It’s around 10 pm on Saturday, October 16. We are standing on the fourth floor balcony of Riot Studios, and Atif Aslam is telling me about the time Farhad Humayun broke the drums while recording one of his songs.

“‘Gal Sun Ja’ was a very sad and slow song but Farhad made it a powerful rock anthem because he said: ‘let’s do it in a different tempo!’ It turned out so great,” the singer recalls. “And I remember that he broke the toms while recording that song. Uss nae toms phar diyay thay,” he laughs. “Recording studio mein uss nae hashar kar diya tha. And the engineer, Waseem, was like, ‘yaar, meray toms!’”

This is just one of the many stories about Farhad that are being warmly exchanged tonight in an intimate gathering of his family and friends gathered to honour the late musician’s life and legacy. Live music blares in the background – Salman Albert is busy belting out Bryan Adams’ ‘Summer of ‘69’ (one of Farhad’s favourite songs) at the moment – as Atif speaks to me on the dark terrace. The neon-lit Lahore streets come alive the way only they can at night.

“Farhad played on my first and third record,” Atif reminisces, “and they would never have sounded that good without him. Today, whoever I am is because of people like Farhad and Sarmad [Ghafoor] and everyone who played on Jal Pari because they put in a lot of effort.”

“We were going to do two [new] songs together,” he continues, “and I actually wrote the lyrics as well, but didn’t know that he wasn’t going to be around.” As hard as it may be under the circumstances, Atif thinks Farhad would have wanted to be remembered with joy and happiness – a celebration, if you will – a sentiment he can relate to. When his time is up, he, too, would want a joyous commemoration, not sadness.

Celebration is, indeed, the spirit of the night. The event, titled Sunchaser, has been organized by Riot Productions that is now being run by Farhad’s family, which includes his mother, renowned academic-actress Navid Shahzad, and his sisters, Rima and Sara.

The venue is Farhad’s studio. When you get to the building, you go straight down a pristine corridor till you reach the elevator. Right across from this is a cream-coloured drum kit that belonged to the Overload frontman. It looks beautiful, majestic. But also oddly forlorn, although that just might be projection.

It’s been four months since Farhad Humayun passed away at the age of 42. He bravely battled a brain tumour and had two surgeries to fight the cancer, but the disease sadly progressed. While his life may have been unfairly short, his impact on the Pakistani music industry was substantial. He helped shape the underground music scene of the country, formed bands like Co-Ven and Mindriot before finding success with the percussion rock outfit Overload and helped launch the careers of then-fledgling artists – including Atif Aslam – along the way.

“He achieved more in his short life than people do in a full, 80-year life, so I’m very grateful for that,” Sara tells Instep. “Some stars [are] shooting stars. They shine brighter for a short period of time and then they disappear.”

Sara describes Farhad as not just her brother, but her best friend, her partner in crime, and a remarkable person. “Great musicians come and go, but great human beings are rare and never forgotten. And he won’t be forgotten, I can assure you of that.”

Rima shares similar sentiments. “We all wish he had more time, but I think his impact is something that … people may live three lives and sometimes not make [such] an impact.”

The sisters say the siblings had a wonderful childhood, shared a strong bond, and had a lot of things in common, including an appreciation of art, culture, music, and travel. “Thanks to our parents, we were free to follow our own paths,” Rima continues, “and I think Farhad just did it beautifully.”

The family now hopes to carry forward Farhad’s legacy. Riot Productions plans to publish his unreleased works, which include an English album as well as several Punjabi and Urdu singles, as early as next year. Riot Studios will keep its doors open for musicians while a trust will be set up for aspiring artists in keeping with his passion for nourishing newcomers. For tonight though, Riot Studios is busy commemorating its creator. Standing in the middle of a room full of Farhad’s loved ones and mates, it’s hard not to be hit by the immense loss of this remarkable talent. “We ask you to leave your sadness at the door,” the invite had read, but it is clear that this is a hard directive to follow.

When his mother addresses the crowd after the short documentary about Farhad’s life and presenting the studio’s vision, her voice breaks. “It is said that we die only when we are forgotten, but I can say with great pride that … everyone who ever knew Fadi would continue to help me keep my child alive,” she says, “even as he lives in another dimension.”

When I speak to Anoushey Ashraf later, she too is visibly emotional. “He was just so young that I didn’t think we’d ever lose him, so when we did, it hit me in the worst way possible, and even today I think of him all the time,” she says, tearing up. “I know he’s in a better place and I hope we get to reunite and make some music up there soon.

“[He’d like us to remember him] as somebody who was larger than life, somebody who made people happy, and more than anything else, I think he would just love to see all of us happy, knowing that we are remembering him, thinking of him, and celebrating him every day.”

The atmosphere gets significantly more upbeat as soon as the live music session commences.

Over the course of nearly two hours, several of Farhad’s friends and cohorts take the stage, first to perform some of his songs and then for an open mic session featuring covers of some of his favourite tracks.

Ali Noor is the first on stage and delivers an energetic rendition of ‘Batti’. Others soon follow. Atif enamours the crowd with ‘Nimmi Nimmi’; Faiza Mujahid is joined by Salman Albert for a performance of ‘Kambakht’ and Abdullah Qureshi delivers a powerful version of ‘Neray Aah’.

As the open mic session begins, Faiza joins me on the aforementioned balcony. “By the turnout here, you can see how many lives Farhad changed. He was very encouraging; we needed someone who could see our talent and polish it and Farhad was that mentor.”

She was impressed by his expertise, appreciative of his humility, and grateful for his advice, encouragement, and support. And she was surprised not only by the fact that he approached her for ‘Kambakht’ but that he made sure she was front and centre in the video instead of being in the background.

“This speaks of the security of a person. And this is why I miss him. Because aisay genuine loag, aisay loag jin ki respect karnay ko dil karay music industry mai bohat kum hain. And trust me, I’ve been in this industry for the longest time,” she says.

I see Ahmad Ali Butt just as Faiza is leaving and ask him about Farhad’s influence on the industry. He replies, “I always said that he is one person with a lot of guts. Because he fought with the corporates, he fought for music rights, he fought for royalties, and he wasn’t afraid of anyone. Even I’ve never done this, but he did it. And hats off to him. Whenever I think of him, I smile,” he adds, “and I think that’s the best gift he left us with.”

The proceedings are winding down and Salman Albert finally has time to speak to me. He has helped coordinate the live music session and has had a very busy evening, taking the stage multiple times and performing with many of the artists.

“I knew Farhad since the late ‘80s when the Lahore underground scene began,” he tells me. “We met socially and shared a similar sense of humour because of which we were on good terms.”

But the two didn’t share a close association until around seven years ago when a performance changed things. “I think I never told Farhad about this, and I regret it now. I saw Overload perform at St. Anthony’s and I said to myself that I want to play the guitar in this band. So I asked Shiraz bhai, and then decided to speak to Farhad myself, and that’s how I started playing with the band. After that we were like brothers, friends, family. We travelled together. We used to hang out before and after jam sessions. Then his mother would call us to have dinner, and we’d all have dinner together.

“It is an honour for me that in the days around his death, his mother and sisters said that ‘yeh Farhad ka dost naheen hai, uss ka bhai hai’. This honour will stay with me forever.”

It’s nearly 11 pm now. The event is over. The elevator brings me back down, and there it is again, that cream-coloured drum kit. For some reason it looks even sadder than it did a couple of hours ago. But now I take comfort in the knowledge that there are so many people who loved the man that played these drums, and are trying to ensure that his beat goes on.