𝐀 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞: 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐫 𝐋𝐚𝐤𝐡𝐚𝐢
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𝐀 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞: 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐫 𝐋𝐚𝐤𝐡𝐚𝐢
(𝑰𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑸𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕 𝑳𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑮𝒂𝒎𝒃𝒂𝒕, 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝑺𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝑾𝒂𝒍𝒌)
𝑩𝒚: 𝑹𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔𝒉 𝑹𝒂𝒋𝒂
On February 25 each year, I find myself walking again through the dusty streets of Gambat. The tea stalls are still there, the evening breeze still carries familiar sounds, but something essential is missing. It is the quiet, dignified presence of my friend, Nazar Lakhai.
Nazar was born on August 16, 1956, to Ghulam Shabbir Gulal. He left us on February 25, 2007. In those fifty years, he lived not loudly, but intensely. He was not merely a poet; he was a temperament, a moral stance, a way of standing upright in a time when bending was easier.
Academically accomplished, Nazar held an M.A. in Sindhi and a Master’s in Education. He worked at Sindh Agriculture University, Tando Jam, as Assistant Admin in the government sector, and later served as Managing Director of Dewan Sugar Mills in Thatta. Yet titles never impressed him. He carried authority lightly and wore humility like a permanent garment.
He was a family man, leaving behind one son and four daughters. But beyond his home, he nurtured a larger family — the restless, searching minds of young readers and writers who gathered around him.
In Gambat, during the 1980s and 1990s, a small circle of literature lovers tried to create an atmosphere where poetry mattered. Saah Shaikh, Manzoor Ujjan, Ghohar Shaikh, Nazir Sarohi, Naimat Memon, Waqif Sarohi, Raz Ali Gul Bhutto, Zaroor Siyal, Hamad Narejo, Inam Belarivi, Adeel Mahar — and Nazar at the centre of it all. I was fortunate to be among them. We wandered the streets, argued over verses, laughed over tea, and dreamed of a more just Sindh. Those evenings were our university; Nazar was both student and teacher.
He had a sensitive heart. He could be hurt by a careless word, yet he forgave with disarming ease. He kept a small circle of intimate friends but greeted everyone with courtesy. In literary sittings, he carried an old-world grace, speaking gently, listening deeply. His humour was subtle; his silence carried meaning.
Nazar called himself a Sufi, not as a pose but as a principle. He avoided intoxication, yet he was intoxicated with humanity. He preferred sitting with the poor, with labourers, with marginalised communities, rather than with the powerful. He believed literature that did not touch the oppressed was incomplete.
His poetry was rooted in resistance. He wrote against inequality, exploitation and moral compromise. In one of his powerful lines, he likened his heart to the Indus and asked how it could endure a dam upon it. For him, bowing before power for the sake of position was unthinkable. His pen did not bend; neither did his conscience.
At the same time, his poetry carried tenderness — love, brotherhood and religious harmony flowed through his verses. He transformed personal pain into collective awareness. His published collections, Scattered Existence (Wikrayal Wujood)and Love Is Not Torment (Ishq Nahi Azaab), reflect both the fragility and the strength of his spirit.
Nazar was not confined to writing alone. He worked actively with literary and social organisations including Sindhi Adabi Sangat, SAGA, Youth Academic and Literary Front, Bazm-e-Ustad Bukhari and Sindh National Front. He served with dedication and integrity, especially as District Contact Secretary of Sindhi Adabi Sangat in Khairpur.
His commitment to education was practical, not rhetorical. He founded Evershine English Elementary School and Sadiq Public School in Gambat, believing that classrooms could achieve what slogans could not. For him, educating a child was a revolutionary act.
He stood among notable contemporaries such as Faqir Abdul Rahim “Abd,” Inam Shah Belharvi, Ayaz Gul, Adal Soomro, Sarkash Sindhi and others, yet he remained distinctly himself. His poetry reached wider audiences when sung by celebrated artists including Abida Parveen and several prominent Sindhi vocalists. Through their voices, his words travelled beyond literary circles into homes and hearts.
But beyond achievements, Nazar was a clean-hearted human being. Generous with his pocket, more generous with his affection. He disliked hypocrisy, avoided bitterness and rarely spoke ill of anyone. Even when organisational politics tested him, he responded with patience rather than anger.
His passing in 2007 left a silence that has never been fully filled. Yet perhaps that is how certain lives work: they end, but their influence continues quietly, like an underground stream.
For me, Nazar Lakhai is not only a name in Sindhi literature. He is a memory of shared walks, heated debates, unfinished conversations and hopeful evenings. He is proof that a poet can live his poetry, that dignity can survive in difficult times, and that simplicity can carry revolution within it.
Some writers leave behind books.; A few leave behind light. Nazar Lakhai left both.
