Such men and women are rare. We first met around 1982 in Karachi, when both he and I thought up the idea of bringing together a young team of interested men and women in a theatre group, with the express intention of doing 'social theatre' — purely non-commercial — for the benefit of working people and students. Our wives were very much with us — his Abida and mine Nasreen. Very soon we had a team of perhaps eight or 10, and the next matter was to give our theatre group a name.

Within one minute, with characteristic quickness of mind, Mansoor came up with the name Dastak. It said it all. With our theatre productions, we were going to knock on the mental doors of our audiences, inviting them to open the doors and windows of their minds in order to look out on fresh vistas, and to let in the fresh breezes of new thoughts and ideas.

Over the next few years we staged a number of plays, not only in large auditoriums but also on the streets of working class areas. Mansoor was our intellectual-in-residence, writing our plays, and I directed the performers on stage. The response from our audiences was invariably enthusiastic, often ecstatic. We were saying what they wanted to hear, what they wished to learn. We were filling in vital gaps in their understanding of socio-political issues, and we were feeding their appetite for good literature and relevant cultural values.

For ourselves, what was equally rewarding was the close and continuing interaction amongst ourselves, as we sat long evenings discussing the next play or project, and talking — about the world's great playwrights, about poetry and literature, about the sad political scene in the Pakistan of that decade, about Ghalib and Faiz.

Yes, Ghalib. I must tell you that I have sat in the company of a number of the most well-read and cultured of men, and yet, when it came to a deep understanding of the most 'difficult' of Ghalib's poetry, Mansoor had no equal. It was not just that he was an M.A. in Urdu from Delhi; that in itself is no big deal. The remarkable truth is that Mansoor was gifted with a profound insight into the meaning of great literature. He had an intuition which clearly was born of his exceptionally sensitive nature, and of his understanding, too, of individual and social psychology. And of his conscious study of human nature.

Mansoor had a quick and finely-tuned brain, he had educated himself in all the things he felt important. He had the art of conversation, so that he always expressed himself in the choicest of words and the most eloquent phrases. But let us not leave behind the impression that Mansoor was a kind of dried-up intellectual. Far from it.

I have met very few people with Mansoor's wit and sense of humour. In fact we used to joke that his sense of humour was typical of the proverbial Dilli walla's wit! I well remember once, when I complained to him that someone who wanted to meet me said that he would visit me at “2 or 2.30”, and I said, “either say 2, or say 2.30. Why this 2-2.30? And Mansoor replied “Aslam, naraaz na ho (don't be annoyed). Remember it is only 70 or 80 years ago that the British introduced watches into the country, with their minutes and seconds. Before that our day was measured in pehr, and a pehr was around four to six hours. So Nawab Sahib would say, visit me in the third pehr, which could be anywhere from 2pm to 6pm. So, Aslam, the cultural mindset takes a long time to change and evolve, and old habits die hard.”

Ah yes, Mansoor was truly great company, with never a dull moment. Of course we sometimes had our heated debates, because each of us had strongly held beliefs. But that was the mirch masala of our friendship.

How shall I sum up his personality? Mansoor was, in our group and in my family, a strong presence. Such a presence can never be destroyed. Mansoor will be with us always.