Such was my childhood friend, Azimur Rahman. We used to call him Haroon. I first met him in Dacca, the then capital of East Bengal, the eastern province of Pakistan, soon to be re-named East Pakistan. This was 1947. Many of the East Bengali Muslim families flocked to Dacca from Calcutta in the wake of the traumatic Partition of India. For those of us who came from Calcutta, Dacca, the sleepy little district town, was a bit of a culture shock. Initially, there was a schism with the local Dacca boys, who spoke Bengali with a Dacca accent and who would treat us as aliens, who spoke Bengali with an accent that sounded strange to their ears. In this milieu, the Calcutta boys found comfort in each other's company. That's when I came to know Haroon intimately.

Haroon and some others, who were studying in English medium schools like St. Xaviers in Calcutta were quickly accommodated in the hurriedly opened English medium section in St. Gregory's School in Laxmibazar in the old city. This section was housed in three large rooms beneath the students' dormitory across the football field. We, the deshis, the Bangla-medium boys, were in classes in the main building. Yet, the Calcutta fraternity transcended the distance of the medium. Haroon and I got very close to each other and although he lived in Purana Paltan and I in Segunbagicha, we met almost every day, either at his place or mine. Our transport was bicycle, on which we used to traverse the great distance between our homes and our school. Mounting the bicycle, he had a definite advantage over me -- he had long legs which he used as props at traffic posts; he did not have to dismount. I, on the other hand, had short legs and had to dismount when the traffic police stopped the traffic. Once I tried to imitate him and capsized, much to his amusement and to my discomfiture.

He was a true friend and always shared his moments of joy and sorrow with me. I still remember the day when the Matriculation Test Examination results came out. I got the highest marks in English in a combined result of both mediums.

"You beat us all hollow -- us the English medium boys," he grinned at me with genuine happiness. After that we both went to OK Restaurant next to Mukul Cinema and had our favourite snack, pastries and coffee.

Then there were the picnics. When winter came (winters were colder those days), we went on picnics, clad in heavy pullovers and woollen pants. Eight or ten of us would get on our bicycles, back-carriers full of food and drinks, and would ride through the early morning fog to the outskirts of the city, which is where we live now, the present day Gulshan, Banani, and Uttara. One of our favourite spots was the abandoned World War II military airstrip, which is now the Zia International Airport. This place was empty of people and we could do whatever we liked. We even carried an old gramophone which had a gooseneck sound box with a needle attached to it and you had to crank the box with a Z-shaped cranking bar. The Bakelite 78 rpm records were breakable and had to be handled with great care particularly because they were borrowed. We would sing and dance as we pleased and there was no one in view. Invariably, Haroon would be given the charge of making the sandwiches and the coffee, a task, which he performed seriously. He would be the last one to eat, after all of us had eaten. Sometimes, we would go to Rajendrapur Forest Bungalow by train (there was no road those days) and stay there for two or three days. It was fun, those outings.

We passed our high school examinations and entered Dacca College. Haroon and I both went into the Science section. Fulbaria campus of Dacca College was closer to home but we still used our bikes. Haroon was a good sportsman and was inducted into the college cricket team. We both joined the Air Scouts and for a while our sole ambition was to joint the Air Force. I was medically disqualified but Haroon carried on. He was sent to Karachi and England by the Air Force for orientation courses, but finally his family decided against his joining the hazardous profession. In due course we passed our Intermediate Science examinations and joined the University.

At Dacca University, we parted in our course of education. Haroon continued with science study and I joined the faculty of commerce, aspiring to be a chartered accountant. We were physically separated, he in Science Faculty Building and I in Arts. We continued to meet, however, outside class hours. He was good in studies and when he applied his mind to studies he did very well. Once he learnt something, he never forgot it. Science studies were demanding and he was becoming restless; he wanted to go abroad. He thought it was more important to be successful in life than be a mere good student. His wanderlust had earlier taken him to England and Ceylon, and now America beckoned him. So, one day, we saw him off at the old airport in Tejgaon, and he left for the US.

I lost contact with Haroon for several years after he left for abroad. I graduated from the University and completed my chartered accountancy course. But instead of joining the accountancy profession, I joined the civil service of Pakistan and for some years lived away from Dacca as a field officer. I kept hearing about Haroon from friends, bits and pieces of information, but never met him during this time. He had returned from America and joined a tea estate in Sylhet as manager, I heard. Then I was posted back to Dacca and chanced upon him one day. I was in the New Market area for shopping and was browsing the shops in Balaka Cinema Annex. Haroon materialised in front of me. He was slightly heavier. This was a pleasant surprise for both of us and we embraced each other. I noticed a shy, pretty young woman with him and he introduced his future wife Rokia, who was then the manager of the ladies' branch of a major bank situated in Balaka Building.

The contact with Haroon was re-established after many years. He told me since he was getting married, he was leaving his tea garden job and taking up a new one in Dacca. He would be the East Pakistan head of a large trading company having its head office in Karachi. He worked diligently with this company for a few years and we kept seeing each other quite often. My office in those days was in Motijheel, the same area as Haroon's, and we would drop into each other's office now and then for a cup of tea and a round of chat.

This is the time when he got ill. He got very depressed during this prolonged illness. The doctors in Dacca couldn't diagnose the disease. He suffered for nearly a year before Rokia, who has always been strong-minded, took the decision to take him to England for treatment. He underwent surgery and came back cured. He got back his verve and sitting in his office, cheerfully showed me the X-rays of his colon of which a part was excised. I was happy to see him back in good health.

On the eve of the birth of Bangladesh, his erstwhile employers sold him the firm in Dacca and he became the owner of the company that once employed him. This was an astute decision and really launched him into a successful business career. He worked very hard and expanded his business. He built a house in Gulshan. In about a decade and a half, I had three different postings with offices in Motijheel, within a hundred metres of Haroon's office. So, we were seeing each other quite often. Socially our families became close too and there were a lot of parties where we were meeting frequently. Haroon, Rokia, and their youngest daughter Fayza visited us when I got posted to Indonesia and we had a wonderful week of reunion there.

I came back home in 1991 and decided to quit the government and go into business. I knew nothing of business and was sailing into uncharted waters. I went to Haroon for advice, knowing full well he would give me the right counsel. He encouraged me to build up my own business. Go slow but steady, he said. It is very easy to lose money in business. I took his advice and did well. Five years later, I faced a dead wall in the wake of political disturbances. He said, if you can't go ahead in the same path, take a diversion and go into something else. I did and saved my business. He was wise and experienced and his counseling was a boon for a pretender to the business world like me.

Haroon had a strong character, never wilting or yielding in the face of adversity. The only time I found him really upset was when his older brother died of a disease very similar to his own. He revered his brother as someone exalted, and his demise left a permanent scar in Haroon's mind. Sabeth Bhai was a brother to all of Haroon's friends and his death left an emptiness in our hearts too.

Towards the end of his life, Haroon became a bit aloof and reflective, shunning social life and spending a lot of time playing golf by himself. He probably felt he had achieved in life what he wanted to achieve and he was quite satisfied. He was, I think, looking back and gleaning from the bits and pieces of his life while watching his offspring bloom into the fullness of their own lives. He became very fond of his grandson, with whom he loved to play. A few months before his death, I visited him at his place one weekend morning. He had just come back from the golf course. We talked for long time and I found, sitting in front of me, a man who had achieved a lot in life, almost single-handedly, just by sheer hard work and keen intelligence.

His death was sudden and it came as a great shock to me. He looked quite healthy and played golf regularly, almost every afternoon. He hardly looked like one who would depart so soon. I was not even aware of his hospitalisation. I was sleeping late the morning after he passed away and my little granddaughter came and woke me up with the newspaper in her hand. Your friend is dead, she said. I took the paper and saw his photograph on the front page announcing his death the night before. I couldn't believe my eyes. I rushed to his house and Rokia told me that he had passed away peacefully while he was talking to her and his son. They had no idea he would leave them that way.

Standing in the twilight zone of my own life, I cannot but think sometimes that when I go over to the other side of life and meet my old friend Haroon, what will he say to me. Knowing him, he will probably say, welcome home.

Manzur Murshed is a former Secretary and Ambassador.