Shahzad Humayun
(November 2010)

Close of Play

I have no doubt whatsoever that had my brother Khalid been around, shattered and dejected as he would have been with Shahzad Humayun’s tragic passing away, he would have put his grief to one side and written movingly about someone he came to love over the years. But Khalid is not here. A man who couldn’t be without his great tribe of friends now lies all alone in a quiet cemetery deep in the forests that make up Vermont in USA and now neither is Shahzad. Gone, after a short painful illness that he fought with every single breath he had. The last word, as is usually the case, sadly lay with the Grim Reaper. As Shahzad would have cryptically observed, ‘partner we stood no chance.’ On this crisp November Lahore morning, I struggle with a flood of memories and warm images, of countless trips together, of an endless pool of jokes and singularly funny anecdotes, all these put together with an abiding love for cricket that first brought me and Shahzad together and later Khalid and his large following of friends and characters out of an epic novel. It is not easy to write about someone like Shahzad. It never is.

It was on a late July afternoon in 1979 that Shahzad and I had descended on Khalid at his home in South Harrow straight off a PIA flight that we had taken from Karachi. Shahzad’s seat would not recline and mine would not straighten out so we were advised by a purser to switch seats now and then to be ‘comfortable.’ We did because Shahzad said it was good advice. That trip was something of a landmark in my life. I had never been to England before. Shahzad and I had floated a dodgy organization called Cricket Writers Association – he and I being the writers and the great Shahid Rehman the Chairman and everything else that was legally required. Of course Shahzad already knew England like the back of his hand and was thus my guide, mentor and advisor all in one. And although he was primarily my friend, Khalid and he took to each other like ducks to water, a friendship that simply grew closer and closer. In all the years that Khalid was away and returning to Pakistan for which he yearned with every breath he took, there was a ritual that was just about as obligatory as Hajj and that was a visit to Shahzad and Nivi’s lovely home for an evening. I cannot recall the times that I would drop Khalid there and leave quietly.

1979 was the year of the first World Cup and what a time it was to be in England. We traveled, we shopped, we ate, we drank and above all we watched cricket from the most privileged of positions – the Press Box. While there was no shortage of colorful and often comically uninformed men on cricket with whom we would end up, Shahzad’s knowledge and understanding of cricket was phenomenal. Like all people who are quietly confident of what they know, he would be the last person to inflict his ‘inside’ on cricket even if you were to ask but he would every time I would cajole him. He always knew what was going on and would often throw up his hands in disbelief discovering that I did not quite know what he was talking about! He had an inside on cricket not because he liked to pry but simply because he loved the game to distraction. And I think we both lost our illusions about Pakistan cricket the same evening in 1983 when we stood outside the Pakistan dressing room at Headingley – much like the animals in Animal Farm looking and listening to our players who had successfully converted a strategically crucial victory into defeat and thereby eliminated us from the running. We both looked at one another and realized that we had come to the crossroads. We both continued to follow the game passionately but deep down we both grew up and understood that it was after all a game, not a matter of life and death.

Of course Shahzad’s deep affinity for the game continued over the years. There was not a country or a ground where he did not go to watch cricket. Mostly these trips were as a broadcaster and occasional stringer for the networks and Shahzad’s understanding of the game of cricket was unique. I think he was a far better commentator than his peers and his comprehension about the game was infinitely superior but by the time the 80s were rolling by into the 90s, cricket too was changing hour by hour. ‘Commentators’ for that is what one is forced to call them, got the tours not by merit but by their contacts in Islamabad and their ability to play the game of sharing proceeds with their benefactors. For Shahzad this was a road he was not going to travel and he started backing off, instead choosing alternative avenues like Cricinfo and other cricket broadcasting entities where knowing the head of Radio Pakistan or Television was not of any consequence.

With the pressure of work that comes inevitably with running your own outfit, my cricket watching went on the decline and it was people like Shahzad – very few in fact, that I relied on when things unraveled. We both watched the decline of Pakistan cricket sadly and I now think that for Shahzad, this must have been devastating because he truly was involved with cricket and loved the game deeply. As the clowns of cricket – both its lackluster players and its inept administrators played havoc with this sport of all sports, we both became cynical and began to see the ridiculous side of things as Pakistan’s cricket plunged lower and lower. Even with our disillusionment coming round full circle, I would still call him to ask the score, and when I would, he would reply, ‘the monkeys are seven down for 68,’ and we’d both roll with laughter. ‘Shah,’ I would say, ‘what a farce,’ to which Shahzad would reply, ‘yes but watch what happens next.’ And sure enough there would be another slap in the face soon enough.

Nivi or Naveed Shahzad as many of you would know was the anchor in his life. Always willing to stand a step to the side, confident in her position she gave Shahzad the freedom that most women would not even consider – and Shahzad knew this well. She quietly pursued a remarkable career as an actress par excellence and an academic and administrator with a long stint at her beloved English Literature Department in Punjab University and later at the Fashion School and Beaconhouse National University.

The three children have blossomed. He was immensely proud of them and their achievements. He was their biggest fan and every time any one of them achieved some landmark, he was over the moon with delight. When the grandchildren arrived, there were even more ‘characters’ around to spend time with. He was a wonderful father and husband but long before that, an even more wonderful son and brother. I cannot think of anyone who gave so generously in every sense of the word to his parents and sisters. He was always the model son to his father even when he was misunderstood and unfairly treated. Through many trials and tribulations he never wavered from his many responsibilities. Most of us would have failed at the first step – not Shahzad. He did it because he believed it was his cross to bear.

And now the crowds have gone home. The playing square is empty, the stumps drawn for the day and the ground is quite deserted. In the commentator’s box, I can hear Shahzad saying, ‘Well that’s it for now as we return you to the studios.’