He was a vagabond at heart, a free thinker in thought, a progressive writer in his pen, an unconventional teacher of Western literature, and a passionate lover, all in all.
By Raphic Burdo
If Keats was killed by critics, Professor Aziz Pali was killed by clerks and clerics. He was mortified by the clerical mindset that permeated academia, intelligentsia, and literati. They killed him with their intolerance for new ideas, new thoughts, and new ways of doing things. They killed him with their suffocatingly narrow thought processes. Yet, after so many years of his passing, Professor Aziz lives in the hearts and minds of those he touched with his presence. His persona still warms hearts and brightens the darker corners of the brain. Those who orchestrated his bodily exit from this world are themselves decaying without hope for redemption.
Every year, on 09 November, Pakistan celebrates “Iqbal Day” to remember poet and thinker Muhammad Iqbal, Allama Iqbal, Iqbal Lahori, the poet of the East. The same day brings memories of another thinker, teacher, and poet-at-heart: Abul Aziz Pali, a product of progressive schools of thought in both East and West.
The mountains of Jamshoro, the corridors of Sindh University, the sprawling lawns of Sindh Agriculture University Tando Jam, the sultry evenings of Hyderabad, and the uneven roads of Qasimabad remember and pay tribute to a remarkable educator, writer, and friend on the anniversary of his passing.
He was a vagabond at heart, a free thinker in thought, a progressive writer in his pen, an unconventional teacher of Western literature, and a passionate lover, all in all.
Aziz Pali was a lifelong student of philosophy, the history of philosophical thought, and literature. A passionate teacher and an iconoclast, he held firm beliefs shaped by deep study and lived experience. The breadth of Western thought, absorbed through books and life, strengthened his conviction about the imperfections of conventional institutions. He was a sort of Voltaire who knocked at the doors of a French Revolution of Sindh, one that would sweep away conservatism, feudalism, and archaic beliefs. Like Voltaire, he advocated freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and the separation of religion and state.
While his pen scribbled inqilab, his heart sang love. He admired Shelley’s Ode to the West Wind and Keats’s Ode on a Grecian Urn at the same time. While he wanted to spark a movement that would sweep away everything dead, decaying, and useless, he also wanted to awaken hearts and eyes to beauty in all its shapes, colours, and forms. The inauthentic living around him made him suffer. His mission was to tear away masks and end the masquerade. Hypocrisy, insincerity, and pretentious living pained him deeply. Like Shelley, he turned his pain into ink: “I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed.”
He knew he was mortal, yet aspired for immortality, like Adonais, through art, nature, and literature. He believed in the ultimate triumph of justice and love. He flew above his peers on the viewless wings of philosophical thought. He was as free in his mind as Prometheus Unbound. He possessed the spirit to witness the triumph of liberation over oppression, the power of love over darkness, and the pervasive presence of knowledge and freedom for all under the sun and beyond.
Aziz was never meant for suffocating academic circles, sold-out intelligentsia, or pseudo-intellectuals. He was a misfit from the word go. His essays in the widely read Kawish of the 1990s show a man born free but everywhere in chains; chains of customs, traditions, and beliefs. He felt unfree at the university where he taught, unfree in the neighborhood where he lived, and unfree in the opinions of colleagues and so-called friends. His spirit was far larger than the cramped minds he dealt with every day.
Deliberately, he took the road to physical exit. He chose slow poison as a protest against pretentious living. He refused the label of depression or mental disorder; he wrote off suicide as an option. Calling a spade a spade, he chose an exalted exit from the theatre of the world. He drank himself out of the drama. He went singing, laughing, dancing; leaving behind a crowd full of masks whose despicable faces he had seen.
For Aziz, a thing of beauty was a joy forever. His protest was against every chain placed on his beautiful life, by society, academia, intellectuals, neighbors, friends, and everyone. He lived like a river, ever flowing. In his death, he merged into the ocean of thought leaders, iconoclasts, and chain-breakers.
Aziz Pali was born in the small village of Munam Pali in Umerkot district of Sindh, Pakistan. His academic journey testified to his passion for learning. He was among the brightest students of the prestigious English Department at Sindh University, Jamshoro. He grew into an academic free spirit, carrying forward the intellectual depth of his celebrated teachers.
As a professor of English; first at Sindh Agriculture University Tando Jam and later at the University of Sindh. He inspired countless students with his vast knowledge, infectious enthusiasm, and unwavering commitment to free thought and academic freedom. Fluent in French, Italian, Russian, Persian, American, and English literature, he enriched every classroom he entered. While teaching the Romantics, he embodied the West Wind one moment and dissolved into the Lyrical Ballads of Coleridge and Wordsworth the next. Teaching gave him wings; he took flight from the narrow world around him.
As a writer, he shared insights through numerous columns and essays. His writings reflect a curious mind, an open heart, a rebellious spirit, and a deep understanding of the human condition.
Aziz was more than a teacher or writer. He was a friend, a mentor, a guiding light. He touched countless lives with kindness, generosity, and warmth. For me, he stood up to a Chairman determined to downgrade me for my unconventional views on art and literature. Aziz confronted the entire interview board of senior faculty and ensured I received the grades I deserved. He kept my examination papers with him and waved them at anyone who doubted my intellectual ability. Without him, I might not have survived the intellectual dishonesty, favouritism, and nepotism that plagued the Department of English. So suffocating was the environment that I began searching for other departments even before completing my BA Honours. But Aziz’s encouragement kept me in a department that was then neither qualified to teach language nor literature, at best a high school, at times a madrassah.
Aziz Pali was the first to dent the conservatism and clerical environment of that English department. Things improved, slowly but surely, as he grew senior and gained influence. He had the charisma to convert students into disciples, though he rejected the eastern tradition of guru-chela. He treated students as friends and colleagues, freely exchanging thoughts on life, art, philosophy, and literature.
Rest in peace, dear Professor Pali. Your spirit lives in our hearts and minds. Your legacy will continue to inspire generations to come.
Read: Dilemma of Pakistan Civil Service
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Raphic Burdo is public policy expert focused on impact of digital technologies on leadership, governance, education and markets
Mr. Pali, Mr. Mukhtyar Samo, and I lived in the teacher’s hostel for more than 5 years. Aziz Pali was a genius teacher.