Sometimes, it feels like we’re all running in the same race – chasing something we can’t even see clearly. In the narrow streets of Islamabad, between hostel corridors and the chai stalls of Mughal Market, a generation of students is quietly carrying a weight that no one talks about. A pressure that builds every day, but never really explodes; a dream that never lets us sleep.
We’re the students who are “just doing our BS” – not gold medalists, not foreign-educated, not born into privilege. And for many of us, the Civil Superior Services (CSS) exam is more than just a test. It’s the one shot we think we have to matter – to prove we weren’t wasting our time, that we didn’t disappoint our parents, that we did become something.
You can find us sitting on footpaths with books open beside us, chai in one hand and cigarettes in the other – because sometimes, that’s all we can afford. But if you come closer, you’ll hear us talking about global politics, inflation, Palestine, the Constitution, or how the government system actually works. The world might think we’re wasting time, but in truth, our minds are racing faster than ever.
In a small room shared with two or three others, we’re building dreams out of borrowed books and secondhand notes. Sometimes the light goes out, sometimes the mobile dies, sometimes we break down. But we don’t stop. There’s always a voice inside whispering, “Bas is baar nikal lo, sab theek ho jayega.”
That voice often sounds like our mothers. Like mine, who prays for my success every single night, though she never really says it out loud? Or my father, who may not understand what CSS really means, but keeps telling people proudly, “Mera beta officer banayga”. I hear that and my chest gets heavy – not because I don’t believe it, but because I’m scared I might not make it.
We’re not just preparing for an exam. We’re preparing for a life where we’re respected, where no one calls us “nakaam,” where we don’t have to keep explaining ourselves to relatives who ask with fake concern, “Kya kar rahe ho aajkal”?
They see us waking up late, walking with dark circles under our eyes, or sitting alone in a park. They don’t know we were up till 3 a.m. trying to understand global economic theories. They don’t know how many times we’ve cried silently when a mock test result shattered our confidence. They don’t know how many job ads we’ve seen and ignored, not because we’re lazy, but because we’ve pinned everything to this one dream.
Yes, some of us smoke. Some of us stare blankly into space for hours. Some of us scroll through our phones not for entertainment, but to distract ourselves from the storm inside. It’s not because we’re careless – it’s because we’re overwhelmed. Every single day feels like a fight between hope and hopelessness.
But we keep showing up. We sit in libraries for hours, even when our backs hurt. We study topics we may never be tested on, just to stay prepared. We make handwritten notes that no one may ever read except us. We discuss world affairs like they’re personal, because for us, they are. We don’t want to just pass – we want to change something. We want to matter.
Sometimes, we joke around – about how hard CSS is, or how we’ll run a dhaba if it doesn’t work out. But behind those jokes are real fears. We know how much our families are sacrificing for us. We know how our younger siblings are watching. We know we’re running out of time, money, and sometimes, even motivation.
And yet, despite all of this, we still dream. We still plan how we’ll serve in the Foreign Service, or how we’ll reform the police, or how we’ll bring justice to places that have never seen it. Our dreams aren’t made of gold – they’re made of sleepless nights, cheap tea, broken pens, and pure, raw belief.
The world doesn’t see that. It sees only our delays, our “failures,” our odd routines. It doesn’t see the strength it takes to keep going when nothing seems to be working. It doesn’t know that every chai at a dhaba is a planning session. That every late-night walk is a therapy session. That every cigarette we light is not about style – it’s about stress.
We don’t want your sympathy. We want you to see us – really see us.
We’re not wasting time. We’re building futures in silence.
We’re not directionless. We just don’t take the shortcuts.
We’re not irresponsible. We’re exhausted.
So if you see us sitting alone, don’t judge us. We might be thinking about how to answer a question on judicial activism. If you hear us discussing politics loudly, don’t shush us. That’s how we survive. And if you ever think of asking, “Itna time le liya, kuch bana nahi abhi tak?” – please, don’t.
We are becoming something. Slowly, painfully, honestly. And one day, when we walk into a government office as officers, not guests – we’ll remember every night spent on a hostel floor. Every tear. Every doubt. Every cigarette.
Until then, we’ll keep dreaming.
Because this dream may keep us awake.
But it also keeps us alive.
