Normally, our activities at the Joan McDonald Junior Cambridge School were peaceful because of it being a co-educational institute. Children in such schools often behave better, say psychologists. Our sports instructor was a WWII veteran, an Englishman who had opted to stay back in the post-Independence Pakistan. It was because, according to him, it was easier to live here on his ‘European grade’ pension.

Toni Menezes, who was a real expert at piano, would get his instrument tuned from the Lobo, situated next to the Regal cinema. There was a very big playground equipped with a netball facility, actively enjoyed by Mrs Murad and, later, a stunning dancer in the movies known as Rakhshi, my nursery class teacher, and many kinds of seesaws, joyrides, slides and swings. A permanent stage for annual plays and a number of ancient, local trees made the outdoor events adventurous. The jamans, however, were available during the summer vacations only. But every now and then some event would stir the tranquility.

Once, Zahid Ghauri, our one-year junior, threw a challenge for a match in badminton. From amongst 500-odd students, only Manzar Amin, my class fellow, accepted the challenge. The series of matches across the net, with punishing flurry of shuttlecocks made out of organic chicken feathers, continued well into the afternoon that left both the contestants exhausted.

As my one-year senior, Saadatullah Khan (who rose to be the inspector general of police), whose duty as a student was to announce the end of recess by striking a piece of railway track hung from a tree with a hammer, tried to intervene, but the two behaved like angry roosters. Asif Naveed, who secured highest grades in history in the entire school and later went on to become the managing director of Small Industries and was penalised for taking the organisation to new heights, was also among the spectators. But Amin did not chicken out, even though he had lost all the sets which ended in so-and-so ‘Love,’ which I fail to comprehend to this day.

Our Parsi classmate, Meher Dara, was the referee. Those were the days when a lot of girls cycled to their schools/colleges. Dara donned an impressive, elegant skirt. At the end of the contest, which Ghauri had clearly won, her remarks were that Amin had at least accepted the challenge. This meant that it’s more important to accept the challenge and give the opponent a tough time than to win.

But Ghauri was at ease in returning the shots. In fact, he was ‘calling the shots.’ He was the lord of the day, and there could be no betting on this unequal duel.

The Peerzada siblings took no notice, nor did Dilaram (from the Anarkali play).

Years later, there appeared in Readers’ Digest a picture of a very tall guard outside 10 Downing Street, with the traditional bear-skin black cap that made him look even taller. Posing next to him was a Gurkha guard, of an average height but with blood red eyes. The Briton, however, stood calm. Somebody suggested as to how brave that fierce-looking soldier from Nepal was.

My impression was that the Brit who stayed so calm, despite having to rub shoulders with that warrior, was really very courageous. I thought that the very fact that Amin had accepted the duel made him look more formidable. Later, Ghauri went on to win many colours in badminton tournaments and was also given a job in a bank on that basis.

Some years later, my younger sibling, Iftikhar, was able to grab many more laurels in badminton.

Manzar Amin was nicknamed Manju by his close associates. He was fair-skinned and tall, with hazel-eyes, which made him popular with the other gender. But we never crossed paths. Hailing from a prosperous pedigree of Chiniot, he was never into money-making. Many of his relations, both male and female, had been schooled in the same institute. He lived on Begum Road, near the Faridkot House, which was quite a posh locale back in the day. An ugly, high-rise plaza now stands in place of his beautiful house which I used to visit.

Amin matriculated with average grades and managed to get admitted to GC on kinship basis because many in his family had been Ravians. After his intermediate exams he joined the army. I can only imagine that he looked stunning in uniform, because I never got a chance to see him afterwards.

Later, I learnt that he had served in the then East Pakistan as a major. In the ensuing 1971 war, he was wounded and his knee-cap was hurt and eyes suffered when an improvised explosive device (IED) that he had stepped on exploded. I’m sure he fought valiantly against all odds, as he had accepted the challenge thrown his way by Zahid Ghauri.

In the aftermath of the surrender, he was taken a prisoner of war. I met him upon his final return. He related the ordeal of his captivity. Saadatullah Khan too was a POW, and so was Major Azhar Hameed, another classmate of ours, not quite of each other, I suppose.

Being slightly incapacitated to serve in the army on a regular duty, he was transferred to NCC where he trained students who would earn special marks for their final exams. This light but useful military training to the youth was sadly put stop to by the ever so suspicious Zia. Amin was thereby decommissioned, rather honourably.

Our last meeting was only over telephone. He had moved in with his new in-laws and was now a neighbour of Khawaja Zaheeruddin, the convener of the Lahore Conservation Society (LCS), which he was keen to join. I promised to meet him and help him get the membership. But it never came to that. He had already left for his final abode.

At our recent annual school reunion, organised by Amin’s brother, Sheikh Tanveer, nicknamed Jugnu, I told a grey-bearded Ghauri about the sad demise of Amin. His response was that his friendly rival had inspired him to work real hard and secure a job in the bank.

(This dispatch is dedicated to Meher Dara)

The writer is a painter, a founding member of Lahore Conservation Society and Punjab Artists Association, and a former director of NCA Art Gallery. He can be reached at ajazart@brain.net.pk