Never meet your heroes

A few years ago I went to meet Hanif Mohammad, the Little Master, the legend, he of the longest Test innings in history.

I sit in his garden, and the famous Karachi sea breeze blows and suddenly my notes start flying everywhere. So there I am, jumping around this great man's garden, desperately clutching pieces of paper only to see others fly high over the boundary wall, with me falling over, tumbling around. Hanif watches impassively, as he would. After all, he has faced Roy Gilchrist at his fiercest. What a guy.

After settling down and getting things together, I start the interview. The moment I open my mouth to ask the first question, an endless stream of sludgy liquid lands all over my notes, and a bit on my trousers too.

I look up and see a crow.

Things get better after that. Hanif is a generous raconteur, and as composed and sharp a mid-70s-year-old as you will meet. I remember looking at his hands, hardened through a lifetime of knocks, with bones moulded by blows inflicted through protective equipment that, compared to today's warrior padding, was as thin as driving gloves.

At some point lunch is put out on the garden table. Before feeding himself, he feeds the crows. One by one they perch by his side and eat roti from his hardened hands. Funny old people are the funniest people. And crows are evil.

One morning in Lahore I went to Zaman Park to spend a day with Imran Khan.

I arrive at his house and sit on a wide black leather sofa. On the other side of the large living room are two more wide black leather sofas placed in an L shape. The room is otherwise bare. Make of this what you will. I'm not saying anything.

I wait and wait as various men come in and out, talking about petrol prices and eating omelettes. All the men are of the type often termed "hangers-on". The place is teeming with them. I keep waiting and go through my notes so many times that by now I am forced to imagine all sorts of racy scenarios on the L shape. Then I hear the alpha-male, booming voice of the King Khan.

Suddenly the omelettes are tossed away and engines rev outside. I had better introduce myself before being stranded alone on the L shape, I think. I walk out to the driveway, now full of four-wheel drives, and see him. I stride confidently but in the five paces between Imran and me, I somehow lose about 20 years. By the time I am upon him to stick out a limp hand and squeak my salaams and introductions, I may as well have been a 12-year-old girl.

He smiles and says, "Get in my jeep." I sit in the back seat with two hangers-on as Imran holds forth from the front passenger seat on politics and the future, and I realise with creeping horror that I, too, for this one day, am going to be hanging on to the coat-tails of the King.

The day is to be spent driving to the satellite villages and towns of Faisalabad, where Imran tells poor people that he cares about them. For now, though, we are still in the driveway. As everyone who has attended a wedding, a funeral or just an afternoon tea in Pakistan knows, comings and goings take as long as the main event. Imran heads back in. People switch cars. I clutch my effeminate journalistic man bag. Khan slams his door and says, "Let's go."

It is a long day and Imran has not lost a breath of his stamina. He delivers speech after speech after speech - but it's the same speech. He bowls them all day - but it's the same ball. What a guy.

On another trip to Lahore I went to meet Wasim Akram in his modern house in a newer part of the city.

I wait in his TV room and see his massive selection of pirated DVDs, from old classic sandal-and-sword epics to the latest action-packed blockbuster featuring biceps and bosoms.

Finally Wasim turns up and apologises for being late. He has been at the gym, and he looks it. The man's in marvellous shape, and so tall you wonder if part of his routine is to be stretched on a rack. He is great company and looks happy and healthy. I am just about to tell him what a role model he is for young people when he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and chain-smokes through the rest of the interview. What a guy.

Recently a friend invited me and the kids to meet Shahid Afridi. I had no interest, having learned the hard way to never meet your heroes. But kids seem to love Afridi more than anyone, proving once again that despite his multiple instances of mature match-winning performances, his finely tuned bowling brain, and his wonderful work for good causes such as polio eradication, Afridi is, essentially, a cartoon character.

He now lives in a cantonment. These are places where South Asians who have earned money, fame and battle scars go to live in peace and quiet. They are usually just out of town and also usually very large. They have to be large because they often house several tanks from old wars. (It is irrelevant whether the wars were won or lost). This cantonment is not only large but also a labyrinth. I think they make it so hard to find anything for security reasons.

It takes us an hour to reach the cantonment. Once inside, we search in vain for another hour. The kids haven't been told the truth. We somehow convinced them we were going to the zoo to see a "special creature". Is it a lion? "Sometimes, especially against India." Is it a cheetah? "Apparently it was just as fast when on the hunt in its younger days." Is it a bear? "No, it keeps its body hair handsomely trimmed."

The kids by this point have given up. "Are we there yet?" has become "Zoos are cruel places, anyway, and by visiting one we give our tacit, if not active, consent to enslavement. Can we go home now?" Finally, we arrive and meet Afridi briefly. He poses for a photo with the kids before going off to pray, as he is in full Ramzan mode.

On the way back the kids are delighted and know that other kids might come back from their summer holidays saying, "We went to London and saw the Queen's house" or "We went to Thailand and had pretend-wars with pineapples as grenades while mommy read Fifty Shades of Grey and daddy went for massages", but our kids would trump them all with a simple "We shook the hand of Shahid Afridi."

Actually, the youngest kid is not happy at all. What's wrong? "I wanted to see a zoo." He was a quick learner: never meet your heroes. What a guy.