What can you say when a friend of 30 years, a lifetime really, is snatched from you in the killing fields of Karachi?
What can you say when the friend is taken away in the prime of his life; when, in fact, he himself represented life as no other?
What can you say when that friend is ... was Masood Hamid?
Anyone and everyone who met him was touched by his affection, humour and most of all, his big, compassionate heart. A smile on his lips, a never-ending reservoir of jokes at the ready recall, a boisterous and infectious laugh and always extremely well-turned out. That was Masood Hamid.
Yes, in our university days, when worn out (often dirty) jeans, T-shirts and a scruffy look was the ‘in’ thing (and the only one we could afford), he was always in a spotless white shirt and smart grey trousers; shaven and shining. When later his immense business acumen enabled him to climb the corporate ladder rapidly, his well-tailoured suits became the envy of his peers.
We have laughed together on more occasions than I’d care to count. He was the friend you’d want in your hour of need, if you ever had the misfortune of falling on hard times.
He had the magic and the conviction to make you believe that the end to your troubles was round the corner.
We have been through considerable thick and thin. He was always very proud of his tremendous journey. The last time we arrived at the Haroon House car parking together, and both our drivers saw us and started up the car engines, he laughed and said:
“Sir, we are spoilt for choice today. Remember that afternoon in Hasan Square?”
How could I have forgotten.
We had both come from the university campus with a friend who wasn’t going further. And we both needed to be in Saddar for our appointments.
Masood Hamid, the meticulous cricket statistician, couldn’t be late for a meeting with his guru, beloved editor and cricket writer Gul Hamid Bhatti. So we both checked our rather thin wallets and happily decided that we could afford a rickshaw ride that day, rather than the usual bus journey.
I still can’t believe Masood is no more. I can say without doubt anyone who was ever been touched by him, in any capacity, would be bereft today. He embodied friendship; a true ‘yaaroon ka yaar’.
Masood, the consummate professional was another story. I have permission from the writer to quote from the Facebook page of Hasan Jafri, who was a staff reporter at Herald in the 1990s and now lives in Singapore:
"Masood Hamid was one of the finest media marketing professionals in Pakistan. In a business where editorial and commercial interests often clash, he was a master at walking that tightrope.
"He was an optimist, a positive person and a professional sales guy who was comfortable in the company of pessimists, cynics, rabble rousers, trouble makers, drunkards, junkies, narcissists, social outcasts, eccentrics and self-promoters. We had all and Masood could handle all.
"As a professional, he enjoyed not just selling news, he enjoyed news itself and the process of news-making.
"Dawn, the flagship daily under the PHPL Group, was measured and sober, and has remained so for near-seven decades. Herald, the flagship current affairs magazine, didn't publish to please. It was the rebellious child in the family.
"Sometimes Masood would walk into our newsroom and say in his typical friendly style with that devilish smile: 'Man, this story you guys are going to publish is pretty dangerous, yaar. But don't worry. You do your work, we'll do ours.'
"Sometimes he'd walk in and say: '[expletive deleted], marwa dia. Why did you guys have to poke XYZ's backside?' And then, behind the scenes, do the marketing damage control that was needed post-publishing."
I cannot add much to this but will say that in this day and age, when other newspapers marketing bosses don’t think twice before plastering their front-pages with full-page ads, given the price is right; never once in my four years as editor did Masood pick up the phone and ask to accommodate so much as a press release.
He would have such requests marked by a colleague as, ‘For the editor’s approval’. And whatever way the editor exercised his discretion, he never once complained.
The team he brought together developed into one of the finest marketing teams in the country, which reflected the boss’s approach, ethics and attitude. Masood’s excitement at the 'Dawn.com' project was boundless, as he more than understood the significance of online media platforms.
All through my tenure, I had one bone to pick with him. 'What’s this “Sir” stuff, Masood,' I’d say, 'it’s extremely embarrassing'.
He’d retort, 'You are the editor. As an old friend I can’t appear to be taking liberties.' The finality in his tone made it impossible to argue with him.
There is grief, and a rush of memories from bygone years. I remember first meeting his beautiful young bride at their flat near Clifton Bridge (I was away when they wed). Today, I remember the same Afshan and Masood making sure our fridge was well-stocked on the eve of my family’s arrival in Karachi to join me after I left the BBC and moved from London to Karachi to take up my job at Dawn.
I can never forget the support that Masood, his wife and the team extended to my family on a personal plane. Carmen, who had left her BBC job to come and live in Pakistan, recalls him as a saviour. When I was away on work and any of our two daughters were unwell, she’d always call him for help and he’d think nothing of making any arrangements needed to ensure they were safe and reassured.
I recall how he and Hameed Haroon, the CEO of Dawn, arrived in my BBC office unannounced one day, and argued long and hard how I would make a prudent choice to join Dawn at what was an exciting time in the country’s and its media’s history.
When I struggled to find work in my post-Dawn life, with the global economy nosediving, Masood was the only friend who constantly kept in touch, emailing 'Mere Dost', and calling to inquire after us and to cheer me up.
My thoughts are with with Afshan, Tooba and Asad tonight. And with the bereaved Dawn family.