Jungle Fresh Days & Desi Nights
Travels with KH

In the two summers of 1979 and 1983, Shahzad Humayun and I toured England watching and reporting on the cricket matches in the company of Khalid Hasan and a gallery of some unique characters. These are some of those moments.

It was Shahzad Humayun’s cunning plan. The 1979 Inaugural Cricket World Cup was scheduled to start in England that summer. We of course had no money. Shahzad suggested we produce a brochure about the event, pick up adverts and be in England. I had never been abroad. Shahzad of course had. We formed Cricket Writers Association and Shahid Rehman, God bless him, became its first and only Chairman. We ended up getting quite a few well-known cricket writers to contribute and had enough ads to pay for two PIA tickets plus spending money. Khalid Hasan (KH) who was in London was informed and one sweltering morning, we were off. It was a rough ride. My seat wouldn’t go back and Shahzad’s wouldn’t come forward, so we alternated and saw most of Europe either in a horizontal position or sitting ramrod straight. Finally, when the cold, refreshing breeze hit me in the face, I knew we were in London. A few days later, we were on the road in KH’s Corolla.

It was a peculiar cargo the Corolla carried. There was Athar Ali, the respected and popular BBC Urdu Service head and then there was Mansoor Maujiz of Jungle Fresh as KH and later us, called him. He was never to be found without a packet of his favourite salted peanuts, a new brand called ‘Jungle Fresh’. About cricket Maujiz knew absolutely nothing. ‘Partner,’ he asked me, ‘why are there so many people on the field?’ It was hopeless to explain cricket to Maujiz. There were other passengers as well. KH had a talent for collecting strays, so Fakhre Humayun representing God knows which magazine or newspaper was in the party. But whatever the party as some kept getting replaced, the overall atmosphere was fabulous and wisecracks, cricket anecdotes and stories freely circulated. Other than drinks which were essential to maintain the liquid balance of the party, the other unwritten law was that while we were in the ‘Malika’s’(Queens’) country, we would nevertheless eat only ‘Desi’(local). This resulted in long and torturous detours around most cities of England as a group of fairly inebriated Pakis coursed through the streets and went around city centers, looking for Paki-food.

As the tour got underway – we had no idea how many matches we were going to see, the sheer pleasure of the company began to infect us all, made possible of course by some remarkable incidents. The first of these was at Headingley when after the match, we all made our way to the marquee and lots of good food and drinks set up by the sponsors, Prudential. While we all trooped in and mixed with the two teams, the Pakistani contingent and the Australians, the writers, commentators, MCC officials, former cricket greats and well known personalities, we were shocked to see that Mansoor Maujiz had cornered umpire Dicky Bird (Maujiz called him Dickis Birds) and was feverishly explaining something urgent to Bird, who while nudging back nevertheless seemed to be agreeing to whatever Jungle Fresh was saying. It became obvious at some point that Dicky Bird needed to be rescued. KH volunteered. As Bird saw an escape route and took it in a second, KH took Jungle Fresh to one side and asked him what he was discussing with the ‘gora’. ‘Partner,’ said Maujis, popping a few peanuts, ‘I was explaining to him the game of cricket.’ KH was aghast. ‘Do you know who that is?’ he asked. ‘No,’ replied Maujis. ‘That’s Dicky Bird,’ KH said. ‘Who is Dickis Birds?’ asked Maujis popping a few more. ‘He is the prophet of cricket,’ said KH. ‘Well, partner,’ said Maujis, ‘I don’t know about that but he was very grateful for my lecture on cricket.’ ‘KH still ashen-faced said, ‘What did he say?’ Maujis thought awhile. ‘He said he had never seen cricket in quite this way. I wonder what he meant.’ Mercifully the bar was close at hand.

The same evening, the party high on refreshments, left for Nottingham largely because all the B&Bs were occupied and there wasn’t a single vacancy to be found for love or money. After a long drive, we entered what seemed to be Nottingham – asking for directions was forbidden by KH. We first wanted to locate a Paki-eatery and so the usual tour of the city centre started, but it seemed that there were restaurants available from all over the globe, but not Pakistan. Finally, dodging all the Bingo restaurants, we arrived at a swank establishment where dinner was in progress. As we noisily staged an entry, Maujis popping Jungle Fresh, we were greeted with stony silence. The clinking of knives and forks temporarily stopped and we noticed that the restaurant was dominantly occupied by genteel British folk. The two owners who now came up to where we were, looked ominously threatening. Wearing tight black jeans with large brass studded belts and tight black T shirts with bulging muscles they also sported well-maintained pony tails. ‘Yes,’ hissed the first one. KH addressed him. ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘we are indeed weary of our travels in the kingdom but be of good cheer for we are in the fair city of Nottingham and are loyal to none other than Robin Hood. In other words my dear man, we are not with the Sheriff’s party. We need a table, an urgent round of strong spirits and food that promises to be delightful.’ The owner hadn’t understood a word. Sheriff, Robin Hood- what were these idiots talking about? He took a deep breath, pulled in his torso, crossed his considerable forearms across his brawny chest and said, ‘We dun’t want drunks ere,’ and pointed us to the door. The restaurant was holding its breath. KH was upset at this reply. ‘Where are you from my good man?’ he asked. ‘Ere, where else?’ replied the owner. ‘No from behind,’ insisted KH. ‘Gujjren-waaala,’ he said. ‘And your good name?’ asked KH. ‘Sid,’ he replied. ‘Hmmm…Sid,’ said KH. ‘Siddique?’ The owner waved towards the door. ‘You better leave,’ he said. ‘We are law abiding citizens,’ began KH. ‘We pay our taxes, respect the law and mean no harm.’ ‘Leave,’ said Sid, ‘otherwise we’ll call the cops.’ At this point Sid’s look alike was reaching for the phone. KH convened a quick conference. ‘What are our chances of getting served here?’ he asked and since Shahzad was the only sober one, the question was directed at him. ‘Nil,’ said Shahzad. ‘In that case,’ said KH, ‘we should leave with as much dignity as we can manage,’ which was rather difficult because no one could walk straight. As we left we could hear laughter and the sound of knives and forks from the restaurant. We ate in a Bingo joint where all the dishes, as is the custom, tasted the same. There was still the question of a B&B to be found and it was getting close to midnight.

We traveled through the night. We had no idea where we were. As we scoured the streets a police squad car began to tail us and before they could ask us what we were doing lurking in the neighhbourhood, we found a B&B which had been suggested by a pretty Nottingham girl out on a date and who had her hand kissed by KH in appreciation. She was delighted at this display of chivalry. We weren’t too sure of her surly boyfriend. Now, half an later, a grey and apparently assembled from the remains of a second world war ship parts, a ghostly B&B emerged. It had a spooky appearance with a single spotlight making it look like the House of Horrors. Shahzad shivered. It was straight out of Psycho but the Corolla-crowd long past their senses, rang the bell. After a while an apparition in a white gown and curlers and all of 80 years plus opened the door and said they were closed for the night. KH gave another Sherwood speech and we were in. The old brick made some sandwiches and showed us the rooms. While the party below ate sandwiches and made merry, Shahzad and I crept into two grey beds with grey blankets, a grey bunk, grey walls and a grey roof. Shahzad was convinced that the old bat downstairs was a serial killer and would hack us to death before 5 am. We slept fitfully oblivious to the fact that the crowd downstairs had decided to hit the casino and gamble. They apparently trooped in at about 6 am having won and lost in equal measure. Miraculously Shahzad and I were still alive and glad to get out of the grey house. We were on the road again, now to Bradford where Pakistan was playing.

From the ground to the nearest pubs was but a foregone conclusion. The party was in high spirits and supplies of Jungle Fresh were to be found in generous quantities. As the evening wore on, thoughts strayed to the question that was always on hand. Where to eat? At last after many detours, false turns and bewildering twists we found Khawaja Sahib’s establishment. A small Paki restaurant, it had a dark parlor with curtains of hanging beads (for atmosphere) but Khawaja Sahib was sweet and when asked by KH what was cooking, ran through a long list of Bhindi Gosht, Kerala Gosht, Karahi, Dal Maash, Aloo-Unda. KH ordered generously and Khawaja Sahib complied. Soon in the semi darkness we began to eat and did that with a fervour you’d expect from crusading armies. It was much later that KH noticed our fingers were glowing in the dark. Further probes revealed that the turmeric powder which had been generously used in all the dishes had made our fingers translucent. When asked to sum up the food, KH said that the food was great but the ‘haldi nay khanay de MDL kar ditti ay’ (The food’s great but the tumeric has buggered the dishes). Someone suggested we lodge a complaint but KH wouldn’t have any of that. He said (and rightly) that Khawaja Sahib was a gentleman and had been most affectionate. ‘Assi Khawaja Sahib da dil dukha nahin saqday.’ (We cannot. It will break Khawaja Sahib’s heart).