Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi
This is the second in the series
There are summers that dissolve into memory, and there are summers that carve themselves into a life. For me, the summer following my Higher Secondary results was unmistakably the latter.
Through those long vacation months, almost every evening, my father would dispatch me to meet Professor Zillur Rahman Khan. He was then the teacher-in-charge of the Games Committee, a Professor of Physics, and the son-in-law of Dr. Zakir Husain, former President of India. Dressed nearly always in his flowing flannel Lucknowi pyjama and sherwani, or in a white half-sleeved shirt, he could be found at the Hockey Grounds, quietly observing the evening practice. I would cycle there each evening and sit beside him on the steps overlooking the field as play unfolded. Afterwards, I would walk with him to his home, just beyond the grounds behind the University Post Office.
Those walks became my first real education. He spoke of old Aligarh, of science and books, of people and life—and of whatever else crossed his mind. Every so often, he would pause, pose a question, seek my opinion, or gently challenge my assumptions. I did not realise it then, but he was assessing me far more than he was teaching me. This ritual continued almost daily for nearly two months.
One evening, instead of my accompanying him home, he came with me to ours. Turning to my father, he said, “Let him apply for Zoology, Chemistry, English, or History… but I believe he is best suited for History.” It was precisely the same advice my schoolteacher, Sir Ahmad, had given earlier.
Soon afterwards, my revered father took me to Kothi Badar Bagh to meet Professor Irfan Habib. Curiously, I recall almost nothing of what was said about me that day. My father had been cited in The Agrarian System of Mughal India for a Persian reference, and if memory serves, the entire conversation revolved around Mughal agriculture, zarā’at, and Persian sources. I simply sat there, listening.
A few weeks later, the admission lists appeared. My name figured in three departments: Chemistry, English, and History. Abba told me, “The choice is entirely yours.”
One thing I knew immediately: Chemistry was not for me. I enjoyed English literature, but History had already begun to draw me in a way I could not articulate. When I told my father I wished to study History, I noticed him exhale a quiet sigh of relief. I realised then that, while he had left the decision to me, his heart had been silently hoping for that very outcome.
Once admissions were finalised, Abba walked me across the road from the Maulana Azad Library to a building that had once been his own karam bhūmi. Only much later did I fully appreciate that this was the legendary Department of History at Aligarh Muslim University, which was destined to become my karam bhūmi. As we approached, several teachers were gathered outside. Some agitation or strike was underway, led by a striking young man with dark curly hair, piercing eyes, and a slightly stooping frame. My father quietly said, “Adāb karo.” That young man was Professor Irfan Habib.
He led us into the Head of Department’s chamber, on whose door was inscribed the name of Professor Khaliq Ahmad Nizami. Professor Nizami was away in Syria, serving as India’s Ambassador, and Professor Habib was officiating in his absence. Once we were seated, my father turned to him and, in words that have echoed within me ever since, said:
“Irfan Miyan, aap inse ghar par mil chuke hain. Ye mere sahibzaade hain. Main inko aap ke hawāle kar rahā hoon.”
(“Irfan Miyan, you have already met him at home. He is my son. Today I place him in your care.”)
Looking back now, I recognise that those few simple words altered the entire trajectory of my life.
Only weeks later, on 7 April 1978, my father passed away. But before leaving this world, he had entrusted me to another man.
From that summer in 1978 until today, I have remained under Professor Irfan Habib’s guidance. Through triumphs and disappointments, through moments of recognition and adversity, he was there. I stood beside him when he himself faced suspension under Syed Hamid. Years later, when I was suspended under Lieutenant General Zameeruddin Shah, he stood beside me. Every stage of my academic life bears his imprint. Whatever modest achievements I can claim as a historian owe an immeasurable debt to his guidance, his scholarship, and above all, his unwavering faith in me.
At my retirement, Professor Habib spoke at two of my farewell gatherings. As I listened, I found myself thinking not only of my teacher but also of my father. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though Abba was still watching over me—just as he had on that unforgettable summer afternoon nearly five decades ago.
Today, as I retire, my mind returns once more to that walk into the Department of History, and to those simple words spoken by my father. He had not merely introduced me to a teacher. He had entrusted me to a guardian.
Nearly half a century has passed. My father is gone, but his trust has remained alive every single day of my academic journey. And even today, I feel that I am still holding the hand into which he placed mine all those years ago.
ASHA: Blast From The Past 