Advocate Seraj Pramanik
It was just the other day—Saturday, May 23. The clock struck exactly 10:30 AM. Carrying the heavy responsibility of a special assignment for The Daily Observer, I entered the inner chamber of the Deputy Commissioner (DC) of Kushtia, Mr. Md. Towhid Bin Hasan. Moments after stepping into the room, I discovered a new law of physics: “In the vacuum of bureaucracy, the weight of a common man’s self-respect is exactly zero percent!”

Before I entered the chamber, his Personal Assistant (PA) had reassuringly told me, “Sir is alone.” I thought to myself, how fortunate! Perhaps today I could have a pleasant, professional conversation with the ultimate arbiter of Kushtia’s destiny. But the moment I stepped inside, my 21st-century modern sensibility suffered a sudden jolt. I realized I hadn’t walked into a modern public office; instead, I had arrived at the court of an 18th-century British ‘Lord’—a place where the entry of ordinary citizens is not legally barred, but where receiving a hundred percent guarantee of ‘utter disregard’ is absolute!

The DC was deeply engrossed in a mobile phone conversation, seemingly handling a matter of immense cosmic and national importance. I stood there, frozen. Seconds ticked away, and minutes passed in grueling succession, but there was no sign of his invaluable phone call ending. There was neither a courtesy glance nor a simple nod permitting me to sit. Left with no choice, and compromising on traditional Bengali etiquette, I slipped an “As-salamu Alaykum” through a brief pause in his phone line. Alas! Though the greeting reached his ears, it failed to pierce the rigid armor of his bureaucratic heart.

Tucking away my prestigious academic degrees, my experience practicing law in the apex court of the country, and my long-standing career in legal journalism—symbolized by my greying hair—I finally pulled up a chair and sat down rather abruptly, appearing somewhat ‘insolent’. I did so because my expensive shoes were giving way under my body weight, yet the invisible torrent of words on the other end of the DC’s phone showed no signs of stopping.

Whether it was the ‘offense’ of my sitting down or the sheer annoyance of hanging up the phone, the DC finally looked at me. Ah, what a glare it was! It felt as though he was staring at a cosmic criminal in the dock. He then demanded in a thunderous tone, “What do you want? Make it brief.”

Adopting my usual professional demeanor, I introduced myself on behalf of The Daily Observer and brought up the official newspaper assignment. However, in a single, dismissive stroke, he demonstrated just how many light-years separate common sense from bureaucracy. Snapping at me, he retorted, “The DC Office is not the place for this.”

I was completely dumbfounded, falling straight from the heavens onto the soil of Kushtia! I thought to myself, if the office of a man who reigns supreme as the chairman of nearly 80 district committees—the ultimate master of the district’s affairs and destiny—is not ‘the place’, then is it an amusement park? When I politely reminded him of the vast jurisdiction of his duties, he swiftly delivered a ‘bureaucracy-style passing shot’: “The ADC (General) is looking into this. You may leave.” In plain Bangla, it meant: ‘Get lost quickly, mister!’

Nevertheless, thoroughly “captivated” and “overwhelmed” by his exquisite, eye-opening, and charming behavior, I stepped out of the chamber. But when a lawyer takes something to heart, things change! I realized that since he did not comprehend the weight of the Bangla language in person, I should try to awaken his latent ‘Saheb-like’ disposition using the native language of the original ‘Lords’.

I pulled out my phone and drafted a text message on WhatsApp, detailing the entire assignment in flawless, grammatically precise, and crisp British English. Oh, the miraculous power of Shakespeare’s tongue! The very man who, moments earlier, did not deem it necessary to grant me permission to sit, suddenly stirred like a waking ‘ICS’ (Indian Civil Service) officer of the colonial era upon seeing pure English. A swift reply arrived, beautifully wrapped in profound religious sentiment: “Fi Amanillah” (May you be under Allah’s protection).

I thought, thank goodness! The English nudge finally melted the ice. But even the Almighty might struggle to calculate when a bureaucrat’s mind or a late-summer sky will change colors. Despite uttering “Fi Amanillah”, he immediately demonstrated his royal authority by doing the exact opposite—proving that bureaucrats often do the polar opposite of what they preach.

This fleeting encounter with the DC made it seem as though the Deputy Commissioners of Bangladesh are living museums of British bureaucracy. Their character reflects a strange cocktail of colonial-era stick-wielding arrogance blended with modern republican authority. A DC is not merely a district administrator; he is simultaneously the District Collector and the District Magistrate. He collects revenue, administers governance, and wields the sword of mobile courts to dispense summary justice. A single stroke of his pen can erase pavement stalls or turn massive buildings into dust. From the sky and air of the district down to the Pangas fish in the pond, everything seems to flutter its wings at his invisible command. “The DC Sir’s order” functions as the supreme constitution of the district!

At the mere sound of his car horn, even the red traffic light turns green out of fear. Before entering his inner chamber, official files tremble so intensely that they look half-yellowed by his sheer terror. From holding scissors to cut ribbons at inaugurations to occupying the cushioned sofas as the chief guest—everything exudes a distinct Mughal royalty.

Their ultimate weapon is the ‘Mobile Court’. If the price of onions spikes in the market, the DC must intervene; if fitness-lacking vehicles ply the roads, the DC is called upon. Before him, even a tiger and a buffalo are forced to drink water from the same ghat. In reality, however, when a single individual serves as the head of nearly 80 committees, efficiency does not improve; instead, files end up buried and forgotten. Even a tender notice by the Department of Social Services requires the DC’s signature! Had the actual department head led the committee, the work would move at rocket speed. But no, why shouldn’t one individual be treated like a superhero everywhere? And yet, our DCs crave even more power!

In conclusion, I have a legal question for the Deputy Commissioner of Kushtia, Mr. Md. Towhid Bin Hasan: Professionally, your designation is ‘Deputy Commissioner (DC)’. But is the term ‘Zila Proshashok’ (District Administrator), which you display on your official signboards, recognized by any law or regulation of the country? Writing this piece required extensive research on my part. On page 62 of the publication titled ‘Terminology of Designations’ by the Ministry of Public Administration, the English term ‘Deputy Commissioner’ has been translated into Bangla as ‘Zila Proshashok’ (District Administrator). But look at the strange anomaly! On the exact same page, ‘Deputy Commissioner of Taxes’ is translated as ‘Upokor Commissioner’, ‘Deputy Commissioner of Customs’ as ‘Upokommisioner, Customs’, and ‘Deputy Commissioner of Police’ as ‘Upopolice Commissioner’. Naturally, the question arises: how did the Bangla designation for ‘Deputy Commissioner’ skip the logical prefix ‘Upo’ (Deputy/Sub) and leap straight to the regal title of ‘Zila Proshashok’?

Under the Right to Information (RTI) Act, 2009, I sought to uncover the mysterious origin of the term ‘Zila Proshashok’. Instead of providing a direct answer, the Ministry of Public Administration passed the hot potato to the Cabinet Division, advising me to inquire there. In truth, the word ‘Proshashok’ (Administrator) is merely a subtle attempt to preserve the landlord-like legacy of colonial bossism. Such a lordly mindset from servants of the republic is entirely unacceptable. This designation warrants an immediate revision.

In a democratic system, governance or administration lies in the hands of representatives elected by the people. This is explicitly enshrined in our sacred Constitution. Article 59(1) of the Constitution clearly dictates that the local administration of the Republic shall be vested in ‘institutions composed of elected persons’. This implies that local governance must be led by public representatives. In reality, though Upazila Parishads and Zila Parishads have been formed, they are treated as mere ornamental showpieces. Upazila Chairmen are now fighting legal battles in court corridors just to reclaim their constitutional rights.

Furthermore, even after the separation of the judiciary in 2007, the executive magistracy powers continuously exercised by DCs do not fully align with the Constitution. The judgment of the apex court on this matter remains pending.

Therefore, my humble question to the DC of Kushtia remains—how much longer will this landlord-like arrogance hide behind the title of ‘Zila Proshashok’ as times evolve? Please remember, Sir, a chair or a title can command temporary awe, but it cannot earn genuine human respect. To receive respect, one must first learn to respect others!

The Writer: Kushtia District Correspondent of the Daily Observer, Editor-Publisher of The Daily International, and Ph.D (Media Law).

Contact: 01716856728 | Email: seraj.pramanik@gmail.com