It was 1990, and I was rehearsing for a stage play with the legendary film star and comedian Lehri at the Fleet Club in Saddar, Karachi. I no longer remember the name of the play, but I remember the immense honour I felt at being cast in the lead role alongside such a celebrated artist.

Five years earlier, I had come to the same Fleet Club with some friends from my old neighbourhood, Nazimabad, to watch Lehri perform. We had arrived four hours before the scheduled time, simply because we wanted to see him up close. But the crowd surrounding him was so large that I could not even shake his hand. Just seeing him was enough to make me happy.

There is a black-and-white photograph included with this article that confirms that memory. In it, I can be seen standing behind my neighbours, Tahir Qureshi and senior singer Aslam Gul. The photograph had been taken especially with Lehri, although film star Moin Akhter and singer Tahseen Javed also happened to be in the frame.

But let me return to that stage play at the Fleet Club.

In those days, stage plays would typically be rehearsed for at least five days. On the first day of rehearsals with Lehri, I was wearing a blue striped shirt. He was pleased with my performance and even complimented me.

The following day, I arrived wearing a white shirt with jeans. During the rehearsal, Lehri suddenly began forgetting his lines and became annoyed with me.

Because I had enormous respect for him, I asked very politely, “What happened, Lehri sahib? I am delivering my lines exactly according to the script.”

He replied, “Yesterday you were wearing a different shirt, and today you have come wearing another one. Of course I’m going to forget my lines!” I could not quite understand the logic.

I later discovered that this was actually a peculiarity of Lehri’s working style. If the actor performing opposite him changed his clothes during rehearsals or shooting days, or even made minor changes to the dialogue, Lehri would sometimes lose track of his own lines.

But a stage play could run continuously for at least three or four days. It was hardly practical for an actor to wear the same clothes throughout!

Lehri’s real name was Safirullah Siddiqui. He was an exceptionally refined, well-dressed and sophisticated man. Many great comedians have graced Pakistan’s film industry, but Lehri, Munawar Zarif and Rangeela elevated film comedy to an art form that has endured.

All three legends had distinctive styles, completely different from one another. Lehri’s particular strength, however, was his ability to deliver spontaneous, witty lines with elegance – without resorting to exaggerated facial expressions or physical comedy.

I also felt a special connection with Lehri because he lived only a few streets away from my old home in Nazimabad. Film star Ghulam Mohiuddin lived about three streets beyond Lehri’s house before eventually moving to North Nazimabad.

Despite my best efforts, I never actually managed to see Lehri in Nazimabad. I did, however, become acquainted with his son, Zulfi. At one point in my life, I became interested in learning karate, and Zulfi also used to come to the same karate centre. We would occasionally chat there.

My first meeting with Lehri took place in 1988 at the Rio Auditorium in Karachi, formerly known as Rio Cinema, where he was performing in a stage play.

By that time, I had already become fairly well known for stand-up comedy. Lehri greeted me with great warmth. I had heard that he had a short temper and could become irritated easily, but that was not how I found him at all.

He already knew of me through my work. During our conversation, he told me that his own artistic journey had also begun with stand-up comedy.

Lehri asked me to perform some of my comedy material for him. I did, and he smiled, encouraged me and offered me a few valuable suggestions.

Lehri also had a wonderfully entertaining relationship with film star Nirala, and I was fortunate enough to witness some of their banter myself.

As I mentioned, I am talking about 1988. Around those years, Lehri had suffered a stroke that affected his arms, legs and speech. Although he recovered, some effects of the illness were still visible. Occasionally, there was a slight hesitation or slurring in his speech. Yet the mischievous smile never disappeared from his face.

Wherever he sat, he could transform an ordinary gathering into a place of laughter. His playful exchanges and witty reparte with his contemporaries and old friends never seemed to stop.

Film star Nirala was only slightly senior to Lehri, and the two had begun performing on stage at roughly the same time. Lehri had a peculiar way of showing affection: he would often address people he was fond of with a harmless, mock insult. He never intended it as an actual insult; it was simply his playful way of expressing affection.

By the time Lehri and Nirala had retired from the film industry and moved into Karachi’s stage-drama circuit, both had approximately 35 to 40 years of experience in films behind them.

I remember one particular incident at the Rio Auditorium. Before a stage play was due to begin, Lehri and Nirala were sitting together on a sofa, while I and several other artists were nearby. Lehri addressed me with one of his trademark playful insults and pointed towards Nirala.

“Do you know him?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” I replied. “Who doesn’t know him? He is the famous film star Nirala sahib.”

“Let me tell you something about him,” Lehri said.

“Please do, Lehri sahib.”

With a mischievous smile, he said, “He worked in films for 40 years so that he could eventually get work in stage plays.”

Everyone burst into laughter.

Nirala, visibly irritated, shot back sarcastically, “Yes, Lehri. And you have come here to shoot a film in a stage play, haven’t you?”

That response produced an even bigger roar of laughter. I was an eyewitness to the entire exchange. I was also told about another prank Lehri once played on Nirala. The two were attending a gathering when someone asked Lehri, “Between you and Nirala sahib, who is senior?”

Lehri replied, “Nirala is senior to me.”

Nirala proudly looked around at the gathering, clearly pleased with the answer.

Then came Lehri’s punchline.

“We may be equal in seniority,” he said, “but I am the better one.” The gathering erupted in laughter, while Nirala was left fuming.

Something about Nirala seemed to bring out Lehri’s mischievous sense of humour. Yet beneath all the teasing, the two had tremendous affection and respect for one another.

In the early 1980s, while shooting a film abroad, Lehri suffered another stroke. One of his hands, one of his legs and his speech were affected, leaving him with a noticeable difficulty in speaking.

As a result, film offers began to dry up and his professional life came to a standstill. Lehri was the sole breadwinner of his family, and his illness inevitably had a serious impact on his financial circumstances.

During that difficult period, Moin Akhter bhai supported him greatly. Once Lehri had recovered sufficiently, Moin began taking him along to live variety shows. He would even recreate scenes from some of Lehri’s films as comedy sketches and perform them with him on stage.

Those opportunities provided Lehri with considerable financial support at a difficult time in his life.

Whether it was Lehri, Nirala or other legends of that era, the period when I had the privilege of meeting them was, in many ways, the final chapter of their careers.

But whatever time I spent in their company taught me a great deal. I learned from them not only about performance, but also about life, resilience and the importance of humour.

In 1994, a political party organised a grand celebration following its major electoral success. A large-scale musical show was arranged, with almost all the prominent artists of the time invited to perform.

Moin Akhter bhai was to host the show, while I was scheduled to perform stand-up comedy. Since Lehri was going to perform a comedy sketch with Moin, he arrived before him. I had also reached the venue. The show was being held in a huge park-like open ground in Karachi. Lehri was dressed in a beautiful white three-piece suit. I noticed him pacing restlessly behind the stage. Suddenly, he gestured for me to come over.

“Mian,” he said, “my stomach has been upset since yesterday because of the medicines I’m taking. I’m suddenly having severe cramps. Find out if there is somewhere I can get some relief.”

I became worried when I saw him in such discomfort. I took Lehri to the washroom belonging to the owner of the park where the show was being held. Unfortunately, it was barely usable, but there was no alternative. Afterwards, Lehri felt relieved and thanked me with heartfelt prayers and blessings. I, too, experienced a strange sense of spiritual happiness from being able to help him. After that incident, Lehri’s affection and kindness towards me seemed to grow even stronger.

By the time I am referring to, Lehri had grown considerably older. He had become bearded and regular in his prayers, and there was a distinct serenity and dignity on his face. They say time is merciless. It spares no one. Whether one is a celebrated personality like Lehri or an ordinary person, the passage of time leaves its mark. Lehri, too, was growing older, weaker and more ill with each passing year. But his sense of humour remained untouched.

In 1994, PTV used to broadcast a drama series called Ek Raat Ek Kahani, in which a new play was presented every week. One of its episodes was recorded with me. It was titled Tajruba

(Experience).

The entire 50-minute drama revolved around my character. It was a completely serious play, and only at the very end were there two humorous lines. The night the drama was broadcast on PTV, I received tremendous appreciation. My phone kept ringing with calls from friends and acquaintances. The next morning, at around nine o’clock, I received a call from Lehri. In his trademark style, and with one of his familiar playful insults, he said, “I watched your ‘D-ramma’ last night.”

That exaggerated pronunciation was very much part of Lehri’s distinctive film-style delivery:

“Bhai, it was a very good D-ramma.”

“Thank you very much, Lehri sahib,” I replied.

“But after watching your drama,” he continued, “we have become very disappointed with television dramas.”

I became worried.

“Why? What happened?” I asked.

With his characteristic mischievousness, he replied:

“Mian, if even you start doing such good work, what will happen to everyone else? What on earth is going on?”

I understood the joke and burst out laughing. Lehri laughed along with me.

He then became serious and gave me his considered opinion about the drama, praising my work and encouraging me.

I have received many awards in my career. But even today, the encouragement and appreciation I received from the legendary film star and comedian Lehri remain, for me, the greatest award of all.

May Allah shower His mercy upon Lehri sahib and grant him eternal peace.

Ameen.