IT is an overcast day in the capital as I make my way to G-11; where I have been reliably told I will find what I am looking for. Then again, it isn’t hard to find a neighbourhood wh­ere free flour distribution centres have been established.

That ubiquitous, unm­ar­ked awning — known locally as a tamboo — usually seen with a truck parked at one end and a queue snaking out the other, is a dead giveaway.

Aimed at providing the basic necessity to around 100 million people in Punjab, Khyber Pakh­tunkhwa, and the federal capital territory, the programme was initiated on the first of Ramazan and is expected to continue for another few days, until the 25th of the holy month.

The idea, though well intentioned — essential too, some may argue — has had its share of bad press. Disorder and stampedes during distribution have led to nearly a dozen deaths countrywide.

But now that the scheme is nearing its end, I thought it pertinent to examine how far things had come, and whether the intended beneficiaries of the programme — the most impoverished of households — have benefited from it.

I chose to visit two distribution points; one in the aforementioned Islamabad locality, and the mega centre established at the cricket stadium in Rawalpindi.

As I sized up the people lined up to receive the handout, I noticed that they were not just those who live below the poverty line. There were people from across different income groups; blue- and white-collar workers, who were finding it hard to cope with record levels of inflation on their meagre salaries.

The distribution point in the capital was a run-of-the-mill affair; there were seats for women and the elderly, while everyone else had to wait in line. There were only two, gender segregated counters, with the women’s one being a bit overcrowded. First, one had to submit their identity card at the counter, where staff entered it into an app to verify the eligibility of the candidate with the Nadra database. Once eligibility was confirmed, a slip would be handed over to the distribution staff, who would hand over as many bags as the system authorized them to.

Although this wasn’t a massive operation (the centre distributed around 2,000 bags per day), an excise official who was managing the distribution centre, told me that more than 70 personnel, including police, volunteers and district administration staff are deployed at the centre from 6am to 5pm. Although the dedication of these officials is hardly in doubt, it is a fact that lines do become painstakingly long, especially for women who have come to the distribution point with their children, or are pregnant. This can be a problem, especially for those working as labourers, domestic or otherwise, who cannot afford to spend so much of their day away from work.

By contrast, the mega centre in Rawalpindi seemed like a well-oiled machine. Equipped with 40 counters, this venue seemed on a sunny day to be far more suited to the purpose, and official estimates put the number of bags handed out here every day at around 25,000.

As was to be expected, around 100 personnel, mostly from the district administration, were performing their duties here. According to the assistant commissioner on site, the centre worked round the clock.

The 40 counters are operated by more than 60 personnel, while over 200 police personnel, including women police, were deployed at the centre in three shifts across 24 hours.

But while those waiting in line were glad to be receiving the handout, the overwhelming response I got was from people calling on the government to make wheat flour more affordable, so that everyone could purchase it. Indeed, the nobility of the government’s initiative is lost on those who have to wait endlessly in line.

I even met a Railways employee who openly confessed that it was impossible to make ends meet on what he made. But he and others like him all demanded that rather than a ration-style handout, people should be allowed the dignity of going to the shops and buying subsidised flour for themselves.

Mussarat Bibi, a pregnant woman who had come to the distribution centre on foot said that while she was happy to take the free flour to feed her family of ten, it would be great if the government cut down the price of flour available in the market after Ramazan, so even the poor could at least afford to eat.

This resonated with me; the inflation graph seems unrelenting and once the free flour scheme ends with the close of Ramazan, what will become of the people who have come to rely on the government-provided flour? A normal 15kg bag of flour, which used to cost around Rs1,500 not too long ago, is now priced well over Rs3,000, and even then is seldom found in stock at your corner grocery shop.

Another question raised about the scheme was regarding the quality of the flour being provided for free. People I spoke to, however, said that after some teething issues at the beginning, the quality of flour being handed out had generally improved and was good enough for consumption.

But my lasting takeaway from this experience has been my puzzlement over the cost of the exercise. Every day, we are told of the economic crisis facing the country and the need for austerity. But then, even when it needs to implement a programme to help out the neediest segments of society, the government has to deploy an untold number of resources, taking away hundreds of officials from their regular duties at police stations, hospitals and schools and placing them at flour distribution points.

All of this makes me wonder; there must have been a better, more efficient way to do this.

The writer is a social activist and works in the development sector.

Published in Dawn, April 10th, 2023