Even Today, The Indefatigable (Farhāds) Dwell Here
Riyāz! A lifetime passed
I came late, yet even now
In the sanctuary, my call to prayer still echoes through the nights.
It was the evening of 4 April 2026. The ʿAṣr prayer had just concluded, and the sun was scattering its golden rays upon the waters of the Gomti with such delicacy, as though the final divine unveilings descend quietly upon the heart of a knower of God. I arrived at Nadwat al-ʿUlamāʾ—that very Nadwa whose dust, for me, is not mere dust but kohl for the eyes; that very threshold whose walls are not lifeless arrangements of brick and stone, but rather the golden pages of the الأمة’s history upon which the luminaries of knowledge and virtue have inscribed their radiant imprints.
First, I met Mawlānā Sayyid Bilāl Ḥasanī, the rector of Nadwa; then I was blessed with the presence of Mawlānā Sayyid ʿAmmār Ḥasanī, the supervisor. I conversed with Mawlānā Muḥammad Wathīq Nadwī, a teacher at Dār al-ʿUlūm; I had the honour of meeting respected members of the Majlis al-Shūrā; and then I sat with a delegation from Bhopal led by Mawlānā Muḥammad Yūsuf Ṣiddīqī Nadwī and Mawlānā Muḥammad Muʿādh Nadwī. The details of these meetings will come in their proper place, for each encounter is a chapter in itself, and every chapter contains its own distinct story.
But what dominated my mind and heart at that moment was the atmosphere of Nadwa itself. Situated on the banks of the Gomti, this institution—this fountainhead of knowledge and thought, this cradle of art and literature—draws my heart with an intensity like that of an infant rushing helplessly into its mother’s embrace. This attraction is not merely the enchantment of memory, nor simply the warmth of personal attachment; rather, it is a spiritual bond that cannot be fully contained within the confines of words.
The waters of the Gomti flow from west to east, but the blessings of Nadwa are not confined to any one direction. Its spring flows to the east and west, north and south alike. It is a river whose current is free from the constraints of geography; a breeze that pays no heed to the walls of borders. The voices rising from here have never remained limited to the streets of Lucknow; their effects have been felt in Delhi, Damascus, Cairo, Istanbul, Oxford, and New York.
Like the breeze am I in the garden of existence—
I hold neither alliance with the rose, nor enmity with the thorn.
The world has divided people into classes, groups, nationalities, sects, and languages. Each individual has drawn a boundary around himself, and each group has established its own circle. But Nadwa does not recognise such divisions. Its temperament is not fragmentation, but synthesis and reconciliation. When ʿAllāmah ʿAbd al-Ḥayy Ḥasanī writes Nuzhat al-Khawāṭir, the breadth of his pen embraces scholars of every class, group, sect, and region. The same quality is found in Sayyid Sulaymān Nadwī’s Yādgār-e-Raftagān; the same spirit shines in Mawlānā Abū al-Ḥasan ʿAlī Nadwī’s Purāne Chirāgh; and the same hue appears, albeit humbly, in this writer’s own al-Jāmiʿ al-Muʿīn.
Our age is intoxicated with minutiae. People have become so entangled in subsidiary debates that disputation is mistaken for knowledge, refutations have taken the place of daʿwah, and issuing fatwas has become the معيار of integrity. Everyone is busy refuting others, yet heedless of reforming themselves. But the graduates of Nadwa even today call to tawḥīd, spread the light of the Sunnah, emphasise principles and universals, and invite the الأمة back to its true centre.
We have erected an artificial barrier between knowledge and literature, as though knowledge were merely dry logic and literature nothing more than wordplay. This is a modern innovation—unknown in the time of the prophets, the Companions, or the righteous predecessors. Nadwa’s greatest distinction is precisely this: here, knowledge and literature are not separate.
In lessons of fiqh, one senses the fragrance of ادب, and in literary gatherings, the light of knowledge shines. When the Qurʾān is taught, language is refined; when ḥadīth is studied, taste and sensibility are polished.
At a time when religion was being sidelined in favour of sectarian interpretations, when human opinions were imposed upon the الأمة and divided into labels, when hatred was being spread and the market of takfīr and denunciation was thriving—Nadwa preserved Islamic values, taught balance and comprehensiveness, and instilled in the new generation the awareness that sects and schools only multiply divisions. Therefore, remember the lesson: “Indeed, this community of yours is one community.”
Weak-hearted individuals take pride in limited reading and superficial knowledge. Having read a few pages, they imagine themselves scholars; having heard a few speeches, they consider themselves thinkers. But in Nadwa, there still dwell those Farhāds—those who possess the resolve to carve streams of milk from rugged mountains. Here are students who dive deep into the intricate discussions of Iʿlām al-Muwaqqiʿīn; here are seekers of knowledge who wrestle with the complex arguments of al-Radd ʿalā al-Manṭiqiyyīn; here are people of insight who illuminate the lengthy debates of Darʾ Taʿāruḍ al-ʿAql wa al-Naql with the lamps of understanding.
Even today, one senses from this institution the fragrance of the caravans of Ḥijāz. In its halls live the wisdom of al-Ghazālī, the precision of al-Rāzī, and the intellectual courage of Ibn Taymiyyah. When a student opens a book here, it feels as though he is seated in a grand academy of Baghdad; and when a teacher speaks, it is as if the voice of knowledge is echoing through a madrasa in Damascus.
In the lands of India, Nadwa is an island that has preserved its identity amidst the crowds of time. It is a place where al-Maḥallī is studied and al-Mughnī is discussed; where students engage in scholarly discourse over cups of tea, and in classrooms profound debates on Ibn Taymiyyah and Shāh Walī Allāh unfold. This is not a contradiction of opposites, but rather the mark of a living, جامع civilisation.
When I walk through the courtyards of Nadwa, I feel as though time has come to a standstill. Here, the past breathes within the present, and the present converses with the future. This is not merely a seminary; it is an idea, a tradition, a trust. And the greatest sign of that trust is that even today, Farhāds dwell here—Farhāds who do not carve stone, but shape hearts; who do not dig canals, but cause springs of knowledge to flow.
Like the tulip in this garden,
We came to bear scars—and departed carrying them.
This is the greatness of Nadwa, this is its secret, and this is its future.
