The selfless Urdu teacher

I do not remember what kindled my interest in Urdu, but while I was in college, I joined Jamia Millia University’s correspondence course to learn it. It did not take me far, and then other priorities pushed Urdu behind.

Two decades later, in 1999, I got posted as SP of Banaskantha district in Gujarat, with its headquarters at Palanpur town, which was the seat of the erstwhile princely state ruled by Nawabs. The small town offered little social life. So, I decided to give Urdu a second try.

On my request, a local leader found one Maulana Mehboob to be my teacher, but he had one condition — he would not accept a fee. I was pleasantly surprised to know that there was a teacher who had not been touched by the commercialisation in education. Anyway, I had no problem with the condition, and so my evening Urdu lessons began.

The Maulana was a slim man of about 30. He always wore a white kurta-pyjama and a white cotton cap. He was soft-spoken and polite but had a serious demeanour. He was very punctual and a little anxious about time — after teaching me, he had to give free Urdu lessons to poor children. He took these classes at many localities in the morning and the evening. He spoke only when needed and was focused on teaching. He took neither tea nor coffee — only a glass of water.

He laid emphasis on correct pronunciation. He asked me to particularly focus on the correct usage of the nuqta (the diacritic dot) in reading and writing. “Upar ki jagah neeche laga diya to khuda juda ho jata hai (if you place the dot above the letter instead of below, it becomes juda instead of khuda),” he said.

He mentioned words of which the meaning alters drastically with the slightest change in the sound, such as jaleel (worthy of worship) and zaleel (dishonoured). Each day, after the lesson, he left the place with these words, “Rahi zindagi to phir milenge (will meet again if still alive).”

Unfortunately, barely two months into my lessons, I was suddenly transferred from the district. But the teacher was satisfied with my progress. “Agar riyaz karte rahenge to aagey ki manzil aap khud tay kar sakte hain (if you keep practising, you can cover the rest of the ground on your own),” he said.

As he would not accept a fee, I thought of giving him something useful as thanksgiving. My wife had noticed that he always came on foot. She suggested that we buy him a bicycle. I bought one and called the Maulana to hand it over. A ripple of discomfort crossed his face when he saw the brand new thing. “What was the need?” he mumbled. I said, “Please accept it. It will save your time, which you can use to give Urdu lessons to more children.” This argument relaxed him. He said, “Aap shayad theek farmate hain (Perhaps you are right).”

He thanked me and left with the bicycle, saying, “Khuda hafiz! Rahi zindagi to phir milenge!”