My Mother Was Imran Khan’s Biggest Fan

I don’t know when my mother first saw him. Perhaps it was in the 80s when she would tune into the neighbour’s black-and-white television to watch cricket. Back then, televisions weren’t common in our narrow street of inner Lahore, and my father never bought one, calling it a “waste of money and morals.” But my mother loved cricket. More precisely, she loved watching him. Imran Khan.

She told me once, while making rotis on the iron tawa, that she prayed for him like a son. “He plays with such pride for Pakistan. Dekho, Allah isey izzat de ga. He is not ordinary.”

When Pakistan won the World Cup in 1992, she cried silently as she kneaded atta, tears mixing with flour dust. My father had sneered, “Cricket se roti nahi milti,” but she ignored him and whispered under her breath, “Khuda kare, is se Pakistan ko roti milay.”

Years later, when my grandmother was diagnosed with breast cancer, I saw a different side of my mother. Helplessness gnawed at her. Hospitals reeked of chemicals and death. Relatives gathered, prayed, wept, then dispersed as days stretched and money shrank. One night, sitting beside nani’s charpai, Ammi said softly, “Kaash koi hamaare liye bhi kuch kare. Gareeb ke paas ilaaj nahi hota, sirf dua hoti hai.”

A year later, Imran Khan announced the building of Shaukat Khanum Hospital. My mother’s tears returned, but this time they came with a trembling smile. “Dekha, maine kaha tha na, yeh larka aam nahi hai. Uski maa ki bimari ne isey badal diya. Ab is kaam ka phal sab ko milega.”

Every Ramzan, she would send fifty or hundred rupees in his donation drives. “Yeh paisa nahi, dua hai,” she’d tell me when I teased her. In those days, our household ran on my father’s unpredictable welding jobs. But she insisted, “Khuda nahi dekhta kitna diya, dekhta hai kis niyat se diya.”

Then came politics.

I remember her watching Imran Khan’s jalsas on a small TV my brother had finally bought. She would sit on the floor, her dupatta pulled over her head, eyes glued to the screen. “Dekho, kitna sach bolta hai,” she would say, her eyes moist and hopeful. “Mujhe yaqin hai, yeh Pakistan ko badal de ga.”

In 2013, when he lost, I saw anger in her prayers for the first time. She raised her hands after namaz and said in a choked voice, “Ya Allah, is qaum ko aqal de. In logo ko samajh nahi aati ke yeh kis ko vote de rahe hain.”

In 2018, when he finally became Prime Minister, she smiled like it was Eid morning. She made sheer khurma and distributed among neighbours. My father scoffed. “Ab dekho, kya badal leta hai. Jhootay sab hotay hain.”

But she ignored him, as always, and prayed extra that day. “Allah, isey himmat dena. Sab chor hain is ke aas paas. Bas isey sidha rakhna.”

In those early days, she would sit by the TV, her face glowing with pride whenever he addressed the nation. She would hush anyone who spoke during his speeches, almost as if the words were sacred verses. She defended every policy, every decision. “Change takes time,” she would say, stirring daal. “Sab theek ho ga.”

But time passed, and her faith began to crack like dry earth under a merciless sun. Prices rose. My younger sister’s marriage was delayed because gold rates had tripled. My father’s medicines became unaffordable. And my mother… she began to sigh more often after her prayers. One evening, as she counted coins for cooking oil, she said in a low voice, “Kya us ne jhoot bola tha? Ya us ka bas nahi chala?”

Her health deteriorated slowly, like dusk swallowing daylight. In her final days, bedridden and weak, she would still ask about him. “TV on karo… Khan sahab kya keh rahe hain aaj kal?” But now her eyes didn’t shine. They only looked tired, like she was searching for a glimpse of the man who once lifted a World Cup trophy and built a hospital from nothing but dreams.

The last time she spoke about him was a week before she passed away. I was adjusting her pillow when she whispered, “Beta, jab main chali jaoon, Imran Khan ka bura mat sochna. Us ne koshish ki… log nahi badlay.”

After her funeral, I sat alone in the courtyard, her words echoing in my chest.

Did my mother’s dream come true, or did all of our dreams remain unfulfilled?

Was he the hero she believed him to be, or just another name in the endless list of men who promised change?

I still don’t know the answer.

But every time I see his face on TV, I remember my mother’s teary smile, her whispered duas, and her faith that refused to die… even when she did.