Permission to Argue

A defining moment in judicial history

There are moments in a lawyer’s life that exist first as dreams, rehearsed over years of study and quiet imagination. For me, that moment came the night I was bound for Islamabad to argue my first case before the Supreme Court of Pakistan, a milestone I had long envisioned as the pinnacle of the legal stage.

Travelling to Islamabad had always been a quiet pleasure for me, even for court appearances: the long ribbon of road, the gradual ascent into the capital, the sense that one was moving closer to the very centre of law and justice, the heartbeat of civic purpose itself.

I write this not as a detached observer, but as a lawyer whose debut before the Supreme Court occurred amid institutional collapse and constitutional improvisation. The 26th and 27th Amendments will be dissected in textbooks, defended in speeches, and debated in political forums. But for those of us who stood in those shifting courtrooms on 14 November 2025, they will forever mark the moment when the orchestra lost its rhythm, the Constitution was forced to play in a minor key, and the music of justice became uncertain

That night, the journey felt familiar, almost comforting, and I imagined the Court waiting like a grand orchestra: judges conducting with measured authority, lawyers weaving intricate harmonies, and the Constitution itself serving as the score that guided every note. I had imagined stepping into that hall with awe and confidence, with the steady conviction that institutions endure beyond politics. I did not yet know what lay ahead. Somewhat did know but still… When the night turned into morning, and I finally entered the courtroom, the orchestra played not in triumph, but in a minor key uncertain, fractured, and unrecognizable.

The unease began on the highway. Somewhere near Bhera, I stopped at a McDonald’s to steady my restless mind. Amid the clatter of trays, cups, and idle chatter, I overheard a passerby casually remark that two Supreme Court judges had resigned. My first instinct was disbelief, I wanted to dismiss it as idle talk, the sort of roadside gossip that drifts freely through M2s and dhabas. But when I checked my phone, the truth confronted me with unforgiving clarity. The resignations were real. My debut would unfold not against the familiar rhythm of law, but amid constitutional earthquakes. The helplessness hit immediately, cold and tangible.

By the morning of 14 November 2025, Islamabad itself seemed tense, almost breathless. The Supreme Court building still stood tall and imposing, but inside, its rhythm had vanished. Lawyers clustered in whispers, litigants waited with uncertainty etched on their faces, and the corridors buzzed with confusion. Instructions changed with every announcement. Initially directed to Courtroom No 5, we were then sent to Courtroom No. 6, shortly after to Courtroom No. 4, and finally redirected back to Courtroom No 5. This was not administrative chaos —it was institutional fragility exposed for all to see. Even the Supreme Court staff seemed adrift. Questions hung unanswered in the air: Had benches been dissolved? What would happen to seniority? Which judges actually retained authority?

The lawyers exchanged anxious glances, trying to piece together the day’s proceedings. Some whispered about the Federal Constitutional Court, created by the 26th and 27th Amendments, now institutionally above the Supreme Court. Others speculated whether certain judges had been effectively removed from service or if the resignations were part of a larger political orchestration. Phones buzzed constantly, yet clarity never arrived. One could feel the unease ripple through the courtroom like a tangible current anticipation tangled with disbelief, experience collided with improvisation.

When the bench finally arrived in Courtroom No 5, it was late, adding to the mounting tension. The presiding judge, measured but constrained, announced that only a few urgent matters would be taken up. There was no elaboration, no rationale, no guidance for the dozens of lawyers who had waited hours. Within 30 minutes, the members of the bench rose and retreated to their chambers, leaving a full courtroom hollowed by uncertainty. The air seemed heavy, suffused with the collective frustration of those who had trained, traveled, and hoped for a proper hearing. The simple expectation of procedural order, a cornerstone of any functioning judiciary, had evaporated.

Outside, murmurs grew into conversations, and conversations into debates. Lawyers and litigants speculated openly: which matters would now be heard, and where? How would the Federal Constitutional Court exercise its authority? Could one even appeal a decision made in such opacity? The questions were endless, and the answers nonexistent. The 26th and 27th Amendments had shifted power so dramatically, and so hastily, that even the architects of the legal system seemed unprepared for the consequences. What should have been a moment of personal triumph, of legal ritual, became a surreal exercise in patience and improvisation.

It was impossible not to feel the weight of helplessness that morning. The Supreme Court, the apex of judicial authority, appeared exposed and vulnerable, stripped of certainty, stripped of continuity, and left at the mercy of political expediency. Watching this unfold was profoundly unsettling. The amendments, passed with remarkable haste, were not mere policy changes, they were a statement: the judiciary, once revered, could be reshaped overnight. What should have been an institution of unassailable authority was now a theatre of improvisation. My first appearance before the Court became less about legal advocacy and more about navigating a stage that had lost its script.

Amid this disorientation, I found solace in the words of Justice Surya Kant of the Supreme Court of India, speaking to lawyers at Damodaram Sanjivayya National Law University. He compared life to a Grand Prix race, reminding lawyers that family and friends serve as a “pit crew,” offering comfort, laughter, and support after grueling days in court. Legal practice can feel adversarial and isolating, he noted, but personal ties must never be abandoned. Beneath this metaphor lies a profound truth: lawyers are not merely practitioners, they are defenders of the Constitution, sustained not only by intellect but by courage, resilience, and human connection.

Reading those words was both comforting and painful. Comforting, because they reaffirmed why I chose this profession. Painful, because they underscored how fragile that ideal feels in Pakistan today. Judicial independence is not a luxury, it is the foundation upon which lawyers and citizens alike can believe that arguments matter, that power can be questioned, and that justice is possible.

I write this not as a detached observer, but as a lawyer whose debut before the Supreme Court occurred amid institutional collapse and constitutional improvisation. The 26th and 27th Amendments will be dissected in textbooks, defended in speeches, and debated in political forums. But for those of us who stood in those shifting courtrooms on 14 November 2025, they will forever mark the moment when the orchestra lost its rhythm, the Constitution was forced to play in a minor key, and the music of justice became uncertain.