Unsung Genius: A Tribute to Parvaiz Sir
In the silent corridors of a modest school in Khanpora, Kuzwera, Chadoora, an epitome of knowledge walked its streets. Parvaiz Ahmad Khan—affectionately known as Parvaiz Sir—was not a government officer, not a university lecturer, not a PhD holder. But he was a living encyclopaedia, a blackboard philosopher, and a classroom saint who taught for nearly two decades without complaint, without fame, and without the privileges his brilliance deserved.
While our public imagination remains occupied with degrees, designations, and secured pensions, Parvaiz Sir belonged to that invisible army of private school teachers who shaped destinies without ever being seen. He taught Mathematics, Science, English, and Social Science—subjects many struggle with individually. His recall of content was so sharp that he could quote lessons word for word, page by page, long after the books had changed. He made learning human. He made teaching sacred.
Yet there was no applause. No award. No headline. He wasn’t just a tutor. He was a nation builder without a title, an administrator without an office, and a scholar without a scale.
Despite this, he never earned more than what a driver or peon in the public sector might take home. No house rent allowance. No LTC. No health cover. No leave benefits. And when cancer slowly began to eat at his body, the system simply watched. There was no insurance, no government support, no institutional safety net. He continued to teach till the very end—not because he had to—but because he loved to.
Herein lies the cruel truth: he suffered in silence—as hundreds still do—because he happened to be brilliant in the wrong place: a private school.
The contradiction is painful. His students today are doctors, engineers, police officers, professors—some drawing government salaries five or ten times higher than what he ever earned. Some have degrees from national universities, yet were once moulded by his chalk and his words. He was, in every sense, their foundation. And still, the world looked away.
He never asked for attention. His piety was soft. He joined Milad-un-Nabi gatherings not to be seen, but to belong. He supported the Baitul Maal even when his own medical bills stood unpaid. He gave from what he didn’t have. That is character. That is faith. And that is pain.
When some of his former students returned as fellow teachers, he welcomed them with open arms. No arrogance. No hierarchy. This humility is rare in an age where ego often walks louder than wisdom.
But with his passing on June 25, 2025, we are not just mourning a man. We are mourning a system that fails its best. Why are private school teachers, often more devoted and brilliant, treated as second-class professionals? Why does our society worship employment, not excellence? Why must men like Parvaiz Sir die quietly for us to remember how brightly they lived?
It is time we stop measuring worth by salary slips. There are thousands like him—burning silently in classrooms, ignored in policymaking, absent in official recognition. They are the real education warriors.
If we truly care about the future of learning in Kashmir and beyond, we must raise our voices for them. We must demand equality in pay, dignity in service, and support in times of illness or loss.
Parvaiz Sir didn’t leave behind riches, nor property. He left behind minds, characters, and hearts—shaped by his hands, softened by his wisdom. Let his legacy be a reminder: sometimes, the most powerful teachers never wear power. They simply give it to others.
He may be gone, but his chalk-dusted fingerprints remain on the souls of a generation. That should haunt us.
Mohammad Aaqib Khan, Pursuing Ph.D in Islamic Studies.
