The valley of unlimited advice

When everyone is an expert, who is left to do the work?

By Dr. Fiaz Maqbool Fazili

The sharpest tragedy of Kashmir is not that we lack experts. It is that almost every Kashmiri appears to be born one—and the warranty, apparently, never expires. From dawn to dusk, we advise, analyse, diagnose, criticise and redesign the universe. We know what the neighbourhood committee, the administration, Delhi and society should do. Yet one office remains permanently understaffed: the Department of Actually Doing Something.

The sharper question is not merely, “Who is speaking?” but, “Who is willing to act?” If opinions could build roads, repair institutions and solve public problems, Kashmir would have become a superpower decades ago. Unfortunately, opinions do not carry bricks, answer unattended telephones, visit neglected sites or return to check whether a promise was fulfilled. They produce plenty of battein, baatin, bukharaat and the famous seene gazette—but little measurable movement.

We have mastered discussion so thoroughly that it now feels like an accomplishment. In Kashmir, expertise requires no certificate, apprenticeship or completed work. A confident voice is often enough. Open your mouth with sufficient certainty and, within minutes, you may be advising everyone from the mohalla committee to the Government of India. Volume is mistaken for knowledge, and interruption can masquerade as leadership.

Our greatest untapped resource may not be water, tourism or hydropower. It may be advice—and advisors. We produce advice endlessly, export almost none of it, and have little to show for the surplus. My inbox alone could supply an export directory. What remains scarce is the person willing to accept an ordinary responsibility and carry it through without applause.

Everybody wants to lead, advise, comment and be consulted. Yet who wants to carry the brick, stand in the rain or remain at the point of contact after the crowd has gone home? Who will visit the site, make the call, solve the difficulty and follow up tomorrow? At that point, our great expertise develops a mysterious shortage.

Work is rarely glamorous. It is repetitive, inconvenient and often invisible: checking a list twice, hearing the same complaint again, cleaning a space others may dirty, or completing a task without public praise. Advice offers the immediate pleasure of importance; work gives the slower satisfaction of usefulness.

Recalling the Kashmiri national sport: scrolling, watching, advising, posting, in a familiar evening: legs stretched on the sofa, tea within reach, television glowing and mobile phone in hand. One eye follows TV serial episode x Dar-e-Najat; the other checks Facebook. Forty-five minutes of suspense, tears and conspiracy pass without complaint. Everyone has time. Nobody asks the director to reduce the episode to three paragraphs. Then Fiaz posts a reflection on “Surah Al-Kahf,” and the same viewer becomes a time-management specialist. The post begins, “A small reflection,” but travels through tafsir, philosophy, psychology, spirituality, history, Kashmir and modern civilization. You scroll; the serial ends; the tea goes cold; and Fiaz is still explaining the surah.

The irony is sharp. Forty-five minutes of television is entertainment; a serious essay requiring sustained attention is unreasonable. People who spend hours watching fictional families fight over property ask, “Brother, who has time to read such a long post?”—then return to reels, messages and the next episode.

We have time for episodes, reels, WhatsApp arguments and endless analysis of who said, liked or ignored what. But serious writing revives the ancient Kashmiri shortage of time. “Make it short, yaar.” Three seasons of drama are no problem; three thoughtful paragraphs about scripture, society or responsibility are “too lengthy.”

The problem is not the screen, the tragedy is not simply that we do not read. We increasingly read only when the screen entertains us and does the intellectual work on our behalf. A drama carries us from scene to scene; serious reading asks us to concentrate, question assumptions and confront ourselves. That is less comfortable, especially when the text behaves like a mirror.

The problem is not Facebook, television or the mobile phone; each can inform and connect. The problem is the distance between what we claim to value and what receives our attention. We say faith matters, but hurry past reflection. We praise public service but celebrate speeches more than completed tasks. We ask young people to think deeply while rewarding speed, outrage and visibility over patience, study and craft.

Why, then, does my pen not stop? Not because one more article will magically reform society, or because the writer stands above the reader. Each column is another concern. Sometimes the mirror must be held up—not to accuse or claim superiority, but to help us see ourselves honestly. The writer, too, stands inside the frame.

Not everyone must become a scholar, writer or activist. Society needs the teacher who prepares, the shopkeeper who deals honestly, the official who returns a call, the neighbour who keeps a shared lane clean, the volunteer who arrives before the photograph, and the worker who stays after the audience leaves. The uncomfortable question is simpler: are we becoming the people we advise others to become?

We speak about discipline but neglect our routines; about cleanliness but ignore the space outside our doors. We demand institutional accountability while excusing ourselves from small responsibilities. We praise leadership but wait for somebody else to begin. We celebrate workers but do not want to be one. We honour action in speeches and remain spectators in practice—then wonder why nothing changes.

From commentary to contribution

To critics—the three Cs, Kashmir does not need another thousand experts merely naming what is wrong. It needs more people quietly doing what must be done.

This does not mean abandoning criticism, especially where power is unaccountable or institutions fail. But criticism gains moral weight when joined to effort. Whoever identifies a problem should, where possible, help define the next practical step; whoever demands standards from others should accept them personally.

Imagine if every meeting ended not with ten opinions but with one named responsibility, one deadline and one follow-up. Imagine community discussions producing a rota, a site visit, a repaired tap, a cleared path, a mentored student or a resolved grievance. Imagine converting online indignation into an hour of service. Such acts may not trend, but together they can change a culture.

Action also requires humility. Useful tasks are not always prestigious. Carrying the brick is not inferior to designing the building; both matter. Leadership is not the right to remain clean while others enter the mud. It is the willingness to enter first, organise the effort and remain until the work is complete.

Less commentary. More contributions. Less performance. More presence. Less “Who is responsible?” More “What can I do?”

The sharpest mirror does not show somebody else. It shows us: the gap between language and labour, ideals and habits, diagnosis and follow-through. That reflection is not an invitation to despair, but to begin—at home, in the lane, at work, in our institutions and within ourselves.

So, yes, let us enter the mud. Let us carry the brick, make the call, visit the site, read the long essay, keep the promise and return for the follow-up. But let us remember why we entered: to clean it—not to become part of it.