Asif Mahmood

So the jail superintendent has graciously informed the nation of the luxuries afforded to Mr. Imran Khan behind bars. Very kind of him. But perhaps, one day, he’ll also find the time to tell us what life looks like for the other prisoners — the faceless, forgotten ones — rotting away in those same jails?

Take Rawalpindi, for instance. Twenty-seven inmates have died from heart and liver diseases. Did the superintendent issue even a single condolence, a token press release, or shed a ceremonial tear? Of course not. Sympathy, it seems, is a class privilege.

In just two years, 145 inmates across Punjab prisons have died of preventable diseases. No outrage, no inquiry. But when a prince from the political elite lands in jail, suddenly the superintendent becomes a PR officer: “We’re treating him like a groom on his wedding day.”

Will the honourable Minister of Prisons or the esteemed Superintendent ever care to tell us about the 3,499 women wasting away in our jails? Will they assure us that these women — many of them poor, abandoned, and voiceless — still have dignity left? There’s always a “special cell” available for Khan sahib, but what about the pregnant women? Why is there no separate room for them?

For political prisoners, medical teams are flown in. But who will explain how many gynecologists are available for the 3,500 incarcerated women? Spoiler: barely any.

We’re told Khan sahib has a private cell with multiple rooms. Fair. Now can the same jail authorities explain why 40 men are crammed into a room meant for ten? Adiala Jail was built for 1,900 inmates — it now holds over 5,000. Are they humans or livestock packed into a pen?

The total prison capacity in Pakistan is around 46,000. The actual number of prisoners? 84,000. And no, there’s no room to isolate even a contagious inmate among the lesser mortals. Because space is a luxury — like justice.

Let a scion of a ruling family be jailed, and a full-fledged medical unit magically appears, with doctors on standby. Meanwhile, 22 out of 32 Punjab jails don’t even have ECG machines. X-rays? Only available in four. Never mind that the Prison Act, Section 39, mandates a hospital in every jail.

More than half of our jails don’t even have fans. In 40-degree heat, prisoners survive on cross-ventilation and prayers. Amnesty International reports that inmates in 11 jails are forced to defecate in front of each other. But yes, do tell us more about B-Class comfort.

When a politician goes to jail, the place turns into a garden retreat. But when an ordinary man enters, misery wraps itself around his neck. Should we ask the Superintendent or the Interior Minister why our prison system mimics the caste divide — Brahmin and Shudra — in clear violation of Article 25 of the Constitution?

Let’s reflect: how many citizens in this country ever get to enjoy the comforts that our elite prisoners enjoy only once they’ve been convicted? And what of those whose bodies are wasting away in damp, disease-infested cells — waiting silently for death?

The Superintendent proudly stated that Khan sahib is receiving “B-Class” treatment. Fine. Then tell us: how many others in Adiala jail get this miraculous B-Class? And what exactly is B-Class? Is it a legal category or just a royal favour bestowed at the whim of the superintendent?

We hear a lot about prison manuals and rules. Maybe the Law Minister can clarify: if law truly governs the jails, why is everything — every basic right — subject to the personal discretion of a single officer?

What is B-Class, really? If all citizens are equal, why does it even exist? Separating petty criminals from hardened ones makes sense. But B-Class? Is this Orwell’s Animal Farm, where everyone is equal, but some are always more equal than others?

And who qualifies for this VIP treatment? Is there a formal eligibility list? Or is it just a nod from His Majesty the Superintendent? Professors die in chains, but businessmen, landlords, politicians — they lounge in B-Class suites. What qualifications are needed? A Swiss bank account? A sugar mill? Or just the right political patron?

The real tragedy is that as a society, we walk around with collars of servitude — each loyal to our own chosen masters. Our loyalties, our battles, our heartbreaks — all reserved for our elite. We don’t shine with our own light — we reflect theirs. We are not citizens. We are subjects. The citizen demands rights. The subject prays for the long life of His Majesty.

We don’t care if our children die from dog bites because there’s no vaccine. Or from fake medicines. All we want is for Shehzada Jahangir and Jahandar Jahanbakhsh to reign in glory.