“Look at this” a relative of mine said, holding a photograph that must have been taken almost half a century ago. “It has Shamim Ara, Waheed Murad and the Queen of Melody — but what are you doing among them?” I had forgotten about this photograph but the moment I saw it, past events came rolling back as if they had happened only yesterday.

I was a young Pakistan Foreign Service officer on my very first assignment to Sri Lanka. The year was 1971 and the Sri Lanka airport was being used as a landing and refuelling point for our PIA and C-130 flights carrying military personnel to East Pakistan where trouble had started brewing, as India had banned our airlines from flying over their territory. The Sri Lanka prime minister, Mrs. Bandaranaike, had no great love for the Indian government and had granted us landing and refuelling rights for our military aircraft in spite of India’s strong protests.

Around this time, our government had decided to send three national artistes on a goodwill mission to Sri Lanka as part of a film festival. The Sri Lankans, many of Pakistani origin, were thrilled at the prospect of a film festival from Pakistan. But we had also been warned that given the troubles emerging in our eastern wing there would be a body of people trying to sabotage the festival.

On the very day that our film stars arrived in Colombo a Sri Lankan newspaper carried a half page ad in the movies section stating, “Now showing: Genocide. Starring Yahya Khan, Shamim Ara, Waheed Murad, and a cast of thousands. Filmed on location in East Pakistan in gory colour.” Of course, we objected to the ad but the editor said he’d really had no idea it was a propaganda spoof and promised to vet all ads carefully in future. But this had already sounded alarm bells that a movement to sabotage the festival had begun, and the high commissioner thought it best to apprise our film stars and ask them if they felt comfortable going on with the show. In case they were apprehensive, we could cancel their personal appearances at the festival.

Noor Jehan answered on behalf of all. She said this was a cultural visit and they had come to give people a good time, and there was no way they were going to cancel. They would attend the festival for the entire week, no backing out. I was given the pleasurable task of looking after the entourage and to show them around. Our first trip was the Kollupitya market. I didn’t think anyone would recognise our actors in the busy local bazaar, but to my surprise someone shouted, “Arey, Noori hey, Noori hey!” and in a matter of minutes our car was surrounded by hundreds of people. But this was not an unruly crowd, rather an admiring one, and Noor Jehan seemed to enjoy the adulation. She asked the man who had screamed out her name how he had recognised her; he replied that he was originally from Bombay and as a young man had seen all her films!

Fortunately, there was never any untoward incident during the visit, except once during the festival while we were watching the inaugural show. As the movie began, a sign appeared at the bottom of the screen “Dr. Mujeebur Rehman required immediately by heart patient.” I left my seat and hurriedly made a beeline for the projection box where the projectionist claimed he had no idea who Mujeebur Rehman was, he thought it was a genuine call for a doctor and it was for this reason he had flashed it on the screen. Outside the theatre we were met by pickets proclaiming “Stop the genocide” “Pakistani musicians fiddling while East Pakistan burns” and a whole lot of similar signs. But the Sri Lankans had come out in full force to watch all the shows and the pickets were simply pushed aside. Noor Jehan and her two colleagues mingled fearlessly with the crowds, never for a moment afraid that some fanatic would suddenly attack or aim a bottle of acid at them. Indeed, it seemed the lady who sang “Merya dhol sipaya, tenu Rabb diya rakha” had a heart as valiant as the jawans she sang for.

As the festival got underway, it was time to take my three visitors on a tour of the emerald isle. From the well-stocked zoo in the city to the lush green hill station of Kandy and the serene white sand beaches, these were the most entertaining excursions, more so because this team of artistes was full of fun, and we shared loads of laughter and jokes, almost as if we were a bunch of school kids on a picnic enjoying ourselves. Totally unassuming, vivacious and bubbling with joy, it felt wonderful to be with them. During one of these happy moments Noor Jehan told me I reminded her of her own son who, incidentally, was also named Akbar.

Towards the end of the tour, there were some official receptions, and the grand finale, where Noor Jehan took the stage and delighted the guests with her songs. I was not supposed to be anywhere on the stage, but during our picnics I had joined them in singing, and Noor Jehan announced, “We have a member from our embassy who I’ve discovered can also sing, and I would like him to join us on the stage.” As a mere bathroom singer I was hesitant to join this melodious triumvirate, but the Queen’s command was an order that had to be obeyed, and I took my place on the stage, with Waheed, Shamim Ara and her majesty, providing the chorus for the divine voice as it enthralled the audience.

Forty-three years have passed since the photograph was taken. Noor Jehan and Waheed Murad have passed away and Shamim Ara is not in the best of health, so I alone am left to tell the tale of the photograph when a young diplomat took the stage with the one and only Queen of Melody on an enchanted island far away.

(Akbar Agha is a former diplomat and author of The Fatwa Girl)