In an almost comical testament to Pakistan's economic turbulence, the nation's roads are about to get a little less congested—at least with new cars. Honda Atlas Cars, Pak Suzuki Motor Company, and Indus Motor Company, in a synchronized ballet of corporate caution, have all slammed the brakes on production.

Indus Motor Company, the stalwart assembler of Toyota vehicles, has opted for a dramatic intermission in its manufacturing saga, pausing production for an entire month starting from the auspicious date of October 17, 2023. It seems even the assembly lines are taking a deep breath in the face of the country's economic pantomime.

Honda Atlas Cars and Pak Suzuki Motor have followed suit, although with less dramatic flair, announcing temporary pit-stops for their production plants. It's a pause that echoes the dreaded silence of a stalled engine in the middle of rush-hour traffic.

These manufacturing giants blame the production pit-stop on a comically tragic shortage of essential raw materials—cue the image of a car without wheels or, perhaps more fittingly, a steering wheel with nothing to direct. Indus Motor Company's month-long production pause is less a pit-stop and more of a full-on engine rebuild, while Suzuki's two-day hiatus is the automotive equivalent of a weekend getaway from October 25 to October 27, 2023. Honda Atlas Cars, not to be outdone in this reluctant race to rest, will hit the snooze button from October 24 to October 31, 2023.

In a country where crises stack up faster than cars in a traffic jam, the irony of car manufacturers running out of the raw materials to make cars is not lost on the populace. As the economic dominoes continue to topple, one can't help but wonder if the next announcement might be that the car companies are considering producing bicycles instead. After all, in the throes of Pakistan's economic gridlock, two wheels might just be better than none.

The latest dispatch from the corporate frontlines of Pakistan's automotive sector reads like a satire in itself. "The management of the company has decided to shut down the automobile plant from October 25 to October 27, 2023, due to the shortage of inventory levels. However, the motorcycle plant will continue its operations," declared the Pak Suzuki Motor Company's company secretary, with what one can only assume was a straight face. It seems that while four-wheelers are facing an existential crisis, two-wheelers are still pedaling along merrily.

Honda Atlas Cars echoes this sentiment, its own announcement punctuated by an almost audible sigh over the "disruptions in operations caused by shortages in inventory and parts within their supply chain." It's as if the parts played an elaborate game of hide and seek, and now the cars, quite literally, can't come together.

These production pauses are not just a series of unfortunate events but a slapstick routine in the grand comedy of Pakistan's auto industry. The sector has been stuttering through a series of start-stops that would put any novice driver to shame. The punchline? The country's auto industry is so import-dependent that when the government hit the emergency brake on imports to save dollars and stop the free-falling rupee, it didn't just slow things down—it brought them to a screeching halt.

The result, as The News reports, is pricier imports and even pricier cars, in a market where the cost of a car is starting to look like a typo. The situation is less like a well-oiled machine and more like a vehicle running on fumes, hoping to coast into better days. One wonders if the next strategic move for the industry might be to just start selling the cars in pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle for the financially masochistic. After all, who doesn't love a good challenge?

Pakistan's Economic Crisis Takes a Pricey Turn: Sky-High Gas and Cement Costs

As if the economic plot of Pakistan needed any thickening, the latest episode features a dramatic surge in prices that would make even the most seasoned economist's eyes water. In a bold, if not masochistic, move to resuscitate the gasping gas companies, the caretaker government waved a wand and—presto—gas prices are set to balloon by up to 193 percent. Consumers, brace yourselves; your wallets are about to become significantly lighter, as an additional PKR 350 billion is to be magically extracted from them. "This decision seeks to recover an additional PKR 350 billion from consumers," reports The Express Tribune, with a tone that might suggest they're barely stifling a gasp.

The proposal to axe subsidies for the crème de la crème of exporters and industrialists, however, found itself promptly in the bin. Rejection never sounded so polite.

From November 1, domestic consumers are set to face a gale-force wind of a 172% price hike, while commercial consumers will be swept up by a 137% increase. Cement manufacturers, not to be left out of this inflationary soiree, will see a whopping 193% hike in gas prices, a figure so high it might require oxygen masks.

The Economic Coordination Committee (ECC) of the Cabinet, perhaps envisioning themselves as the economic Avengers, has sanctioned these increases with a flourish of their pens. This includes a nod to cement manufacturers who must now scale a financial Everest, as The Express Tribune—an international affiliate, no less—reports with all the drama of a Shakespearean tragedy.

But wait, there's more! In an interesting juxtaposition of scarcity and abundance, the ECC also cheerfully greenlit the import of 1 million metric tons of wheat and a casual 200,000 metric tons of urea. The bill for this banquet? A cool $250 million at the going international rate.

Overseeing this financial fiesta was none other than the caretaker finance minister Shamshad Akhtar, who endorsed the gas price hike with a summary from the Petroleum Division. This fiscal cliffhanger now heads to the federal cabinet for what one can only assume will be a rubber-stamp performance. Curtain up on the next act in Pakistan's economic drama.

If Pakistan's economy were a play, the energy sector's recent price hike would be the dramatic monologue that brings the audience to a stunned silence—or perhaps an exasperated chuckle. "The ECC approved the summary of the Petroleum Division for an increase in gas prices," announced Energy Minister Mohammad Ali, with the sort of gravity one reserves for monumental announcements. And monumental they are, but perhaps more for their audacity than their wisdom.

In a plot twist worthy of a daytime soap opera, the finance ministry and the Planning Commission, those custodians of fiscal prudence, voiced their misgivings about doling out gas to power-hungry self-generation plants owned by exporters. Their concerns, however, were swept aside by the ECC's decision to bestow a 44% subsidized gas bonanza to the exporters—a move that flies in the face of an earlier federal cabinet's sage advice from 2021 to cut the gas umbilical cord to these plants.

Industry Minister Gohar Ejaz chimed in with his two cents, noting that gas prices for the exporting elite and domestic industrialists have been hiked to an average of $8.5 per mmbtu. Yet, this figure still lounges comfortably $4 below the dizzying heights of liquefied natural gas (LNG) rates, as The Express Tribune reports with an undertone of disbelief.

For the domestic consumer, the scene is no less theatrical. Those using up to 0.9 hm3 of gas will not see their rates rise, but their fixed monthly bill will make a heroic leap from PKR 10 to PKR 400. For the domestic dramatis personae consuming up to 1.5 hm3, their fixed charges have been orchestrated to crescendo from PKR 460 to a grand PKR 1,000. And for those gas-guzzling characters exceeding 1.5 hm3? A monthly charge of PKR 2,000 awaits, perhaps accompanied by a soundtrack of ominous violins.

This recalibration of tariffs puts the highest domestic gas consumption in sync with the costs of a Shakespearean tragedy—also known as liquefied petroleum gas—while ensuring that those in previous slabs continue to enjoy the show. Alas, for the final act, those in the non-protected domestic category's last slab, there will be no encore—just the cold, hard reality of full-priced gas. Curtain falls, and the audience is left to ponder the spectacle they've just witnessed.

Pakistan's Military Trades Camouflage for Overalls in the Nation's Agricultural Theatre

NEW DELHI: As Pakistan's food crisis reaches a new zenith, the nation's army, traditionally clad in battle gear, has now ostensibly traded in their tanks for tractors. In an unprecedented move, these military maestros have commandeered vast stretches of land, not for strategic maneuvers but for plowing and sowing. The army, a veteran of governance having helmed the coup-ridden country for over 37 years, is now flexing its muscles in a different domain—agriculture.

For those watching from the wings, this pivot from security and foreign policy to agrarian stewardship seems as incongruous as a general in overalls. This economic enlistment has many arching their brows in a mix of curiosity and concern.

The food situation in Pakistan has been simmering for some time, earning it a spot at 102 out of 125 on the 2023 Global Hunger Index, where its hunger situation has been classified as 'serious'. The paradox of being food sufficient but not food secure paints a grim picture of a nation that has all the right ingredients but no recipe for sustenance.

Inflation soars to dizzying heights, and poverty expands like a sprawling metropolis, driving throngs of despondent citizens to government flour giveaways. These gatherings have too often descended into chaotic stampedes, painting a stark and distressing image of desperation.

Amidst this, the army has marched into the limelight, not with guns blazing but with seeds planting. Seeking to harvest a bounty of public favor—especially after being in the crosshairs of ousted PM Imran Khan's scathing critiques—the army is planting the seeds for a potential renaissance of food security. Their new role as 'farmer' may be their most challenging campaign yet, one where the fruits of success are quite literal and the battlefield is furrowed fields rather than the mountainous terrains they're accustomed to.

In a narrative that might have been lifted from the pages of a satirical novel, the past six months have witnessed Pakistan's military brass donning a new hat: economic saviors. The army's top echelons, including General Asim Munir, have entrenched themselves in the Special Investment Facilitation Council, a body that emerged in June as a lighthouse guiding the nation through the stormy seas of economic reform.

The military's strategy? Turn the country's barren patches into breadbaskets. In a move that could be described as part land grab, part green thumb initiative, the caretaker government has bequeathed the army hundreds of thousands of acres for cultivation. September saw a whopping 400,000 hectares of Punjab's land—thrice the girth of Delhi—handed over to the army for a 30-year lease. And just when the dust settled, another swath of land, this time a mere 17,000 hectares in the tumultuous terrains of South Waziristan, was earmarked for military farming.

The choice of South Waziristan's rugged hills and ridges, a land that sees extremes of climate and has long lain fallow, as a new agricultural hub is as baffling as finding a cactus in a rainforest. "Initially, the army will farm 1,000 acres of land and then expand to 41,000 acres (17,000 hectares) in South Waziristan’s Zarmalam area – which was barren for years – in a bid to enhance agricultural productivity of the region and promote food self-sufficiency," reported The News International, seemingly without irony.

The locale for this agricultural endeavor is also an area that buzzes with more than bees. Nestled close to Afghanistan's border, it's a hotspot for terrorist activity, which has spiked ominously since the Taliban's cinematic comeback in Kabul. The landscape, known more for its bullet holes than for boreholes, now plays host to an army with plows rather than pistols.

The scene is surreal: amid the crescendo of terrorist activity, the army is sowing seeds of change—quite literally—in an area where the term 'groundbreaking' has a very different connotation. One can't help but visualize this military-cum-agricultural operation as a high-stakes game of Farmville with national stakes.

Adding to the drama, news breaks of an attack on Pakistan's Mianwali airbase, with locals taking to social media to share videos of the assault. The juxtaposition of military might and agricultural ambition paints a picture of a country at the crossroads, its army trying to plow a path to stability through both economic reform and counter-terrorism. Will the seeds of this endeavor grow into prosperity or wither in the harsh terrain of geopolitical reality? The world watches with bated breath—and perhaps a touch of bemusement.

In an ironic twist of fate, the arid expanses of the Cholistan Desert in Punjab, known more for its water mirages than water management, have been gifted to the army—presumably in the hope that their military precision can conjure up irrigation from the sand. Critics, peering through the murky details, have posited that this latest land transfer could promote the army to the rank of Pakistan's largest landowner.

"The job of the army is to protect against external threats and come to the aid of the civilian government when requested to do so. Nothing more, nothing less," Rafay Alam, an environmental lawyer, laid out to Nikkei Asia, drawing a line in the sand that the military seems all too ready to cross with a tractor.

The blueprint for this agricultural mission seems as clear as mud. There's a consensus that the army will don a managerial hat, overseeing these new green ventures while the land remains in the provincial government's name. Yet, whispers of profits and their recipients stir the pot of confusion. One report from Geo News assures that the military's pockets won't be lined with greenbacks from the harvest. On the other hand, a leaked script from Nikkei Asia suggests a 20% tithe of the profits will go towards farming R&D, with the remaining bounty split evenly between the army's coffers and the state.

Those championing this agrarian plot promise it's the seed for greater yields and water conservation, a much-needed panacea for Pakistan's wilting foreign exchange reserves and blooming commodity prices. But beneath the surface lies a root of concern: the military, already a Goliath in its own right, might reap a windfall from this food security crusade. Meanwhile, the rural landless—25 million strong—could be left to watch from the parched sidelines as their potential inheritance becomes a military asset.

As the army tills what was once barren land, many can't help but wonder if this is the birth of a new agricultural superpower or just another act in Pakistan's long-running economic drama. Will these desert fields bloom into prosperity, or will they become the newest battleground in a war between power and poverty? Only time will tell, and until then, the curtain remains open on this desert theater.