defining strengths of the Sharif family’s politics has been continuity of leadership. Shehbaz Sharif has repeatedly demonstrated exceptional political loyalty to his elder brother. On several occasions, he chose party unity over personal ambition. Following the difficult electoral environment of 2024, he assumed the office of Prime Minister at a time when Pakistan was facing severe economic and diplomatic challenges. In my assessment, his government helped restore economic confidence, improved macroeconomic stability and steered Pakistan away from a potentially deeper financial crisis. His administrative style has always been focused on governance and delivery rather than political rhetoric. Maryam Nawaz’s rise represents another important chapter in the party’s evolution. During the years when Nawaz Sharif faced political disqualification and exile, she emerged as one of the PML-N’s most visible campaigners. She endured political pressure, remained active throughout the party’s most difficult period and gradually established herself as a national political leader in her own right. As Chief Minister of Punjab, Maryam Nawaz has sought to build her political identity around governance, administrative reforms and public service delivery. Whether one agrees with her politics or not, she has brought energy and visibility to the office and has made rapid implementation of development initiatives a defining feature of her administration. Her speeches continue to energise party workers, while her governance record is increasingly becoming central to the PML-N’s political narrative. When I met Nawaz Sharif and Maryam Nawaz at Jati Umra earlier this year, I observed the same resolve that I had seen nearly two decades earlier during the London exile years. The determination to continue serving through politics appeared unchanged. The Muzaffarabad rally reinforced what I have believed for years: Nawaz Sharif has entered another active phase of his political career. His message is no longer about political survival—it is about political continuity, stability and development. Whether one supports him or opposes him, it is difficult to deny one reality. More than forty years after entering politics, Nawaz Sharif remains one of Pakistan’s most enduring and influential political figures. His resilience has become part of Pakistan’s political history, and Muzaffarabad demonstrated that his political story is far from over. The views expressed in this article are solely my personal observations and political analysis based on decades of reporting on Pakistan’s politics.

A recent five-member judgment of the Supreme Court has settled an important question of Pakistani company law. It has also exposed a deeper weakness in our justice system: even when fraud is ultimately defeated, the victim may receive no meaningful compensation for the years consumed in recovering what was unlawfully taken. In Abdul Razzaq v Registrar of Companies, Securities and Exchange Commission of Pakistan and others, Civil Appeal No. 125 of 2025, decided on April 22, 2026, the Court held that the passage of time could not protect a fraudulent entry in a company’s register of members. The ruling affirms Naila Naeem Younus v Indus Services Limited (2022 SCMR 1171), under which a petition for rectification of the register under section 126 of the Companies Act, 2017 is not barred by limitation where shares have been taken through fraud. The decision is legally compelling. The register of members determines who owns shares, receives dividends, votes at meetings and exercises corporate control. A fraudulent alteration is therefore not a technical defect. It can amount to stealing ownership through manipulation of the company’s official record. The Court has rightly refused to allow deception to become title merely because it remained concealed for several years. Fraud is usually designed to remain undiscovered. Applying a rigid limitation period in favour of the person concealing it would reward the very conduct that the law is meant to prevent. The judgment also resolves the uncertainty arising from Bentonite Pakistan Limited v Bankers Equity Limited (2023 SCMR 1353), in which observations had suggested that Article 181 of the Limitation Act could apply to company-law proceedings. The larger bench has clarified that a rectification petition is not an “application” governed by that provision. This doctrinal clarity is welcome. The harder question is what justice means after the fraud has lasted for years. A person fraudulently deprived of shares may lose dividends, voting rights, managerial control and participation in rights or bonus issues. The wrongdoer may meanwhile control the company, use its assets and finance the litigation from benefits derived through the disputed shareholding. After 10 or 20 years, an order restoring the shares may correct the register. It does not necessarily compensate the victim. This problem extends far beyond company law. In Pakistan, fraudulent possession and prolonged litigation often operate together. Land, inheritance, commercial assets and corporate rights are appropriated through false documents or manipulated records. Once challenged, the beneficiary denies everything, seeks adjournments, produces further documents and carries the matter through every available forum. Delay becomes a business strategy. The wrongdoer retains the asset while the victim pays to recover it. Even after losing, the wrongdoer may be required only to return property that never lawfully belonged to him. Nominal costs do little to alter this calculation. A rational legal system must ensure that fraud and frivolous litigation are economically unattractive. Otherwise, the expected gain from wrongdoing remains greater than its expected cost. Pakistan needs to move towards a genuine cost-based justice system. This does not mean obstructing access to courts or punishing honest litigants who fail to prove a bona fide claim. It means distinguishing genuine disputes from proceedings maintained through deliberate falsehood, concealment, forged documents or tactical delay. The Code of Civil Procedure, 1908 provides for costs, and the federal Costs of Litigation Act, 2017 recognises actual, adjournment and special costs in specified circumstances. The larger principle should be applied far more effectively: an innocent litigant should not be forced to finance the other side’s abuse of judicial process. Where fraud is established, courts should ordinarily consider restoration of all benefits obtained from the disputed property, interest for the period of deprivation, realistic legal expenses and enhanced costs where false or vexatious pleas prolonged the case. In corporate cases, this could include an account of dividends, bonus and rights shares, remuneration obtained through control, and other measurable benefits flowing from the fraudulent entry. Section 126(4) also permits referral of fraudulent conduct for proceedings under section 127. Such referrals should be made where the evidence warrants them. The constitutional dimension should not be ignored. Article 10A of the Constitution guarantees fair trial and due process, while Articles 23 and 24 protect property. A right restored after decades, without compensation for its prolonged deprivation, is only partially vindicated. The Supreme Court has correctly ruled that fraud cannot shelter behind the calendar. Our jurisprudence must now adopt the accompanying principle that fraud cannot profit from the judicial calendar either. Justice must do more than correct an entry after years of litigation. It must remove the financial benefit of wrongdoing, compensate the victim as far as reasonably possible and impose realistic costs on those who misuse courts to preserve the proceeds of fraud. Only then will delayed justice cease to be an investment for the wrongdoer. _______________________________________________________________________   Dr. Ikramul Haq, Advocate Supreme Court, Adjunct Faculty at Lahore University of Management Sciences (LUMS), member Advisory Board and Visiting Senior Fellow of Pakistan Institute of Development Economics (PIDE), holds an LLD in tax laws. He was full-time journalist from 1979 to 1984 with Viewpoint and Dawn. He also served Civil Services of Pakistan from 1984 to 1996.