If Jinnah had lived, his life extending into the summer and autumn of Pakistan’s seasons of growth, seen vision translated into the ordinariness of reality, while still sustaining its spirit, maybe the country would be in a different place.
—Rafia Zakaria, Dawn
Possibly it broke his heart—when Jinnah divined,
As he recognized, in half-sleep, the Angel of Death
Kneeling at the foot of his bed, softly reciting
Iqbal’s “Taranah-e-Hindi,” that neither supplication nor
Streptomycin would save him, that his second child,
The nation itself, would by nightfall become
Another orphan left forever to pine for her father,
Nursed not by his own hand, but its ineffectual shadow.