Nayeem’s ‘Alif’: Creating our own avenues
Celebrated mystic poet Bulleh Shah once wrote in verse that he needed no further worldly knowledge — all he needed was Alif, the first letter of the Arabic alphabet. The verse carries deeper meaning, as Alif also marks the beginning of the word Allah. The first of the 30 siparahs (sections) of the Holy Quran also begins with the mysterious letters Alif, Laam, Meem (A, L, and M in Arabic).
When I first met Nayeem, I thought to myself that in our part of the world, for a child born to non- or semi-literate parents in, say, a remote village in Baramullah, it is only the local government school that provides him/her with the opportunity to begin to learn, to be literate and numerate, to be able to understand the larger world. This government serviced education becomes the key to his/her individual, academic and collective intellectual and economic growth. But once this initial phase is over, they languish in different hostel buildings in Srinagar preparing for delayed competitive exams.
Like Bulle Shah, Nayeem also needed ‘Alif’ (here a helping hand) to get started with. He had come to the Kashmir University from a far flung village in the northern sector. Nayeem and I met in my first year at Kashmir University last year as fellow batch-mates. From the beginning, I sensed he wasn’t even remotely immersed in the degree program we had both chosen. He would regularly arrive late in the afternoon, when most classes were already over. For the remaining sessions, too, he was late. Even when present, he appeared lost. As a curious observer with a genuine interest in people’s lives, I considered two possibilities: either there were issues in his family or he was struggling academically. For months, I observed his behaviour, hoping to detect something beyond these assumptions. Deep down, I also hoped for a change. But I couldn’t see one.
Last month, a subject teacher paired us together for a group presentation. I had the chance to work closely with Nayeem. He remained inattentive, continuing his habit of arriving late. I protested. I told him we needed to sit together and work towards the deadline. As part of the process, I made sure he was deeply involved by making him sit through our sessions. I didn’t let him leave before our short breaks, which I had timed myself. We bonded well. My way of reaching out to him included light humour and awkward jokes—anything that could break the formal wall of politeness.
During one of our breaks, I began talking about life—my own failures, and the ambitions I had nurtured over time. This helped him open up. I asked why he had enrolled in this degree and what future he envisioned for himself. At first, he shared little. But with time, he began to speak more freely. Over time, I discovered he had left the hostel and taken a room far from the university, where he now lived alone. He looked like a depressed kid. Ever since enrolling, he had struggled to answer why he was in this program and what he was gaining from it. He felt he was wasting time, repeating things he had already learned on a much broader scale.
Like Nayeem, I have seen this same sense of absence and confusion in hundreds of students at Kashmir University. Initially, they believe they have made the right choice, but once they enter the program, they begin to struggle with a single, difficult question: Why did I choose this degree? I had a similar experience in College. On the first day, a few of my friends regretted their decision and shared that this wasn’t the program they were interested in. One female student told me, “I don’t know why I came here. This isn’t what I want to do.”
Such encounters are common in Kashmir, where basic counselling is absent and career paths are often tangled in social pressure. Many students remain enrolled in their programs while preparing for competitive civil service exams from their hostels. While I respect their conviction, determination, and ambition, I find that most do not qualify, given their overall development. One major issue I see among these aspirants is their confinement to books, often ignoring essential growth areas—like checking around for a mentor -who can work as a guiding light and is ready to use the fire without letting it burn them. In Nayeem’s case, this was a recurring issue: What are mentors? Not in the literal sense but he meant how to find them.
In absence of a teacher that could have at least made a preliminary framework for Nayeem, I volunteered to reflect what my mentors (obviously outside conventional academic institutions) have tried to inculcate in me over the years: problem recognition, immersion, and finally solution. We spent one long evening evaluating his current state of mind, his academic and professional ambitions and aspirations and finally his expectation from the future. We called it inner-evaluation. This resulted in a 10-day micro plan. This intense short term plan meant to look beyond outcomes like a degree or recognition and focus on sharp-thinking linking academic, creative, intellectual, and personal development in one ecosystem. I even insisted on using AI (like Chat GPT) for personal communication if he needed the course correct. I saw Nayeem revive back into life. He just couldn’t wait to get back to his room and start his essential timetable.
If we think more seriously, we can come to the conclusion: What wouldn’t happen if our teachers in conventional academic houses endanger themselves by reaching out to their students? This small practice could make a generation of innovators, creators and thinkers who are otherwise entirely dependent on the bleak chances of cracking civil services and other competitive exams. We all need Bulleh Shah’s ‘Alif’ to become high-performing thinkers and creators. To create our own avenues.
By: Sheikh Saqib
