Hey KB; you are forever our baby

Mirza Khurram Baig's death came as a shock to the journalistic community

Boss, friend, confidant and thorough gentleman were just some of the terms thrown around when talking of Mirza Khurram Baig. KB, as he was better known, was a man infamous for his temper, but equally famous for his kindness.

“Sheikh sahab”, he would call out when I entered the newsroom. It was the best part of my day. I would greet him back with the same phrase. It was our special greeting – one that only we shared. That was my Sheikh sahab, though. He had a special greeting for all he loved.

“Hey AB; how is the baby?” was another greeting often heard in our newsroom for another colleague. There were a mere handful who got the KB treatment, but how lucky they were.

“I used to shout across the newsroom floor every morning “hey KB how is the baby?”” recalls his colleague Abid Hasan when Khurram’s first child was born. Talking to his late friend in first person, Abid says,

“A few years later, you counseled me every [single] day when my son Kabir was fighting for his life when he was born. For this, I am eternally grateful. Once all was well and I got back to work, I was greeted daily with “Hey Ab, how is your baby?””

KB’s death came as a shock to the journalistic community and his colleagues found it difficult to put their feelings into words. When asked, most found it difficult to muster the courage to speak. Those who did had only the finest words, but not without a deep sense of mourning.

The Express Tribune Editor Naveed Hussain felt as if he was hit by a tonne of bricks when he heard the news.

"I’m shocked and heartbroken by the unexpected passing of Baig sb. His death reminds me of how fragile life and how cruel death can be," Naveed says

"He was a gem of a person with a heart of gold. He had this beautiful way of earning respect: by giving it to others. As a journalist, he was a thorough professional; and as a person, a thorough gentleman."

Another colleague remembers him just as fondly.

“His personality would light the room up whenever and wherever he walked in,” remembers Taha Siddiqui, a fellow news channel anchor.

“A hardworking person who put his mind and soul into everything he did. His humour, presence and views about life will forever be missed. I have truly lost a close friend and a brother,” he says.

Hussain Dada is another who was better acquainted with KB than others. “Humble, helpful and surprisingly patient. And unstoppable in table tennis,” he says.

Sheikh Sahab had a tendency to dominate any sphere he walked into, but in the best way. Dada’s recollection of him being unstoppable at table tennis is all too true.

As for me, his loss leaves a void almost impossible to fill.  He was, above all else, a friend’s friend – one always ready to lend an ear, a shoulder to cry on and engage in the best conversation. KB had warmth in abundance; it was sincere and largely unmatched.

He and I would sit for hours and talk about everything under the sun, but despite his supreme intelligence, not once did he let a junior feel inferior. It is easy to go on for years about KB. However, its best to stop and sum the Sheikh for what he truly was – a prince.