Prime Minister Imran Khan has indeed shared his personal story of struggle and perseverance, which he attributes to the values instilled in him by his mother, Shaukat Khanum. Imran Khan grew up in a privileged family, but his parents emphasized the importance of hard work and self-reliance. His mother, in particular, played a significant role in shaping his values and character. In his speeches and interviews, Imran Khan often recounts how his mother encouraged him to pursue his passion for cricket, despite his initial failures. She instilled in him the belief that success comes from perseverance and learning from failures. Imran Khan has also spoken about how his mother's philanthropic work and dedication to social causes inspired him to become a social worker and eventually a politician. He has credited his mother with teaching him the importance of empathy, compassion, and serving others. Some specific quotes from Imran Khan about his mother's influence include: - "My mother taught me that success is not just about achieving something, but also about how you achieve it." - "She instilled in me the belief that I could overcome any obstacle if I worked hard and remained focused." - "My mother's selflessness and compassion inspired me to become a social worker and eventually a politician, to make a difference in the lives of others." Imran Khan's story is a testament to the power of parental influence and the importance of values like hard work, perseverance, and compassion.

For three nights now I have heard the gnawing at my front door. Each time, I choose to ignore this and fall back asleep. If a mouse or squirrel is seeking access, let it try. Come morning, when I open the door to inspect the wood, nothing is there. No scratches, no gnawing. When it happens a fourth night, at two a.m., I grab my 34” maple Rawlings and crack open the door. Nothing again. But as I turn back around, the old man is sitting at my computer playing backgammon, his left leg dangling over the arm of the desk chair, his bare foot bobbing while he charts his moves.“Avis?”He turns. My God, it’s him. Looking just as he did when he died last year: ancient, a monk’s pate with a hula skirt of white hair, thick black frames port-holing genteel eyes.“Where’s my bulldog.”He clears his throat to repeat, minus the rasp, my bulldog.My butt puckers. The dog is elsewhere. Given up. I retrieve a statue from a nearby shelf, a white, palm-sized replica with bovine spots parked on its haunches. Avis had it custom-made a while back. It makes a good bookend. I approach him warily. In real life—this isn’t real life, is it?—he was as frail and non-threatening as he looks now, especially down the stretch. Still, I do not know what I am dealing with here. When I hand him the replica, he cradles it to his grey spindle of a neck.“Chauncey…”“Gone.”“Dead?”“You would know.”“Where did he go?”“Is that why you’ve returned?”I regret the question the minute I release it. I don’t want to know what else he might want back. I got rid of his worldly possessions a week after he died when there was no one else to step in, cleared out his whole apartment. Grandfather clock. Mahogany bookcases. Marble this and marble that. German Lugers. His Jobims and Ellingtons. 87 business ties. 16 belts. 8 pairs of dress shoes and 13 sets of sneakers. 12 extension cords and 19 power strips. Towers of empty cottage cheese tubs. A bucket of twist ties. 18 flashlights, penlight to hazard beacon. Spent bulbs. Used dental floss picks. And on. And on.“I miss Chauncey.”The coins I kept. Pouches of them—old and rare? I haven’t checked. Was that wrong?“Are you here or not?”“Here as you.”“Not quite. You left us over a year ago.”“Have you proof? Where’s my obituary?”“I didn’t publish one. You were so old you outlived anyone who knew you.”“I can’t be dead if it’s not in the paper. When I was born, there was an announcement in the Rotogravure. Everyone knew.”“It felt like a needless extravagance. I had to put the fire sale toward your cremation and final bills from assisted living.”“My tomb then. Where did you sink me?”“I scattered your ashes from a ledge overlooking the Allegheny. The wind carried you away.”He smiles. Spiked brown teeth. Scabrous lips.“Yet here I am, all in one piece. Sure you incinerated the right guy?”/I drive west of the city toward the last county. No vehicles join me on the four-lane. It is early morning. The sky is bronze and slate. My eyes burn from the fog of dawn. I cannot blink a tear. Miles pass without another soul, without billboard, without town. My exit is the final one before the road ends abruptly a quarter mile ahead in a wall of brush and weeds. Low hills beyond. Undeveloped land feeding a charcoal horizon. At the top of the ramp the road veers right. There, just off the highway, lie simple white dwellings on both sides of the lone street, separated by tracts of tall grass in a lush, rolling field. Dozens of people stand on opposite curbs—adults and several children. Not until I drive closer do I realize they are engaged in battle. Those to my left are hurling fist-sized rocks at those to my right, who are responding in kind. Their faces show blood rage. Rocks strike their targets with startling precision. I do not hear shouting, only the dull, sickening thud of stone on flesh. Bodies crumple and writhe.The fight continues.I am between worlds, and there’s no alternate route to the blocks beyond. For no logic I can summon, crawling feels more sensible than racing. I try to close my windows, but the glass is missing all around. The windshield has vanished.Unprotected and hunched low, I cruise down the narrow street, eyes locked forward. My advance takes forever. Each second, I wait to be pelted, formy skull to shatter, for my own blood to spill.Long moments later, I’m past. Safe. I exhale and climb a small grade. I park in front of a windowless building, the only two-story structure around. Adjacent, on a squat double-terrace bisected with cement steps, sits a white shanty fronted with a roofless wooden porch. A girl of maybe twelve, with scraggly dark hair and a ratty white house dress, opens the door.“I need Chauncey back, please.”“I don’t know Chauncey.”“I sold him – gave him – to someone from this address, I’m pretty sure. Your mother?”She steps aside, clings to the knob. Inside, the ceiling is so low I must stoop an inch or two. Plaster crumbles onto my scalp.