The Evening I Dined With Qadir and Warne

It started, as these occasions invariably do, with a phone call.

“Fancy meeting Qadir and Warne over dinner?” asked Usman Sherazi, the sports editor of The Frontier Post.

I responded with incredulous alacrity: “What? Where? When?”

“The team hotel,” Sherazi said. “Be there in forty-five minutes.”

The team hotel was situated squarely halfway between the Post’s office and the newspaper I worked for, The News, the English daily broadsheet published by the Jang Group. I had just filed my report for the final day’s play of the third Test in Lahore between Pakistan and Australia with the sports desk.

With the 1994-95 three-Test series having wound to a close, the Australians were scheduled to fly to Karachi later that night, and onward to Australia a few hours later. 

So I rushed to my 1965 Volkswagen, prayed that it would start before inserting the key into the ignition and zoomed off to the hotel once the engine did, miraculously sputter into life!

Sherazi had told me to meet him in the hotel’s coffee shop. When I walked in, I spotted the entire Australian contingent immediately. Those were different times, of course, so the tourists did not have layers of security around them as they chatted to each other while other hotel guests sat nearby or walked right past them without any bother.

I heard my name being called and looked around to see Sherazi already seated at a table with the great Abdul Qadir.

The legendary, recently retired Pakistani leg-spinner had not turned forty by then and looked a very fit 39. He had known me since I was a little boy because he knew my father well and his face lit up when he spotted me. He gestured to me to come over, ruffled my hair and made me sit next to him.

“I hope you brought your autograph book because you’re just going to get a wonderful surprise,” he joked, unaware that I already knew what was up. 

Then, he excused himself for a moment, disappeared from view and reappeared a few minutes later with Shane Warne.

I took a few moments to drink the sight in. 

In front of me were two of the best exponents of leg-spin that ever played the game. Qadir, of course, had retired after a glittering career, bamboozling the best batsmen in the world with his magical variety. 

Warne’s career then was less than three years old but he had already made his mark on the game. He would retire in 2007 as a true legend with 708 Test wickets and 293 in one-day internationals but, in 1994, he was already one of the most feared spinners in world cricket.

It might have all started for him with that first Test wicket in England during the 1993 Ashes.

I was in the press box at Old Trafford that day in June when Warne was finally brought on to bowl by captain Allan Border. About to turn 21 and already a full-fledged cricket journalist, I was passionately in love with the game and was making notes so I distinctly remember that it was the 27^th over of the England innings when Border threw the ball to Warne.

England were 69 for 1 with Mike Gatting having joined skipper Graham Gooch a few minutes earlier after Michael Atherton fell to Merv Hughes. In the press box, some Australian journalists bantered with each other while the English journalists concentrated seriously on what was happening in the middle.

When it happened, everyone was stunned into silence. Warne’s first delivery in Tests in England had sealed his legacy as it sailed through the air on a trajectory that would have made it bounce on about a middle-stump line, changed direction halfway down the pitch, drifted outside leg-stump, pitched well outside leg and spun across the face of Gatting’s bat to hit off-stump.

Every single journalist in that press box scrambled towards the two TV sets that had been mounted on brackets placed high up on either side of the very large room. 

“What just happened?” someone muttered, as replays ran over and over again.

At the hotel in Lahore, I silently asked myself the same question. 

What just happened, I thought, as Qadir and Warne shared a joke – the one who, over the past decade and a bit had revived the art of leg-spin bowling on the international stage and the other who already appeared to be taking it to the next level.

Contrary to the image portrayed in the press at that time – that of a brash, arrogant showman with little regard for authority – Warne was polite and respectful, listening patiently to Qadir’s stream of anecdotes and sharing a few of his own. When a couple of young boys sauntered over and asked for his autograph, he obliged immediately, asking for their names and writing personalized messages on the disposable napkins they had presented to him.

He couldn’t stay away from his teammates for too long, he told Qadir at length, because they had to congregate in the hotel lobby soon in preparation for their departure to the airport. Qadir said he understood and reached for a bag he had brought with him.

“These contain the shirts I wore for some of the ODI tournaments we won in the 1980s,” he informed Warne. “I want you to have them.”

Warne was touched and thanked Qadir warmly. The two hugged before Warne left to join the rest of his team and Qadir winked at me.

“Well, young man,” he said. “Was that an experience or what?”

I agreed that it was.

Over the next decade and a half, as I drifted away from writing on cricket, like millions of others, I continued to remain entranced by Warne’s exploits on the field and his reported shenanigans off it. 

When he retired in early 2007 at the age of 38, having helped Australia inflict a 5-0 drubbing to England and helping his side win back the Ashes, the cricketing world sighed in sadness.

He had just become the first man to reach 700 Test wickets and had been a vital part of one of the best Test sides ever. Surely, all of us thought, he could play on for a few more years.

But Warne had decided it was time to move on. And, so he did.

Nearly three decades after that memorable meeting with him, the news about his sudden death at 52 hit me like a sledgehammer. And it happened in another newsroom.

“Shane Warne is dead?” a colleague asked from across the room.

“What?” I croaked, as I scrambled to Google “Shane Warne”.

It was true. I was devastated, much like countless others were.

And, as I type these lines, I’m reminded of what he said to me during that dinner with him and Qadir.

“You look a bit young to be a cricket writer, Mate,” he said. “Good on ya! I’ll keep an eye out for your articles.”

Rest in peace, Mate. You don’t know how much your words meant to me.

What next after Kohli?

The Indian captain’s shock announcement places Indian cricket in a dilemma

Although it might seem sudden, Virat Kohli’s decision to step down from the Test captaincy had probably been brewing for some time. The events of the past few months provided plenty of evidence to that effect but few could have predicted it would happen so dramatically, coming a day after India lost a Test match and series that most had thought they would win.

So what happens next for Team India? More crucially, what happens to Kohli? When discord, of the sort that surfaced in the shambolic handling of his apparently forced removal from the ODI captaincy, takes hold in a sports team’s environment, the ramifications of that disharmony tend to linger on, creating more problems in unity and team spirit.

A plain-speaking individual, Kohli is not the sort to be trifled with. As one of the greatest cricketers ever to step into the international arena, he should not be taken lightly. As the most successful Indian Test captain in history, his stature and status as a legend is guaranteed. As a batsman, and for what he has brought to the game, he has no peer.

In the statement he put out on social media, the last two sentences are telling. “I have always believed in giving my 120 percent in everything I do, and if I can’t do that, I know it’s not the right thing to do,” he writes. “I have absolute clarity in my heart and I cannot be dishonest to my team.”

It is fairly obvious that the disconnect between Kohli and the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) has extended into the team management too. That is unfortunate because Rahul Dravid, the batting great and current head coach, saw, first-hand in the mid-2000s, how a lack of harmony between the board, selectors, head coach and captain leads to a complete breakdown in team spirit. 

He should remember it well. Dravid was the one who replaced the unfortunate Sourav Ganguly, now BCCI president, when then head coach, Greg Chappell, keen on trying to create a new coach-captain dynamic after the successes his predecessor, John Wright, achieved with Ganguly, had the left-hander removed from the captaincy.

Like Wright and Ganguly, Kohli and Ravi Shastri, whom Dravid succeeded as head coach recently, forged a successful partnership and created a new direction and momentum for the Indian team, resulting in the many successes of the past few years that have seen India become a truly formidable force across formats. Unfortunately, just as with Chappell and Ganguly, which became an ugly saga resulting in Ganguly eventually being dropped from the team, it would appear that history is being repeated. At least, thus far.

Also unfortunate, at least in the subcontinent, is the coach-captain dynamic creating issues in team management. It would appear to be a recurring pattern in India: in 2017, then head coach, Anil Kumble, one of the greatest leg-spinners of all time, resigned from his post soon after India’s loss to Pakistan in the Champions Trophy final. Kumble’s was a difficult tenure, marred by his turbulent relationship with Kohli.

Matters had come to a head between the two when Kumble launched into a very public admonishment of Kohli at The Oval, minutes after India’s loss, witnessed by everyone present, including some Pakistani players. A month later, Shastri was appointed head coach, resulting, over the next four years, in a very successful run across formats for India. 

But, now, Shastri is gone, Dravid has brought his own style of management to the table and it is fairly obvious that there has been an increasing difference of opinion between the two. Kohli’s determination and justified belief in himself is mostly misconstrued as arrogance by some and his forthright manner probably ruffles feathers – when it really shouldn’t.

So what next for Team India? Rohit Sharma, the designated vice-captain for the South Africa Test tour, is already the T20I and ODI captain. Currently recovering from injury, he should be the logical choice to succeed Kohli with, by all accounts, K.L. Rahul likely to be appointed as his deputy. The only sticking point in choosing Sharma could be his age – he turns 35 in April – and his fitness. 

Meanwhile, Virat Kohli will return to what he does best: bat! A pragmatist, he may look back on his captaincy tenure without any regrets – no surprise, considering his considerable achievements in the high-pressure role – but the fact that he couldn’t lead his team to ICC world titles will probably rankle him a bit.Finally, whatever the reasons for his decision, freed from the responsibility and the additional pressure that comes with the job of being the Indian captain, could the cricketing world hope to see Kohli return to his free-flowing batting ways of years past? Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

Captain Courageous

Why the cricketing world needs – and benefits from – Virat Kohli 

Much has been made of Virat Kohli’s century drought over the past two years. Too much, in fact. Because the Indian captain has not been out of form. He has just been out of luck.

Critics – and there are many – point to the fact that his last Test century came in November, 2019 and his last one-day international ton was scored in August that same year. They argue that his inability, in the intervening time, to convert reasonably solid starts and promising scores into substantial, three-figure contributions points to his batting talent being on the wane; that, somehow, the best of Kohli is behind him.

They couldn’t be more wrong. Kohli is hungry for runs right now. And, as befits a sportsman of his caliber, primed for what is to come. And that is plenty of runs. Both in Tests and ODIs. 

Yesterday’s measured innings could point to what the future holds. Kohli was in command throughout his stay at the crease and the way he batted illustrated the vast gulf between him and the rest of the Indian batting lineup. On a pitch that tried to test his ability and against a bowling attack that constantly asked stern questions, the Indian captain dropped anchor and asked questions of his own. 

A batsman out of form doesn’t last very long, especially against quality bowling. Kohli is not out of form. Just out of luck as his dismissal, after four and a half hours of batting during which he faced over two hundred balls, showed when a regulation edge went straight to hand. On another day, when fortune might have taken a more benevolent view of him, the edge could have gone to ground, or bisected the slips and the keeper. Or he might have not edged it at all.

His critics also argue that Kohli’s rivals, on the Test stage, for the title of best batsman in the world, have been more productive in the time that the Indian captain has not managed to reach three figures even once. Joe Root had a spectacular 2021, Kane Williamson is consistency personified and Steve Smith keeps churning out runs at will. 

Yet what is construed as a lean patch for Kohli is only seen as such because of his consistency over the past decade since his debut. The Indian public – and the rest of the world – have become so used to seeing Kohli score well and score big that his recent contributions, such as the 79 yesterday – which, in the context of this match, could well be the equivalent of a 150 – are diminished by caustic views that state: “Oh, but he didn’t get a century. Again!”

It must be understood, in case it isn’t evident to all already, that Kohli is more than just a star batsman and skipper – he is the heart and soul of this Indian team, one that has developed a winning habit overseas, one that refuses to back down and one that has bench-strength which equals that of the all-conquering Australian teams of the late 1990s and 2000s.

This hasn’t happened overnight. When M.S. Dhoni, Captain Cool to Kohli’s Captain Courageous, handed the Test reins over at the end of 2014, the cricketing world saw a perceptible shift in the way the Indian team approached Test cricket. They had built solid momentum in ODIs and T20s under Dhoni, winning three major ICC tournaments, but their progress in Tests had been of the stop-and-start variety.

Kohli changed that gradually. While he is, by all accounts, a complete gentleman off the field, he is as fierce a competitor on it, causing some conservative pundits a little consternation with his aggression that, at least in the first few years of his international career, seemed to some to be slightly unbridled.

And he has built this Indian team, the one he leads with such pride, in his own image. They recognize their own talents, respect their opponents’ abilities but ask for no quarter and certainly don’t give any. They compete fiercely but, given Kohli’s assiduous approach to match preparation, also smartly.

Now, under his leadership, the Indian Test side is a force to be reckoned with, no matter where they play in the world. They have developed, as stated earlier, a winning habit and, when a cricket team steps on to a field believing they can win, they usually do.Meanwhile, Kohli, who just turned 33 last month, is primed for some runs now. His innings yesterday showed glimpses of what is about to come – not least when he unfurled off-drives so attractive that they need to be preserved on picture postcards. One of the fittest sportsmen on the planet, he has at least half a decade more and several thousand runs to gift to the game he loves so much. And the cricketing world will be all the richer for it. 

A Giant Among Us

Remembering Tariq Bin Zafar Al-Hussaini, who passed away because of a sudden heart-attack in Lahore on December 3, 2021

The news hit me like a sledgehammer. 

I had called Dr. Tariq Cheema – my brother, my mentor – on Friday evening, to discuss an idea I had for a professional collaboration. He sounded, strangely for him, a little brusque as I began to speak. 

“Can we talk later tonight?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” I replied. “Is everything all right?”

“No,” he said. “Tariq Sahib passed away because of a heart-attack this afternoon.”

I lapsed into a stunned silence. 

How could this be possible?

For Mr. Al-Hussaini – he, of the gentle disposition and steely determination – embodied life itself. At the age of 69, with a lifetime of globally acclaimed achievements under his belt, he had shown no signs of relaxing the pace at which he lived – and, indeed, inspired others to do the same. Over just the past month and a bit, his business ventures had taken him from Saudi Arabia to Canada, then to Bahrain and Pakistan and onwards to Turkey, before returning to Saudi Arabia and, eventually, on what would turn out to be his fateful last visit, to Pakistan.

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I first met Mr. Al-Hussaini in the spring of 2018 at a seminar organized by his company. Dr. Cheema, who had known him for years, provided an introduction and, after a brief telephone conversation, Mr. Al-Hussaini invited me to the seminar, which was being held at a hotel in Bahrain – where I have been based for the past few years.

As an English-language writer-editor, I wanted to discuss the possibility of collaborating with Mr. Al-Hussaini on a couple of ventures. As we spoke, Mr. Al-Hussaini was warm, polite and generous with his interest in what I had to say. It was obvious that I was interacting with a gentleman of the highest class and intellect.

But, for various reasons, our planned collaboration kept on being postponed until the summer of 2020, when he called me from Saudi Arabia to ask if I could edit a set of company documents. I readily agreed and, for the next month, we worked together – albeit long-distance – on more than one set of such documents.

After that assignment ended, Mr. Al-Hussaini continued to stay in touch, mostly – and this will provide us with an insight into the goodness of his heart – to inquire about how my editorial company was faring at the height of the COVID-19 crisis. The short answer was: not too well, like many other small businesses around the world.

At the end of July this year, as I contemplated wrapping up my enterprise, Mr. Al-Hussaini called me out of the blue. I have an idea for a project we can do together, he said, and asked if I could meet him that afternoon.

I was free so, an hour later, I drove to his apartment building where – and this, again, illustrates what a complete gentleman he was – I spotted him standing outside the building, waiting for me.

For the next hour, as we sat in his tastefully decorated apartment, he explained what he had in mind. He wanted to set up a digital marketing company and wondered if I would be interested in heading it. I was, indeed, I told him. Pleased that I was agreeable to his offer, he told me that I would start working with him on the project from the beginning of August – just a couple of days later.

And start it, we did – exchanging thoughts and ideas via emails and phone-calls. Mr. Al-Hussaini, as befitted a world-class engineer and entrepreneur, possessed a keen, incisive mind and, as our interactions progressed, I understood that he did not ask questions merely for the sake of appearances: his analytical mind demanded that all angles be covered, all possibilities taken into account and every potential drawback carefully examined.

Since – and this is a key point about him – Mr. Al-Hussaini was a natural leader, one who led by example; someone who respected each individual’s strength and abilities and encouraged people to try their best, instead of summarily ordering them to, it is no wonder that he managed to build one of the best certification companies in the world. And as we worked to try and bring our project to fruition, I realized that I had a front-row seat to witness a true master of his craft bringing all his experience to bear and creating the kind of professional magic he had done for decades.

Sadly, our last phone conversation happened in mid-November – all our other exchanges since were via email and texts. But that conversation was a happy one. Mr. Al-Hussaini proudly informed me that a prestigious Saudi Arabian university had appointed him to its board of directors and asked me – in his words – to “create some magic by rewriting his resume”.

Of course, it was an honour for me to do so and, of course, I did it immediately. Once I had emailed the document, he called me again to thank me – even though he didn’t have to. But I’m glad we had that conversation because that is how I shall always remember his voice: he was happy and we laughed about a few completely inconsequential things.

I think it is important to reproduce, below, what I wrote for Mr. Al-Hussaini in that profile. It shall allow you, a reader who never had the privilege to meet this marvelously accomplished gentleman, some insight into why he was a giant among us.

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Mr. Al-Hussaini, the Chairman of Resource Inspections Canada Incorporated (RICI) Company Limited, had no peer when it came to his list of achievements over a career that spanned more than four decades.

Armed with degrees in Mechanical Engineering, Industrial Psychology and Business Management, Mr. Al-Hussaini created a business organization that straddles continents and benefits entire countries; that covers the gamut from the oil and gas industry to finance; and from Information Technology and engineering to risk management.

Mr. Al-Hussaini’s profound understanding of the legislative processes in different countries enabled him to provide crucial inputs to strategic governance efforts, wherever required. His consummate appraisals of the efficacy of different-sized organizations, allied to his constant quest for integrity and sustainable progress, have enabled RICI to become a world-leader in its field.

Possessed of a keen, analytical mind, Mr. Al-Hussaini laid high stock on integrity and ethics, and the ability to meet a challenge head-on. His excellent communication, and strong diplomatic, skills allowed him to be at ease in any environment and his role in mentoring a new, international generation of professionals has been widely acknowledged across the board.

This is only possible because, over the course of his stellar career, Mr. Al-Hussaini displayed the highest level of professionalism and expertise – a fact widely acknowledged and praised by his peers across borders. He worked on projects as varied as overseeing the construction of shipping berths at Karachi Port and managing the construction of the main process unit at the National Refinery Project, also in Karachi, to overseeing the planning and procurement process for the King Khalid Military City Project in Hafar Al-Batin; and, as the project manager at the O&M Community Project, supervised the construction of an operation and maintenance community for the Royal Saudi Navy.

The projects, requiring intense focus and generating hands-on experience, were made possible by Mr. Al-Hussaini’s attention to every minute detail and, as he worked on even bigger and even more prestigious projects over the next few decades, his reputation, as the consummate professional for the ages in his field, preceded him. In recent years – first, as the Deputy Managing Director of Al-Husseini ADA and then, in his capacity as Chairman, Board of Directors, of RICI Company Limited – he managed teams, numbering many personnel, spread across continents, and working on multi-million dollar projects, as a mentor and teacher which is the hallmark of a true, inspirational leader.

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After having literally changed the world through his professional endeavours and his kind, generous, giving personality, Mr. Al-Hussaini is now, finally, at peace. He has left behind a family, friends, peers and colleagues heartbroken with grief but, also, united in their love, respect and admiration for a man whose legacy will live on forever.

The Day I Met The Great Dilip Kumar In Lahore, 1991

The great Indian actor passed away on July 7, at the age of 98. Here is a very personal memory of how I met him, over thirty years ago.

Beena Sarwar, the Features Editor at The Frontier Post, looked at me with mock-exasperation when I strolled into the Features Section, a full hour late.

“Now that you have decided to grace us with your presence,” she said, “please note that I have a major assignment for you.”

I was a month into my job as a teenaged feature writer and perked up at the sound of “major assignment”. 

The Shaukat Khanum Memorial Trust (SKMT), the legendary cricketer and now Pakistani Prime Minister Imran Khan’s homage to his late mother, was holding a ground-breaking ceremony that afternoon for the cancer hospital Khan was building in memory of his mother, who had succumbed to cancer a few years previously. I was told. I was to cover that.

“And, wait,” Beena said, as I grabbed my notepad and made for the door. “I want you to try and get an interview with Dilip Kumar. He’ll be there too.”

I stopped in my tracks. The legendary Indian actor – born Yusuf Khan – was in Lahore?

“Indeed,” Beena said, allowing a smile to replace the stern look she had fixed on her face. “Good luck!”

So, off I went; notepad in hand, pen clipped to my lapel, trusty dictaphone in my pocket. I would go one better and surprise Beena, I thought to myself. I would interview both Dilip Kumar and Imran Khan!

The Shaukat Khanum Memorial Cancer Hospital and Research Centre in Lahore would eventually be completed in 1994 in what had become, by then, a bustling new colony, far removed from the city centre where the Post’s office was. On that day in April, 1991, as I drove down Queen’s Road and then on to Ferozepur Road, I mulled over the questions I thought I should ask the great man.

How should I begin, I asked myself? Before that, how would I get an audience with the actor? How much time would I have?

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It’s a long way to Jauhar Town, where the Shaukat Khanum Hospital is situated, from where The Frontier Post’s office used to be located, on Queen’s Road. That gave me enough time to remember all the Dilip Kumar films I had seen, thanks to my cinephile parents.

As children of the 1970s, my sisters and I (along with our many cousins), had grown up listening to Indian film music from the early 1940s to that point in time. Tape recorders had become commonplace and my parents had stocked up on every Indian film’s music that they had heard, mostly on radio, in the ‘50s and ‘60s. Also, until 1965, when a short war broke out between Pakistan and India, Indian films had played regularly at cinemas across Pakistan – the war resulted in a ban on Indian films that lasted until the early 2000s, when then president, Pervez Musharraf, decreed that it could be lifted.

By the late 1970s, the VCR had made a dramatic entry into Pakistani society. My parents bought their first VCR in 1980 and our house was gradually transformed into a video library over the next few years; my mother stocking up on every classic Indian film (from the ‘40s, ‘50s, ‘60s and ‘70s; continuing with films from the ‘80s) that she liked and my father doing the same with Hollywood films.

Both were huge fans of Dilip Kumar, Raj Kapoor and Dev Anand, the three Indian actors who defined the course that Indian cinema was to take over the next few decades. So, it was only natural that my sisters and I were treated to a cinematic education, through our teenage years, which encapsulated the many fine performances by these three huge stars.

One film that had stuck in my mind was Jugnu, the 1945 melodrama, starring Dilip Kumar and the wonderful Nur Jehan. Directed by Jehan’s then husband, Shaukat Hussain Rizvi, the film struck a chord with me, I suppose, because the famous Pakistani actor/singer was a larger-than-life presence in the 1980s; and to see her and Kumar together, as young actors, in pre-partition India, was a novel experience.

But, as a young boy, the Dilip Kumar film that I liked the most was Mehboob Khan’s Aan; the 1952 film which was the first Indian movie to be shot in colour. Shortly before I watched Aan for the first time, I had seen Errol Flynn in The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938) and loved the swashbuckling, debonair depiction of the titular character. Kumar, in Aan, embodied the same quality; the film had exceptional production values and, of course, it starred the absolutely lovely Nadira.

On the drive to Jauhar Town, I decided I would start my line of questioning (if I got the chance) with a query about Aan, the physicality of the role Kumar played and the fact that it was so different from all the other film roles he became famous for.

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But, then, I asked myself, how could I not ask him about Mughal-e-Azam (1960), K. Asif’s magnum opus about Prince Saleem and Anarkali and the Mughal Emperor, Akbar, which reportedly took over a dozen years to complete, was shot in black-and-white with only a single song (a mini-movie in itself) shot in colour?

And what about Mela (1948)? Or Shabnam (1949)? Or Babul (1950)? Or Deedar (1951), Sangdil (1952), Footpath (1953), Amar (1954), Devdas (1955), Naya Daur (1957), Madhumati (1958), Kohinoor (1960), Gunga Jumna (1961) ….?

The list was endless, I realized, as I got stuck in traffic. I was yet to scroll – in my mind – through the films Kumar did through the 1960s and there were already too many questions about his cinematic journey over the preceding five decades!

Better to concentrate on the reason for his presence in Lahore on that day, I told myself. 

And that was the foundation-stone laying ceremony of the hospital. Kumar had graciously accepted Imran Khan’s invitation to come for the event, because it would help with fundraising efforts. The Shaukat Khanum Cancer Hospital, you should remember, is probably the only such medical institution in the world that has been built solely on the back of donations from around the world.

By 1991, Imran Khan’s status as one of the greatest ever cricketers in the history of the game was beyond any doubt. Over the past decade, he had transformed the Pakistan cricket team into a world-beating side. But, in early 1985, he suffered a personal tragedy when his beloved mother (he was her only son) passed away because of cancer.

In the years that followed, even as he led the Pakistan team to incredible victories in Test and ODI cricket, he started the quest to build a hospital, named after his mother, because he had realized, during the difficult years of his mother’s illness, that cancer treatment in Pakistan was unconscionably below par, compared to the rest of the world.

Fundraising efforts started in earnest in 1989. In 1990, Punjab Chief Minister, Nawaz Sharif, allocated a large tract of land in Jauhar Town to the SKMT, so that Khan’s dream of the hospital could become a reality. 

But before Dilip Kumar came to Lahore to provide a fillip to fundraising efforts, four other famous Indian actors had already visited Pakistan. In the winter of 1989, Vinod Khanna, Kabir Bedi, Rekha and Sonu Walia were invited by Khan to Lahore for a fundraising concert staged at the newly constructed Alhamra Cultural Complex, next to the Gaddafi Stadium.

That was it, I thought to myself. I would focus on the hospital and fundraising efforts and seek Kumar’s point-of-view on the enormity of the task that Khan had single-handedly taken on – and, even at that early stage, seemed likely to accomplish.

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In April 1991, Mian Nawaz Sharif was now the Pakistani Prime Minister. He had also, apparently, taken a keen personal interest in Khan’s drive for the hospital, hence his decision as the head of the Punjab government to gift government land for the hospital. 

The two also knew each other – Sharif was (still probably is) an avid cricket fan and, in fact, during the West Indies’ eventful tour of Pakistan in 1986, he even opened the innings for a Chief Minister’s XI exhibition game against the touring side at the Gaddafi Stadium. West Indian captain, the great Viv Richards, wisely decided to open the bowling with his spinners, one of whom – the strapping, 6’6” off-spinner, Roger Harper – might well have passed for a medium-pacer, because of the pace and bounce he generated. (I saw that match live from the stands, by the way.)

At the ground-breaking ceremony, the prime minister addressed a sizeable crowd, gathered underneath specially requisitioned marquees (“shamianas” in the vernacular, because the actual marquees were still some years away from becoming the norm in Pakistan). From my vantage point in a specially cordoned-off area for journalists near the main stage, where Kumar, Khan and other dignitaries/celebrities were sitting, I could see the actor listening intently to Sharif.

Soon, it was Kumar’s turn to take the dais. The crowd tittered audibly as he approached the microphone, then fell completely silent as he began to speak. 

Anyone who has ever seen even one short scene of a Dilip Kumar film, in which the actor takes centre-stage, will always remember the way he spoke: his every sentence, a treasure; his every pause, measured; and a certain rhythm to his words.

The audience that day sat, spellbound, as Kumar extolled the virtues of the cancer hospital project and lavished praise on Imran Khan. Thirty years on, I obviously don’t remember the exact words (although a video I saw this week appears to be from that ceremony) but I do remember thinking: “This man is speaking extempore; he doesn’t appear to have rehearsed what he is saying but every word he utters has true meaning to it.”

So, this was what it must have felt like to film crews that had worked with the great actor over the past few decades? That feeling of awe; of wonder; of complete admiration, to see a master of his craft demonstrate his virtuosity, time and time again? 

****

The issue, now, in my mind was not whether I was going to ask Kumar any questions – it was simply how to approach him.

Since the prime minister was there, along with the Punjab Governer and other government officials, security was very tight. Even though I was only a few feet away from the stage, there was no way I could convince any security official to let me through. Security protocols just would not permit that, even though I had a press card.

Luck smiled on me in the form of a familiar, booming voice. My father – a famous journalist – was one of the invitees on stage, and he had just spotted me. 

Soon, I found myself ushered on to the stage. Kumar had finished speaking a few minutes earlier and my father – who had met him on several occasions in India, on his travels to that country over the past five years – led me over to where the actor stood. 

“This is my only son,” my father said, proudly. “And, like his mother and the rest of us, he’s also a huge fan!”

The moment had come. It was my cue to speak.

Then, suddenly, some overzealous member of the PM’s security detail, having spotted me – long-haired, jeans-clad, an incongruous sight amongst the formally-dressed attendees – from a distance at the back, ran over and yanked my arm to pull me away from the assemblage.

Kumar reacted instantly, even before my father had a chance to intervene. He grabbed my arm, put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close to him in a hug. “This young man is with me,” he told the official in Urdu. The man backed off and the actor released me from his protective embrace, patted me on the back and said, eyes twinkling (in English): “That was a close call!”

One of the PM’s aides came up then to inform Kumar that it was time to leave. He shook my hand again, ruffled my hair and, before I knew it, had been escorted away. 

So, that was that. No interview, no chat, not even a syllable from me because of what had happened. But, the legendary Dilip Kumar, the actor I had grown up watching and – I realize now – idolizing, had just given me a hug! That would beat just writing a feature about him any day!

****

One of the most inconsequential debates that has existed in the context of Indian cinema has been the superfluous argument about who was a better actor: Dilip Kumar or Raj Kapoor. 

It has absolutely no merit, whatsoever. Both were brilliant thespians and both, along with the charismatic Dev Anand, have imprinted Indian cinema with their own, inimitable legacies. 

But, if you would like to decide for yourself, just watch Andaz (1949), Mehboob Khan’s fantastic film, in which both Kumar and Kapoor vie for a young Nargis’ affections. Andaz was a film so far ahead of its time, both in terms of the story it told and the technical finesse on display that it is no wonder that, more than 70 years on, it makes for absolutely gripping viewing.

Kumar and Kapoor were, of course, close friends, having grown up in the same neighbourhood in what is now the Pakistani city of Peshawar. Yet their respective entries into the film industry in the 1940s couldn’t be more different: Kapoor had the benefit of being the son of an acclaimed theatre (and, latterly, film) personality while Kumar had to adopt the alias by which he became famous because he knew his very strict father disapproved of his choice of career.

Still, if one would still like to seek a definitive response to the question that probably plays on every true Indian film fan’s mind, here’s what the late Rishi Kapoor had to say a few years ago.

In 2017, Rishi Kapoor, the famous actor-son of the great Raj Kapoor, was promoting his autobiography called “Khullam Khulla”; the title being a play both on a popular Urdu phrase meaning “openly; without fear” and a hit song from a film he headlined in the 1970s. As part of his world tour for the book, he came to Bahrain for a talk to an invites-only audience.

I happened to be based in Bahrain from earlier that year and managed to garner an invite. 

The event was held at a plush hotel and, when Kapoor, his wife, Neetu Singh, and the moderator finally appeared on stage, a massive cheer went up. Over the next hour and a half, Kapoor regaled the audience with anecdotes and behind-the-scenes trivia from some of his most popular films from the seventies and eighties.

One of the questions that was asked of him in the Q&A that followed was, inevitably, who he thought was the better actor: his father or Dilip Kumar.

Kapoor didn’t even have to think about what he wanted to say.

“The only answer I can provide to that question,” he said, “is this exchange between my father and Dilip Sahib, after Gunga Jumna was released. When my father saw that film, he was so moved by it that he called Dilip Sahib up and said, ‘After seeing your performance, I have no doubt in my mind which of us is the better actor. It is obvious that you are!’ ”

For Whom The Drum Beats

But it shall beat for him no more.

Because Farhad Humayun left us yesterday; left us heartbroken, left us grieving and left us asking: “Why him? Why so soon?”

He was only 42 – a tall, broad-shouldered, exceedingly good-looking man. Through his musical gifts, and the power of his good-natured personality, he had the world at his feet. Now, the world is empty without him.

He made a name for himself through music, through his virtuosity on the drums, through his passion project: Pakistan’s first fusion-percussion band. To the world, he was Farhad Humayun, the multi-instrumentalist musician par excellence; a skilled audio engineer with his own recording studio and a man with a sharp business brain.

But to those of us who knew him, he was simply “Fadi”; polite, courteous, caring; a man with a dry wit; one who chose his words carefully and made each one count when he spoke – just like the precision with which he played the drums.

I first met him when he was a little boy of about twelve. I had been deputed, as a teenaged feature writer for The Frontier Post’s Feature Section, to interview his elder sister, Rima. She was a young architecture student and my editor, Beena Sarwar, felt that she was a perfect fit for a series of profiles that the paper was carrying on young achievers.

Fadi answered the door when I rang the bell. “You’re the journalist who’s going to interview my sister,” he asked, incredulously. His surprise was understandable – I was eighteen and looked about fifteen. 

He kept me company until Rima arrived, peppering me with questions about journalism and affording me a level of sagacity that I obviously didn’t deserve then. The conversation became more animated when I mentioned cricket – Fadi was a cricket enthusiast and, suddenly, when he learned that I was already writing on cricket, I understood that he had given me a silent seal of approval. 

My family knew his family before either of us were born. My father and one of his maternal uncles were contemporaries; also, Fadi’s father was very good friends with my father. Lahore was a small city when they were growing up and everyone, basically, knew everyone else. 

But Fadi’s mum and her brothers weren’t just “everyone”. They were the children of the hugely respected Justice S.A. Rahman, who became the Chief Justice of Pakistan. I grew up listening to anecdotes about them; so many, in fact, that by the time I met Auntie Nivi (Fadi’s mum), I felt like I’d known her all my life.

That was also for an interview in 1990. Like her son, a few months earlier, Auntie Nivi was a little astonished to see how young I was but, like the consummate professional she was, hid her surprise as she answered my questions with a poker face. 

Fadi and I had also connected, in our first brief encounter, because of our school. He was studying at Aitchison College, from where I had just graduated, and for the next few years, as I ran into Auntie Nivi at various art events and theatre productions, she would tell me, with great pride, about his accomplishments at school and his promise as a painter.

I had no idea about his prowess as a drummer until 1995, when my dear friend, Babar (who is also not with us any more), took me to a jam with his band, The Trip. Fadi was about seventeen at the time and played in a band called Mind Riot and all these young musicians from different bands would get together every once in a while. They called themselves “underground bands” because they were rock bands, emulating the hard rock and heavy metal variety of famous international musical acts.

Fadi had already grown to his full height by then, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Babar, who was six feet tall. To my surprise this time, he remembered me and spent the evening dissecting the performance of the Pakistan cricket team. 

We continued to meet sporadically at their music meets. Soon, I realized that Fadi, despite being one of the youngest members of that group of talented musicians, was considered a veritable star by his peers. His musical ability extended beyond just playing the drums – he was an accomplished guitarist as well and, as the world would eventually find out in a few years time, an incredibly versatile vocalist.

We fell out of touch when Babar was taken from us in 1997. But Fadi’s star was on the ascent and, in the early 2000s, when a creative media policy by the Pakistani government allowed private TV channels to be launched – with music channels among them – musicians like him suddenly had not just national, but eventually international platforms to display their talents on. 

In late 2007, we met again, at a party in Lahore. Fadi was a bonafide music icon by then, with Overload, his percussion band, having been internationally acclaimed. Yet, our conversation through the course of that evening revolved, again, around cricket. My father had passed away six years earlier, a day after returning from England, where he had been writing on the Pakistan-England cricket series. Fadi’s father, the silken-voiced Shahzad Humayun, had been doing live commentary on that tour for Radio Pakistan, Fadi told me, and both of them had hung out with my father. The stories Fadi told me were hilarious, made even funnier by the deadpan manner in which he’d narrate them.

About a year later, I received a call from Fadi, out of the blue. He wanted to discuss the possibility of doing a number of public relations features on Overload, so we met up at a café. One of his associates was along and, since this was the first time I had a, sort of, formal meeting with Fadi, I was impressed with his serious demeanour. 

Unfortunately, we never did get the chance to collaborate. But we stayed in touch more frequently, courtesy Facebook, and, any time his company arranged any kind of music event, he would ensure that I received an invite. 

I had moved abroad by the time – a friend told me – Fadi was diagnosed with a brain tumour in 2018. Everyone I knew was friends with Fadi too so, even though I wasn’t on Facebook any more, I was kept abreast of his progress after his surgery later that year and was relieved when I heard that the tumour had been removed and that he was recovering fine. 

Yet, yesterday, I woke up to the devastating news that Fadi was not with us any more. It was my birthday so, the night before, I had gone to sleep determined to make the day a happy one. Yet, this was a sledgehammer blow to the gut; one that has kept me on edge all day, wondering how Auntie Nivi and his sisters are dealing with this tragedy.

Rest in Peace, Fadi, My Brother. Your drums may have gone silent, but your light shall continue to illuminate our paths and your music will play on forever. 

Train to Bhopal

In December 1991, Sonia Api arrived in Lahore from Bhopal on her annual visit to see her parents and younger siblings. 

One evening, as we lounged around the heater in their living room, Api turned to Babar, her brother, and said: “So … are you interested in coming to Bhopal for New Year’s Eve?” 

Babar and I had been classmates since the first grade; best friends throughout school and, by then, were like brothers; totally inseparable. He looked at me and grinned. “Want to go back to Bhopal, Eddie?” he asked.

Of course, I did, I replied. The memory of a fabulous 14-day trip to Bhopal in January of that year was still fresh in my mind. 

So, with less than ten days to go till December 31^st, Babar and I set off for Islamabad to try and get our visas. Api followed soon after and helped to push the process through by meeting with the Indian High Commissioner. Suddenly, we had plenty of time to make it to Bhopal for New Year’s – unlike the year before, when, with Babar already in India, Baagi and I had only been able to land in Delhi on January 1.

We landed in Delhi on the evening of December 28^th, went straight to the train station and booked three tickets on the 6 a.m. train to Bhopal. The third ticket was for Usman, another friend who had been in school with us for ten years and who had already been in India for a week. 

We checked into a small hotel near the train station, called Usman to let him know our location and, within half an hour, saw his cab pull up on the crowded street outside. Our quorum was now complete.

In the train, the next morning, we marveled at the punctual start of the journey, the generally clean state of the car we were in and the courteous, professional attitude of the staff on board. 

It takes roughly just over eight hours for a train to reach Bhopal from Delhi. Halfway through the journey, Babar and Usman struck up a conversation with a bunch of young men across the aisle. They were college students our age and were pleasantly surprised to hear we were from Pakistan – and even more taken aback to learn that both Usman and I were already journalists at 19, employed by one of Pakistan’s leading English-language dailies; and that Babar, who had just turned 20, was a farmer.

They had lots of questions: about the country’s politics, about the return of democracy, about the cricket team and about how we found India. Babar fielded the questions about India with ease – he was, after all, a seasoned visitor, travelling across the border every year to see Sonia Api, who is married into the Nawab of Bhopal’s family. 

Usman, who stands well over six feet tall and would go on to become a successful chartered accountant in England, had also visited India frequently and joined in the conversation animatedly. As the train rolled on, the conversation turned to how much our air tickets to Delhi from Lahore had cost. Our new friends were flabbergasted to learn that each return ticket (in December, 1991) cost just Pakistani Rs. 2500 – and were completely gobsmacked when they were told that the flying time between the two cities is less than an hour.

And they were completely floored when they learned that everyone in Pakistan loved to watch Indian movies and that, even in moments of extreme tension between the two countries, Indian film music would be blaring at every shop and in every second car. 

By the time the train reached Bhopal, all of us had become friends and we had already been extended invitations to their homes. It would be easy for them to contact us, we told them, because we were going to be staying at Shamla Kothi.

Everyone in Bhopal knows where Shamla Kothi is. It is perched at the top of Shamla Hill, the highest point in the “City of Lakes”, with a clear view of the city across the main lake, which stretches into the distance. Sonia Api’s husband, Nadir, and his late brother, Yawar, wisely converted the Nawab’s palace – just behind Shamla Kothi – into a hotel in the early 1980s. The Jehan Numa Palace Hotel is now a 5-star wonder, the flagship for a burgeoning hospitality enterprise that includes resorts and bakeries.

But Shamla Kothi was where we were going to stay. The Kothi is a huge, sprawling structure, about a hundred years old, and we were billeted in the upstairs portion. “You boys will need your space,” said Sonia Api, as she showed us to our quarters. Wiser words have never been spoken.

For the next couple of weeks, we would wake up to the beautiful sight of Bhopal’s Upper Lake – so huge that, as it stretches into the distance, you can’t see where it ends. From our vantage point, we could look down the hill towards a road that meanders along the bank of the lake. 

And, of course, we would have early morning visitors. Api is older than us by over a decade – which should explain why she liked to mother not only Babar, but all of his friends – and Aliya, her daughter, who was then about eight, and Zafar, her elder son (six at the time) would provide us with the perfect start to the day with their joyful affection for their Mamoos; and, when we went down for breakfast, little Fazal, who was only two years old then, would command all our attention. 

Because of his frequent visits to Bhopal, Babar was a bit of a celebrity there. As time went by, and Usman and I were introduced to his circle of friends, we realized that we had also been accorded celebrity status – simply because we were Pakistani! We ended up being invited to lots of homes by friendly, extremely welcoming hosts, received offers to join others on picnics, had parties held in our honour.

And then, one evening, one friend turned up with a couple in tow to invite us to go along with him to a dhaba(roadside stall) on the outskirts of Bhopal for tea. So all of us piled into a Suzuki Maruti. Babar sat in the passenger seat and Usman and I found ourselves in the back, next to this young couple. 

I was squished against the window and Usman had to twist his large frame to afford more space to the girl on his left. It was a long drive and, when we entered a stretch of road that had no overhead lights, the couple became amorous – much to our discomfort.

“Eddie,” Usman whispered at one point, “I don’t think this chap realizes that the leg he’s fondling is mine!” 

I burst out laughing. Which turned out to be a good thing because Babar turned around to find out why Usman and I were laughing, which made the couple stop kissing. Then, of course, we told them the reason for the hilarity, leaving the man mortified. He kept on apologizing to Usman for the duration of the time it took us to get to the dhaba and back.

When we weren’t invited out to parties, Api would ensure that we had dinner fit for Nawabs on those evenings. We would sit around a fire in the front garden and Nadir Bhai, who is a man of few words, would enjoy his happy hour, breaking into a smile every now and then when one of us cracked a particularly funny joke.

In between, we’d spend as much time at the hotel, which is just a couple of minutes away from Shamla Kothi. We’d check out the bar, and wander through the verandahs and, on some afternoons, arrange some deck chairs in a line on the hotel’s lawn and lie in the winter sun with our brews. The walk back to the Kothi after getting slightly soused would be replete with funny moments, including the three of us trying to walk the line and not being able to succeed.

But, as they say, all good things have to come to an end. After a few weeks of completely, blissfully being absorbed by Bhopal and having been treated like royalty by Api, it was time to head back to Pakistan. This time, we took the overnight train to Delhi and, before we knew it, we were back in Lahore.

I wouldn’t return to Bhopal until 2013, more than two decades later. More on that some day.

O Babar, Where Art Thou?

On June 1, 1997, Babar Khan was shot dead in mysterious circumstances at a friend’s house in Rawalpindi, where he had gone for a sleepover. To this day, we still don’t know what happened that fateful night.

When the phone rang, I was sitting at the breakfast table with my father. 

“Eddie,” said the voice at the other end. “I have bad news.”

It was Salman, Babar’s neighbor. Where had he gotten my number from, I wondered silently. The phone was a landline, installed a couple of months prior.

“What is it, Salman Bhai?” I asked, bracing myself for a prank similar to one that he and Babar had pulled on me a few years earlier. 

“It’s Babar,” he replied. “He’s dead.”

“If this is your idea of a joke, Salman Bhai, it’s in really bad taste!” I snapped. Then I hung up, walked back to the dining table and sat down. My appetite had vanished and I picked up a fork and poked an omelette distractedly with it.

My father looked at me with concern. “What’s the matter,” he asked, eventually. “Who was that on the phone?”

I continued to fiddle with the omelette. “It was Babar’s neighbour,” I told him. “He said Babar’s dead.”

“So why are you sitting here?” My father asked in exasperation. “Call Babar’s place up and find out what’s happened.”

His tone jolted me out of the state of shock I had sunk into. I picked up the phone and dialed Babar’s landline number – one that I had dialed countless times before. None of us had cell phones then.

The number was engaged. That was not a good sign. My father was watching from across the room and I told him I was heading to Babar’s place – less than five minutes’ driving time – right away.

As I reversed the car out of the driveway, I thought back to the last time Salman Bhai had called to give me “bad news” about Babar. It was seven years earlier, in the late summer of 1990. Babar had been in Depalpur, assisting his father with the harvesters they owned which had been deployed on agricultural land in the tehsil. He had been away from Lahore for almost a month and a half. And here was Salman Bhai, calling me up to say he had been bitten by a snake and had been brought back to Lahore in bad shape.

So I told my mum about it and dashed over, only to enter Babar’s room to find him, completely all right, and Salman Bhai, doubled over in fits of laughter. “I can’t believe you actually fell for that!” Babar chortled. 

Maybe it was something similar this time, I thought, as I sped into Model Town, then into J-block. Maybe I would enter Babar’s house to find him laughing at me again?

But as I turned into his lane and his house came into view, my breath caught. There were a few cars parked right outside. They shouldn’t have been there. Auntie and Babar were supposed to be in Abbottabad for a wedding. Uncle had passed away just six months earlier. Why would so many cars be outside Babar’s house, when no one was at home, I thought? There could be only one reason.

When I entered, I met Bubboo who was teary-eyed and clung on to me in a bear hug. Some of Babar’s distant cousins, who lived in Lahore, were seated in the lounge. The women were weeping. Everyone looked as shocked and confused as I felt. 

How could this be possible? What had happened? How could Babar be dead? 

No one there had any answers. We couldn’t get through to Abbottabad – the phone at one of Babar’s aunts in Abbottabad was constantly engaged. More people started arriving: more relatives, Babar’s friends from the neighbourhood, friends of ours from school. Everyone was in shock.

Later that afternoon, after I had returned home, I managed to locate Waqas. “I’ll be at Cecil’s, Ed,” he said over the phone. “Come over there.”

When I reached Cecil’s, everyone from Babar’s band, The Trip, was there. Para, the drummer. Omar, the bassist. Other musician friends. All stunned. Everyone sat in a stupor. Only Cecil, ever practical, was proactive. He spoke to his father, Group Captain (retd.) Cecil Chaudhry, the former PAF flying ace, who was then the principal of St. Anthony’s school. Uncle Cecil arranged a mini-bus to take the lot of us to Abbottabad. We had to reach there early morning to have any hope of making it to Babar’s funeral. None of us still knew what had happened to Babar. 

It’s a long way from Lahore to Abbottabad. The G.T. Road snakes its way across the plains of the Punjab, through small cities and towns, then climbs up the Potohar Plateau and passes through Rawalpindi before continuing onward. Lahore to ‘Pindi is an almost four hour journey; Abbottabad, another two-and-a-half hours from there.

We drove through the night, a mini-bus full of young men, all in their early- to mid-twenties. No one spoke to each other. No one wanted to. Everyone was willing the journey to be over quickly. Everyone had the same question on their minds: How could Babar be dead? What had happened to him?

We reached Abbottabad shortly after seven in the morning. It took us another hour to find the house of one of Babar’s aunts where, we had been told, the funeral would take place.

But we were too late. By the time we reached, Babar had already been buried. We had not seen our friend, our brother, in the last couple of days that he had been alive. And now, we had lost the chance to see him at peace.

Someone took us to the graveyard. Everyone gathered around a freshly dug grave which was Babar’s final resting place. All of us cried – some kneeling by the grave, others hugging each other as reality struck. Babar was really gone!

In the days that followed, we were told what was supposed to have happened. Babar had stopped off at a friend’s place in Rawalpindi while Auntie went on to Abbottabad with relatives. That night, the friend said, Babar accidentally shot himself in the head. But we couldn’t believe it. How was it possible for Babar – who had grown up with guns around him, who admonished anyone who playfully brandished one of his father’s guns, who lectured everyone else on the need for gun safety – to have jokingly put a .30 caliber handgun, that he supposedly found in the bedside drawer of the friend he was staying with that fateful night, to his temple? The gun went off accidentally, the friend and his brother, along with a third young man, told the police. It was an accident, they claimed. At three o’clock in the morning. 

No one believed them. But it didn’t matter what someone believed. It didn’t matter if the two brothers, in whose house Babar was a guest at that night, were telling the truth or not. Babar was dead. Only because a gun was present in the room where the four young men were hanging out. Was it an accident, as they claimed? Was it murder? Why was a gun in that room? What purpose was it supposed to serve?

Almost a quarter of a century later, we still don’t know what happened. But it’s immaterial now. Because Babar hasn’t been around these past 24 years. He was only 25 when he passed. In the prime of his life.

So all we have left are his memories. And we share those memories. We treasure those memories. We try to fill the gaping hole he left in our lives by talking about him. His memories are all we have left. But are they enough?

They will never be enough. They can’t replace the energy Babar brought into a room. The sparkle in his eyes when he was happy. The twinkle, when he was naughty. The joy he felt when his little niece and nephews used to visit from Bhopal. The pride he felt in being Uncle Jamal’s and Auntie Naseem’s son – and Sonia Api’s and Saba’s little brother.

But we have those memories of him. Because that’s all we have left. 

Like the story Usman used to tell us about Babar. About the time they were in pre-school. The teacher had forbidden the use of erasers. But, Usman used to say, laughingly, when the teacher wasn’t looking, Babar used to fish out an eraser from his pocket and pass it around to the other children.

Or, when we were at Aitchison. In Junior School, most of us thought he was from the Far East, because he had slightly Oriental features as a young boy. When we all became friends and moved up the junior grades, we’d all invite each other to our birthday parties. Babar used to be the life of every party: acing the treasure hunt, winning the various games organized by the parents, being the first to groove to Bee Gees and BoneyM tracks (yes, they played at every kiddie party well into the 80s) when they came on.

And there was the memory of Babar in Prep School and Senior School. Babar shot up in height, standing almost six feet tall by the time we were in 9^th grade. The mischievous glint in his eye was now omni-present, as was his formidable physical strength which deterred most, but the foolhardy, from engaging in an altercation with him. He cut a handsome figure in his school blazer, silky black hair hanging insistently over his forehead. Omar Jamil, a few years younger, was so impressed by Babar’s appearance that he’d try to copy him, tugging at his own tie so that it would always be askew, just like Babar’s.

Or the memory of the time Babar, Azhar, Baagi and I became very close friends. This teenaged brotherhood led to all sorts of adventures – and misadventures. Lahore was a sleepy town in the late 1980s. Traffic used to die completely down by 10 p.m. That’s when we would perk up, devising all sorts of plans to sneak out of Babar’s house and go for late-night coffee. 

Then there’s the memory of that night in 1989, when, with Uncle and Auntie out of town and Saba at a friend’s place for a sleepover, we all gathered at Babar’s and decided to go for pizza to the only Italian restaurant in Lahore. It was called Pasta – no prizes for originality – and Babar decided to drive us there in his father’s 1934 Wolseley. The problem was that it was a two-seater convertible. And there were eight of us, including Anisa, the only female in the group. 

But that didn’t deter us. Anisa sat in the passenger seat. Four young men – Azhar, Farooq, Jamie and Salman – perched on the back. And Usman and I sat on each front bumper, our backs to the oncoming traffic, holding on for dear life. We drove all the way from Model Town to Pasta, which was on Jail Road, and, in a mood to really tempt fate and disaster, decided to drive on to the Mall Road before heading back home. And we made it home in one piece.

And there’s the memory of Fayeza Api and Tariq Bhai’s wedding which took place in Karachi that spring. Sonia Api had flown in specially from India for the wedding so she, Saba, Babar and I took the red-eye flight one night. The plane took an awfully long time to taxi to its position for take-off. Babar, with his trademark humour and natural charm, beckoned an air hostess over at one point and asked, mock-seriously: “Are we going to fly to Karachi or are we driving there?”

And then, there’s the memory of his girlfriends. Babar had his parents’ good looks and oodles of charm and there was no woman that could apparently resist him. And it was also what he did that set him apart from the rest. I remember one night, at a party in 1992, when a young woman who had been eyeing him appreciatively all evening, finally seemed to pluck up the courage to come and talk to him. What did he do, she asked at one point.

“I’m a farmer,” he said. The young lady swooned visibly. “I’m so glad to meet you,” she whispered. “All the other men here are stuffy corporate types.” We didn’t see Babar or that woman for the rest of the evening. Babar was about 21 then, a handsome man with a mustache that he was extremely proud of and long hair that refused to get out of his eyes.

But one of my favourite memories is of the time Baagi and I embarked on a whirlwind effort to get to India in time for New Year’s Eve. Babar was already in India, visiting Sonia Api in Bhopal, and he called up one day to ask if we fancied coming over. This was towards the end of December, 1990. Our parents gave Baagi and I permission and we hastened to Islamabad to try and get visas – a Herculean task, as you would imagine. But, to cut a long story short (maybe another essay one day on that), we managed to get 14-day, non-reporting visas but couldn’t make it to Bhopal by December 31^st, landing in Delhi, instead, on January 1^st, and then flying to Bhopal early the next morning.

When we landed, Sonia Api and Babar were waiting for us on the tarmac. We all drank the toast we’d promised we would have if we made it – this, at 7 a.m. – and then had the time of our lives for the next two weeks, with Api pampering us no end.

And there’s the overarching memory of Babar, the rock-star! Waqas and Babar had become extremely close friends through the early 1990s; Cecil was a childhood friend of Waqas’s, and an accomplished guitarist. So they decided to form a rock band in 1994. They called it The Trip. Cecil was on lead guitar, Para played the drums, Waqas was the bassist. And Babar was the lead vocalist.

Babar always had an amazing vocal ability and a great ear for music. But all of us were surprised to find how easily he took to singing in a band, given that he had never sung in an ensemble before. What’s more: he even taught himself how to play the guitar in very little time and, before she knew it, had composed a song for the love of his life, Shandana.

Which reminds me of the memory of the time Saif and I took Babar to meet Shandana for the first time. Strangely, for someone who apparently just had to look in a woman’s direction to make her feel weak at the knees (we’d seen that happen plenty of times!), Babar was very shy at that first dinner meeting between the two, constantly studying his plate and avoiding eye-contact with Shandana – who sat through that entire evening wearing an amused look on her face.

“I think the man’s in love,” Saif said, matter-of-factly, as we drove home. I agreed.

And then, there’s that last memory of him. At least, for me.

Usman had been based in London since 1992, when he moved there to eventually become a chartered accountant. He would come to Lahore every once in a while to visit his parents and would always stop by to see all of us. Towards the end of May, just three days before June 1^st, Usman picked Babar up and drove over to my place. When they left, Babar stood up through the sunroof of Usman’s four-wheel drive vehicle and grinned cheekily as the car disappeared from view. That was the last time I saw him.

So, the memories endure. And they will continue to endure. That’s all we have left of him: the memories, the photographs, the songs, Auntie Naseem, Sonia Api, Saba.

Sometimes, when I sit and wonder why it was him that had to go so early and not any one of the rest of us, I am reminded of what Fayeza Api said the day after Babar left us.

“He was the best of us, Jaani,” she said. “That’s probably why he was taken so early.”

Remembering Jehangir Hashmi

My recollection of my first day at Aitchison College is hazy, given that it was over forty years ago. But I remember that, on that first morning, all the students who had newly enrolled in grade one (they called it K-1 in that school) were made to assemble in front of the Junior School building. All of us had name-tags pinned to our blazer lapels – most of us were yet to turn six.

One by one, everyone’s parents left. Some boys wept. Some looked nervous. Some seemed excited. 

And then, there was Jehangir Hashmi. I found myself sitting next to him, looked at his name-tag and couldn’t pronounce his name properly at the first try. He seemed unfazed by that. He didn’t even seem to be bothered by the sight of his parents disappearing into the distance – the boy next to him, meanwhile, had clung on to his mother’s leg and was refusing to let go.

A short while later, we were taken to our classrooms. In 1978, which is when this happened, Junior School had four sections for each class: A, B, C, D. There were more than forty boys in each section. Jehangir and I found ourselves in K-1-B – what’s more, we were seated next to each other. And from that point on, a friendship was sealed and a brotherhood was born. 

That summer, the football world cup was held in, and won by, Argentina. It was probably the first international tournament to be televised live on Pakistan Television, then the only – and state-run (still is) – TV channel in Pakistan. Football became the rage and, when we returned to school following the summer holidays, Jehangir and I would wait for recess so that we could run to one of the grounds with a tennis ball and pretend we were forwards in the Argentinian team, passing the ball back and forth on our way to one goal, then back to the other.

Even as a small child, Jehangir showed that he was athletically gifted. As we grew older and eventually graduated to Prep School (for grades 6 to 8), his athletic ability truly came to the fore. The jump from Junior to Prep School was significant in many ways. Our uniform now had trousers, which were welcome in the winter months (instead of the shorts we wore through five years of Junior School). And we got to play in proper competitions in various sporting disciplines.

Jehangir reveled in that environment. He used to run the 100 metres and 200 metres races, do the long jump and developed an interest in gymnastics. Any gymnast will tell you that the training regimen for that sport is more grueling than anyone can imagine. And the P.T. instructors who trained and supervised the gymnasts at Aitchison were hard taskmasters, really putting those boys under pressure. But Jehangir never buckled: he would emerge from one of those strenuous sessions with a satisfied smile on his face, while others around him exhibited various states of distress.

The result of all that training was that Jehangir became an outstanding gymnast. He was able, at the age of thirteen, to do a backflip at will and, on the Annual Sports day in 1985, left the rest of us amazed when he dived through the “Ring of Fire”, having earlier enthralled the crowd with some amazing routines.

That same year, our family moved into the same neighbourhood where Jehangir’s family lived. Overjoyed at being in such close proximity to each other, Jehangir and I would cycle endlessly through the afternoons, often heading to Walton Aerodrome, which was close by, and alternate between watching the planes take off and land and leading an old watchman on long chases up and down the runway.

One day, Jehangir’s mother spotted me cycling home from school. Aitchison was a good ten kilometres or so from where we lived and Auntie felt that was too long a cycle ride for a thirteen-year-old boy to make, to and from school. We didn’t have a car at that point so Auntie told my mother that she would be happy to take me to school every day along with her children. After all, she said, Jehangir goes to the same school, doesn’t he?

So, for the next year, I would be at Jehangir’s place bright and early every morning. We’d be bundled into Auntie’s car, a small Suzuki FX, and Jehangir and I would be dropped off at Aitchison and Auntie would go on to drop Naureen (Jehangir’s older sister) off to the Convent of Jesus and Mary before heading to her clinic (she was a doctor).

We became inseparable, Jehangir and I. Our evenings would be spent listening to Naureen play different songs on her keyboard and, when we plucked up the courage, we would ask Faisal, Jehangir’s older brother, if he could play us some music on his fancy Pioneer music system. (That was a huge deal for us!)

A couple of years later, Jehangir’s family moved to a house they had built at the other end of town. By this time, we were in Senior School and in different sections. Contact became scarce, but a childhood friendship does not depend on daily meetings to endure. It was for that reason, as the years rolled by and we met less frequently as we got on with our lives as adults, that whenever we did meet – even if after a few years, as was often the case – it seemed there had been no intervening time in between.

My last meeting with Jehangir – which was also when I met his lovely wife, Maha, for the first and only time – was at Ali Irfan’s wedding, in January 2010. Ali, of course, is another Aitchisonian brother and it is only fitting that my last memories of Jehangir are those captured within a time of festivity. What made it even more special was that a number of our close friends from school were there too; I met some, such as Hassan Mumtaz and Omar Asghar, after many years.

Jehangir and I remained in contact on Facebook, thereafter, since he was based in Abu Dhabi for many years. Sadly, it was through that medium that I discovered one day that he was not with us any more. 

Driving to his funeral was heartbreaking. Almost everyone from our batch at school who was based in, or could be in, Lahore, made it a point to be there. 

“I just can’t believe he’s gone,” said everyone to each other.

But he isn’t gone. He lives on in our memories: our recollections of him that remind us of his ready wit, generous smile, giving heart and calm demeanour. And he lives on in his children. And will continue to live on in theirchildren.

Biggles’ Adventures at Walton Aerodrome

No, Biggles, the heroic, fictional World War I fighter pilot, who went on to have a long and storied career (in the literal sense of the phrase) in the books by the amazing Captain W.E. Johns (he was a real fighter pilot during World War I), never quite landed at Lahore’s fabled Walton Aerodrome. (Don’t know about it? Look it up — this isn’t a history lesson.)

But he did coast up and down the runway – by proxy. 

Let me back up here a bit. 

Walton Aerodrome popped up on my radar a couple of days ago when I read a news item saying that there are moves afoot to “re-locate it” from its current location to somewhere on the outskirts of Lahore. (Want to know why and where? Look it up – this isn’t a news feature.) There is an obvious question that needs to be asked here, which is: How do you re-locate an airfield? (The geniuses who came up with the plan in the first place are probably the people to ask.)

Of course, given my old age, lots of memories came flooding back about my time at the aerodrome. No, I never flew a plane from there – I’m not a pilot; just a poor writer – but I did spend a lot of time on the airfield over three-and-a-half decades ago.

Here’s how it happened. Our family moved to a locality in Gulberg III, just off the Ferozepur Road, opposite Model Town. And less than a kilometer from Walton. (no one ever said the full name. Just one of those colloquial things.)

I had been less than enamoured by the change in domestic surroundings, having grown up in a grand old place, in the old F.C.C. scheme, which had lawns in all directions around the house, spread over an acre. The new home – a town house – did not excite me. Until I learnt about its proximity to Walton!

Here’s where Biggles comes in. 

Biggles was my childhood fictional hero. He was who I wanted to be. He was my constant companion from the time I first read my first Biggles book at the age of eight. (I know. I was precocious – most of my classmates then were still learning how to read!) and, by the time we moved to that house near Walton (by which time I was thirteen), I had read almost every book Johns ever wrote.

Johns initially created the character in the early 1930s for a magazine called Popular Flying. All the stories he told were based on his own experiences as a pilot in the First World War, a time when flying was still in its infancy; forget aerial warfare. 

But Biggles became a hit character and eventually featured in almost a hundred books, both novels and short stories. By the time Johns died in 1968, Biggles had gone from being a World War I ace flying biplanes, to one flying Spitfires during the Second World War to eventually becoming a detective in the Special Air Police during the 1950s and beyond. His adventures took him around the world and, in telling these stories, Johns transported a little boy with a fascination for airplanes – me – around with Biggles. 

Except for Walton Aerodrome. This was the only place I transported Biggles. Literally.

Here’s where Jehangir comes in.

Jehangir was my best friend. We had become mates on our first day in school at Aitchison College. We were both six years old, both loved football, both were athletically inclined and both formed a bond of brotherhood that seemed unlikely to ever end. 

And now, after seven years together in school, after over half-a-decade of solid friendship, we found out that we were almost next-door neighbours! 

Jehangir lived just a few houses away. So, after we both returned from school and after the routine naps mandated by our mums, we’d both meet at a pre-arranged spot on our bicycles and speed off in the direction of Walton. Because that’s what Biggles would have done.

Those were simple days. The entrance to Walton, then, wasn’t a huge affair, with barbed wire and paramilitary-types guarding a huge gate – as is the case today, for obvious reasons. At that time, there was no grand entrance – just an old archway that had obviously seen better times, on which was inscribed the legend “Walton Aerodrome”.

Jehangir and I would race each other to the entrance. That was where the fun started because – simple times, you see – there was no one to stop us from entering the airfield except an old chowkidaar, long past his retirement age. So Jehangir and I would decide, before our race to the aerodrome, that the one who lost would have to distract the old man while the other whizzed past and, when the poor fellow turned around to chase after him, the second one would whiz past his other flank.

This became routine and, while we probably enjoyed this subterfuge (because we were thirteen-year-olds, after all), being on the runway itself was infinitely more fun. 

This was where we would pedal furiously up and down the runway, only deciding to return home once we had become too exhausted to cycle any more. Of course, we knew we had to use our last remaining reserves of energy to outwit the poor old man on the way out again, so that also formed part of our decision-making.

For the next few months, this remained our afternoon routine: infuriating the chowkidaar on the way in and out of the airfield, cycling around the Cessnas and other small aircraft parked outside the hangar and then, racing each other up and down the runway.

At some point during our daily adventures, I decided that Biggles needed to come along too. So I would stuff as many Biggles books into my rucksack as possible, sling it over my back and take him along. So, of course, that became my personal Biggles adventure; one in which he was the passenger, instead of the other way around.

But, as they say, all good things come to an end. The old man, having initially decided to just wave us in and out after the first few days of chasing after us on foot and realizing it was futile, appeared in view one day outfitted with a bicycle of his own! Of course, this added to the challenge and, of course, we cycled rings around him but, at one point, as we led him on another futile – for him – chase down the runway, the unthinkable almost happened.

In our haste to cycle down the entire runway to get to the exit, we had neglected to look upwards. It was only when we were squarely in the middle of the runway that we realized we could hear a loud roar, and then, a training aircraft flew low over our heads.

When we looked up, we could see the instructor, face contorted with rage, glaring down at us as the plane banked after gaining altitude, shouting expletives at us (at least, we imagined they were, because we couldn’t hear him!) and only then understood that we had just forced a plane to pull out of its landing approach!

So we cycled as fast as we could to the exit and then onwards to our respective homes. An hour or so later, at the dining table, seemingly ensconced in my homework, I was summoned by my mother in a tone that implied I was in trouble. And, indeed, I was.

The chowkidaar might not have been as quick as us on his bicycle. But he had his years to guide him and he managed to follow us both back to our respective homes and informed both of our mothers. The result? We were banned from ever going to Walton Aerodrome again. That was in the autumn of 1985.

We never went there again. Even though we continued to live in the same vicinity for a few more years, even though we could hear the sounds of the planes taking off and landing, the fear of incurring our mothers’ wrath probably deterred us from indulging in such a misadventure again.More than thirty-five years on, I find myself writing these lines, having been reminded of Biggles’ adventures at Walton Aerodrome and Jehangir, by a news report. Jehangir is no longer in this world, having been taken from us four years ago by a sudden heart-attack. Maybe his children, wherever they are, might get to read this reminiscence about him. Meanwhile, if the airfield is “re-located”, I will have another reason to grieve.