5 min readMay 28, 2026 08:47 PM IST
First published on: May 28, 2026 at 08:47 PM IST
I knew Bashir Badr as a child. He was my grandfather’s student and was unfailingly kind to us children when we visited our grandparents’ home in Aligarh, offering us toffees in little tin boxes and chocolates in shiny wrappers and, on one memorable occasion, even taking us to watch a movie at the city’s iconic Tasveer Mahal. Writing this, I am reminded of another luminous memory – of Bashir Badr reciting his poetry at university mushairas at the Kennedy Hall. Long before I could fully understand the import of his words, it was his tarrannum, the slightly nasal twang with which he recited his poetry, that made an impact on my young mind and the unfailingly cheerful look he seemed to sport on the dais as though he quite enjoyed being a poet. This sher in particular wafts through my mind redolent with the scents of summers past as childhood memories often are:
Meri muththi mein sukhe huye phool hain / Khusbuon ko urha kar hawa le gayee
In my hand I hold some dried flowers / Whose fragrance has been wafted away by the breeze
It might not be an exaggeration to say that Bashir Badr was the last of the great modern Urdu poets from India, along with Shahryar and Nida Fazli. Modern in tone and sensibility, accessible in metaphors and images yet grounded in a rigorous classical tradition, he was equally popular on the mushaira circuit as he was admired through the beauty of the written word. Born in Ayodhya in 1935, he had been suffering from a prolonged illness and hadn’t been seen or heard in public. Yet, such is the impact of his powerful yet simple words that his poetry has consistently remained relevant.
Honoured with the Padma Shri as well as the UP Urdu Academy four times and once by the Bihar Urdu Academy, he was also bestowed with the Meer Academy Award. A teacher of Urdu for 17 years at Meerut College, he was away from the limelight for many years yet remained a voice of a our time. In a life marked by hardship where success was tardy and setbacks many, he
once rued that life had dealt him a poor hand:
Zindagi tu ne mujhe qabr se kum dii hai zameen / Paanv phailaauun to deewaar mein sar lagtaa hai
Life, you’ve given me even less space than a grave / When I stretch my legs my head strikes the wall
When his house was looted and burnt down in the horrific communal riots of 1987 in Meerut, he left the city and built a new life in Bhopal. He also found a wellspring of courage and compassion from deep within to tell his countrymen:
Saat sanduqon mein bharkar dafn kar do nafratein / Aaj insaan ko mohabbat ki zarurat hai bahut Stuff all the hatred in seven boxes and bury it deep / Today, humans need love more than anything else
And also:
Naye daur ke naye khwaab hain naye mausamon ke gulaab hain / Ye mohabbaton ke charaagh hain inhein nafraton ki hawa na de
These are new dreams of a new age, new roses of a new season/ These are lamps of love; don’t stir them with the breeze of hatred
Whether it was a political statement or a personal one, there was always a simplicity and a directness in his poetry as here: Hazaaron bhes mein phirte hain Ram aur Rahim / Koi zaruri nahin hai bhala bhala hii lage
Ram and Rahim go about in a thousand guises / It is not necessary that the guise appears good
And here:
Phir yaad bahut aayegi zulfon ki ghani shaam / Jab dhoop mein saaya koi sar par na milega
I will remember the dark evening of your tresses / When I find no shade from the sun over my head
Given the puritanism and political correctness that has so overtaken the Urdu poet today, here is Bashir Badr reminding us of the importance of the mai-kada (tavern) in Urdu poetry, how it is a cosmos outside the usual spaces of “shareef” (cultured) milieu:
Na tum hosh mein ho na hum hosh mein hain / Chalo mai-kade mein waheen baat hogi
Neither are you in your senses, nor am I/ Let’s go to the mai-kada; we will talk there
Using food as a metaphor for fruition, for reward, he says:
Kuchh phal zaroor aainge roti ke perh mein / Jis din mira mutaalba manzoor ho gaya
Some fruits will surely appear on the tree of roti / On the day when my claims are accepted
And then there is this sher, my personal favourite:
Ujaale apni yaadon ke hamare saath rahne do / Na jaane kis gali mein zindagi ki shaam ho jaae
Leave the light of your memories with me / Who knows when the night might fall
Go gently into the night Bashir sahab, fare well!
Rakhshanda Jalil is a Delhi-based writer, translator and literary historian
