Talking to Urdu poet, Educator, and Former chairman of Uttar Pradesh Urdu Academy, Nawaz Deobandi

By M. Ghazali Khan

For Urdu lovers, Nawaz Deobandi hardly needs an introduction. However, his contributions in the fields of education and public service are not as well known or appreciated as they deserve to be.

About a year ago, during a visit to my hometown, Deoband, I had an extensive conversation with him. However, due to a combination of laziness and preoccupation, I was unable to publish it sooner. Before presenting the full interview, I am sharing the English version of my article from Dr. Alif Nazim’s book ‘Zarrah Nawazi‘ on Nawaz Bhai. This will provide readers with greater insight into his struggles and early life.

Mohammad Nawaz Khan, now known as Nawaz Deobandi—whom I respectfully call Nawaz Bhai, as he is slightly older than me and was also my senior during our school days—is both a distant uncle (chacha) and a childhood friend. We grew up in the same mohalla, attended the same primary and high schools, and were taught by the same teachers. As I write these lines, memories of us attending Primary School No. 8 in Mohalla Pathanpura flood my mind.

If I remember correctly, when I enrolled in primary school, Nawaz Bhai was in the third year. After school, we would walk home together through the town’s only government hospital, which now houses the offices of the Nagar Palika (Municipal Board).

One of our teachers, Iqbal Ansari Saheb, may Allah SWT grant him maghfirah, was a gifted teacher who viewed his profession as a mission. He would come up with new ideas daily to make the classroom enjoyable for students. One such idea was to have senior students teach their juniors while he monitored them closely. Through this method, Nawaz Bhai taught me Urdu in primary school.

Iqbal Saheb lived near the school, and, after the school, he ran a small dispensary, because of which he was also referred to as ‘Dr. Saheb.’ In our Urdu textbook, we had Allama Iqbal’s famous poem Sare Jahan Se Achha Hindustan Hamara, with the name ‘Dr. Muhammad Iqbal’ underneath, and I used to think that it had been written by my favourite teacher!

After completing primary school, I moved to class six at Islamia High School, where Nawaz Bhai was again my senior. However, the senior-junior gap soon dissolved, and we became close friends. I believe Nawaz Bhai began composing poetry in class seven, likely influenced by his elder brother Umar Daraz Khan Umar, a seasoned poet who, for personal reasons, avoided mushaira gatherings.

Nawaz Bhai’s polite and courteous demeanour made him popular among both teachers and students. Blessed with creativity and a melodious voice, he frequently showcased his talents at school events, particularly on Independence Day and Republic Day. His renditions of poems, whether his own or others’, often performed in the qawwali style, were always eagerly anticipated. His skill in performing qawwali was so impressive that he could easily be mistaken for a professionally trained qawwal.

After finishing high school, I joined the Pre-University Course at Aligarh Muslim University (AMU), while Nawaz Bhai, having completed high school earlier, enrolled at HAV Inter College in Deoband. Before I left for Aligarh, we spent long evenings together in Deoband. During university vacations, I would return home, and we would pick up where we left off.

Reading newspapers and magazines has been a hobby of mine since my student days. At AMU, I often found Nawaz Bhai’s well-researched articles in Rafiq Manzil, an Urdu magazine. Reading his pieces and congratulating him upon returning home became routine. However, suddenly he stopped writing.

In 1983, I moved to London. Maintaining contact wasn’t easy in those days without the internet or mobile phones. Even calling Meerut directly from Deoband, let alone London, was difficult. Writing letters to my parents and receiving replies often took a month.

During this time, I became friends with Rizwan Ahmad Falahi from Azamgarh, who once asked if I knew Nawaz Deobandi. I was surprised. ‘How do you know him?’ I asked. ‘He came to our town for a mushaira and stole the show,’ he replied. This was how I learnt why Nawaz Bhai had ‘divorced’ poetry for a time. When I visited Deoband a few months later, I discovered that Nawaz Bhai had become a well-known poet throughout the Indian subcontinent.

On a lighter note, whenever I meet a Pathan poet, I am reminded of a speech by the late legendry actor Dilip Kumar at a Dubai event honouring Kunwar Mahindra Singh Bedi Sehar and an exchange of witty banter between Kunwar Saheb and the renowned poet Josh Malihabadi, which Kunwar Saheb narrates in his autobiography Yadoon Ka Jashan. Let me share these enjoyable incidents here:

In Yadoon Ka Jashan, Kunwar Saheb recalls a mushaira in Bombay where Josh Malihabadi was reciting a poem to great applause. Kunwar Saheb took the microphone and said, ‘Gentlemen, look at how beautifully a Pathan is reciting poetry!’ Josh Saheb, quick with a retort, responded, ‘Gentlemen, look at how wonderfully a Sikh is appreciating it!’

In another incident, Dilip Kumar discusses the beauty of Urdu and praises Kunwar Saheb’s greatness. Then, reflecting on a protest in Madras about Hindi-Urdu, he remarks, ‘Only those who understand the subtleties of language can judge what was right or wrong. The Pathans do not have the skills to appreciate such fine points. And when I refer to Pathans here, rest assured, I am not implying anything about my Sikh brothers.’

In this article, I have attempted to shed light on lesser-known aspects of Nawaz Bhai’s personality. Below is the English translation of my original conversation with him. I hope you enjoy it and learn what it takes to be a successful man.

Conversation with Nawaz Deobandi

Ghazali: Interviewing or being interviewed by someone who is your relative, a childhood friend, and has been a schoolmate from primary to high school can be a challenging task—not just for me, but for both of us. However, for the interest of our readers and your admirers, I will have to venture into this territory today. Let’s start by talking about your childhood and how your passion for poetry developed.

Nawaz Deobandi: There are certain things over which one does not have any control. These are Allah’s gifts. For example, I had no say in or control over my birth in a Pathan family in Mohalla Qila in Deoband, the highest neighbourhood, and having a six-foot tall height, which is part of my identity. These are just the gifts bestowed upon me by the Almighty, for which I remain grateful.

My parents could have given me any other name—Shahnawaz, Dilnawaz, or Rahat Nawaz—that would have become my identity. But they gave me the beautiful name Muhammad Nawaz.

While writing my PhD thesis on Darul Uloom Deoband’s contributions to Urdu journalism, the idea of researching the scholars of Deoband came to mind, and I began working on it. My father, may Allah SWT grant him maghfirah, had a special relationship with Mian Saheb Asghar Hussain, a great scholar and muhaddis at Darul Uloom Deoband.

The name Nawaz was uncommon at the time of my birth. Now, MashaAllah, many in our town have named their children—and even institutions—after me. During my research for the book on the scholars of Deoband (two volumes of which have already been published), I discovered that one of Mian Saheb’s teachers was Maulana Muhammad Nawaz Saharanpuri. I assume my father asked for a name recommendation and chose his teacher’s name for me. I consider this a blessing, as it has brought me good fortune.

Sometimes blessings come unexpectedly and transform into fortune. For instance, in 1986, I stopped wearing pants and shirts because I noticed that whenever I wore them, I wasn’t inclined to pray. I felt that sitting and bending during prayers would ruin the crease in the pants or coat. One day, while travelling in a kurta pyjama, I felt naturally inclined to pray. From that moment on, I decided to always wear a kurta-pyjama, which I find comfortable. It also makes it easy to carry a cap in your pocket and be always ready for prayer.

I recall an interesting incident. In 1998, I was invited to an international muhaira in the U.S. It was attended by celebrated poets like Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi, Pirzada Qasim, Jazib Qureshi from Pakistan, and Irfan Siddiqui from India. They commented on my attire, asking why I was wearing a kurta-pyjama instead of a shirt and pants. At that moment, a group of American journalists approached me. Curious about my attire, they took photographs and asked me some questions. I explained that it was a comfortable outfit, ideal for good blood circulation and performing prayers. The next day, my photographs were published in the newspapers. What was initially mocked by my peers became something they envied. My simple attire garnered significant attention amidst the big names present.

Returning to poetry, I began writing ghazals at a young age, but every time I sent one for publication, it was returned with a regret letter. This was disheartening. Qadeer Sahib, the known and one of the two photographers of the town, was a friend of Aleem Bhai [my father—Ghazali] and had been his schoolteacher. His son, Afsar Bhai, is my childhood friend. So I discussed my predicament with Qadeer Saheb. He suggested that I write poems for children, as it was an open field. I took his advice and wrote my first poem, Chhatri [Umbrella], and sent it to the known children’s magazine of that time, Khilona. It read:

Saste daam aati hai chhatri
Sab ke kaam aati hai chhatri
Chaata bhi yeh kehlaati hai
Dhoop mein saaya ban jaati hai.
Soorat pe na jao iski
Seerat ko apnao iski

In those days, Khilona was probably the largest children’s magazine in the Urdu-speaking world. When the’reply’ envelope arrived, I was quite disappointed at first. However, as I opened it, the letter inside it said that my poem had been selected for publication in the third issue and that I would soon receive fifty rupees. This was the beginning of my encouragement, and I began writing for them regularly. Then, Noor Jahan Sarwat heard about me and said, ‘Nawaz, if you’re writing children’s poetry in Urdu, you should continue doing so,’ and she started publishing my work with special prominence in the weekly edition of Qaumi Awaaz. From there, I gained recognition. After that, any ghazal I sent, regardless of its quality, would get published, Alhamdulillah. Noor Jahan Sarwat encouraged me so much that she even wrote an article about me titled ‘Safed Posh’ (The man dressed in white). In it, she wrote, ‘It is rare to see a righteous and pious young man; it seems that the whiteness of clothes has penetrated deep in his inner character.’

Anyway, the conversation was about a mushaira in America. Initially, people criticised me, but after the media coverage, they started to envy me because many big names were present at the event. Compared to them, I was of the lowest standing—I was neither famous, nor so respectable, nor as knowledgeable as these celebrated figures were.

It was quite an interesting journey. We went to Las Vegas, and our host was Rashid Bhai’s elder brother, Nair Khan. They had arranged our stay at a hotel in Las Vegas. I told the organisers that I preferred staying at Nair Bhai’s place, but they insisted, ‘No, everyone will stay together.’ We were informed that Las Vegas is the first city in the world where hotels are the cheapest. They explained that since every hotel has a casino, you have to pass through the casino. Even if you’re getting a full suite for five dollars, by the time you pass through the casino, you could end up losing four or five thousand dollars. So, they advised us to return straight to our rooms after the mushaira.

One day, Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi said to me, ‘Man, your piety is really annoying. You don’t stop anywhere. This isn’t right. Even after taking a journey across the seven seas, if one doesn’t commit even a single sin—where else would he sin if not here?’ I responded, ‘I am sorry.’ He said, ‘Man, you should at least have some experience with sin.’ I told him, ‘You are an elder and a respectable person, but I’ve been raised in such a way that I don’t wish to gain that experience, so I apologise.’

He replied, ‘Okay, here’s the deal. Everyone, including myself, believes you’re a virtuous person. So, just press the button, and I’ll put in the money. I’m sure you’ll hit the jackpot. Man, it’s not right to be so old-fashioned.’

I believe that it is these old-fashioned values that are required in life. People who look at the world too boldly perhaps lose their sense of modesty, which is why they act that way. I told him, ‘There are many paths where one can be broad-minded, but when religion and ‘broad-mindedness’ clash, caution and restraint are very necessary.’ So, I would go straight to my room as soon as I entered the hotel.

One night, I woke up to the sound of someone crying. It was my roommate, though it wouldn’t be appropriate to mention his name. I asked if everything was okay, and he told me he wasn’t feeling well. I immediately called Nair Bhai and told him that my roommate wasn’t feeling well, and I was worried it might be a heart-related issue. Nair Bhai immediately asked, ‘Nawaz Bhai, ask him if he lost any money.’

Upon asking, the man confessed that he had lost every penny. I informed Nair Bhai, and his suspicion turned out to be correct. The man’s health had deteriorated because of the money he had lost. We also saw that people were borrowing money, even though they had already earned plenty. Alhamdulillah, my parents’ upbringing and the environment of this land kept me safe.

Ghazali: How did your passion for poetry develop? Was it influenced by your late brother Umar Daraz Khan, or was it your own inclination?

Nawaz Deobandi: It began back when we were in Primary School No. 8. Morning assemblies would start with Allama Iqbal’s famous poem Lab Pe Aati Hai Dua and his anthem Sare Jahan Se Accha, followed by the national anthem. From second grade until fifth grade, I was assigned to lead the prayer. The teachers felt I had a good voice and read well. When I moved to Islamia School, I was given the same responsibility. On occasions like Republic Day and Independence Day, we were often asked to recite poems. I never memorised any poems except Sare Jahan Se Accha, so I would ask my brother Umar Daraz to write something for me, and I would perform it with my friends.

By seventh grade, I began writing my own poetry. Urdu had always been my strong suit, but our teacher, Maulana Aijaz Sahib, played a crucial role in refining it. I used to scribble my early attempts at poetry on the pages of unfinished school notebooks, which unfortunately were lost over time. Nonetheless, those early experiences laid the foundation for my poetic journey.

It started with an encounter with one of our neighbours, Sardar Balwant Singh Kakkar, who lived in Hakeem Masihullah Khan’s house. As you know, after the partition, the houses vacated by the Pathans in Mohalla Qila at the time of partition were settled by Punjabis and Sikhs. Despite this, there was always a sense of brotherhood and harmony in the mohalla. You and I spent our childhood playing with Sikhs and Hindus.

Sardar Ji used to organise a periodic mushaira at the mazar of Qalu Qalandar. One day, I learnt about one such mushaira, so I went to him, greeted him, and requested, ‘Sardar Ji, you’re organising a mushaira; please allow me to recite too.’ He replied, ‘This is not a children’s mushaira; it’s for adults.’ I pleaded with him, but he didn’t agree. I felt very bad that, despite being neighbours, Sardar Ji wasn’t giving me a chance.

So, I gathered all the children and went in a procession, chanting slogans: ‘Down with Sardar Ji, down with Sardar Ji.’ Hearing our chants, Sardar Ji came out and asked what was going on. The children replied, ‘You live in our neighbourhood; you’re our neighbour, and yet you’re not letting us recite at the mushaira.’ Sardar Ji became angry because of our actions and scolded us, saying, ‘Go away; there’s no muhaira for children.’

The Jolly family lived across from Sardar Ji’s house—a Hindu Punjabi family who, like Sardar Ji, had settled here after the partition. I had the reputation in the mohalla of being a well-behaved and decent child. Hearing our commotion, the eldest daughter of the Jolly Saheb, who for some reason was called ‘Guddar,’ came out of the house and asked, ‘BachchoN kia howa? [Kids, what’s the matter?’ All the children used to call me ‘Bhaiya,’ and they told her that Sardar Ji was organising a mushaira but wasn’t allowing Bhaiya to recite. She became our advocate and went to speak to Balwant Singh Kakkar Saheb. In the end, Sardarji relented and permitted me to recite my poem. Sardar Ji told me I had to reach early and quietly sit down and that I would be allowed to recite before the main event.

To climb the ladder, one must first step on the first rung. In my view, the secret to progress lies in climbing step by step. Many people who try to jump to the top often fall. In any case, I reached early and sat down. I was allowed to recite before the mushaira began. That was my first mushaira.

There was a literary atmosphere in our town. Various mushairas used to take place, one of which was the monthly mushaira ‘Bazm-e-Gulzar-e-Adab’, where poems were written on a given theme. The general secretary of this organisation was my elder brother, Umar Daraz Khan, ‘Umar.’ I used to attend these mushairas as a listener. Over time, while listening, I don’t remember when I transitioned from being a listener to a poet. I started writing imperfect verses. The themed mushaira would give a topic, and I would try to compose poetry on that theme. I would show my work to my elder brother, and he would make some corrections. Gradually, like the poet said, ‘Rafta rafta unheN wehshat ka shaoor aaoe ga. Aate aate hi samajh aaai gi deewanoN ko’ [Slowly, they will come to understand the madness; they will only comprehend it after joining the ranks of the insane.]’

It ignited in me a lust for learning and a desire to study. I began to read and write more frequently. Moreover, there was a strong literary atmosphere around me. People had a keen interest in poetry, and there was a rich tradition of verse and prose. At that time, I mainly socialised with the Sheikh community, where, compared to others in the town, there was a more vibrant literary environment. By this time, I had become proficient in Urdu. Eventually, I started composing poetry, and people began to appreciate my work, often saying, ‘You recite well.’ Encouragement is essential for everyone, and for any artist, appreciation is like oxygen. No matter how great a creator—whether poet, novelist, or storyteller—without encouragement, one cannot progress. People began to encourage me. It helped me tremendously, and, as I mentioned earlier, Allah had blessed me with a good voice.

At that time, there was a traditional style of reciting poetry at mosques passed down from the big ones like Jigar Sahib, Khumar Sahib, Shamim Jaipuri Sahib, and Fana Kanpuri Sahib. I became curious about why everyone followed the same recitation style, so I sought to introduce some originality into my performances. By the grace of God, I began reciting poetry with a new tone, approach, and style, which was well received. Any new voice or pleasant melody always resonates with people, and I, too, benefitted from this. When I recited a ghazal with this fresh tone, it was hugely appreciated. Over my 40-42 years of participating in mushairas, I have never imitated any other poet’s style, but I do take pride in the fact that many poets have adopted my style of recitation. There’s nothing wrong with that—it’s a good thing. I am fortunate that the path I chose has inspired others. Additionally, my natural inclination towards socialising helped me along the way.

Ghazali: You transitioned from poetry to education, establishing training and educational institutions. What motivated this shift?

Nawaz Deobandi: My life has always been marked by hard work. In a way, I am a self-made person. I don’t consider myself great, but Allah has blessed me immensely. Having opportunities, talent, and the desire to achieve something is a great gift, and thank Allah for these blessings. However, I must emphasise to young people that nothing can be achieved without hard work and effort.

Since childhood, I’ve been passionate about teaching and learning. When I was in fifth grade, I started tutoring a boy and girl from my neighbourhood—siblings who were in the first grade. At the time, I received a fee of an eight-anna coin (fifty paisa), which, back then, was referred to as such. For me, this coin represented both a necessity and a passion. I approached teaching differently from others. For me, character development always took priority over academics. I believed that if a student received proper guidance and had a desire to learn, their chances of success would increase significantly. I worked hard with those two students, which gained me some local recognition, and soon, others began asking me to tutor their children. My fee was very low because my goal wasn’t just to earn money but to spread knowledge. This passion for teaching and learning grew over time. I became known as ‘Master Sahib’ in my town, especially within the Sheikh community, where many families wouldn’t send their children to anyone else but me for tutoring. Opportunities continued to come my way.

One of my teachers, Tufail Sahib (Principal of Islamia High School), may Allah bless him with health, played a key role in nurturing this passion. Later, I met Haseeb Siddiqui Sahib (Manager of the Muslim Fund Deoband, later Chairman of the Nagar Palika) at a friend’s gathering. He advised me to learn a job and that he would help me secure a job at the Muslim Fund. The next day, I began learning the ropes at the Muslim Fund.

Through hard work and dedication, I became indispensable to Haseeb Sahib, who recognised me as someone reliable. This led to my formal appointment. Around the same time, I was offered a position as an assistant lecturer at Meerut College. I sought Haseeb Sahib’s advice, and he said, ‘This isn’t right. We have high expectations of you.’ I explained that a private job didn’t offer much of a future and that I needed better opportunities. I told him that I had dreams I had written down but lacked the funds to fulfil them. If he helped me realise those dreams, I would leave the lectureship. He asked what those dreams were.

As I mentioned earlier, during my student days, I used to separate the remaining pages of old notebooks and bind them to create my own diary, where I wrote poetry and noted down my dreams. Some of these dreams included building a school where children would receive both education and training, complete with specific uniforms. I also dreamed of opening an orphanage, a mosque, a seminary, and a hospital. Haseeb Sahib asked, ‘Where do you keep these notes?’ I went home, brought my diaries, and showed them to him. He asked, ‘What do you want?’ I replied, ‘The Muslim Fund provides loans to those in need. I want it to also start welfare, charitable, and educational projects.’ He agreed on two conditions: first, that he would see through any project I proposed, and second, that I would never handle finances. The financial management would remain under his control. I agreed, and from that point on, I never dealt with finances. If I asked for two chairs, they would be provided. Thus, I resigned from my lecturer position and began working at the Muslim Fund on a modest salary.

Our first project at the Muslim Fund was to offer interest-free educational loans to Muslim students who were struggling financially. Many students benefitted from this scheme—some became lawyers, others found good jobs—but unfortunately, most did not repay the loans. The idea was for students to repay the money once they were employed so that others could benefit, but few adhered to this. This shows something about our community’s mindset: while we are eager to receive, we are reluctant to give. Only a handful of people made token repayments before disappearing. As a result, the project couldn’t continue. Afterwards, we started offering English classes to students at Darul Uloom Deoband, even though it was forbidden for them to study English at the time. If discovered, they would be expelled.

Ghazali: When did this happen?

Nawaz Deobandi: This was around 1977 or 1978. We began teaching English to the students of Darul Uloom in secret, and I continued offering private tutoring. Then, Haseeb Sahib tasked me with improving a school, but since I was an outsider, the staff resisted my suggestions. Eventually, I stepped down and started an Arabic typing program. We bought two old Arabic typewriters from Delhi for this purpose.

Ghazali: What happened to the English teaching program?

Nawaz Deobandi: It continued quietly, and many students benefitted from it. Later, when I became too busy, I developed a different system. However, the English classes continued for quite some time. Discretion was necessary at the time. Alongside this, we placed two Arabic typewriters in the Muslim Fund in its corridor. We made great efforts to encourage students to use them, but no one came. So, we decided to offer a stipend of fifty rupees. Even after that, only two students showed up.

Ghazali: Was there anyone to teach typing?

Nawaz Deobandi: Yes, one of the office staff who knew how to type in English was given the responsibility, as some principles needed to be taught. The keyboard was already in Arabic, but there were other things like pressing ‘enter,’ moving up, or going down. These two students learnt Arabic typing. By Allah’s grace, vacancies for Arabic typists opened in two embassies, and they got jobs there. At that time, the salaries in the embassies were quite reasonable. As soon as others heard about their success, others started coming. We then had to buy many more Arabic typewriters and opened an institute called the ‘Muslim Fund Commercial Institute’ at the Darul Uloom Choraha, where we taught Arabic typing. Later, we bought two Urdu typewriters and started teaching Urdu typing. By Allah’s grace, the first two typists were from our own Deoband. Both of them secured jobs as typists in Parliament House.

After that, we also started offering English and Hindi typing classes, and the institute grew. Then, with the advent of computers, I developed a passion for starting computer classes. In fact, I was the first person to bring a computer to Deoband. I can say with certainty that there was no Urdu computer in Deoband before this. I stopped all the typing classes and started computer classes. Many people from the Muslim Fund benefitted, and many found employment. Given the backgrounds of many, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that their future generations were transformed. Then, my passion grew, and I asked Haseeb Sahib to build a hospital here. He was ready for a general hospital, but I wanted an eye hospital, as there were already many general hospitals but no eye hospital. So, I made great efforts, travelling to Aligarh and Sitapur to meet doctors. The renowned surgeon at Aligarh Eye Hospital was Dr. Razia, as far as I remember. She helped significantly, and in 1986, we built the eye hospital, which ran successfully, by Allah’s grace. Then, in 1990, I established an ITI (Industrial Training Institute) because I felt the community needed skill development.

Skills were already present among Muslims. For instance, I have a friend from the Saifi (blacksmith) community who often says that if his father had encouraged him to pursue mechanical engineering instead of an MSc, he would have been a successful engineer because the profession is in their blood. Even a small workshop would have been sufficient, as they grew up in an engineering environment. I really liked what he said. Indeed, if a mason or labourer sends their child to become a civil or mechanical engineer, or if farmers encourage their children to pursue a master’s in agriculture, they may be more successful than others. Similarly, if someone from the textile industry enrols his child in a formal course, they will likely excel. So, we established the ITI. Although I am not a technical person, I believe that passion is essential to success. I had the passion and made it the best ITI, and it became the number one institute. After the ITI, I established a motor driving centre, which also created many employment opportunities. By Allah’s grace, it ran successfully. Then, we built a school under the Muslim Fund, which has now become an inter-college. I’ve always had the passion to work, and that passion drove me to action.

Through experience and observation, I have come to believe that perhaps educating daughters is the most important task of our time. If we provide our daughters with excellent education, they will become the best wives and mothers, potentially bringing about a massive transformation. When the Holy Prophet ﷺ promised paradise to those who raise and educate two daughters or two sisters, what more proof does a Muslim need about the importance of women’s education?

So, I started a ‘factory for making mothers’ and established a girls’ school. Allah Almighty blessed it with success. The first project I took on was the establishment of the Muslim Public Girls School under the Muslim Fund. It was originally a public nursery school in Mohalla Gaddi Wara, but we moved it and turned it into a public girls’ school. Although Haseeb Sahib wanted it to be a co-educational school, I believed specialisation was better, so a girls’ school was established.

Then, in 2000, Ameer Alam Khan, the chairman of the Waqf Board, forced me into another responsibility. There was a girls’ school in Muzaffarnagar that was about to close, practically on its last breath. Just imagine how challenging it would be to travel to and from Muzaffarnagar. But he had Maulana Marghoobur Rahman Sahib intervene to persuade me. I loved Maulana, and despite my excuses, Maulana said, ‘This is my order.’ After that, I had no choice but to accept the responsibility and ask for his prayers. In 2001, I took charge of Nawab Azmat Ali Khan Girls’ School.

At that time, there were 275 girls enrolled. Today, by Allah’s grace, there are 5,000. I worked late into the night for the school, giving up my tutoring job. I would return home late at night by the Chhattisgarh Express. The school owned a piece of land that had been illegally occupied by wrestlers who had set up an akhara (wrestling arena) there. I began offering Asr and Maghrib prayers with them. One day, I invited them to the mosque and asked, ‘Will you settle the account for this land here in the mosque, or in front of Allah on the Day of Judgement?’ They asked, ‘What do you mean?’ The land was valuable, being near the choraha of Meenakshi Talkies. They asked, ‘What do you want?’ I said, ‘This is Waqf property. If you vacate it, it will benefit your community and your daughters, and Allah will reward you. Otherwise, this matter will be presented in Allah’s court.’ Allah softened their hearts, and they returned the land to the school. We first built a primary school, which, by Allah’s grace, became an inter-college and later a degree college. By 2022, we also established an English-medium school.

My passion for this work remained strong. As the community learnt of my small services and experience, people began to approach me for help. I would also encourage my acquaintances to establish schools. They would respond, ‘We have no experience.’ I would say, ‘I will guide you.’ My method succeeded because I never joined any management committee of the schools I helped, nor did I take financial responsibility. Because of this, no one suspected my integrity. They trusted that I was sincere to the cause. When positions and money were not involved, what could anyone suspect me about?

Ghazali: Why hasn’t Deoband benefitted from your experience on a large scale, like other places?

Nawaz Deobandi: The biggest issue is my lack of financial resources. Establishing institutions is not easy—it requires a lot of money. Allah has blessed me with fame and recognition, along with many other blessings, but I never engaged in fundraising. I spent all the money I earned from mushairas and my hard work at Nawaz Public School. Whatever property or house I had, I used it to invest in building the school. Surely, without external help, it was not easy. Yes, some of my friends helped; for example, a Member of Parliament built a room, or someone made a voluntary contribution due to personal ties. The other schools I helped were funded by people with ample resources. For instance, I helped someone with a school in Khurja. They had plenty of land, and my role was only to guide and help establish the school.

Ghazali: Can you tell us more about Nawaz Girls School in Deoband? What level of education does it offer?

Nawaz Deobandi: It offers education up to the 12th grade (10+2). By Allah’s grace, it was approved in its first year. We intentionally focused on girls’ education because I believe it’s the quickest way to uplift the community. Secondly, everything is judged by its results. Look at the girls’ results; they are outstanding, while the boys’ results are comparatively poor. So, we should give more attention to what yields better results. Girls are the future mothers, and they will shape the next generations. Through them, the nation will progress.

When we applied for approval, the chairman of the CBSE board invited us for a consultation. He advised us to seek approval for a co-educational school, asking why we were applying only for girls. We told him we weren’t professionals; we were driven by both passion and purpose. In this context, he mentioned that the reason for inviting us was to find out the truth. ‘I had told my staff that either this person is foolish or someone with great vision; otherwise, the best course would have been to apply for co-education.’ He said. Fortunately, they approved us in the same year, and the entire process was completed. The panel came, all the necessary steps were taken, and our school received approval—first for the tenth grade, then for the twelfth. By the grace of God, six batches have graduated from the twelfth grade so far.

What’s remarkable is that, though our school is still young in terms of age, we outperform schools in the surrounding areas in terms of results. We are competing with institutions that have been established for over thirty years. Our first batch began in 2013 and has since graduated through the twelfth grade.

Ghazali: It seems your experience in Deoband has been different from others. What kind of challenges did you face at the Darul Uloom and in this predominantly Muslim environment?

Nawaz Deobandi: The main challenge is that the community we serve doesn’t prioritise education. Instead, their focus is on grand wedding feasts, luxurious homes, expensive bikes, and cars. Dealing with this mindset is like trying to keep a candle lit in a strong wind. But one thing is certain: Allah has been especially kind to me, and people have placed a great deal of trust in me. Whether they supported me financially or not, they sent their daughters to this school. We started the school in 2012, and by 2019—before the lockdown—we had 850 girls enrolled. In a girls-only school, having 850 students in a town with a population of 100,000 is significant. The area where the school is located is 100% Muslim, and since it’s a girls-only school, boys were not included. Otherwise, the number of students could have been 2,000. I can’t complain about the community. By trusting me with their sisters’ and daughters’ education, they’ve supported me greatly. Moreover, I teach 163 girls for free—those who have no parents; I consider them my daughters and bear their educational expenses. Many poor families who have no other means to educate their daughters come to me with hope. I see their hope as a blessing from Allah. He has enabled me to do this; otherwise, I would not have been able to do this. I didn’t have the resources or the circumstances to run such a large institution or help people in this way. May Allah accept this service and make it a source of continuous charity for me and my parents until the Day of Judgement.

Ghazali: On one hand, the financial situation is weak, and on the other, private schools have their own expenses. Bearing all the educational costs for 163 girls in a small school is no easy task. How do you manage?

Nawaz Deobandi: The most fundamental factor is intention. As I mentioned, we didn’t have the resources to build such a large institution, especially in a small town. But Allah gave us the strength, and we started working. We had no idea the school would grow like this. I feel that perhaps the school runs by its own destiny. Collecting fees is difficult, but if a doctor’s patient doesn’t cooperate, the doctor doesn’t stop treating them. We are like community healers, so teaching these girls is our responsibility. There’s no huge profit, but as long as the school isn’t running at a loss, that’s enough. InshaAllah, as the number of students increases, the school will benefit. I believe that the more fees I waive, the more my school will prosper.

Ghazali: You’ve always been passionate about promoting Urdu. Is this reflected in your school?

Nawaz Deobandi: Yes, we teach Urdu as a subject, and all our students study it. In a way, we encourage them to learn Urdu. We don’t force them, but we certainly motivate and support them. By Allah’s grace, all our students can read Urdu. We also teach Islamic Studies up to the eighth grade. After that, from ninth grade onwards, the CBSE syllabus takes over, and studying Urdu becomes optional. Students can choose to continue with it, but they’re not compelled to.

Ghazali: There’s a trend, especially on social media, where people immediately talk about building universities whenever the lack of education in the Muslim community is discussed. However, the real need is to ensure that children at least complete high school. Once they develop a passion for learning, they can create their own path. So, what’s needed are schools, not universities. Even the universities that were established by great leaders of the past aren’t being managed well by the community. What are your thoughts on this?

Nawaz Deobandi: Muslims need basic quality education. If you maintain quality up to the university level, no matter how bad the situation is in India or elsewhere, people of quality will always be valued. If you become 24-carat gold, you will be recognized. Even today, some Muslims are passing competitive exams and becoming IAS officers—54 Muslims made it into the IAS last year. The same goes for PCS exams, although our numbers are still low. The key issue is that the mindset for competition isn’t developing. This mindset will only develop if our educational foundation is strong. The foundation of our community’s children is weak. If someone with weak feet tries to run a race, how can they succeed? We need schools, our own system, and our own training. This would not only protect education but also preserve our culture. If you study at someone else’s school, you will naturally adopt their culture. So, we need our own schools, particularly at the elementary level. Furthermore, we live in a competitive age—if you can compete, you will be able to enter the best universities or succeed in any field. Muslims don’t need universities as much as they need quality elementary schools. Another point is that Muslims often say they are poor. I don’t deny that poverty exists, but their so-called poverty should be judged by their lavish wedding feasts, birth ceremonies, circumcision celebrations, and dowries. They don’t appear poor during those events, but they become poor when it’s time to pay school fees. This shows that the problem is not financial poverty but a lack of educational priorities. Those who prioritise education will invest in it, even in poverty.

Ghazali: You have a deep attachment to Urdu—you even built an ‘Urdu Gate’ in Deoband. What do you think about the future of Urdu in India?

Nawaz Deobandi: The future of languages doesn’t change overnight. The misfortune of Urdu is that its own speakers are turning away from it. We’ve become too reliant on the government, and a nation that begs cannot progress. To keep a language alive, the responsibility lies more with its speakers than with the government. Governments can provide support, but they can’t give life to a language. That life comes from the people who use it, practice it, and keep it alive. Urdu won’t disappear easily—it’s a resilient language.

Ghazali: I strongly disagree with you here. When notices and signboards start appearing in Hindi in mosques, when Sanskrit-like words and terms become common in Muslim households, and when it becomes necessary to publish religious books in Hindi—not for outreach but because the new generation can’t read Urdu—then any optimism about Urdu’s future seems like self-deception. Did you ever see Hindi newspapers in Muslim homes during your childhood? Had you heard words like mantri (minister), vidhayak (legislator), sansad (parliament), bhashan (speech), prashasan (administration), aatankvaad (terrorism), samachar (news), or prachar (propaganda)?

Nawaz Deobandi: Vocabulary keeps changing over time. The language Ghalib spoke is no longer alive, but his verses endure. People have indeed reduced their reading of Urdu, and as a result, words change gradually. However, I believe that Urdu’s resilience will keep it alive; it won’t die so easily. A language doesn’t die in a century or two; it needs a long time to perish. The real need is to preserve the script. Today, there’s a lot of work being done in Hindi on Urdu, with the script in Devanagari, and most poetry books are being published in that script. If we publish an Urdu book, it’s hard to get an edition of 1,000 copies, but a Devanagari edition of 5,500 copies might sell out in a month and a half. Your concern is valid, and attention should be paid to it. We need to figure out ways to keep the language alive, and one way is to focus on the script. After all, when we send our children to school, they barely have time to read Urdu or even the Quran when they return. This is a major problem. At the very least, we should maintain the environment in our homes. The words that didn’t enter homes were learnt at home, after all.

Today, the situation is such that even wedding invitations are being printed in Hindi. Thankfully, they’ve at least written shaadi khana-aabaadi in Urdu, though they may soon translate even the word walima into Hindi.

Ghazali: You were associated with the UP Urdu Academy, where you served as chairman. The political climate of both the country and the province was much better back then. What were your experiences and observations during your time there?

Nawaz Deobandi: The people who established the Academy—probably in 1973—were undoubtedly sincere. Generally, institutions are built through the efforts of sincere people. Over time, those benefiting from or using the institution for personal gain remain. The founders of the Urdu Academy certainly had the welfare and promotion of Urdu in mind. Unfortunately, whether it’s the decline of institutions or languages, we are the primary culprits, though we often blame others. I believe no language, community, institution, or society can progress if it keeps blaming others. Progress only begins when self-analysis improves. Unless we acknowledge our own mistakes, reform is impossible. Much work can indeed be done through the Urdu Academy, but the people needed to do that work are lacking. Governments don’t appoint those well-versed in Urdu; instead, they often choose political figures who lack a deep understanding of Urdu and its challenges. However, sometimes governments do come along that appoint the right people, and in such cases, those individuals’ responsibilities increase.

When I was appointed to the Urdu Academy, though I had no real desire for the position, I noticed that the government at that time had appointed Gopal Das Neeraj as head of the Bhasha Sansthan of Uttar Pradesh—he was a prominent Hindi figure. Uday Pratap Singh was made chairman of the Hindi Academy, and he was a significant name in Hindi. Similarly, the heads of the Hindustani and Punjabi Academies were also poets. So, at that time, people with knowledge of literature were appointed, and we were given this opportunity too. Unfortunately, a good portion of our time was wasted due to the shortsightedness of a particular individual. But our positive mindset helped us focus on work instead of conflict, and gradually, we began to make progress. I want to tell future generations that conflict wastes strength. It destroys institutions and those who create them. So we worked, and by God’s grace, we succeeded. Once, during an event attended by Chief Minister Akhilesh Yadav, the chairman of the Hindi Academy, Uday Pratap Singh, remarked that the Hindi Academy should take inspiration from the UP Urdu Academy.

The first thing I did was beautify the building. Cleanliness should be a part of both our religious and national character. When I first visited the academy, it was in a terrible state, so we started with painting. Even a dog wags its tail and cleans its spot before sitting down. Cleanliness is half of our faith, after all. We then made the academy well decorated. Another major project was revamping the auditorium. The roof had collapsed, and the walls had rotted. I renamed it the Urdu Auditorium and transformed it into a 300-seat, centrally air-conditioned space—Lucknow’s first Urdu auditorium. After that, I built the 85-seat Premchand Hall in the academy. Since the Urdu Auditorium was rented out for events at a nominal rate—1,500 rupees per hour—Premchand Hall was for poor writers who could host their events for free.

We also upgraded the office to a corporate-style setup with excellent furniture and cabins. We began digitising the academy’s library, which was a major project. When I left, 5.2 million pages had been digitized. We created a computer centre to teach Urdu, Hindi, and English and started a mass communication and media centre with a video studio and an audio studio. We offered short-term courses in journalism-related skills like camera work, editing, proofreading, photography, videography, scriptwriting, and dialogue writing. Although not free, these courses had a nominal fee of 200–250 rupees. The idea was to teach multilingual journalism so that graduates could succeed in the job market. We taught Urdu journalism and Hindi patrakaarita (journalism), believing that, for a TV anchor today, proficiency in English, Hindi, and correct Urdu pronunciation is essential.

Ghazali: Were these courses free?

Nawaz Deobandi: No, the courses weren’t free, but they had a nominal fee of around 200 to 250 rupees, which doesn’t amount to much. Through this initiative, we tried to generate employment opportunities, a new venture for the Urdu Academy at the time.

I also proposed a plan for appointing 50 Urdu teachers to CBSE schools for 11 months each year, with the Academy covering their salaries. The idea was approved but sadly didn’t materialize. This was an excellent project, as it would have provided employment to 50 individuals and introduced Urdu into schools.

We also began an Urdu translation house within the academy to facilitate translations between Urdu and other languages, a crucial step to expand the language’s reach. Another innovative program was children’s poetry recitals in schools, where students performed works by famous Urdu poets. The top-performing students were the hosts, chief guests, and chairs, with no adults involved. This initiative received tremendous response across Uttar Pradesh. We also launched a Fakhr-e-Zila (Pride of the District) award for the top Urdu students in each district.

Lastly, I introduced Urdu classes for government officials, believing that if they learnt the language, it would reduce bias and improve communication. Even the police department had Urdu classes. I also built the first-ever Urdu Gate in Deoband.

Throughout my tenure, I emphasised positive thinking and practical work rather than conflict. By God’s grace, we were able to make significant progress.

Ghazali: Thank you, Nawaz Bhai. There’s so much to discuss, but let’s leave it for another time. However, before we conclude, may we hear a few of your favourite couples? 

Nawaz Deobandi: Mulahiza ho:

Kal us ka dost mila to yeh wahm door hua
Main sochta tha mujhe yaad karta hoga woh.

Badshahoon ka intezaar karein
Itni fursat kahan faqeeron ko

Yeh kitne sakht hain parwardigaar ke bande
Woh kitna narm hai parwardigaar hotay huay

Kal main ulajh gaya tha chachazad bhai se
Walid ne aa ke khwab mein dhamka diya mujhe.

Yeh aspataal nahi koocha-e-mohabbat hai.
Yahan mareez ko acha nahi kiya jata.

Ek nayi jageer banana chahte hain
Hum betay ko meer banana chahte hain

Phool bhi hon, Dal jheel bhi ho aur qaatil bhi
Hum dil ko Kashmir banana chahte hain

Mahfil mein jise ghour se sab dekh rahe thay.
Dekha na usay maine, to us ne mujhe dekha

Jab haath mein sheesha tha na saagar tha na meena
Gar dil nahi toota hai to phir chhan se gira kya.

Us se zyada maangnay wala aur kar bhi kya sakta hai.
Aankhein nam kar rakhi hain aur daaman phaila rakha hai.

Ae! Musavvir, kam zyada ka to main qail nahi.
Mere jaisi hi meri tasveer aani chahiye.

Tum apni loan ki caron pe itna kyun akartay ho.
Chalo! Rickshaw se chaltay hain, takabbur toot jaye ga

Woh hamare haal-e-dil par sar-e-bazm jab hansain ge
Yeh hamare aansuon ka naya imtihan hoga.