I lived around three kilometres from the office, which sometimes seemed far enough. For Arif and Atif, home was another three kilometres or so away when they bid me goodbye for the day. It would get worse for our natural athlete, “Tora Khan”, when coach Arif and I decided to round off with some tea at Regal chowk (Was the spot called Tom and Jerry? My face breaks into a smile as I try to recall. You know that Arif was nicknamed Tom.
We would every now and then have a cup of tea at this shop, and then we would have another, and often be there until dawn. “Chalyay Gudday?” (Shall we move Gudday) Arif would eventually propose, to which Atif responded with standard riposte, “Nayeen Arif Bhaiyan… Betho chaa aa rayee aye…” (No Arif sir… have a seat… tea is about to be served..” This is where this ‘betho chaa a rayee aye’ entered our lexicon.
Gudda, Tora Khan, Atif Machine, the player Tora Khan was the title a teacher gave to Atif Mateen at the St Anthony's High School — after a famous footballer. My younger brother Ahmar, who was Atif’s session fellow at the school, says he excelled in all sports he played.
The tradition was later taken indoors. Veterans of the Lahore Press Club would tell you how a feeling of admiration mixed with apprehension would take over the participants whenever Atif joined a late-night game of cards. He won regularly and more than that he just loved to remind everyone around that he always won.
Back in his neighbourhood, everyone, or everyone with an inclination to rival the nicknames flaunted by the filmy posters in Royal Park, carried a carefully cultivated moniker of their own. Kali( otherwise known as Asim Mateen), Noni (Amir), Tom (Arif) and Mana (Lyallpuria or Sheikhupuria, also known as Imran Munir) clearly appeared to have the second option open in case their grand desire to rescue the society as journalist-reformers failed. I do not know if Mr Nasir Jamal had a nickname or not, but he more than compensated for it with mannerism. I hear he still does. Atif got the happiest of all tags, Gudda, and not by chance. Both his parents worked hard to raise their four sons. Khalid Mateen, the eldest of the Mateen siblings who passed on a few years ago, ostensibly played the establishment, retiring as a colonel in the army. The presence of all these family members must have been a huge contributor in the proud and friendly man he grew into. Into his working years, Atif Mateen was given another honorific, Atif Machine. In moments of extreme excitement he would often himself repeat the two words for dramatic effect, without bothering too much about what the others thought about these boasts. This positivity and confidence was what kept him going even though I have a feeling that in recent times he might have been weighed down by the accidents happening around him.I realise this only now. His last few messages were indicative of a certain change from the heady days he might have been undergoing. I knew he had a big heart surgery a couple of years ago, but sitting a long way away from home, I kept asking him what may have been too much for him to bear: About departing friends, collapsing newspapers, et al. “Yeh dunya particularly Pakistan iss qabil nahi reh gae,” he replied to my query about the shocking death of friend and colleague Imran Sheikh. Really Atif? You had to second-source the story with your own example to establish authenticity here? You know just how tough it is to stay away from home? The guilt of leaving your loved ones behind to live in uninhabitable conditions— for unliveable conditions of your own— is all consuming.
Journalist, colleague, friend
Atif was no allama. He shunned long, unending discussions involving everyone from the really gifted copy editors to wannabe grammar nazis. He wanted action and lived on and drew inspiration from the street.