From the Pulpit to Hearts
It’s hard to believe that Moulana Mubarak Mubarki (known famously as Mub Saeb) is no longer among us. His death has sent shockwaves through the religious and social fabric of Kashmir. Revered Imam and Khateeb of historic Bazar Masjid - he was a beacon of spiritual guidance and community leadership. His death, after a prolonged illness, has left a profound void among his followers and admirers.
The news has left a weight in our chest, the kind that only the absence of someone deeply cherished can bring. In Islam, scholars (ulama) are considered the inheritors of the prophets, tasked with preserving, teaching, and guiding the ummah through the wisdom of the Qur’an and Sunnah. Their loss is not merely the passing of an individual, but the dimming of a light that illuminated the path of countless lives with faith, knowledge, and clarity. Maulana Mubarki’s decades-long service as a preacher, teacher, and community leader anchored generations in religious understanding and moral clarity.
His passing is a profound loss for all Kashmiris, especially at a time when we need voices like his the most. Moulana Mubarki was a silent bridge-builder in a time of rising walls. He never raised his voice to debate, but he raised his presence to unify. He detested the shallow triumphalism of sectarian victories. While others chose sides, he chose silence, reflection, and sincere dialogue. His goal was never to win arguments but to win hearts. He often spoke of a Kashmir where people prayed differently but loved each other equally. He dreamed of a time when we wouldn’t label each other first—Sunni, Shia, Barelvi, Deobandi—but rather as Muslims who share the same Qibla, the same pain, and the same divine hope.
Mubarki Sahab’s khutbahs in Bazar Masjid were unforgettable. His voice would rise from the pulpit and reverberate through the grand arches, spilling into the bazaar surrounding, echoing through the narrow lanes of downtown. There was no need for theatrics—his words carried the weight of sincerity. People paused. Shops fell silent. Even those outside the masjid leaned in just to listen. He didn’t speak to impress; he spoke to heal, to teach, and to remind us. It felt like the air itself paused to listen when he spoke. And now, his silence is louder than his words ever were.
Mubarki Sahab was not just a scholar or a religious figure we respected—he was family. Our home was one of his regular stops, especially after the Friday khutbah. It was almost routine: the Khutbah would end, and soon after, the familiar knock, the soft salaam, and his presence would fill our house with calm, dignified energy. We would serve him tea while he shared words of wisdom and reflections on the state of the ummah, the youth, or the subtle meanings behind verses of the Qur’an. But more than his knowledge, it was his humility that left a mark on us.
Even as a child, I felt his gentleness. I still remember—I couldn’t have been more than in 6th class—boldly telling him that Shab-e-Baraat is a bid’ah (innovation in Islam), parroting something I had probably heard without fully understanding it. Mubarki Sahab didn’t get upset or laugh it off. Instead, he sat with me, a small boy, and gently discussed the topic, as if I was a scholar of equal status. That was him—he never spoke to you, he always spoke with you. Even with a child, he showed respect, patience, and genuine interest in their thoughts.
There are so many memories etched in our hearts. His hands were warm, the kind that made you feel safe, the kind that reminded you of the presence of something good and deeply rooted in Allah’s mercy. In those walks, he would often pat my head, smile, and ask how everything was going. Once, I remember him telling me, “Become something—become an officer, do something in the world. Then come and discuss Islam with me.” At the time, I didn’t fully grasp what he meant. Now, I do. He wanted us to be strong in both worlds: to gain knowledge, to lead with character, and then to carry the torch of deen with understanding and purpose.
His hold on Persian was unmatched. In a time where fewer and fewer scholars carry that heritage, he stood out—graceful in his speech, precise in his translation, and passionate in preserving that link to the scholars of the past. I once heard him recite lines of Shiekh Fakhruddin Iraqi (RA) and explain their spiritual depth in a way that brought tears to my eyes—even as a teenager. He was a scholar who didn’t seek the limelight. He walked humbly, sat quietly, and spoke only when there was a benefit in it. Yet his silence often spoke louder than our noise.
I remember the late Ghulam Mohiuddin Wani, affectionately known as Mahad Sahab, a revered teacher of both Moulana Mubarak Mubarki as well of Mirwaiz Umar Farooq, once sharing a profound sentiment that captures the scholarly brilliance of Maulana Mubarki. He said that had Maulana Mubarki’s father, the esteemed Moulana Ghulam Nabi Mubarki, been alive, “he would have had no option but to sit and listen to his son’s sermon, such was the depth and command of knowledge that his son possessed.” This reflection, coming from a towering figure of Waaz Khwani in Kashmir’s Islamic education like Mahad Sahab, is not just an expression of admiration, but a testament to the intellectual legacy Maulana Mubarki inherited and elevated. His father, Moulana Ghulam Nabi Mubarki, was himself a towering personality in Kashmir’s religious landscape—widely respected for his scholarship, piety, and influence across generations. The acknowledgment from Mahad Sahab serves to highlight how Maulana Mubarki not only upheld but advanced his father’s legacy, earning reverence in his own right from scholars and laypersons alike.
May Allah grant him the highest place in Jannatul Firdaus and reunite us again in a better gathering. And may we carry forward even a fraction of his humility, knowledge, and his love for Islam. His death is more than the end of a life—it is the closing of a chapter of wisdom, unity, and restraint that we desperately need to re-read. If we ever loved him, truly loved him, then perhaps the best way to honor him now is to resist the urge to divide, to argue, to label—and instead live the Islam he preached: one of humility, harmony, and heart.
