The Age of Consumerism              …

God had bestowed a vast and expansive empire upon Tsar Nicholas II. He was the King of Russia. He had only one son, who was born with a disease called hemophilia. This is a disease due to which the body’s ability to clot blood decreases; even a small wound causes excessive bleeding, placing the patient’s life in severe danger. The child was treated, but there was no improvement. One day, the famous Russian occultist Rasputin reached the child and performed some specific practices; astonishingly, the child recovered. Empress Alexandra was deeply impressed by this act and accepted Rasputin as her spiritual guide (Peer). The Empress not only provided him residence in the royal palace but also began taking his advice on state affairs. Rasputin was an extremely clever man. Through his words and practices, he captivated the royal family. When the First World War began in 1914, Russia suffered significant losses. Nicholas II left to take command of the army, because of which Empress Alexandra’s reliance on Rasputin increased further, and Rasputin also began taking an interest in political affairs. Gradually, he bound the King and the royal family within the spell of his words, and now he began interfering fully in the affairs of the country. Government ministers were unhappy with Rasputin’s immense popularity but were forced to accept his decisions. However, the public openly began criticizing the royal family because Rasputin was considered a corrupt person. This process continued in this manner. He would get his favored people appointed to important positions, because of which corruption reached its peak in the country; finally, the vessel of the public’s patience overflowed, and in 1917, protests began against the government. The royal family was still a follower of Rasputin, the result of which turned out to be very horrific. Public wrath intensified, Tsar Nicholas II was assassinated, and his regime was overthrown. The central character of this exemplary story was Rasputin, who, by conquering the minds of the royal family, made them make decisions as a result of which the world’s largest empire was destroyed. When an individual becomes so influenced by someone’s words or by a captivating sight that they forget everything and get lost in it, and their logical mind stops working, this state is called the “Alpha State.” In this condition, brain waves move at a specific speed and focus the individual’s attention on a single point. Taking advantage of this very state, certain short-sighted individuals fill the minds of innocent people with negative thoughts and incite them toward destruction. Rasputin’s example is the negative side of the “Alpha State”; however, it also has a positive side, which, if we learn to use, can yield astonishing results. There are five states of the mind, which in mind sciences are called Beta, Alpha, Theta, Delta, Gamma. Beta is the state of waking, in which we perform daily tasks. Alpha is the state of drowsiness and physical and mental relaxation. Theta is the state of sleep. Delta is the state of deep sleep, while Gamma is the state of extreme focus. In the Gamma state, a human can perform mental activities in a full-fledged manner. The Alpha State is the name of the intermediate condition between wakefulness and sleep (drowsiness). It acts as a bridge between the conscious and subconscious state. In this state, the brain’s alpha waves are between 8 to 12 Hertz. After reaching the Alpha State, a human’s brain and body become synchronized, the brain accepts things quickly, and the individual can organize their thoughts and memories in a better way. The “Alpha State” is a state of peace. When we were in the mother’s womb, even then we were in the “Alpha State.” There, all our needs were met, and we were free from all kinds of worries. The world’s greatest creation occurs in the “Alpha State.” Look at music. Behind other creations, there is some preparation or another, whereas music is something behind which there is nothing; a thought suddenly comes to the musician’s mind, and from it, a melody begins to form. This work also occurs in the Alpha State. Communication becomes very easy in the Alpha State. If you want to see an excellent example of this, look at the relationship between a mother and child. Sometimes the child is many miles away from the mother, but even without any contact, the mother senses their pain. In daily life, we pass through this condition many times. For instance, while watching a movie, we get completely lost in a scene; sometimes while reading a novel, we begin to consider ourselves a character of that very novel and become oblivious to our surroundings. Sometimes the words of a sweet-tongued speaker mesmerize us. Sometimes a beautiful sight captures us in its spell. It is said that a snake and flowing water also hypnotize humans. All these conditions are of the “Alpha State,” and whatever message enters the brain in this state becomes a part of our personality. Our brain keeps running all the time. It runs our senses. For example, if the eyes close, the brain becomes alert. To assess the situation, it instructs the ears to strengthen the process of hearing and assess what is happening. If the ears also close, it increases the capacity of smell, taste, and touch. In short, until it is satisfied that there is no danger, it does not become peaceful. Remaining alert all the time is not good for psychological and mental health; therefore, it is necessary for a human to go into the Alpha State for some time and make their brain peaceful. In today’s writing, we will try to clarify to what extent we can achieve the best results from the correct use of the “Alpha State.” First of all, it is necessary to understand how we can enter the “Alpha State” voluntarily. The easy way to enter the Alpha State is meditation. Sit in a comfortable place and take deep breaths. Focus your attention

Pakistan has just taken on a new kind of commitment, and it has caught people’s attention in a way that ordinary diplomatic announcements rarely do. Pakistan’s ties with Saudi Arabia go back decades, and its defence relationship with Türkiye has grown steadily closer in recent years, so cooperation between the three is not surprising on its own. What is new is the nature of the commitment: an attack on any one of the three countries is now to be treated as an attack on all three.   This is not really about whether Pakistan should be working with Saudi Arabia and Türkiye. It is about whether Islamabad has entered this arrangement with a clear enough sense of what it wants from it, and what obligations it may quietly be creating for the future.   It also helps to get the timeline right. This is not Pakistan’s first mutual-defence commitment with Saudi Arabia. Back in September 2025, the two countries had already signed a Strategic Mutual Defense Agreement, treating aggression against either as aggression against both. What is new in 2026 is the attempt to bring Pakistan, Saudi Arabia and Türkiye together inside one shared framework. Seen that way, this is less a first step and more a new layer added to a relationship that was already forming. An Alliance at a Complicated Moment The agreement comes at a difficult time. Pakistan sits right next to Iran and has a tense relationship with India, while both Saudi Arabia and Türkiye maintain strong economic ties with New Delhi. At the same time, Islamabad has to keep managing working relationships with Iran, China, the United States and its Gulf partners. Any defence commitment, then, has to be understood against several relationships that do not always move in the same direction.   Pakistan is also not entering this alliance from a position of comfort. The country is dealing with economic, security and political pressures all at once, along with instability on its Afghan border and a delicate Iran border to manage. That is a lot to balance already, which is exactly why the practical details of this new commitment matter more than the ceremony around its announcement. What Has Pakistan Actually Committed To? The basic idea is simple: an attack on one member is treated as an attack on all. But what does that actually mean in practice? What would genuinely trigger the commitment, and what military support would Pakistan be expected to give—or receive? And what happens if the three countries find themselves with different interests in the same crisis?   Pakistan’s own Foreign Ministry offered some sense of this in July 2026, saying that agreements of this kind mostly involve peacetime military cooperation, and that in an actual war, how far the commitment would go still needs to be worked out. If anything, that statement makes the case for more clarity, not less.   That uncertainty matters most in two situations close to home. If Pakistan faced another serious confrontation with India, would Saudi Arabia and Türkiye offer real support, given their own important ties to New Delhi? And if tensions with Iran escalated, would Pakistan be expected to take a position that could strain its relationship with its neighbour? Even the growing water dispute with India, one of Pakistan’s most basic security concerns, has not been publicly linked to any shared plan among the three partners. These questions remain open.   There is also a quieter concern worth sitting with. Saudi Arabia brings financial strength to the table, Türkiye brings a growing defence industry, and Pakistan brings manpower, real operational experience and nuclear deterrence. If these strengths are genuinely shared, all three countries could benefit. But if the load falls unevenly, with Pakistan carrying most of the manpower while its own position in a future India crisis stays unclear, the costs could end up outweighing the gains.   History offers a useful reminder here. In his 1983 book Can Pakistan Survive? The Death of a State, Tariq Ali examined Pakistan’s political system, its foreign policy, and the powerful role the military has long played within the state. The circumstances today are very different, but his broader question still feels relevant: can Pakistan turn its usefulness to other powers into lasting strength of its own?   Something else stood out alongside the agreement itself: the mood surrounding it. Governments naturally welcome diplomatic wins, but a defence pact carrying possible wartime obligations is a different kind of agreement than a trade deal. With so many practical details still unclear, the celebratory tone raises a fair question: is this a carefully thought-through long-term strategy, or mostly the excitement of the moment? Commitments this serious deserve a clear explanation before they deserve applause.   Pakistan must also make sure its growing ties with Saudi Arabia and Türkiye stay compatible with its long-standing relationship with China, and with the working relations it still needs with Iran and the United States. Strategic Relevance Is Not Strategic Autonomy Pakistan is becoming more important to other countries. Its military strength, its geography, its nuclear deterrence, and its relationships across very different global camps all give Islamabad real value in the eyes of others. But being useful to other countries is not the same as having a clear strategy of your own.   Strategic autonomy simply means that Pakistan knows what it wants and makes sure its partnerships actually serve that. It means asking not only what Saudi Arabia, Türkiye, China or the United States want from Pakistan, but what Pakistan wants from each of them in return. A country can be militarily valuable, geographically important and courted by several powers, and still have no defined national strategy behind it. That difference sits at the heart of this entire discussion.   Washington’s fairly quiet response also deserves attention. There is no evidence that the United States is deliberately setting a trap for Pakistan. But Islamabad should still think carefully about whether a closer Saudi-Pakistani security relationship could, over time,

Educational debates in Pakistan usually begin with schools and end with universities. Somewhere in between lies a vast public college network that has quietly undergone a transformation without receiving the reforms necessary to sustain it. For decades, colleges were viewed merely as institutions imparting Intermediate education. That perception is now obsolete. Government colleges across Pakistan award four-year BS degrees, supervise undergraduate research, implement semester systems, and produce graduates completing sixteen years of education. They have become institutions of higher education in every meaningful sense except in the standards by which they recruit, promote and evaluate their faculty. The real crisis begins not when institutions disappear but when they continue to exist while quietly abandoning the purpose they were meant to serve. Pakistan’s college education system increasingly reflects this uncomfortable reality. Buildings stand, classrooms remain occupied, salaries are paid and degrees continue to be awarded, yet the intellectual purpose that ought to define higher education is steadily weakening. The system continues to function, but it no longer asks whether it is producing scholars, researchers and critical thinkers or merely issuing degrees. This contradiction is not merely administrative. It is national. Countries do not build knowledge economies simply by increasing enrolment or opening new campuses. They do so by ensuring that those entrusted with educating the next generation possess the intellectual depth, scholarly discipline and professional integrity demanded by higher education. Pakistan has expanded the responsibilities of its colleges without fundamentally reforming the standards governing those who teach in them. It is this mismatch between expanding responsibilities and stagnant reforms that explains much of the present crisis. History offers repeated warnings against confusing continuity with progress. Great civilisations have seldom been defeated by ignorance alone; far more often, they have been weakened by their refusal to reform. Ancient Troy believed its mighty walls guaranteed safety until destruction entered concealed within the famous wooden horse. Institutions, too, often collapse not because external forces overwhelm them but because internal weaknesses become too familiar to recognise. Pakistan’s colleges face a similar danger. The greatest threat is not inadequate infrastructure or declining enrolment. It is the quiet normalisation of standards that no longer correspond with the responsibilities these institutions now carry. Perhaps nowhere is this more evident than in faculty recruitment. Every education system is ultimately only as strong as the people it appoints to teach. Laboratories, libraries and curricula matter, but they cannot compensate for weak academic recruitment. A nation’s classrooms reflect the intellectual standards it establishes at the point of entry into the profession. Countries that consistently perform well in higher education understand this principle with remarkable clarity. Finland recruits teachers from among its highest-performing graduates and treats teaching as one of the country’s most competitive professions. Singapore invests heavily in teacher selection, structured professional development and continuous evaluation throughout an educator’s career. South Korea subjects aspiring academics to rigorous competition, while Germany closely links academic progression with scholarly achievement and research productivity. These countries differ in culture, politics and economic history, yet they share one conviction that higher education depends first and foremost upon the quality of its faculty. Pakistan, regrettably, often operates on a different assumption. Recruitment is frequently treated as the culmination of academic achievement rather than its beginning. A lecturer appointed with only a sixteen years education may spend an entire career within the same system without acquiring higher qualifications or contributing substantially to research, yet still retire after holding senior academic positions carrying the titles of Associate Professor or Professor. Such a framework might have appeared understandable when colleges were primarily institutions for Intermediate education. It becomes increasingly indefensible once those same institutions award undergraduate degrees equivalent to those offered by universities. Academic titles should signify scholarly accomplishment rather than the mere passage of time. Across the world, the designation of Professor represents sustained intellectual contribution, recognised research, advanced qualifications and academic leadership. When promotion depends overwhelmingly upon seniority rather than scholarship, titles gradually lose their meaning. The loss is not symbolic alone. It diminishes public confidence in higher education itself. This is not an argument against experience. Experience remains indispensable in teaching. A seasoned educator often possesses insights that no newly qualified academic can immediately acquire. Classrooms are enriched by years of interaction with students, evolving pedagogical techniques and practical wisdom accumulated over decades. Experience, however, should complement scholarship, not replace it. Knowledge no longer remains static for an entire career. Disciplines evolve at astonishing speed. Artificial Intelligence is reshaping linguistics, medicine, engineering, law and the humanities alike. Climate science has transformed environmental studies. Digital humanities have altered literary scholarship. Advances in neuroscience continue redefining educational psychology. A qualification earned thirty years ago, valuable though it remains, cannot alone certify mastery over fields that have changed beyond recognition. Medicine provides an obvious comparison. No patient would willingly place complete trust in a surgeon who had never updated professional knowledge after graduation. Engineers continually adapt to changing technologies and safety standards. Judges engage with evolving constitutional interpretation. Military officers undergo regular professional education throughout their service. Every serious profession recognises that learning is continuous. Higher education cannot become the sole profession where intellectual growth effectively ends with appointment. The irony is that Pakistan’s college sector contains thousands of exceptionally capable teachers who have voluntarily pursued MPhil and PhD degrees despite limited institutional incentives. Many complete advanced research while balancing heavy teaching schedules, administrative responsibilities and family obligations. Their commitment deserves recognition because it reflects a genuine desire to improve professionally rather than merely fulfil formal requirements. Yet the existing structure frequently sends the opposite message. Promotion often rewards waiting more consistently than learning. When advanced qualifications receive insufficient institutional value, the incentive to pursue rigorous scholarship inevitably weakens. No education system can flourish if intellectual ambition appears optional while seniority remains sufficient. The anomaly becomes even more striking when one examines the present hierarchy within many public colleges. It is no longer uncommon to find an MPhil-qualified lecturer or even a PhD serving under an officer whose highest

“Nato is a giant military alliance where there are 32 countries. We have started here as three countries and we have to take very humble but concrete steps”—Makkah defence pact technically same as Nato’s Article 5: Turkish minister, The News, August 9, 2026 The above words of Turkish Foreign Minister Hakan Fidan deserve careful attention. Speaking after the Makkah Joint Defence Agreement between Türkiye, Pakistan and Saudi Arabia, he went considerably further than the diplomatic language normally accompanying defence cooperation. He described the arrangement as technically the same as NATO’s Article 5 principle of collective defence. More importantly, Fidan disclosed something about its intended institutional evolution. A ministerial committee resembling NATO’s structure is to be created, a permanent secretariat will be established in Saudi Arabia, and President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan does not envisage an organisation permanently confined to its three founding members. Egypt is already being mentioned as a possible entrant. The question we raised immediately after Makkah has therefore acquired greater urgency: are we witnessing the embryonic formation of an Islamic NATO? The answer requires more caution than either celebration or alarm. The Makkah agreement is unquestionably important. Saudi Arabia combines enormous financial and energy resources with a pivotal position in the Arab and Islamic worlds. Türkiye possesses NATO’s second-largest military, an increasingly sophisticated defence-industrial base and strategic access linking Europe, the Black Sea, the Mediterranean and the Middle East. Pakistan is a nuclear-armed state located at the intersection of South Asia, China, Central Asia, Iran and the Arabian Sea. Taken together, the three constitute an unusual coalition of middle powers. Their convergence is also occurring at a moment when the regional order constructed around American predominance is under extraordinary strain. The latest Middle Eastern war has again demonstrated that overwhelming military capability can destroy infrastructure and degrade adversaries without necessarily producing political order. Michael Fuchs recently argued in Foreign Affairs that the United States should finally relinquish its attempt to dominate the Middle East militarily. The proposition is important, but it raises a larger question. If American primacy recedes, what replaces it? International relations offers no reason to assume that withdrawal by a dominant external power automatically produces regional peace. It can produce strategic autonomy. It can equally produce competitive balancing, arms races and struggles among regional powers seeking to fill the resulting space. Makkah Defence Agreement represents both an opportunity and a danger. The opportunity is the emergence of indigenous collective security. For much of the modern history of the Middle East, regional states have depended upon external powers for protection while simultaneously fearing abandonment by those same protectors. Britain once performed this role in the Gulf. The United States subsequently constructed a much larger military architecture based upon bases, arms supplies, bilateral guarantees and partnerships. Dependence created security, but never complete strategic autonomy. Saudi Arabia’s search for alternatives must be understood against this background. Türkiye has followed another path: remaining inside NATO while steadily expanding its capacity for independent action. Pakistan maintains a strategic partnership with China without severing its relationships with Washington, Riyadh or Ankara. These are not states simply changing camps. They are practising what contemporary scholarship increasingly describes as hybrid or non-exclusive alignment: cultivating overlapping relationships rather than accepting the rigid binaries of Cold War alliance politics. This makes Fidan’s second assertion as important as his comparison with Article 5. He insists that Makkah is not directed against Iran or any other country. That principle must survive implementation. An alliance requires deterrence; it does not necessarily require a permanent enemy. If the emerging arrangement becomes an anti-Iran coalition, it will institutionalise one of the Muslim world’s most dangerous fault lines. Iran is not a temporary presence in the Gulf. It is a major civilisation and regional power whose geography cannot be altered by sanctions, regime change strategies or military pressure. Pakistan has particular reason to understand this. Iran is its neighbour. Internal sectarian peace, Balochistan, border security, Afghanistan and regional connectivity all make a permanently hostile Pakistan-Iran relationship strategically irrational. Nor should Makkah become simply the Muslim military response to Israel. The Palestinian question cannot be removed from regional security, as proponents of the Abraham Accords sometimes appeared to assume. Normalisation and economic integration cannot indefinitely substitute for a political settlement guaranteeing Palestinian rights and viable statehood. At the same time, transforming the region into two permanent military camps would hardly produce the peace Palestinians themselves require. The better possibility is, thus, not an Islamic NATO in the literal sense. NATO emerged from the particular conditions of post-war Europe and bipolar confrontation with the Soviet Union. The Muslim world is geographically dispersed, politically heterogeneous and internally divided. Its states have very different relations with Washington, Beijing, Moscow, Tehran and Tel Aviv. Türkiye itself demonstrates the difficulty of imposing a binary model: it would simultaneously belong to NATO and to the emerging Makkah Accord. That apparent contradiction may actually tell us something important about the international order now taking shape. The twenty-first century may be characterised less by fixed blocs than by overlapping arrangements through which middle powers seek room for manoeuvre between larger powers. This is also where geoeconomics becomes indispensable. Saudi finance and energy, Türkiye’s manufacturing and defence technology and Pakistan’s geography, human resources and access towards China, Central Asia and the Arabian Sea could create something considerably more important than another military organisation. Egypt’s eventual participation would add the Suez Canal, the Arab world’s largest population and another major military power. A security structure built around such capabilities could eventually support trade, energy corridors, defence production, technological cooperation, food security and infrastructure connectivity. Without this economic foundation, an Islamic NATO would remain largely an exercise in military coordination. China will watch these developments closely. Beijing requires Gulf energy, values Iran, has deep interests in Pakistan and maintains substantial economic relations across the Middle East. It is unlikely to wish to inherit America’s expensive role as regional military hegemon. A regional arrangement capable of providing stability without forcing states into an

(When the water rises, who shows up and who is left waiting?) ‎I live in Sabzazar, a neighborhood in Lahore, Pakistan, but part of my heart is always sitting along the banks of the Moxahala Creek back home in Southeast Ohio. When the water rises in Muskingum County or the Punjab plains, who shows up, and who is left waiting? I live in Sabzazar, a neighborhood in Lahore, Pakistan, but part of my heart is always sitting along the banks of the Moxahala Creek back home in Southeast Ohio. ‎ ‎My mother and brother still live right near South Zanesville, just a stone’s throw from Crooksville. When heavy rains hit Perry and Muskingum counties, I don’t need to be there to know what it looks like. I can picture the heavy, chocolate-brown water backing up into the low spots, the damp chill that settles into a basement, the fears of what if the waters reach a house trailer, and that specific, exhausting smell of river mud that takes weeks to scrub out of porch boards and carpet. The worries of if the home has structural damage.. Halfway across the world in Pakistan, the landscape couldn’t look more different. But when monsoon season swells the rivers across the Punjab, the view from the ground is hauntingly identical. ‎ ‎Standing in a flooded doorway feels the same whether you are in Ohio or Lahore. The quiet shock is the same. The ruin of things you worked years to buy is the same. And the very first instinct is to grab your coat, shovel, a chainsaw and a pair of boots and go check on the elderly woman next door.. Start hauling wet furniture, debris to the curb and giving comfort, food and basics to those in need is entirely universal. Watching both worlds at once makes you look at governance differently. It strips away abstract political jargon and leaves you asking one fundamental question: When a community is hit with a crisis, does its system build capable people who can act, or does it leave them sitting on their hands, waiting for permission to survive? ‎ ‎What a Small Ohio Village Taught Me About Governance ‎ ‎Growing up around South Zanesville and Crooksville, you learn pretty early that small-town life relies on a very specific kind of quiet, distributed agency. ‎Crooksville isn’t a rich town. It’s a hard-working Appalachian village of under 1,500 people. But when the creek overflows, nobody sits around waiting for a press conference out of Washington, D.C., or a mandate from the state capital in Columbus. ‎ ‎The response moves in waves because the connections are already wired: ‎On the local levels we see neighbor checks on neighbor. The volunteer fire department turns on the sirens, pulls out the high-water gear, and starts the door to door knocks. At the County level we have the Perry County 911 dispatch and Emergency Management Agency (EMA) start tracking water levels and routing equipment where it’s needed most. At the State level, If the county gets overwhelmed, pre set legal triggers immediately call in the Ohio EMA or the National Guard. ‎ ‎Government here doesn’t replace the community’s instinct to help itself; it validates it, organizes it, and backs it up with real resources. The system trusts the people on the ground to know their own roads. Here in Pakistan, the human spirit is just as generous, if not more so. The impulse toward hospitality, neighborly charity, and mutual support runs incredibly deep. When disaster strikes, ordinary citizens open their wallets and their homes without a second thought. It’s just what they do… ‎ ‎And Pakistan’s has one of the world’s top class military engineering, a massive national disaster agency (the NDMA), and incredible private charities. The raw capacity is immense. Yet, too often, there is a however a very heartbreaking disconnect between that high-level power and the family standing in ankle deep water in a local neighborhood. An ordinary citizen here once described the country to me using a metaphor I’ve never forgotten: a child that was never allowed to stand on its own feet. An infant isn’t helpless because it lacks potential. It’s helpless because it hasn’t been given the space to build muscle, fall over, adjust its balance, and try again. If an authority figure picks the child up every single time it tries to pull itself up, the child never learns to walk—not from a lack of ability, but because the environment denied it the chance to build strength. ‎ ‎That is how systemic learned dependency takes root: Central authorities assume total control, bypassing local municipal councils. Neighborhoods are given no real budget or authority to fix their own drainage or organize local response teams. And when a flood comes, citizens have no choice but to wait for distant, top-down relief. The authorities look at the waiting crowd and say, “See? The people can’t manage without us.” ‎We witness power centralized even further, deepening the exact helplessness it claims to fix. Over generations, people adapt to the system they are given. If a system rewards waiting for a political patron, people learn to wait for patrons. If it rewards local initiative, communities build habits of self-reliance. It is very easy to blame culture or public apathy for civic passivity, but that misses the point entirely. Culture simply reflects the structural incentives people are given to survive and adapt. It is nature vs nurture and we have a break down when these two things fail to promote a cohesiveness and inclusion of what is a community and what that actually means. ‎ ‎Across the globe, the relationship between state control and citizen participation varies wildly, proving that central authority does not have to mean public powerlessness. In China, a deeply centralized state framework actively structures and expects local neighborhood committees and civil volunteer groups to manage community-level crises. Across much of Europe, comprehensive state safety nets exist alongside highly empowered municipal councils and professionalized local volunteer forces.

There are many ways to confuse a nation. You can give contradictory statements, hold three press conferences saying three different things, or announce that everything is perfectly normal while the entire country is wondering why nothing looks normal. Or, if you are particularly creative, you can take a Supreme Court order directing a prisoner to one hospital and take him to another. Welcome to Pakistan, where even a hospital transfer can become a constitutional thriller. The Supreme Court ordered that Imran Khan, the incarcerated former prime minister, be shifted from Adiala Jail to Shifa International Hospital for medical examination and treatment. The order was specific about the medical arrangements, including a multidisciplinary medical board and the involvement of his personal physician and his sister, Dr Uzma. The Court also emphasised the State’s obligation to safeguard the life, health, dignity and security of a person in custody and directed compliance with its order in letter and spirit. One might reasonably assume that the next scene would be rather straightforward. The ambulance would arrive, the prisoner would leave the jail, the ambulance would reach Shifa, doctors would examine the patient, the court order would be fulfilled, and the nation would go home. But this is Pakistan. Here, apparently, even an ambulance needs constitutional interpretation. Instead of Shifa International, Imran Khan was taken to PIMS. The government says the change was made because of security considerations and insists that he was examined by specialists, including doctors associated with Shifa. After a brief medical examination, he was returned to Adiala Jail. And suddenly the nation was presented with a fascinating new concept in constitutional law: the destination may be different, but apparently the spirit is the same. Imagine ordering a prisoner to be taken to Lahore and the authorities taking him to Peshawar, then announcing, “Don’t worry. Both cities have hospitals.” This is not disobedience, apparently. This is administrative creativity. The Supreme Court says Shifa. The government says PIMS. The nation says, “Excuse me, did we miss a constitutional amendment?” The government’s explanation is security. Of course, security is a serious matter. Nobody sensible would argue otherwise. A former prime minister with millions of supporters cannot simply be moved around without adequate security arrangements. But there is a small constitutional inconvenience here: the Supreme Court itself had already directed the government to make adequate security arrangements for Khan’s stay at Shifa. So the obvious question is, if security was the problem, why was the solution not presented to the very court that had issued the order? Why not go back and say, “Your Lordships, we have a security problem. Kindly permit PIMS instead.” That would have been boring. And boring, apparently, is not Pakistan’s preferred method of governance. Instead, the country got a plot twist. The government challenged the Supreme Court’s direction, while its review petition reportedly faced procedural objections. Then Khan was taken to PIMS instead of the hospital specifically named in the Court’s order. It is almost as if the Constitution was handed a boarding pass for Shifa and somehow ended up at PIMS. Perhaps the poor Constitution missed its flight. Then came the most remarkable part. The government said Imran Khan was medically fit after the examination and returned him to jail. Wonderful. A man whose health concerns had prompted the Supreme Court to intervene was taken for a medical examination, declared fit and returned to prison within hours. What a remarkably efficient healthcare system Pakistan has suddenly discovered. You enter as a prisoner, you are examined by specialists, you are declared fit, and you leave. No waiting room, no follow-up appointment, no parking problem , just straight back to jail. If only the rest of Pakistan’s healthcare system worked at this speed. Of course, satire aside, the matter is not funny. That is precisely why it is funny. Because beneath the absurdity lies a very serious constitutional question. The Supreme Court did not merely say, “Take Imran Khan somewhere and let a doctor look at him.” It laid down specific arrangements concerning the hospital, the medical board, the involvement of his personal physician and his sister, and the treatment of a person in state custody. The Court recognised that imprisonment does not extinguish a prisoner’s entitlement to humane treatment and necessary medical care. So when a government changes the practical implementation of a specific judicial direction, the public is entitled to ask whether this is compliance or reinterpretation. And there is a very thin line between the two. A government that disagrees with a judicial order has legal remedies. It can appeal. It can seek review. It can request modification. It can explain security concerns. What it should not casually establish is a new constitutional principle, “Yes, Your Lordships, we received your order. We have made some adjustments.” Because once that principle becomes normal, it will not remain confined to Imran Khan. Today it is a former prime minister. Tomorrow it could be an opposition leader. The day after tomorrow, it could be an ordinary citizen. And then someone will discover that the court ordered one thing, but the administration considered another thing more convenient. That is where the real danger begins. The issue, therefore, is bigger than Imran Khan. It is bigger than PTI. It is even bigger than the government of the day. It concerns whether judicial orders are binding instructions or merely suggestions sent to the executive branch for consideration. Because if a court says “Shifa” and the executive says “PIMS,” the citizen naturally wonders, who actually decides? The judges? The administration? The security establishment? Or whoever has the microphone that afternoon? There is another uncomfortable question. Does Imran Khan’s life matter to the state? The official answer is obviously yes. The government says he is receiving medical care, has been examined repeatedly and is being treated according to the rules applicable to prisoners. It has rejected allegations of medical neglect and mistreatment, then why Imran khan stated many times to his sister Dr Uzma Khan