■ A LOVE LETTER TO THOSE WHO NEVER STOPPED WAITING ■
In my Aerie — the Eagle’s Nest — time never sleeps, and neither do I.
After a pleasant spell of weather, the night air hung heavy with tiny drops and the deep fragrance of freshly wet soil. It was passing beautifully, almost romantically, when a sudden voice cut through the quiet:
“Tally-hu…!”
I stepped onto the balcony.
There he stood — BāBā-Tāl, the Bell-man — in his centuries-old navy-blue robe stitched with brass bells, blue jeans and white joggers. The bells trembled softly in the wet Islamabad night.
“Tally-hu!” he said again.
I could not understand what he meant.
Not then.
Only later did the meaning arrive.
There he is!
An old exclamation of sighting — the cry one gives when someone or something long hidden suddenly appears again.
It was the joyful shout raised the moment the quarry was sighted
— a sudden, ringing declaration that meant, quite simply, “There it is!”
or “There he/she is!”
Over time, the phrase slipped free of the hunt and entered everyday language as an expression of pure recognition and delight:
the instant something long-awaited or deeply cherished finally appears.
In the spirit of that original cry, I have taken-
“ Tally-hu !”
to mean something far more tender. For me, it is the voice that rises when the beloved is suddenly, unmistakably present — the heart’s own exclamation:
“She is there!” or “He is there!”
It carries no aggression, only the bright, almost breathless joy of rediscovery after absence. It is the sound of relief, of love recognising its object across distance and time.
And perhaps no two words could have better described what happened that night.
For days, frightening speculation had been swirling around Imran Khan’s health. Rumours travelled faster than facts; anxiety deepened among those who had waited through years of imprisonment. For people who do not merely support him but adore him, the question had become painfully simple:
Is he all right?
Then suddenly—
Tally-hu!
There he is!
After more than three years in prison, Imran Khan was moved from Adiala Jail in Rawalpindi to Shifa International Hospital in Islamabad under a Supreme Court order for medical examination and treatment. The transfer was carried out under heavy security. He was subsequently returned to Adiala Jail after the examination.
But something happened between those two prison gates.
Something that cannot be measured by a medical report.
People came out.
They waited along the route.
They climbed bridges and gathered wherever they believed they might catch a glimpse of the convoy. Images and reports from the night showed supporters expressing their emotion as the convoy approached the hospital, including the showering of flowers.
And suddenly, a medical transfer became something much larger in the public imagination.
For the lovers of Imran Khan, it was a sighting.
After years in which the prison walls had hidden him from public view, they had seen him moving again.
Tally-hu!
There he is!
Dear lovers of Imran Khan—
This is my little love letter to you.
I know that you are asking a question which perhaps nobody can answer today:
Was this merely another hospital journey—or was it a sign?
Be careful with the answer.
Imran Khan has been taken for medical attention before. A hospital visit, by itself, does not announce a change of government, a change of power or a political settlement.
And yet—
Why did this particular movement feel different?
Why did it create such extraordinary anticipation?
Why did the sight of a prison convoy produce such a wave of emotion?
Why did people behave as though something larger than a medical examination was passing through the streets?
Perhaps because politics does not live only inside parliament.
Sometimes politics lives inside the hearts of millions.
A leader may be imprisoned.
A party may be divided.
A political voice may be restricted.
But if the emotional bond between a leader and his followers survives years of separation, that bond itself becomes a political fact.
And that, dear lovers, is what I think the rulers, the opposition camps and every rival group around PTI should notice.
The man may be behind the wall.
But the feeling around him is not.
That does not mean victory.
It does not mean release.
It does not mean that a change in power is already on the horizon.
But perhaps it means that the political calculations surrounding him cannot simply be dismissed.
And there is another small but interesting change in the air.
Zulfikar Bukhari, one of Khan’s close aides, has recently spoken of reconciliation rather than confrontation with the military leadership if Khan is released. Reuters described the remarks as a significant change in the rhetoric coming from PTI, while also noting that it remains uncertain whether Khan himself shares that position.
Now, that is not a political settlement.
It is not an announcement of a deal.
It is not proof that power is changing hands.
But sometimes—
Words are the first footsteps of events.
BāBā-Tāl smiled when I told him this.
His bells chimed.
“Bacha,” he whispered, “do not mistake a whisper for a verdict.”
Then he paused.
“But never ignore a whisper merely because it is soft.”
I looked toward the sleeping city.
Perhaps that is the wisdom Pakistan needs tonight.
Not certainty.
Hope.
The Qur’an says:
«“Indeed, with hardship comes ease.”
— Qur’an 94:5»
Notice the beauty of the promise.
It does not say that ease belongs only to those who never suffer.
It does not tell the believer that every difficult road ends exactly where he wishes.
It simply refuses to allow hardship to become the final word.
And the Holy Prophet Muhammad [Peace and blessings be upon him] taught us that the believer’s affair is remarkable: when good comes, he is grateful; when hardship comes, he remains patient — and both can become good for him.
— Sahih Muslim, Hadith 2999
So, dear lovers—
Remain hopeful.
But remain wise.
Do not allow anyone to sell you certainty where there is only possibility.
Do not allow rumours to become facts.
Do not allow love for a leader to become hatred for your fellow citizens.
And above all, do not allow hope for political change to become a desire for national confrontation.
If change really is coming, Pakistan will need something far greater than one faction defeating another.
It will need reconciliation.
It will need the courage to close old wounds.
It will need a politics in which yesterday’s enemies can become tomorrow’s political neighbours.
Shakespeare once wrote:
«“The miserable have no other medicine
But only hope.”»
Perhaps Pakistan’s wounded political heart needs a little of that medicine tonight.
Later, I went downstairs.
Foxy was waiting.
My mustard-coloured Volkswagen seemed almost impatient, as if she too had heard the bells from the Aerie.
I started the engine.
Islamabad was wet.
The roads were shining.
The Margalla Hills stood silently in the darkness.
And I kept thinking about that convoy.
A prisoner had left Adiala.
He had appeared in public view.
He had reached a hospital.
People had seen him.
Then he had gone back behind the prison walls.
Formally, nothing had changed.
And yet—
Something had happened.
The walls had briefly failed to hide him.
The people had seen him.
And they answered:
“Tally-hu!”
There he is!
Perhaps this is what hope looks like in a country exhausted by political uncertainty.
Not a declaration.
Not a guarantee.
Just a glimpse.
A movement.
A change in tone.
A door that has not opened—
But perhaps is no longer being pushed shut with the same force.
And somewhere in my imagination another picture appeared.
Those marble corridors of the Prime Minister’s House.
A familiar figure walking through them again.
His diary in his right hand.
The same diary with which he once walked away from that house.
Could he one day walk back?
I do not know.
Nor should anyone pretend to know.
But history has a strange habit of surprising those who believe they have already written its final page.
So, dear lovers of Imran Khan—
Wait.
Hope.
Pray.
But keep your minds awake.
Pray for his health.
Pray for his freedom if you believe it just.
But also pray for something larger:
Pray for Pakistan.
For if the political wind is truly changing, the greatest victory will not be revenge.
It will be reconciliation.
It will be the day when political disagreement no longer requires political hatred.
It will be the day when one leader’s return does not mean another man’s humiliation.
It will be the day when the winner remembers that the defeated are also Pakistanis.
Perhaps then we shall understand the deeper meaning of Tally-hu!
At first—
There he is.
There he is.
The man we feared we might not see.
Then—
There is uncertainty.
There is waiting.
There is darkness.
But—
There is hope.
BāBā-Tāl stood silently beside me on the balcony.
His brass bells moved with the night breeze.
I asked him:
“Was that what you meant?”
He smiled.
And this time he did not say Tally-hu.
He simply pointed toward the distant darkness.
Perhaps he was pointing toward Adiala.
Perhaps toward the marble corridors.
Perhaps toward tomorrow.
I could not tell.
But I smiled too.
Because sometimes hope does not need a loud announcement.
Sometimes—
It only needs two words.
TALLY-HU!
There he is.
And perhaps—
There is hope.
■□■ *POETEARS* ■□■
[coined by T. Hejazi – where tears become poetry and poetry becomes tears]
They waited in the darkness for the day,
They prayed that he would somehow find his way,
Then rose petals whispered through the night,
And hope came walking softly on its way.
■■■
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