I still remember the day I met Waheed Murad. I was a student of Class 8 at the Habib Public School in Karachi. On routine travel, we had been dropped by the school bus in Saddar, and were passing through Elphy, yes, the Zebunnisa Street of today. It was the 70s, full of bell bottoms and polo-neck sweaters, and suede shoes. There were five of us, and we were making our way slowly through the fashionable street. There was double parking in the lanes too, and the traffic never eased up. When we reached the middle of the street, where a famous watch shop used to be, we stopped to discuss what we are going to eat. That’s when we saw a sports car enter into the parking lot. It was a shining white convertible. We watched in fascination, guessing who would step out of the car. It was none other than the style icon of the local cinema, Waheed Murad, looking dashing in a tweed jacket and bell bottoms. He had dark glasses on and was twirling the car keys in his finger. As we watched, he crossed the street and entered the watch shop, the owners of which may have had specially reserved his parking spot. Otherwise, the street was jam-packed. When the celluloid hero returned, we were all standing near his car, and he waved to us, and politely drove past us. I can never forget this, because once when he had parked his car at a house near my school, boys told me that his white car had so many lipstick stains on it that it had literally turned red!