One of the dhaaba's (roadside cafe) where I frequently bought my diet cokes from had a fading poster of bygone Pakistani film star and icon: Waheed Murad– pasted on a corner wall. This dhaaba was located outside the building that housed one of my previous employers; because it was a regular haunt with several of my colleagues, I would notice it every time we would visit – over the six years and something months that I spent at that job.
Eventually I got to know the dhaabe wala reasonably well. He is a white-haired man in his late 60s and his name is Qaiser. Owning several such dhaaba's in the same area, he has done well for himself and his family; he lives in a self-owned three-bedroom apartment with his wife and three children (two sons and a daughter). The sons are college graduates and help with Qaiser bhai's dhaaba setups. Last year, his daughter completed her intermediate from a local college.
Despite having known Qaiser bhai for a while now, I had no idea that way, way before his current dhaaba setups, he used to be a barber. I learned about this during one of my last visits to the dhaaba, after I finally asked him about the fading, dusty, dog-eared Waheed Murad poster on his wall. This conversation happened a few days before jumping ships at work.
He laughed.
Qaiser: "Arey, aap nahi jaanti hu …?" (You don’t know about this?)
One of Qaiser bhai's assistants, Kudrat, also smiled:
Kudrat: "Behn Sarah, aap nein Qaiser Bhai ki dukhti rug par haath rak diya hai …" (Sister, you have hit a sore nerve!).
It turned out that the poster was over 40 years old. A huge Waheed Murad fan, Qaiser had bought it from a street vendor in Saddar’s Regal area in 1974 when he was in his early 20s. At the time Pakistan’s film industry was thriving and Waheed Murad was one its biggest stars. Around this time, Qaiser had joined one of his uncles’ barber shops in Karachi’s Guru Mandir area after having dropped out of a government school in the 10th grade.
"I had become a barber solely because of Waheed Murad," he told me. "His hairstyle was all the rage in those days. Women loved him and men wanted the Waheed Murad Cut …"
In 1979, Qaiser Bhai set up his own barber shop; but four years later he sold it to a friend and used the money to set up his first dhaaba in Clifton. The rest, as they say, was history.
Sarah: But wasn’t the shop doing well?
Qaiser: "The shop did very well. I made good money from it."
Sarah: But then why suddenly sell it?
Qaiser: "Murad Sahib Allah ku pyare hugaye …" (Waheed Murad died)
After Waheed Murad’s demise, Qaiser explained he stopped going to the barber shop.
Qaiser: "One day, just like that, I quit being a barber," Qaiser Bhai explained. "I was heartbroken by Murad’s death."
By then, Pakistani cinema had started making a swing in tides, and the dynamics of the pre-1980s society had begun to change. And when Pakistan’s film industry changed its trajectory, several successful actors and filmmakers suddenly found themselves in a quandary. Some compromised their natural fortes and fees and began doing television plays and theatre; others ventured into regional films whose stock and popularity rose rather bizarrely during the 1980s.
This shift in the sheen of these once idolised film stars was most strikingly exemplified by the fate of a man who, for more than a decade was the country’s leading film icon. This man was Waheed Murad.
From the mid-1960s till about 1977, there was something special about Waheed Murad: anything he worked on turned to gold. Traditionally and specifically, he would take on the roles of the very romantic gentlemen – who would wear their hearts on their sleeves and demonstrate their optimistic nature with a blatant rejection of both irony and cynicism. This, in the process, earned him the endearing titles of the industry's "chocolate hero" and "romance ka shahzada".
The fall from where he was, to where he eventually reached over time would have understandably been devastating. Recall that this was the man, who once in his heyday visited Karachi's Sadar area in his white car – had a group of 30-odd college girls cover the vehicle with lipstick kisses when they realised that it was Waheed Murad’s car. This was circa 1971.
But only time would tell, how long that would last.
When the industry began to experience the repercussions of Pakistan's 1977 military coup, Murad became the calamity’s first casualty. In line with times and tides, Murad’s contemporaries started aligning their work to match the "newly implemented correct" lines – where Murad’s romantic heroes who danced, sang, and shed tears at the drop of a pin, very blatantly went out of vogue. Over time – other superstars continued dishing out hits, while Murad was ignored by filmmakers. Adding to this equation, he had no or very little choice in selecting his co-stars during the early 70s. After getting married to Muhammad Ali, Zeba was not allowed to work as a heroine opposite Murad; Robin Ghosh followed the exact suit with his wife, Shabnam. And eventually, even Nisho was not allowed to work with him. These proved to be major setbacks for Murad's career and most top producers started offering him secondary roles in their films.
The fall from where he was, to where he eventually ended up over time would have understandably been devastating. Recall that this was the man, who once in his heydays visited Karachi's Saddar area in his white car – and had a group of 30-odd college girls cover the vehicle with lipstick kisses when they realised that it was Murad’s car. This was circa 1971.
Perplexed and bitter, his depression led him to slip into the dark void of heavy substance abuse. When he appeared as a guest on Anwar Maqsood’s PTV Silver Jubilee TV show (circa 1982), Murad looked exhausted – with deep, dark circles underneath his eyes and sounded like a man on the verge of a breakdown. His wife of many years, Salma Maker, had temporarily left him when some film producers conditionally offered Murad a return to the big screen in the role of a hero.
The premise? That he would clean up his act; Murad agreed.
But in 1982’s minor hit Aahat, he seemed to be playing exactly himself: a broken man surrounded by empty gin bottles, medicines, and memories of what was once a radiant life. And, ironically, destiny had marked him to fall even further. In early 1983, while driving under the influence of anti-depressants, he smashed his car into a tree – terribly scarring his face. After this accident, he tried finding solace in his two children and further (hollow) promises by film producers – who continued saying ‘yes’ to the very man who (at multiple points in the past) had helped them earn millions of rupees. But, of course, it was just a gesture of pity.
Then finally it happened.
In 1983, the now 46-year-old legend, heartthrob, and cinematic Midas was found dead in the bedroom of his friend’s house. The cause of his death was originally attributed to overdosing on assorted psychotropic medicines, but it is also believed that he had ended his own life. A film critic lamented that it wasn’t the pills, alcohol, and substance abuse that killed Murad. It was his own broken heart that ended his life.
When I told this to Qaiser bhai, he agreed:
"Bilkul!" (Indeed).
But then Qaiser bhai suddenly withdrew and quietly walked out of his dhaaba. Using his hands to add emphasis, Kudrat gestured to me that he (Qaiser bhai) would be all right. But he did add:
"Kaha tha na, Behn Sarah. Qaiser Bhai ki dukti rag par haath rak diya aap nein …" (I told you, you had hit a sore nerve).
A few days later when I visited the dhaaba again, I noticed that the poster had disappeared. I asked Kudrat about it and he mentioned that Qaiser bhai had ripped it apart and disposed of it somewhere.
And when I asked Kudrat where Qaiser bhai was, I was very brazenly told:
"Wo retire hogaye hein". (He has retired.)