Imran Khan’s “meagre” needs

And how becoming PM is most definitely not among them

The old saying about we all having skeletons in our closet just became a harrowing reality for Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf’s supremo, whose lawyers are busy nowadays replying to every tat resulted from all the tits their client hurled PML-N’s way

Let us jog our imagination a little, once again, with a familiar yet fantastic tale of an old but handsome, wrinkled yet alluring, slightly loud-mouthed but nonetheless drop-dead gorgeous 64 year old cricketer-turned-philanthropist-turned-politico-turned-desperado who made it to the top, stayed at the top, and now trying to topple the one on a different top. Dearest sirs and ma’ams, applaud for the man of this moment, the man of every moment, the one and only, the inimitable Imran Ahmad Khan Niazi a.k.a Imran Khan a.k.a IK whose needs (not desires) are so meagre that even an ordinary, unremarkable man should be ashamed of the extravagant life he and his family leads within their limited means.

The old saying about we all having skeletons in our closet just became a harrowing reality for Pakistan Tehreek-e-Insaf’s supremo, whose lawyers are busy nowadays replying to every tat resulted from all the tits their client hurled PML-N’s way. Now we understand in entirety what the phrase tit-for-tat actually mean. It simply means that if you dare to dig out my skeletons, I’ll venture upon resurrecting your past ghosts. Howzzat for a tit-for-tat, ehh, Im the Dim?

Something quite telling surfaced in ‘Big Marble Palace’ few days back. IK in his affidavit submitted to Supreme Court has furnished a money trail pertaining to his 300-kanal ‘poor-dom’ in Bani Gala, a particular excerpt in that affidavit is quite revealing, ‘Post retirement from cricket in 1992, the Deponent’s [Imran Khan’s] income was from cricket commentary, lectures, royalty from books (four in all) which are more than enough for the Deponent’s meagre needs’.

Indeed, the needs Imran Khan himself has to cater to are meagre, scanty, measly, sparse, rather altogether non-existent. IK is that lucky man, our wise elders of yore prophesied about whose friends drive him around in swanky black SUVs, fly him around the country in personal jets and take him from one jalsa to another, from one sea of people to another in lush helicopters. Fortunate is IK whose acolytes listen to whatever he has to say as if it is pure, unadulterated gospel truth. Blessed is Imran Khan who rules the hearts and minds of millions, yet knows not how to come clean before the court about the funding his party received from lands far-far away. And lastly, IK a demigod worshipped by even those who are not supposed to revere any earthly mortal subject to death and decay is seeking refuge in ‘legal technicalities’ like jurisdiction of state institutions to peep into modes and mechanics his party made use of to collect funds abroad.

Enough of fatuous finger-pointing and IK bashing, about time we treat ourselves with a comic interlude, dearest sirs and ma’ams. ‘Howzzat’ is a satirical diary of IK penned down by none other than Jugno Mohsin in a weekly magazine. Those of you who’ve read it, well, grand for them. For those who haven’t, well, find a leaf from the diary right below.

I wonder why it is taking so long for a tall, slightly less brown, handsome-even-in-his-mid-sixties lad like me to rule the nation who knows not what I know, sees not what I see. I mean, come on, when will they realise that I have no personal steak — sorry stake — in any of it. You know, right. I own nothing. I drive around in other people’s Land Cruisers, fly around in other people’s jets, move around amidst other people’s bodies, laugh at other people’s jokes (even when they are not half as funny than ones I make), dine out at other people’s restaurant, reside in a palace… Wait, what? Well, you got the point.

I remember, I once had a teacher who repeatedly reminded me to behave myself, especially whenever I tried to prove Mr Darwin right with my aping around. The more he insisted. The more I persisted. I didn’t pay any heed. And look at me, I am success epitomised. Now, all I want to ask that teacher is #Howzzat

Yours Forever-ly,

Im the ‘Fokker’ Dim.

IK is that lucky man, our wise elders of yore prophesied about whose friends drive him around in swanky black SUVs, fly him around the country in personal jets and take him from one jalsa to another, from one sea of people to another in lush helicopters

Note: The above diary entry has been published before in the same pages, however, due to ‘ever changing’ yet ‘remaining still the same’ nature of Pakistani politics, the above diary entry is reproduced again as will stay relevant till the day IK roams around the world with his bat, 92 World Cup, Shaukat Khanum Memorial Hospital, and drop-dead gorgeous looks.

There we had our comic relief, back to stone cold weary world called heartless politics. Imran Khan, while learning the ropes, learned something a 19th Century German philosopher warned us all about, IK fought with the monsters, and while he failed to defeat them, has surely turned into one. ‘Now that you’ve gazed into the abyss, Khan Ji, be ready as the abyss will soon gaze back into you,’ asks Nietzsche from his grave.