It’s a tribute to all parties’ discretion that Imran and his various companions only rarely ended up in the gossip columns. One notable exception to the rule was an Anglo-Pakistani named Homaa Khan (no relation), a GP who then worked at St Bartholomew’s hospital in London. ‘Yes, Imran is charming,’ she informed Today. ‘But if you tell me that women envy me, I can only say, what is all the fuss about? There are many more attractive men about, I would have thought.’ Perhaps not surprisingly, the relationship ended soon afterwards.
When Imran announced his retirement from international cricket there seems to have been a certain amount of doubt, at least in some people’s minds, about whether or not he meant ‘with immediate effect’. Initially, several of the Pakistan papers had taken him at his word and published full-scale Test career obituaries of the ‘miracle worker’ and ‘great helmsman’, almost as if eulogising a fallen populist statesman. Even in the hitherto tetchy Karachi media, virtues were discovered that had somehow previously failed to surface. It was obvious now that the editors of the Star took to this ‘magnificent beast’ and ‘national icon’ in a way which few had ever suspected. On the other hand, anyone who had listened carefully to Imran’s announcement would have heard him say, quite clearly, that it was only the five-day version of the game he was bowing out of. The recently retired Wasim Raja would remember being in a meeting with two senior members of the Pakistan government discussing his possible appointment to an advisory board; as the three of them talked, one of the ministers volunteered his opinion on the burning issue of the day. ‘I just can’t believe that Imran’s work is finished,’ he declared.
Nor could he. By early October, as he turned 35, Imran was back training with Pakistan in the run-up to their first tie in the Reliance World Cup, as its sponsors insisted it be known, in Hyderabad. The home side began their campaign in a possibly excessive mood of self-confidence. One much-circulated press cartoon suggested that the whole event would be a coronation for the Pakistanis. ‘It almost seemed natural and inevitable that Imran should finish his career on a winning note. Mentally, we had won the World Cup before it had started,’ Wasim Akram recalls.
Pakistan duly edged Sri Lanka in their opening match, before pulling off nail-biting wins against England and the West Indies to eventually earn a semi-final tie against the unfancied Australians. At that stage it would be fair to characterise the mood both in the team and the country as a whole as one of supreme optimism. As Wasim Akram says, ‘the match itself seemed like a formality. The Australians hadn’t even made any provision for televising the final on [the basis] their team wouldn’t be in it.’ Imran remarks that he had stayed up late in his Lahore home the night before the match trying to envisage any possible scenario in which Pakistan could conceivably lose. ‘I honestly couldn’t think of one,’ he adds.
Of course, everything went wrong. The in-form opening batsman Mudassar pulled out at the last minute with a neck injury and was replaced by Mansoor Akhtar, who scored 9. Less than half-way through the Australian innings Pakistan’s wicketkeeper Salim Yousuf took a ball to the mouth and Javed Miandad had to step in and don the gauntlets. He tried hard, but it was a major break for the visitors. The total number of leg-byes conceded in the Australian innings, 19, was one more than their final margin of victory. ‘The force just wasn’t with us that day,’ Imran would reflect. Another significant factor was the bowling of the left-arm medium-pacer Saleem Jaffer, which only rarely lived up to the inherent promise of his surname. Jaffer went for a vital 18 runs off his last over. When Pakistan came to bat, the old warhorses Imran and Javed put on 112 for the fourth wicket before Imran was caught behind on 58. ‘There’s some controversy whether umpire Dickie Bird made an error on that particular decision,’ Javed remarks. ‘I don’t think he did.’ Imran demurs. ‘I missed the ball by six inches but was given out.’
Some people left the Gaddafi Stadium with tears in their eyes, and others vented their disappointment by rioting on the streets of Lahore. A ‘disheartened’ Imran confirmed his final retirement. ‘I wanted to leave at the top, partly because I was aware that the cricket establishment was gunning for me. I didn’t want to put myself at the mercy of the selectors,’ he adds. The Lahore Crisis Clinic received over 400 calls on the day he officially announced his decision, roughly twice the usual number. Three months later there would be demonstrations outside Imran’s home calling on him to return to the game and captain the national team in the West Indies. Two fans, one in Multan, the other in rural Kashmir, went further than this and killed themselves in apparent grief at the outcome of the World Cup, which Australia went on to win. In the national furore that followed the tournament, the ever colourful Sarfraz Nawaz accused the Pakistan players of having taken money to throw the semi-final. Imran heatedly denied the charges. Undeterred, Sarfraz then named Javed Miandad as one of those who had allegedly been bought off. Javed sued, but eventually dropped the case after it had degenerated into an administrative stalemate.
Over the winter of 1987–88, a succession of government ministers and ordinary fans continued to urge Imran to come out of retirement, even if the board officials were generally conspicuous by their silence. Meanwhile, Javed once again assumed the captaincy of Pakistan. For Imran this was a period of ‘re-evaluating my priorities [after] 17 years of nonstop sport’. He had now played in 70 Tests and four World Cups. One of the early milestones of his chosen exile came when he found himself sharing a Greek holiday villa with the American-born journalist Charles Glass, who made headlines in 1987 when he was taken hostage for 62 days in Lebanon by Hezbollah, the Shi’ite Muslim group, before escaping. Glass got the impression that, even then, Imran resented Islamabad’s apparent servility to the Reagan administration, and the demands of Washington’s ‘corrosive’ foreign policy. ‘He [saw] a class of people in Pakistan merely responding to Western interests [rather] than to their own kind.’ At a dinner in London, Imran would exchange views on American imperialism with the playwright Harold Pinter and a similarly imposing line-up of other literary and academic guests. These were perhaps deeper waters than those steered by the average retired cricketer. At about the same time, Imran began to take up a variety of environmental causes, in which he was something of a celebrity pioneer. By the late 1980s he was giving his time and money to the World Development Movement and Friends of the Earth, and later publicly cut up his credit cards in protest against either the banks’ policy on Third World debt or on the rainforest, depending on which version you read. In time Imran became a spokesman for Save the Children, and as such regularly outshone even his fellow travelling ambassadors such as Peter Ustinov. Ustinov good-naturedly remarked that following ‘the cricket player’ around anywhere in India or Pakistan was ‘roughly akin to be[ing] the uncarved side of Mount Rushmore. The word “ignored” would be the key one.’
For all that, nothing motivated Imran quite as much as his ‘now burning ambition’ to build a cancer hospital in memory of his mother. It stamped for ever and changed the lives of those most directly involved — not only Imran and his immediate family, but a host of administrators, doctors, patients and those who donated their money. Back in London, Jeffrey Archer threw one of his shepherd’s pie-and-champagne Christmas parties, at which sports and film stars mingled with members of Margaret Thatcher’s cabinet. ‘Imran talked about politics,’ Archer recalls, ‘but at that time he was much more interested in [fundraising] for his hospital. It was clear that he was absolutely dedicated to achieving this before [anything] else.’ He was described elsewhere as being ‘just slightly obsessed’ by the project.
England’s winter tour of Pakistan was ill-conceived and poorly timed, coming only a week after the two teams’ mutual disappointments in the World Cup, and promptly lived down to its billing. After what had happened in the previous English summer, it perhaps didn’t take a genius to predict that certain administrative issues might arise. In the event, the acrimony began before the first ball of the first Test. England’s refusal to ente
rtain Pakistan’s objections to umpires Constant and Palmer some four months earlier now came back to haunt them. According to Wisden, ‘The [Englishmen’s] protest about the appointment of the controversial Shakeel Khan in Lahore was ignored. The tourists claimed afterwards that no fewer than nine incorrect decisions had been given in favour of Pakistan’s bowlers, while during the match their disgust and disillusion had boiled over in an extraordinary incident involving Chris Broad. Given out, caught at the wicket, by Shakeel, Broad refused to accept the decision, and almost a minute elapsed before he was at last persuaded by his partner, Graham Gooch, to depart the crease.’
Not a good start. After a relative lull in the zonal match played at the Montgomery Biscuit Factory at Sahiwal, England moved on to the second Test at Faisalabad, which proved to be one of the more acrimonious games in cricket history. The third day’s play was lost while England’s captain Mike Gatting tortuously composed an apology acceptable to the umpire Shakoor Rana, with whom he had publicly exchanged finger-prodding insults the previous evening. Compounding the problem was the elusiveness of both the BCCP president and secretary, respectively Sadfar Butt and Ijaz Butt, who were variously reported to be ‘unavailable’, ‘resting’ or ‘out to dinner’ throughout the impasse. (Imran himself was incommunicado most of the winter, shooting partridge in the Pakistani highlands.) The two Butts were eventually located, and the whole bilious tour at least continued as scheduled. A member of President Zia’s cabinet was later to remark only half-jokingly that it would perhaps be just as well for diplomatic relations if the Pakistani and English sides refrained from appealing altogether in future Tests against one another.
Despite Imran’s consistent calls for neutral umpires, and his own occasional misgivings about Shakoor Rana, it would be wrong to state that he condoned the tourists’ less than ambassadorial conduct at either Lahore or, more particularly, Faisalabad. But it’s at least arguable that, had he been playing, he would have defused the situation earlier than his recurrent stand-in Javed Miandad did. ‘When Javed was captain there was always some controversy,’ Imran recalled.
What seems beyond dispute is that the events of November and December 1987 only increased the calls for Imran’s comeback. Despite being an unlisted number, his phone at Zaman Park was ‘going crazy … People were calling literally begging him to return, threatening suicide if he didn’t,’ I was told. Distraught fans had similarly jammed the wires of the BCCP offices in Lahore. One widely quoted report stated that Lieutenant-General Butt and his board received some 80,000 letters and cards signed by a quarter of a million people. The office of the state president in Islamabad received additional thousands of letters addressing the issue of the national captaincy. They ran 150 to one in Imran’s favour. The president himself had expressed regret that his ‘esteemed friend [should] go gentle into the night’.
Still, only Imran’s opinion counted. He told me that he had been ‘earnest’ about his retirement, but added that he’d always relished the personal challenge of playing the West Indies, where Pakistan were to tour in the spring of 1988. Imran was also shrewd enough to know that his returning to captain Pakistan would give him the sort of international profile that could serve to help turn his dream of a cancer hospital into a reality. Javed himself endorses this theory, adding, ‘Our guys subsequently donated all kinds of prize money — from team awards as well as cash from man of the match awards — to the cause. On one occasion one of the players was awarded an automobile, which was also handed over to help with the hospital.’ All of which is true, including the bit about the team’s financial generosity, although it’s perhaps worth mentioning that it was Imran himself who furnished the car, which he won in Australia in February 1990.
What linked the ordinary citizens demonstrating outside Imran’s house with the highest reaches of the Pakistan government was their fanatical support of the national sport and their obvious concern for its future. In mid-January 1988, the state president hosted a dinner to celebrate the cricket team’s achievements during the past year. It was a glittering occasion, which was broadcast live on Pakistani television. After presenting each of the players and officials with a gold medal, General Zia turned to fix Imran with his shark-like grin — the terror of political opponents over the past decade — and said, ‘It is good to know when to go out gracefully. But a sportsman should also be like a soldier who is always ready to serve the country.’ The president than sat down and the camera panned on to Imran. Given the circumstances, he might be thought to have been under a fair amount of pressure when forming his reply, which was heard by an estimated audience of 30 million people. ‘I am always ready to serve the nation and the game,’ he said. It was almost as if, in another culture, Lazarus had risen from the dead, such was the immediate and nationwide effusion — although, as in the biblical tale, there were also those, among them certain members of the home board, who resented the comeback being effectively imposed on them by a higher authority.
In short order, Imran had plugged himself back in like a neon sign. He spent the next six weeks training eight hours a day, giving interviews, meeting with the board and helping put in place the groundwork for a Pakistani Cricketers Association designed to protect the players from just the sort of ‘crazy’ itinerary they faced in the West Indies. The tour itself was a mixed success. Pakistan lost the one-day international series 5–0. ‘Imran was treated lightly,’ according to one report. But they recovered sufficiently to win the first Test, at Georgetown, thus handing the West Indies their first defeat on home soil in 10 years. Bowling with an improving back strain and a worsening toe infection, Imran took seven for 80 and four for 41 in the match. ‘Two things really kept me going,’ he remarked. ‘The team depended on me so much, and my pride was hurt by [certain] fans saying I shouldn’t have come to the West Indies because I was past it.’ As Imran’s detractors should have known, such gibes only served to spur him on. When Pakistan’s manager suggested that the team might be more enthusiastic if they spent more time on the beach, Imran responded by doubling the regimen from one to two practice sessions a day. On duty he was a ‘joyless, single-minded leader’, a player recalled approvingly; one who ‘expected you to live up to his own high standards’.
Now carrying a leg injury, Imran took another nine wickets in the Trinidad Test, bowling medium-paced inswingers. But for some overly patriotic umpiring, he might have improved his tally to 12 or 13. Other than that, the gripping moments came on the final day when Qadir, the No. 11, survived the last five balls from Richards to preserve Pakistan’s lead in the series — a role-reversal case of a batsman bowling to a bowler. The West Indies narrowly won the last Test at Bridgetown, in the course of which a frustrated Qadir threw a punch at a heckler in the crowd, an assault for which he later received a court summons, before the charges were eventually dismissed. At one stage on the final morning, Richards came down the wicket to block Imran with an extravagant gesture, at which point the bowler stood in mid-pitch and announced, ‘You really love yourself, don’t you?’ ‘Yeah,’ said Richards, ‘I learnt it from watching you.’ A combative series finished 1–1. At a time when the best most touring teams to the West Indies could hope for was to lose with dignity, it was a rare achievement — and a personal triumph for Pakistan’s now middle-aged captain, who took 23 wickets at 18 apiece in the three Tests.
A large and appreciative crowd was on hand at the airport to welcome home Pakistan’s cricketers in late April. In a departure from previous practice, a party from the BCCP was reportedly waiting with a local government delegation to greet Imran personally. He duly descended first from the team plane — impassive, grave and distantly preoccupied in the midst of all the delirious excitement around him. He exchanged salutes and handshakes of congratulation with the officials and, as rapidly as he could move, which wasn’t very fast, passed through mobs of cheering well-wishers and on to a brightly decorated bus. A chorus of screaming bystanders, hooters, klaxons and an intermittent blast of distant rifle fi
re accompanied the players throughout their short journey to the formal civic reception, outside which onlookers in the tens of thousands had gathered with their green-and-white flags and banners. ‘Imran’s [return] had been anticipated as keenly as an Eleventh Commandment or a book tour by J.D. Salinger,’ one British newspaper stringer wrote. ‘He did not disappoint.’ The possibly inapt comparison apart, it seems fair to say that Imran’s comeback had capped off a collective triumph. As he said, ‘By drawing the series in the Caribbean and beating both England and India on their home grounds, Pakistan were now considered the best team in the world together with the West Indies.’ But his reputation cut rather deeper than that of merely a successful cricket captain. Essentially, Imran provided a sort of sports-assisted therapy for a nation still struggling to fully accommodate itself to General Zia’s move from a secular form of government to a religious one. Nor was his fame restricted to a domestic audience. According to the Associated Press, when dignitaries from other Commonwealth countries visited Pakistan for the first time, they typically ‘asked to see the Khyber Pass and Imran Khan’, though, as the correspondent was quick to add, ‘not invariably in that order’.
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