At my age it is not abnormal to see friends and dear ones say their final goodbye, and mourning for them is a painful but nevertheless an inevitable part of life. But once in a while a death shakes you deep down, to the core. Munir Dar’s last week was one such.
Both of us went back a long time – something like six decades, a few months this way or that. We were related, and when we met for the first time in 1951, he was introduced to me as Apa Munawar’s son. Some 35 years down the line, his son Tauqir and my daughter Chanda’s marriage made us related twice over. But the real bond with him was that of a friend.
First impressions, it has been aptly said, more often than not, stick. In those initial few moments that autumn evening in 1951, I thought Munir was a fun youth who was not merely self-assured, he indeed seemed to be the epitome of confidence. As it transpired, I could not have been more right.
Our next and far more frequent, almost everyday, interaction happened on playgrounds that were really chock-a-block in those early post-Independence years when sport was such a big thing in our lives. My father was in Pakistan Railways and in my early teens, I had started frequenting Griffin Club, which had lovely multi-sport facilities. In those days I tried my hand both at cricket and hockey, before somehow dedicating myself to the latter.
Munir did not live in our neighbourhood, but he would do the same, mostly playing cricket and hockey at clubs far and away from his backyard. Around 1953, once he made up his mind that he would get into the Pakistan hockey team, he had the chutzpah to announce that he would be in the 1956 Melbourne Olympic Games side. He was not daydreaming; he knew what he was talking about and also how to get there.
Mental strength is such a mantra these days, a lack of which is one reason why our boys have been in the doldrums for quite a while, with only a partial recovery in recent months. Munir had loads of it. As a teenager he would appear in trials, and if not given a full outing, he would make a demand for pro rata return of his fee. Such aplomb may have surprised people, but it was his superior skill-set that combined with his sense of style and handsome, clear-cut features that made him stand out.
Both of us were receiving good notices, from the organizers and the stalwarts. For a youngster, getting into the national side in any position in those days meant being way superior to around half a dozen seniors with a proven record. In the 1955 National Championship, both of us participated. I played at right-in for Punjab, and the slightly older Munir got into the Railways side as right fullback.
Munir knew that it was the opportunity to showcase his tremendous talent. Taking the event by the scruff of its neck, Munir was his usual brilliant and stylish self in defence and on top of it he scored at least two goals in every game right up to the final. The Railways beat Army to the national crown – a huge thing in those days, and it made Brig. Rodham none too happy but Munir was going to Melbourne.
The rest, as they say, is history. From then onwards, it was a story of the rise and rise of Munir – on the field and off it. Though he would speak of, even threaten, his opponents about roughing them up, there was nothing crude about him on the field. With his well-rounded game, he didn’t need to rough up forwards to thwart them.
Another development was the cricketing legend Fazal Mahmood approaching both Munir and myself before the 1960 Olympics and convincing us to switch jobs and join Punjab Police. Saying no to Fazal was never easy, not in his salad days anyway, and both of us had to oblige. We never regretted it.
Down the years, we became friends with Atif and others. Around the dawn of 1960s, Farooq Mazhar, who turned out to be the doyen of Pakistan’s sports journalism came on the scene, writing and reporting for the Pakistan Times. All of us had our ups and downs, and occasionally a little scrap between ourselves, but generally we had a swell time together.
We played the game hard and well; there was great satisfaction at winning most of the games that we played. Off the field too, we were mostly a happy unit. Most of the lighter moments were spawned by an irrepressible Munir. On the team bus, he would sit in front, sing, crack jokes at the expense of whoever caught his fancy, and keep everyone amused.
Barring once, and that was when he was dropped from a few games on a tour of Europe around 1965. Not used to it, he sulked no end, but made a strong comeback and was eventually named the skipper.
By the time he quit the game, after 11 years at the top, his younger sibling Tanvir was already making waves, staking a claim for his brother’s position. Down the line, first Tanvir, as ferocious and as effective a hitter of the penalty corner as any, and then son Tauqir stepped up to emulate him in winning the Olympic gold.
Like his game, Munir had planned his life impeccably well. In time he settled his three sons, Taseer and Tafseer being the younger two, while he ran the Punjab Police’s sports and welfare department quite efficiently. That reflected in Police teams and sportsmen getting national recognition. By the time he retired, he had already engaged himself in horse-racing – something he claimed to be good at.
But more importantly, save the last few months when he was gravely ill, Munir kept his sunny disposition going throughout, helping people as far as he could. For so many, he was the lean-to guy. And that is why so many from so many diverse backgrounds turned out at his funeral, to say farewell to a figure who personified happiness, joy and optimism – and shared it with everyone around him. May he remain happy and bring joy in the after-life too. But why would he not?
