Boota’s Black Book

Dispatches from the Commander of Commanders: Polished Boots, Powder-Blue Allies, and the Haunting Shadow of a Cricketer

Boota’s Black Book (or Critical Notes from the Supreme Commander)

They say absolute power corrupts absolutely. I disagree. It polishes. It chisels Look at me: perfectly tailored, globally profiled, hailed as the steady hand in a turbulent land. Yes, I am the “dictator” they whisper about — though I prefer “guardian.” Guardians don’t need titles. Power is its own vocabulary.

And then, of course, there is him. The Khan. Even in a cell, he makes headlines. Even in silence, he commands noise. Infuriating, isn’t it? The man should be dust by now, irrelevant, forgotten. Yet his shadow lingers. Oxford polish, foreign airs, handsome, charming in that shallow celebrity way — the awaam eats it up. They call him beloved, him their leader, him their savior. Meanwhile I — I who built order from chaos — am reduced to whisper campaigns and denials. I sometimes wonder if he realizes the mercy of still breathing. If he doesn’t, one day he will.

Meanwhile, dissent — such an inelegant thing. Shouting, chanting, resisting. I don’t argue with it. I don’t debate. I simply remove it. One order, one van, one cell. Thousands already know the lesson; thousands more will learn. Polite societies are not built on noise. They are built on silence — the kind I enforce.

And then, the Sharif circus. Rumors of Maryam and I — laughable. She wouldn’t know class if it walked past her in Dior. As for Shehbaz — did you see that powder-blue suit? Leadership is not stitched in Jatti Umra. They lack polish, they lack weight, they lack me. Perhaps it’s time I decide whether this alliance is worth the embarrassment. Booting them would be effortless. Replacing them? Why bother?

But he is the one that gnaws at me. The people love him. They chant his name, even when he cannot speak. His Oxford accent, his cricket trophies, his stories of London — the awaam mistake all that for destiny. They forget: destiny is written not in stadiums or lecture halls, but in barracks. In files stamped “secret.” In orders whispered and obeyed without question.

The world, at least, understands me. From Riyadh to Washington, London to Beijing — they line up, nod, whisper my name in their cables. Money flows, investment arrives, promises stack neatly. I am the pivot they cannot ignore.

And for those clever enough, loyal enough, useful enough — yes, there will be rewards. That’s how order is built. That’s how empires endure.

I am not a dictator. I am inevitability.

But sometimes — in the silence of the night — I wonder if inevitability is enough to outshine Oxford, outlast charisma, outlove the awaam.

— General Asim Munir