June 27, 2004

My early association with Mr Zamir Niazi, the eldest brother of my mother who was his only sister, began in my childhood. He would frequently visit Mumbai to meet us. I have cherished memories of snuggling around him when I was a child as I looked up to him as a hero. Dozens of photographs of him with our family are my most treasured possession.

I have to thank my husband Haris Zamir for his ‘bride searching’ visit to Bombay when we got to know each other. My marriage brought me to Karachi and it was then that I got an insight into the steel that lay beneath the ever-fragile frame of the man called Zamir Niazi. My relationship with the “Zamir of our press” as he came to be fondly called was that of a grown up daughter he had adopted, as he had none of his own.

His dream had always been to have a daughter who could write and carry his name. Hence whenever I wrote it was under the byline of Fatima H. Zamir, a pen name he gave me. He said it pleased him a lot.

The arduous training he gave me in writing was nothing less than what he would have given an apprentice. Writing articles on various subjects and re-writing them umpteenth times had been very often an ordeal for me. These sessions would end in swollen red eyes for me as it was frustrating when I failed to come up to his expectations.

“The day I think you can write I will get your article printed with your name in the newspaper,” he would tell me when he saw my despair. I yearned for this reward desperately each time I wrote. One fine day it actually happened. I wrote a TV review, which was accepted for publication. But for many months I was listed as a ‘TV reviewer’ and my byline was not given. It was only after a year, that he made sure my name was printed and I was paid an honorarium for which he demanded an ice cream as a treat. He loved ice creams and chocolates, as he was always young at heart.

He often told his friends that it was his wife, Maimoona, my mother-in-law, who kept him alive. She discreetly remained in the background, but kept the flame burning so long. He fondly looked at his mass collection of books and said whatever little I earned I handed it over to this woman. She never spent it on herself but whenever I needed books she never refused. He gave credit to her for his monetary comforts.

He had a charismatic personality which left an imprint on all those minds and souls who met him. Confined to his bedroom for many seasons he never complained about his physical pain or suffering. He developed a love for music, which he listened to passionately when his spirits were low. He listened to naats, qawwalis, ghazals and religious sermons of Kalb-i-Sadiq with the same zeal as he heard Osho, Rajneesh, Zia Mohyuddin and others. His collection boasts of Bismillah Khan’s shehnai recitals, Saigol, Farida Khanum, Noorjehan, Abida Parveen, Nusrat Fateh Ali, Lata Mangeshkar, Mohammad Rafi and Kishore Kumar.

So much has been spoken and written about his professional life that I need not dwell on that. He called himself a fortunate man as in his lifetime he received many laurels. He was called the walking encyclopedia on the press and was frequently quoted. So much was written about him in the newspapers that he had stopped pointing it out to us. This realization dawned on me when going through the newspaper I happened to read a few lines in which Abba was quoted. Upon inquiry if he had read it, he gave his famous broad smile, which made his eyes twinkle. That look said it all. He didn’t want to be branded as a senile old man who loves to boast about his popularity.

A strong advocate of punctuality, discipline and honesty he was a believer in integration in the family. We, his children, were expected to call him once we reached our destinations each day. If delayed while coming home, we had to explain the cause of the delay and give the expected time of return.

This, he would say, was not due to any lack of trust in his children but the insecurity he felt by the conditions in the city. As a father his concern for our safety was immense. “If I don’t worry for you. Who else will?” he would often say. If all fathers were like him no children would go astray.

In all his letters to his friends he always advised them to be voracious readers as he himself was. I am reminded about Justice M.R. Kiyani’s words, “Debates are good and dinners are better, but books are best. If you put on a good suit, your body looks charming; if you read a good book, you look charming.” As he lay there motionless clad in white ready for his last abode, this is exactly how he looked, radiant and charming.

A colleague remarked that he had never seen young and old breaking out in hysterical sobs on the death of a 72 -year-old man. On his funeral he witnessed this new experience and now the realization has dawned on us that a bony, fragile man had taken on his shoulders the burden of so many and had waged a lone battle.

Please Visit our Sponsor (Ads open in separate window)