“Picture a place where a bomb blast just occurred. What do you see? People running in all directions, screaming for help, bodies of the dead and the injured lying about… And there, you meet someone who’s standing agape, as if frozen in time, unable to move or even feel anything, just staring into the space. On the unfortunate morning of October 5, 2009, I was one such person.” These were the first words I heard the late Maj Tahir Wadood Malik say, at a gathering of mutual friends in Lahore, circa 2016.

Obviously, I was intrigued. Later, I came to know that he was relating a personal tragedy: he had lost his beloved wife, Gulrukh, in a suicide terrorist attack.

In the tastefully done drawing room of Dr Fatima Ali Haider, who had also lost her husband and son in a terrorist attack in 2013, Major sahib (as I would call him) and I were seated close to each other, so I had a vantage-point view of the man who exuded charm and at the same time had a commanding presence, what with his now-famous handlebar moustache and a hefty build. He sure could intimidate the likes of me by just the way he looked.

We hadn’t had a word yet. He seemed too proper and utterly no-nonsense. This almost made me feel out of place. I remember mulling ways to shift to a seat elsewhere without coming across as impolite. But the charmer that he was, he sensed my unease and decided to engage me in their conversation. And then, as they say, there was no looking back.

We had a long chat, on a variety of topics, primarily law and order, and we ended up being friends.

He had been a veteran of the 1971 war. In fact, he had been commissioned in the Pakistan Army only a year prior to the war. Post retirement, he made a successful career in marketing, and was living what he jokingly called a “pampered retired army officer’s life” that was mostly spent reading, listening to music and, of course, with his much-loved pets.

It all changed on the October morning in 2009. He had begun his day as usual — he dropped off his wife at her office in Blue Area (they were based in Islamabad back then), where she worked for the UN’s World Food Programme, and was supposed to pick her up later. Only he was condemned to collect her dead body, as Gulrukh was among those killed in a suicide bomb attack on the UN office.

The graceful man that he was, Major sahib took his time to process the grief but more importantly he was able to understand that there was a dire need for support groups for the bereaved. He channelled his personal loss into founding the Pakistan Terrorism Survivors Network (Pak-TSN), a non-partisan, independent organisation that sought to bring together survivors of terrorism in Pakistan, and work with them to lessen the pain and provide some short-term or long-term means of sustenance where needed.

Sadly, Major sahib’s own life was to be cut short. Close to the Eid ul Fitr this year, he was admitted into the CMH, Lahore, with Covid-related complications. Due to his illness, he was unable to answer the phone calls of his many friends and fans, but he would always try and message them back. He would write that he was “stable,” even when his condition had deteriorated and the doctors had sent his dependents scurrying for blood donors.

On May 14, he succumbed to the deadly virus. He was 71.

He was a veteran of the 1971 war. In fact, he was commissioned in the Pakistan Army only a year prior to the war. Post retirement, he made a successful career in marketing, and was living what he often called a “pampered retired army officer’s life” that was mostly spent reading, listening to music and, of course, with his much-loved pets. 

To us lucky mortals whom he considered his pals, Maj Tahir was a friend and so much more. I distinctly remember how at the end of our very first meeting, we looked like we had known each other forever. We had exchanged digits and, as per custom, added/followed each other on social media platforms, all of which helped us get to know each other better.

He was a jovial person, and had a great sense of humour. His posts on Facebook always perked me up, especially the ones where he told some interesting anecdotes about Lahore.

He was also writing articles for The News On Sunday. He’d tag me every time he posted an article on Facebook. His posts would typically end on a personal note to me in which he urged me to launch an initiative along the lines of Pak-TSN.

We shared a love for books, history, music and language. He was my go-to person for Punjabi verses and phrases. I’d text him lines or words that I was confused about, at the oddest of hours, and he was sweet enough to respond every single time.

He never imposed his views on me, or acted in a patronising way, despite our age difference. He was truly young at heart. I once almost convinced him to play a small part in a short video I had planned for raising awareness about the pandemic. It was supposed to be a comic part. But it never materialised.

Major sahib married again, in 2016. His second wife, Rabia Umaima, 36, is a journalist who covers human rights, women’s issues and animal rights chiefly. She is also a fine human being.

It definitely was a match made in heaven, though it didn’t seem to align with the conservative societal norms of age gap. Umaima and Major sahib were the happiest of couples you’d ever come across — their relationship was based on mutual admiration and respect. No wonder they instantly became my favourite people.

They were a power couple who was always there to support social causes. They were also regulars at the many cultural and social events in Lahore. Once, Major sahib was at a public event which I had hosted for the founders of The Grief Directory (TGD), another initiative which aims to help the victims of political terrorism. He was sitting in the front row, along with Umaima, and took the lead when the forum was opened for a question-answer session. Later, he gave me a warm hug and congratulated me on the success of the event. They never skipped any of my events — they even attended my dholki.

I remember my last event didn’t go too well, and I was brokenhearted. I was mumbling apologies to my guests and wondering what had gone wrong, when Major sahib called me. He said, “Yeh sab chhoro, idhar aao. Hum dono apni picture letay hain!” (Leave it all. Let’s take a selfie!) Next, he had uploaded it on Facebook, with a caption that was all too flattering for me.

That selfie will always have a special place in my heart. It is proof of how he was always trying to find and spread positivity around him. He had his share of grief and he didn’t try to hide it — his eyes would often well up while talking about the plight of humanity. Again, characteristically, he would always end his talk on a message of hope.

Our last conversation was about a podcast on Old Lahore which I had planned with him and writer Salman Rashid. The purpose was to archive the wealth of knowledge these gentlemen carried. I’ll always regret that we couldn’t execute it in time.

His death shocked everyone. His Facebook timeline was flooded with condolence messages. His last Facebook post, dated April 29, says he’ll be back soon. That isn’t going to happen, because I believe he hasn’t really left us. He is very much alive — in Umaima’s resilience, in the twinkling eyes of his much-loved pets, and in the memories of all of us whose lives he touched in many ways.

The writer is a digital communication expert who is currently working in the public health sector. He is the mastermind behind the digital platform, Sukhan, and is passionate about telling stories that can change narratives. In another life, he would write animated videos and comic books.