The finest government position where doing nothing is the job

OSD, or "Officer on Special Duty"-- doesn't that sound regal? As if one is appointed by divine decree to serve on a sacred mission for the nation. If you're imagining a valiant officer, sleeves rolled up, working tirelessly to fulfil critical governmental duties, think again. Being an OSD in Bangladesh is less about serving the country and more about finding the perfect seat in the office library for some quality thumb-twiddling.

In reality, OSD is just a polite way of saying, "You have no job to do, but we'll keep paying you to show up anyway." These officers continue to receive all the perks, minus the pesky responsibilities of actual work. Think of it as an early retirement package, except they still have to clock in, just in case someone notices that they've become invisible.

The life of an OSD is best described as government-sponsored "professional loitering." Here, officers are given the ultimate vacation: show up at work, check-in, spend the day pretending to read something in the library or exchanging meaningless gossip with fellow OSDs, and then go home feeling utterly accomplished for another day of non-work. Sounds like a dream, right? Well, it is if your dream consists of endless tea breaks and being completely irrelevant.

The ultimate promotion… to nowhere

Being an OSD is not always a punishment, though it might feel like one. Some poor souls become OSD after being promoted. Yes, in the bureaucratic wonderland of Bangladesh, you can be so good at your job that they promote you to a position that doesn't even exist. 

Imagine the joy of finally getting that promotion you worked so hard for, only to realise there's no actual work to go with it. Instead, you get the privilege of haunting the corridors of your ministry like a bureaucratic ghost, waiting for some mythical task to materialise.

Picture this: you're a newly minted joint secretary. You have a shiny new title, a pay raise, and all the trappings of success but no desk. No emails. No meetings. There's not even a stack of paperwork to complain about. Instead, you get to spend your days socialising with other equally promoted and equally idle OSDs. It's like a government-sanctioned networking event, except it never ends, and no one cares.

The existential crisis of the modern OSD

For those unlucky enough to be made OSD as a punishment, it can feel like being trapped in a Kafka novel. One day, you're a powerful bureaucrat, making decisions and signing off on important files. Next, you're an OSD, staring at the clock in the ministry library, wondering if anyone even remembers you exist. 

It's a demotion in everything but name. One OSD official, who shall remain anonymous (because his job doesn't really matter), described it as a "curse." It's a bit dramatic, perhaps, but when you're being paid to do absolutely nothing, existential dread starts to creep in.

"Every day, I pray to the Almighty that no one else falls into this trap," said one poor soul who made OSD after years of service. Sure, he still receives his salary and allowances. He even has a government-issued car. But the real punishment, he says, is the shame of having no work. His family probably thinks he's a failure, his colleagues have forgotten his name, and the office cha-wala calls him "that guy who never leaves the library."

For these unfortunate souls, being made OSD is like being sentenced to a lifetime of bureaucratic limbo. You're not fired, but you're not working. You're not demoted, but you're not respected. It's like the government has pressed "pause" on your career, and now you're just waiting—forever.

Tea Breaks, thumb twiddling, and office politics

The day-to-day life of an OSD is, in a word, mundane. The highlight of the day? Tea breaks. Not just any tea breaks, though—these are extended, in-depth discussions on topics ranging from which ministry has the best canteen food to the latest office gossip. 

Who's being promoted? Who's being transferred? Who's about to join the exclusive ranks of the OSD club? These are the burning questions that keep OSDs occupied.

Occasionally, an OSD might get lucky and be assigned a task—usually something incredibly important, like reviewing an old report that no one will ever read or attending a meeting where their only contribution is a nod of agreement. But for the most part, their time is spent perfecting the art of looking busy while doing absolutely nothing.

A metaphor for the bureaucracy

If there's one thing the OSD system highlights, it's the sheer absurdity of Bangladesh's bureaucratic apparatus. Promotions are handed out like candy, but responsibilities? Not so much. The system is clogged with too many officials and not enough tasks, leading to a backlog of idle officers, waiting for something—anything—to do.

But don't be fooled into thinking this is a new problem. No, the OSD phenomenon has been around for decades, a product of political manoeuvring, bureaucratic inefficiency, and the occasional act of revenge. If an official speaks out of turn, aligns with the wrong political faction, or simply rubs someone the wrong way, they might find themselves exiled to the land of OSDs—a place where ambition goes to die.

And what about those rare cases where being an OSD is a reward? Some officials, after years of service, are granted the ultimate prize: a position with no responsibility. These lucky few spend their final years in government sipping tea, collecting a paycheck, and reflecting on a career that, in the end, required nothing more than showing up.

The saga continues

In 2020, the High Court ruled that no government official could be kept as OSD for more than 150 days. You might think this would put an end to the practice, but in true bureaucratic fashion, the rule is treated more as a suggestion than a mandate. After all, why rush to give someone responsibilities when you can just let them hang out in the library for a few more months (or years)?

And so, the OSD saga continues. The bureaucracy hums along, promotions are handed out, and more officials join the ranks of the forgotten. It's a system that defies logic, but in a way, it's the perfect metaphor for the government itself—slow, inefficient, and utterly indifferent to the concept of progress.

A cautionary tale?

In the end, being an OSD isn't the worst thing in the world. It's a bureaucratic purgatory, sure, but it's also a paycheck without the stress of actually doing anything. For some, it's a punishment. For others, it's a reward. And for the rest of us, it's just another quirk of a government system that seems more interested in maintaining the status quo than actually getting anything done.

So, if you ever find yourself in the labyrinth of Bangladeshi bureaucracy, don't despair. There's always the possibility that you, too, could be promoted to the prestigious position of OSD—where doing nothing is the ultimate responsibility.

H M Nazmul Alam, Lecturer, Department of English and Modern Languages, International University of Business, Agriculture and Technology.

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions and views of The Business Standard.