Syed Ali Nadeem Rezavi
Some scholars are measured by the volumes they produce or the positions they hold. Others leave their truest legacy in the hearts and minds of their students, friends, and all who were fortunate enough to share their company. Professor Syed Badrul Hasan Abdi (1924–2009) belonged unmistakably to the latter. To introduce him merely as Professor of Arabic and Persian at Banaras Hindu University would be to capture only a fragment of a remarkably rich personality. He was scholar, teacher, poet, reciter of majalis, and above all a gentle soul whose profound learning was matched only by his profound humility.
Professor Abdi embodied a generation of scholars now steadily receding from our intellectual landscape. They moved with effortless grace between the lecture hall, the library, the shrine, and the mimbar. They saw no contradiction between academic rigour and religious devotion, between critical inquiry and literary sensibility. For them, learning was not a profession but a way of being.
For decades, Professor Abdi served in the Department of Arabic and Persian at Banaras Hindu University, where he became one of the most revered teachers of his time. His command of Arabic, Persian, and Urdu was the product of years of disciplined scholarship. He belonged to the classical Indo-Persian tradition in which languages were not merely studied but inhabited. Every text was read with care, every expression situated in its historical context, every interpretation tested against evidence. Students who passed through his classroom invariably remembered not simply what he taught but how he taught. He possessed that rare gift of making difficult texts feel accessible without ever diminishing their complexity.
His published writings reflected the same intellectual integrity. They ranged across Arabic and Persian literature, Islamic thought, Qur’anic studies, and the literary traditions of South Asia. Yet, like so many scholars of his generation, he never measured success by the number of books to his name. His greatest contribution lay in the students he shaped and the standards of scholarship he quietly upheld throughout his career.
For me, however, Professor Syed Badrul Hasan Abdi – Badrul Chacha – was never merely a distinguished academic. He was one of the closest friends of my late father, Saiyid Sibtul Hasan. As a child, I grew up seeing him as an honoured guest in our home in Aligarh. Whenever he visited, the conversations between the two friends would stretch for hours. Literature, history, theology, politics, and shared memories flowed together with effortless ease. Looking back now, I recognise that I was privileged to witness a culture of friendship rooted in scholarship, where intellectual companionship formed the strongest of bonds.
Yet, curiously, my most vivid memories of Professor Abdi belong not to Aligarh but to the Mazar of Shahid-e-Salis, Qazi Nurullah Shustari, in Agra. Every year, during the commemorations held there, he would arrive to recite the majalis. Those gatherings remain among the most cherished memories of my youth.
The shrine itself possessed a unique atmosphere. It was not merely a place of pilgrimage; it functioned almost as an academy, where scholars, students, poets, and devotees gathered in remembrance and discourse. Conversations would continue long after the majlis had concluded. Persian poetry, Mughal history, Qur’anic exegesis, Arabic philology, and Shi’i theology were all discussed with remarkable freedom. Professor Abdi was invariably at the centre of these exchanges, not because he sought attention but because knowledge naturally gravitated towards him.
It was upon the mimbar that his extraordinary gifts became fully apparent. Those who attended his majalis quickly realised that they differed profoundly from the style commonly associated with Muharram gatherings. For the greater part of the discourse, Professor Abdi spoke exactly as a university teacher would conduct a class. Listening to him, one often felt that one was attending a postgraduate seminar rather than a religious sermon. Every majlis followed a carefully planned intellectual progression. He would begin with a verse of the Qur’an or a tradition of the Prophet, explain its language and historical setting, and then gradually construct the background necessary for understanding the events of Karbala. Political developments within the early Muslim community, theological debates, the personalities involved, and the historical sources were all examined with the precision of an experienced historian.
Arabic and Persian texts appeared naturally throughout his discourse. They were never quoted merely to display learning; each citation served as historical evidence supporting the argument he was developing. Every assertion rested upon a source. Every narrative was placed within its proper context. For most of the majlis, the atmosphere resembled that of a university classroom. The audience was invited to understand before being invited to mourn. History became the foundation upon which devotion rested.
Then came the moment that everyone awaited. As Professor Abdi entered the masaib, the narration of the sufferings endured by Imam Husain, his family, and companions at Karbala, something remarkable occurred. Almost imperceptibly, the professor disappeared and the traditional zākir emerged. The measured prose of the lecturer gave way to a lyrical cadence that recalled the great majlis tradition of Awadh, a style that has now become increasingly rare. His voice acquired a rhythm of extraordinary beauty. His language became poetic without ever becoming theatrical. The emotional restraint that characterised the old Lucknow school of recitation revealed itself with quiet dignity. He never attempted to force emotion. He never relied upon exaggerated gestures or dramatic effects. Instead, grief unfolded naturally through the elegance of language and the cumulative weight of historical memory. The audience found itself moved because it had first been educated. Understanding prepared the heart, and the masāib completed what scholarship had begun. Even today, when I think of Professor Abdi, it is this transition that remains most vivid in my memory. Few speakers have ever combined historical analysis with devotional narration so seamlessly. He demonstrated that scholarship and emotion need not exist in opposition. Indeed, each gained strength from the other.
There was another dimension to Professor Abdi that many outside literary circles perhaps knew less well. He was an accomplished Urdu poet who wrote under the takhallus ‘Badr Faizabadi’. His poetry reflected the same refinement that marked his scholarship. Much of it celebrated the Ahl al-Bayt, the blessed Household of the Prophet, and commemorated the eternal tragedy of Karbala. His verses belonged to the great tradition of Urdu devotional poetry, in which literary elegance, historical consciousness, and profound faith existed together in perfect harmony. Like his Majālis, his poetry was distinguished by dignity rather than ornamentation. Classical in language yet immediate in feeling, his verses drew upon the immense heritage of Persian and Urdu literature while speaking with an authentic personal voice. Those who knew Badr Faizabadi the poet, recognised immediately the same gentle scholar they encountered in the classroom and upon the mimbar.
His literary and scholarly legacy continues through his family. His son, Professor Syed Ainul Hasan Abdi, is himself an eminent scholar of Persian who served for many years at the Centre of Persian and Central Asian Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. He has since held several important academic and cultural positions and currently serves as Vice Chancellor of Maulana Azad National Urdu University, Hyderabad. Like his father, Professor Ainul Hasan is much more than an academic administrator. He is an accomplished Urdu poet and an admired reciter of marsiya. In him, one finds the continuation of a remarkable family tradition in which scholarship, literature, and devotion continue to reinforce one another across generations. Professor Abdi’s family was itself connected with other distinguished scholarly lineages. His daughter Noor is married to Professor Aliul Hasan, son of the revered Maulana Syed Zafrul Hasan of Banaras, who for a period taught at the Engineering College of Aligarh Muslim University. Thus, through scholarship, friendship, and family, Professor Abdi remained part of a larger intellectual world that linked Banaras, Aligarh, Agra, and Lucknow through a shared commitment to learning and culture.
Looking back today, I realise that Professor Syed Badrul Hasan Abdi belonged to one of the last generations of what may truly be called scholar-orators. There was once a time when the majlis served simultaneously as a lesson in history, an exercise in literary appreciation, and an act of devotion. The finest zākirs prepared themselves as carefully as university lecturers. Accuracy mattered. Language mattered. Literary refinement mattered. Above all, respect for history mattered. Professor Abdi embodied that ideal completely. He explained before he exhorted. He educated before he moved. His authority rested not upon dramatic oratory but upon learning. Even when narrating the sufferings of Karbala, he never abandoned historical discipline or literary elegance.
Sadly, this culture has become increasingly uncommon. Modern academic life often leaves little room for the broad humanistic learning that once characterised scholars like Professor Abdi. At the same time, the majlis has in many places become separated from the rich historical and literary traditions that once nourished it. Professor Abdi stood firmly against such divisions. In his life, there existed no separation between the university and the mimbar, between scholarship and remembrance, between history and faith.
When I remember him today, I do not first recall the distinguished Professor of Banaras Hindu University or even the respected poet Badr Faizabadi. I remember instead the quiet figure seated upon the mimbar at the shrine of Shahid-e-Salis in Agra, patiently unfolding the historical background of Karbala before allowing the discourse to blossom into the haunting beauty of the masaib in the old Awadhi style. I remember the evenings that followed, when discussions continued deep into the night among scholars and friends. I remember, too, the warmth of his friendship with my father, a friendship that reflected the finest traditions of civility and intellectual companionship. In remembering Professor Syed Badrul Hasan Abdi, one remembers much more than an individual. One remembers an entire intellectual world that valued learning above recognition, humility above acclaim, and service above ambition. It was a world in which a professor could also be a poet, a poet could also be a zākir, and a zākir could remain, above all else, a teacher.
Such men become rarer with every passing generation. It is therefore both a privilege and a duty to remember Professor Syed Badrul Hasan Abdi ‘Badr Faizabadi’, not simply for what he accomplished, but for what he represented. He was among the last great custodians of a civilisational tradition in which scholarship, literature, piety, and humanity existed in perfect harmony. His voice has fallen silent, but the culture he embodied continues to inspire all those who had the good fortune to hear him teach, to hear him recite, and above all, to know him.
ASHA: Blast From The Past 