first saw Atif Mateen leap onto a moving rickshaw on a Lahore street, youthful and full of restless energy. I was on my way to meet Arif Shamim — then my colleague at The Nation, now with the BBC — when Atif appeared, almost in passing, as if already rushing toward the life he would eventually live. He was still a student then, living in Rajgarh, the old Lahore neighbourhood where Arif also lived. His elder brother, the veteran journalist Amir Mateen, was a close friend of Arif’s, and mine.

To family, friends and colleagues, he was simply Gudda: everybody’s younger brother, everybody’s beloved companion. “Gudda belonged to everyone,” Arif recalled. “He was always doing something for his brothers, his friends, his family. Anyone could ask him for help, and he simply could not say no.”

It was Arif who introduced him to the newsroom of The News International in the early 1990s. He still remembers telling his editor, Husain Naqi, that the young Atif did not merely need a job; he also needed to learn journalism. Soon, the teenager loitering around senior journalists in the newsroom would become a formidable newspaperman in his own right.

Friends described him as yaaron ka yaar — a friend to friends. He was lively, fearless, endlessly loyal and carried an infectious warmth wherever he went. He played cricket as a boy, excelled in athletics, studied at St Anthony’s and possessed the quickness — of mind and body — that later defined his newsroom career. “We never really realised how capable he was,” Arif admitted. “That is the fate of younger brothers in our culture. In our eyes, we never allowed him to grow up. He carried the weight of all of us – so many big brothers - from a very young age.”

What perhaps distinguished him most was his fearlessness. “There was no such thing as fear in him,” Arif said, “not in journalism, not in life.” He took risks instinctively and boldly. More often than not, those risks paid off. The only thing he dreaded was the possibility of disappointing the people he loved — especially his brothers, whom he deeply admired. “They were his icons,” Arif said. “Even when in some ways he became bigger than all of us, he still saw himself as the younger brother.”

That devotion defined him. Even outside blood relations, he treated friendships like family bonds, with extraordinary reverence and loyalty. “He never raised his eyes before his elders,” Arif recalled. “No matter what he achieved, he remained our Gudda.”

A newsroom veteran who spent more than three decades in print and electronic media, Atif carried with him a rare mix of speed, warmth and mischief. His X profile described him simply as a “journalist with vast experience in print & electronic media” and someone “passionate about cricket, travelling.” Those who knew him would say the description barely scratched the surface.

Only days before his sudden death, Atif was doing what he loved most: chatting with friends, debating food and celebrating the city’s flavours with the enthusiasm of a true Lahori. His X timeline now reads like a poignant diary of appetites and affections. Recommending favourite eateries, he wrote with characteristic excitement: “Gowalmandi ka hareesa, Lakshmi’s Siddique ki karahi, Khan Baba ka mutton, Anarkali’s Waris Nihari & Ghulam Rasool’s mutton chanay, Haneefay & Phajjay kay paey, Heera Mandi’s tawa chicken, Bhola’s bong in Saddar, matchless adh-rerka lassi.”

Former colleagues remember him as part of The News’ pioneering Lahore newsroom generation. Saadia Salahuddin recalled that he joined as a teenager — “barely 18” — and astonished seniors with how quickly he learnt. Within days, he was editing copy and making pages. “His speed was extraordinary,” she remembered. “That was his special gift.” A gifted athlete in school, he carried that same restless energy into journalism.

A man whose laughter filled newsrooms, whose kindness outlasted deadlines, and whose appetite for friendship and life remained undiminished to the very end.

What colleagues remember most was not mere professionalism. It was his affection. “I never realised when he became friends with everyone in my family,” Saadia said, recalling how he affectionately called her mother “Amma” and was always the first to offer help, whether for weddings, errands or moments of crisis. Barely weeks after joining The News, he celebrated his birthday in the newsroom, treating colleagues to fruit chaat and dahi bhallay — a gesture so innocent and heartfelt that friends still remember it decades later. “We told him we would treat the fruit chaat as his birthday cake,” she laughed.

Muhammad Ayub, one of Atif Mateen’s earliest colleagues at The News, remembered first meeting him through a comic misunderstanding that later became newsroom folklore.

Ayub, then in charge of the National Desk, was buried in work when the new-arrival Atif walked up and casually handed him a slip of paper to type. Assuming Ayub was part of the typing staff, the young trainee returned repeatedly to ask whether the job had been done. When it was lunchtime and Ayub stepped away, an irritated Atif went over to Arif Shamim to complain. Arif had to explain, laughing, that the man he was chasing for typing work was actually the National Desk chief.

“That was my first interaction with him,” Ayub recalled. “Afterwards we grew very close — like family.”

Ayub remembered Atif as flamboyant, lively and immensely popular, both professionally and personally. Behind the humour and energy was someone deeply dependable. During Eid holidays, when many colleagues wanted to travel home, Atif would routinely volunteer to stay behind and keep the newsroom running. “He would always tell us, ‘You go, and don’t worry; I’ll manage things here,’” Ayub said. “And somehow he always did.”

His humour became newsroom folklore. In the early days, when newsroom calls came through exchange operators, Atif once mischievously answered a ringing phone and introduced himself as “Peter.” The voice on the other end replied immediately: “Atif Mateen, this is Husain Naqi speaking!” Naqi sahib was the paper’s editor then.

Behind the laughter, however, was a man who had quietly battled serious illness. Saadia said years of heavy smoking had damaged his health. Two years ago he underwent bypass surgery. Doctors had warned the family that little more could be done medically. In the early hours of Thursday morning, after spending the evening chatting normally with family and friends, he got up for the bathroom, called out to his wife moments later and collapsed in her arms.

In an emotional tribute on X, his elder brother Amir Mateen wrote of the family’s difficult but spirited journey through life. Their eldest brother, Khalid Mateen, had joined the army at 17 and helped raise the family, while the younger brothers drifted naturally toward journalism, political activism and what Amir fondly called their “awaara” habits. Then there was Gudda — the younger brother who became everyone’s helper, errand boy, fixer and friend.

“He had the gift of endearing himself to his colleagues.” He remembered how Gudda became attached to newsroom veterans and friends alike. Even when he rose to become news editor, he remained Gudda to everyone around him — the friend to all friends, the man who always stood by the weak and the timid and whom no bully could intimidate.

“The great thing about him,” Amir wrote, “was that he played that role gladly. He even enjoyed it - till the very end.”

Atif Mateen passed away in Islamabad on May 21 after suffering heart failure. He was 54. He is survived by his wife Sameera; two sons, Ahmed and Ammar; two brothers, Amir and Asim Mateen; countless friends, colleagues and comrades across Lahore, Islamabad and beyond, who remember a man whose laughter filled newsrooms, whose kindness outlasted deadlines and whose appetite for friendship and life remained undiminished to the very end.

The writer is a senior journalist associated with Jang Group of Newspapers