Bilal Ali Ansari

Three years after the passing of my mentor, I find myself reflecting on certain memories I had penned shortly after his departure. At that time, I had taken a portion of an English post and expanded it into a more extensive Urdu article originally intended for publication as part of a larger special-issue anthology of eulogies. However, for reasons still unclear, the issue remains unpublished. In honor of his memory, I have decided to share the English version of this piece. I extend my gratitude to my sister for her diligent proofreading and valuable language suggestions. Additionally, I am thankful for the insightful conversations I had with colleagues and fellow students of Chishtī Ṣāḥib, which aided me in making minor corrections to my recollection of certain details.

At times it is Allah’s way to reveal the full splendor of His hidden jewels only after they have departed from this world. My beloved mentor and teacher, the eminent hadith critic, researcher par excellence, and consummate historian, Mawlānā Dr. Muḥammad ʿAbd al-Ḥalīm Chishtī al-Nuʿmānī (may Allah shower His infinite mercy upon him) was indeed one such jewel. Amongst his myriad unique and outstanding qualities, one stood out prominently: his remarkable ability to impart a wealth of knowledge with just a few weighty words. Brief interactions with Chishtī Ṣāḥib, as we affectionately referred to him, opened floodgates of knowledge for his students. A few words from him sufficed both inspire and transform. 

Despite harboring a deep hesitation to write about my mentor’s life, given my relatively limited companionship with him in comparison to other students, I still consider it worthwhile and hopefully beneficial to share some personal experiences. These experiences reflect how Hadrat Ustādh Jī, both as a role model and as an academic guide, had a profound impact on my life and significantly contributed to shaping my academic path.

I had been in Pakistan for over five years as a young American, dedicating my time to studying the sacred sciences and engaging in tablīgh work, before I had the privilege of meeting Chishti Sahib. My formal classroom experience with Chishti Sahib was relatively brief, spanning less than a year, primarily during the initial months of 2006.

It all began with an initial meeting with Ḥaḍrat, facilitated by my colleague and friend, Mawlānā Aḥmad Riẓā of Sargodha. Mawlānā Aḥmad Riẓā connected me to Ḥaḍrat while I was in the midst of my Dawrat al-Ḥadith studies at Dār al-ʿUlum Karachi in 2005. He requested Ḥadrat for some time on an off night (usually Thursday nights for most madrasahs) so that I could visit and seek his general ijāzāh (certification) in hadith. At the time, I had no clear intention of advancing my studies in Pakistan. The government there had been exerting pressure on foreign students in the religious seminaries to leave. My initial plan was simply to meet this esteemed and senior scholarly figure and, at most, depart with the honor of having attained an ijāzāh from a hadith master who had studied with the teachers of my own teachers. I had not anticipated the warm welcome that Haḍrat extended to me that night, especially not from a scholar of his age, stature, and academic caliber. 

I vividly recall the night of our first meeting. Haḍrat welcomes us at the door in the most humble of appearances: bareheaded and donned in a simple white collarless kurta and a blue lungī (sarong). His living quarters mirrored this humility: a few rooms situated above the masjid where he served as an imam. His modest dwelling was adorned with books, with bookshelves occupying every available space and each stacked from floor to ceiling. Ḥadrat displayed exceptional graciousness as our host. He generously devoted his evening to me, engaging in extensive and profound intellectual conversations, expressing a gallant interest in someone far junior and even far less knowledgeable than himself. These memories remain etched in my mind to this day. 

After graciously conferring an ijāzāh in hadith upon me, Hadrat patiently entertained questions about his teachers, including Shaykh al-Islam Ḥusayn Aḥmad Madanī, Shaykh ʿAbd al-Fattāḥ Abū Ghuddah, and his elder brother ʿAllāmah ʿAbd al-Rashīd al-Nuʿmānī (may Allah have mercy on them all). In his brief manner, he particularly emphasized the profound influence of his brother, describing him as the one who had the greatest impact on his intellectual development.

Interrupted the conversation, he then insisted that we stay for dinner. Without the assistance of his wife (who was away visiting one of their children at the time) and despite being near my grandfather’s age, Ḥaḍrat prepared and served the meal himself. He set up the dastarkhān, making numerous trips from the sitting room to the kitchen to fetch dishes, utensils, pitchers of water, and more. 

When he eventually asked us to proceed to the neighboring restroom to wash our hands, we stood up to collect our sandals. To our surprise, we discovered that Haḍrat had straightened our sandals for us! Ustādh Jī’s humility and undeserved kindness caught me off guard. The only appropriate response that came to mind was to reciprocate in kind. So, when the next opportunity arose, and he took off his sandals to enter the room, I quickly bent down to straighten them. However, to my chagrin, he immediately noticed and gave me a stern frown, exclaiming, “It is the right of the host to honor his guests! It is not the right of the guest to do so!”

After dinner, I sat with Haḍrat and entertained his questions about my education and background. I mentioned that I was a U.S. national and expressed my concerns about the challenges foreign nationals were facing due to the current government’s policies in Pakistan. He asked directly, “What are your plans now that you have graduated?” I explained that I was uncertain whether the government would compel us to leave the country, so I was contemplating returning to the United States. There, I intended to seek guidance from scholars, continue my studies, and engage in teaching and community service. 

He smiled warmly and made a surprising and generous offer, saying, “As long as you can remain here, come and study with me and depart whenever it suits you.” He directed my companion, Mawlana Aḥmad Riẓā (to whom I am eternally indebted for connecting me with Chishtī Ṣāḥib and rendering countless other favors), to make the necessary arrangements on my behalf. 

Such was the humility of our shaykh. Despite his obvious superiority, he made his students feel important and worthy of his attention. Over the years, numerous students have echoed this sentiment to me: that Ḥaḍrat treated them as if no one else was more significant, embodying one of the noble traits of the Prophet (may Allah bless him and grant him peace). In fact, during the months I spent in his company, I felt as though I were dearer to Ustādh Jī than his own children. Now, as a teacher myself, I have come to appreciate this quality in Ḥaḍrat even more. 

Here was a man perpetually immersed in advanced research and study, yet he took the time to focus on me, taking time away from his busy schedule to show interest in an amateur like myself. He wasn’t simply a teacher; he was a compassionate mentor whose own purity of character allowed him to see only virtue and merit in each of his students. 

I imagine that many of Ḥaḍrat’s students will or have already written about his many unique qualities and have shared experiences similar to those that I myself enjoyed. Although I take great joy I in writing about them at length, I will strive to avoid repeating content and instead offer some insights that might not be covered by others. In the following pages, I aim to simply share a list of observations about our mentor that I find particularly noteworthy.

Training in Critical Thinking and Research Methodology

What I still find remarkable to this day is how efficiently Ustādḥ Jī introduced, developed, and honed his students’ critical thinking skills. He was acutely aware of any shortcomings in these skills among the students entering his program. As a result, he deemed it essential for us to revisit texts that we had previously studied at the undergraduate level, but this time with a fresh and critical perspective. 

When we commenced our coursework in the hadith specialization program, I was surprised to learn that our initial reading assignment was Ibn Ḥajar al-ʿAsqalānī’s Nuzhat al-Naẓar Sharḥ Nukhbat al-Fikār, an intermediate text in the field of hadith criticism that most, if not all, students cover their undergraduate studies. I inquired about the reason for revisiting the text. Ustādh Jī’s candid response was, “Now you will read it properly!” 

Being relatively young (I was twenty-five at the time), I sought further clarification. What did he mean by “properly”? 

“We read this text blindly,” he explained. “We, as Ḥanafīs, are studying a text authored by a Shāfiʿī scholar who acknowledges that it represents the methodology of the Ahl al-Athar. Have you ever examined the book in light of your own (Ḥanafī) methodology?” 

Ḥadrat’s lessons were not verbose. He occasionally provided critical comments and posed questions to introduce points of contention that he expected us to research diligently on our own. We certainly read the material together thoroughly, but Ustādh Jī only interjected occasionally. This was typically when an author appeared to contradict himself, when a general claim needed challenging, or when the author’s methodology clashed with the Ḥanafī principles of hadith criticism. Ḥaḍrat never spoon-fed us the critiques. He often relied on hints and indications, guiding us toward knowledge treasures that almost seemed like riddles due to their subtlety. In my youthful eagerness to grasp his hints, I would enlist the services of students a year ahead of us, particularly Mawlānā Aḥmad Riḍā, to help me better comprehend Ḥaḍrat’s subtle allusions.

Ustādh Jī encouraged us to challenge our convictions carefully and to confront any preconceived misconceptions we held. While his lessons occasionally featured lengthy monologues, he mostly conveyed his message with just a few sharp exclamations as we navigated through the text. “This!” he would declare, pointing to the sentence we had just read. Or he might say, “Don’t you see?! Ḥāfiẓ Ṣāḥib (Ibn Ḥajar) previously mentioned the opposite of this assertion!” without elaborating on the exact nature of the contradiction.  

As much as Ḥaḍrat was aware of our deficiencies in critical thinking, he also recognized our shortcomings in research methodology and composition skills. He actively encouraged writing and research and was not of the opinion that students should refrain from publication or writing until later in life. However, he emphasized the importance of precise, thorough, and organized citations. He disapproved of secondary source references and insisted that we always consult the earliest sources to distinguish between original claims and derivative ones. On one occasion, he reacted strongly to a student’s reference on a question of language by Imam al-Nawawī. “Do you not know the linguistic sources that al-Nawawī used? Mian, where did al-Nawawī derive this definition from?” 

He insisted that students provide thorough and precise citations for every claim they made in their research. His deep appreciation for systematic and sound citation methodology was one of the reasons why he encouraged me, along with many others, to pursue further research in a university setting. It was also why, before my departure, he advised me to pursue a PhD at a reputable institution of higher learning in the United States. This unconventional suggestion, made within the context of a madrasah, was both pleasantly surprising and initially somewhat shocking. 

When I asked why he insisted that I attain a doctorate from a Western university rather than one in the Muslim world, he explained that his objective wasn’t tied to any particular institution, and it certainly wasn’t an endorsement of the philosophical underpinnings of the Western university system. Rather, he had found that the standard of precision and thoroughness in research that he desired for his students required both quality instruction in that methodology and accessibility to academic resources that had now become nearly extinct in the Muslim world. 

“You will study there to continue to learn the principles of sound research and citation, and there you will find the libraries and funding to support your research,” he said. “This was once our intellectual legacy (as Muslims), but now you may have to turn your attention to such institutions to learn it.”

Self-Critique

Another of Ustādh Jī’s traits that left a strong impression on me was his willingness to engage in self-critique. He had a keen awareness of the various shortcomings within academic institutions and among the figures in the intellectual and spiritual tradition to which he was devoted. He didn’t hesitate to acknowledge failings where they existed, even within the institutions he was associated with. 

For instance, on several occasions, he shared with me his sense of regret regarding the accessibility of the library at Dār al-ʿUlūm in Deoband while he was studying there in the 1940s. Despite its size, he noted that it was effectively inaccessible to students, which limited their ability to engage in extracurricular reading. “How could one expect the students of ʿAllāmah Kashmīrī to grasp the depth of the content of his lectures?” he would lament. “Before attending class, (Anwar) Shāh Ṣāḥib would read dozens of works and hundreds of pages from books in the library. Most of what he lectured on went over the poor students’ heads, who had no idea where he was speaking from!”

Ustādh Jī also pointed out to me the shortcomings in the average student’s study of Arabic and their reading proficiency, even after having completed Dawrat al-Ḥadīth programs. On one occasion, he expressed admiration for his granddaughter’s Arabic skills, which she had developed at the Madrasah ʿĀʾishah in Karachi. Despite being only a second or third-year student, she was able to read and understand Arabic at the level of the typical Dawrah student. He was similarly impressed with the training and education I had received in the Arabic language at Madrasat al-Ḥasanayn (Faisalabad). Consequently, he often preferred that I read the text over some of my colleagues due to my care to read the text in accordance with punctuation rules and its general tone and meanings.

He once lamented the inability of students within the Ḥanafī madhhab to differentiate between principles in uṣūl al-ḥadīth works that conflict with their own madhhab. He attributed this to a lack of proper study of the uṣūl al-fiqh books within the madhhab. According to him, this leads some to adopt a non-Ḥanafī approach to analyzing hadith reports and to impose Shāfiʿī or Ahl al-Ḥadīth principles of hadith criticism on the Ḥanafī madhhab.

Occasionally, during our classes, Ustādh Jī would test our familiarity with the primary reference works across Islamic literature. He did this only a few times during the initial weeks of classes, I believe, to assess the extent of our extracurricular reading and the level of education we had received prior to enrolling in his program. For instance, when he asked which dictionary should be consulted for legal terms, a student hastily blurted out: “Fiqh al-Lughah”. Chishtī Ṣāḥib, visibly shocked and unamused, inquired, “You mean, al-Thaʿālibī’s?” The student remained silent, indicating that he was actually unaware of the author of the work he had just mentioned and or the content of the book. I could see the clear disappointment on Ḥaḍrat’s face upon receiving the incorrect answer. That day I learned not only to avoid speaking hastily in his presence but also to ensure I knew my literary references beyond the field of hadith. Consequently, I spent the next two days immersing myself in the lughah/dictionary section of the research library, combing through every major work on Arabic linguistics to gain a basic familiarity with every dictionary and grammar text, starting from the earliest sources. 

Navigator of Oceans

As a master navigator of the prosopographical dictionaries (kutub al-rijāl), Ustādh Jī stressed the importance of accessing rijāl works and understanding the varying statuses of significant historical intellectual figures. He encouraged us to place them in the correct historical generation, understand their relationships, and fully grasp the nature and significance of their works. Chishtī Ṣāḥib had an extraordinary ability to discuss any major figure in Islamic history with the ease of someone intimately familiar with their backgrounds. This sparked my interest in exploring reference works I had previously found intimidating due to their extensive multi-volume and encyclopedic nature. 

Despite my initial intention to focus on hadith sciences, I was surprised to find that discussions rarely remained within a single field. Ustādh Jī was a sort of polymath, possessing wide-ranging knowledge in a variety of sciences. His expertise extended beyond hadith criticism and theory into the realms of social sciences and humanities. He was a librarian, historian, legal theorist, hadith critic, and a sufi rolled into one. He challenged me to strike a balance between specialization and breadth, encouraging me to expand my range of reading beyond a single discipline. 

Perhaps this is why I eventually pursued a degree in Applied Behavioral Sciences afterward and explored psychological theories while maintaining a focus on hadith studies. Ustādh Jī’s multifaceted intellectual engagements continued to inspire my interest in exploring the overlap between hadith criticism and the behavioral sciences, and the application of social science principles in the study of early Islamic scholarship.

Above all, Chishtī Ṣāhib was not just a chronicler of history; he was a historiographer and historical theorist. His work on the history of libraries during the Abbasid era clearly demonstrates not only his engagement with historical facts but also his achievement in developing tools to interpret the historical chronicles for a deeper understanding of pedagogical trends and civilizational principles. Unlike many historians, Chishtī Ṣāḥib actively engaged with historical documents while simultaneously developing interpretive methods to understand them. One need only read the first few chapters of his doctoral thesis to be convinced of this.

The Ascetic Critic

One who reads Ustādh Jī’s works will undoubtedly perceive a highly cultured, sophisticated, and erudite man of letters. His exhaustive and precise referencing and deep insights into history may lead one to imagine him as an ivory tower scholar, inaccessible to the masses and self-absorbed in his academic achievements. However, those who had the privilege to sit in his company were struck by his humility, accessibility, and devout asceticism. He embodied the perfect harmony of a sharp hadith critic and a compassionate ascetic. His academic acumen, rigorous critique, and extensive reading were complemented by a simple and unpretentious demeanor, along with the impeccable character of a pious and God-fearing moral exemplar. 

Haḍrat consistently maintained a state of wuḍū (ritual ablution). He maintained a regular and steadfast practice of his aʿmāl (spiritual rituals). He treated his books and learning tools with utmost respect. He could sit still for remarkably long periods. I recall how I had positioned my desks near a pillar in the research library, and his sitting area was just behind it. Every ten minutes or so, I would glance back at him, often finding him sitting there for hours completely absorbed in his reading. The only noticeable movement would be the slight fluttering of his kurta from the fan’s breeze and the occasional page turn, executed with his long, slender fingers.

Ustādh Jī’s affection for his students manifested in both subtle and overt ways. When I was feeling the pressure to leave the country and informed Haḍrat about my intentions to return home from Pakistan, he insisted I spend the next month or two completing the first-year curriculum with him, even if it meant studying privately at his home. When I eventually had to depart, I vividly recall our last meeting at the entrance of the research library. We embraced, and Ustādḥ Jī looked at me with a mix of concern and longing, hoping I would be able to extend my stay. His love and affection were palpable. I held back tears and expressed my regret at leaving, mentioning how much more I had to learn from him. His kind and reassuring response was simply, “You have quenched my well.” This scene remains etched in my memory. I’m unsure if I imagined it or not, but I believe I saw tears in his eyes as we bid our final farewell. Like most acts of kindness and praise, I didn’t know how to respond. I held his sentiments in my heart, allowing them to motivate me over the years. To this day, I remind myself that if such a giant of wisdom saw even the slightest good in me, I must not let him down.

And here my teacher leaves my hand

Commanding me to cross;

Although prepared for this command,

I dread the coming loss. 

He looks into my wretched eyes,

Assurance in his own,

Which helps to make my courage rise

To face this stream alone.

-Khalid Mukhtar, Wayfarer

Ustādh Jī was remarkably physically active for his age, primarily by choice but partly due to financial constraints. Whenever we suggested that he take a taxi to avoid the hassles and harms of Pakistani public transportation, he would simply exclaim, “Mian! If I don’t walk, my legs will stiffen up.” He preferred walking whenever possible and never sought assistance. On one occasion, a classmate went to see Haḍrat off at a bus stop where many buses converged rapidly, requiring passengers to board quickly as some buses barely came to a full stop before moving on. When my classmate (Mawlānā Aḥmad Riẓā) returned to the library after seeing Haḍrat off, tears welled up in his eyes. He recounted how Ustādh Jī was climbing onto one bus when another pulled in too closely as he was climbing on, causing him to stumble and fall. Witnessing such negligence towards an elderly man was infuriating and disheartening. 

We implored Haḍrat to consider taking a taxi to the madrasah when traveling to the girls’ madrasah where he taught hadith (he never refused a request to teach hadith). However, he would consistently respond with the same words, “Mian! If I don’t walk a little every day, my legs will stiffen up!” Eventually, my colleague managed to persuade someone from the girls’ madrasah to arrange a small rickshaw to transport him across the city, as it was the only level of expense that Haḍrat was willing to tolerate for the school’s sake.

He was unquestionably a man of simplicity and sincerity. When someone sought advice from Ustādh Jī, his standard response was to cultivate ikhlāṣ (sincerity) in one’s life and work. While he would pray for Allah to give tawfīq and grant a long and productive life, his fundamental urging was usually, “In whatever you do, do it with sincerity.”

The Convergence of Two Seas

Haḍrāt was unique in many ways, but one aspect that struck me was his dual specialization in Hadith Studies and Library and Information Sciences. Although these sciences have some overlap, they are primarily distinct disciplines, and his expertise in both was acquired through separate academic settings. 

Hadrat’s formal madrasah education culminated at the Dār al-ʿUlūm in Deoband, the preeminent Islamic seminary of the subcontinent in recent centuries. There, he had the privilege of studying under celebrated masters of the rational and transmitted sciences, including luminaries such as Shaykh al-Islam Ḥusayn Aḥmad al-Madanī, Mawlānā Iʿzāz ʿAlī al-Amrohī, Qāri Muḥammad Ṭayyib al-Qāsimī, among others. Despite this deep immersion in traditional Islamic scholarship, he also ventured into the secular university system, earning a doctorate in Library Sciences. He subsequently served in various capacities as a librarian in prominent libraries, both in Pakistan and abroad. Ḥaḍrat was conversant in the languages and customs of both mulla and professor, extending respect and courtesy to both his university and madrasah mentors. 

However, what I find most remarkable and admirable about Chishtī Ṣāḥib’s career is his decision to dedicate his life to educating students in the madrasah system, despite the numerous opportunities that his dual training could have offered him within the university setting. He chose to work with a small group of devoted seekers of sacred knowledge in a resource-scarce madrasah, eschewing the larger universities with their more substantial stipends and a consistent influx of students. This choice had consequences for his reputation and potential recognition in both communities, but Ḥaḍrat was a man of sincerity and was indifferent to seeking the approval of his peers. 

As his students, we often lamented the underappreciation of Ḥaḍrat at the Jāmiʿah. Despite his seniority in age and intellectual lineage, he was not assigned to teach major hadith works, nor did he receive invitations to speak on stage, opportunities that scholars much younger than him routinely enjoyed. His reputation among the student body at the Jāmiʿah was not commensurate with his scholarly stature.

In our eyes, he was a hidden treasure. Initially, this troubled me, not because I desired fame and recognition for him, but because I saw him as an exemplary model for aspiring students. I wished that more madrasah students like myself could have the chance to be exposed to him and realize that a fulfilling career could extend beyond the roles of public orator, debater, or teacher, into the realm of research and writing. However, with time, I came to realize how fortunate I was that Ustādh Jī remained relatively unknown to most of my peers. His obscurity allowed me to access him and benefit from his knowledge to a much greater extent.

In fact, I am eternally grateful to those who guided me towards specialization in hadith instead of the more typical path I was initially considering: enrollment in an iftāʾ program in Karachi, most likely. The vast majority, if not all, of my classmates in Dawrat al-Hadith who were contemplating graduate-level studies, were looking into iftāʾ programs, and I was strongly leaning in that direction as well. At the time, I wasn’t aware of other opportunities for specialization. Chishtī Ṣāḥib had cautioned me before commencing my studies that if I sought reputation, position, or acknowledgment, then hadith specialization might not be the right path. He humorously remarked, “No one will address you as ‘Mufti Sahib’ when you graduate from here, and few will even appreciate what it is you studied!” When I assured him that titles were not my concern, he smiled. (Ustādh Jī wasn’t against iftāʾ training; in fact, he encouraged some of his most capable students to pursue iftāʾ studies after completing their theses. However, he was keenly aware of the limitations in research methodology training within iftāʾ programs. He preferred that a student acquire research skills through the hadith program before engaging more thoroughly with the fatwa references of the madhab.)

Chishtī Ṣāḥib was a scholar whose brilliance was acknowledged by individuals of discernment and insight across various fields. He was lauded by Urdu poets, Arab hadith scholars, English-speaking librarians, historians, and muftīs, yet he was never quite appreciated to the extent that we believed he deserved. He had no inclination to seek the limelight, which perhaps explains why he managely to largely avoid it. He never aspired to occupy the highest positions in institutions, become a prominent lecturer, amass a large following, or become a celebrated author. His primary focus was on making genuine intellectual and academic contributions, irrespective of whether his work garnered widespread recognition. He had a deep aversion to writing for the sake of popularity. 

He openly critiqued individuals who presented their books to him if he felt that they did not make a meaningful addition to Islamic literature. When someone brought him a book they had authored, he would fearlessly inquire about their motivations for writing on that particular topic. He would ask if they had conducted a thorough literature review to determine if similar works already existed, and what novel insights they had brought to the field. He often questioned why they chose to create new content when they could have dedicated their efforts to editing and uncovering the works of past scholars. He posed the fundamental query: Was the intention to draw attention to oneself, or to contribute to the rich literary tradition of our intellectual forebears?

Similarly, he displayed courage in exposing instances of plagiarism and copy-and-paste hastily produced bestsellers. He was critical of scholars who commodified ijāzahs of hadith, those who made extravagant claims, and those who were comfortable using sweeping absolutes in their public discourses.

Servant of the Seminary

Ustādh Jī was a rare scholar, a man of letters who could converse as effortlessly with a PhD as he could with a Shaykh al-Ḥadīth. Visionaries like Shaykh al-Hind and Abū ʾl-Ḥasan ʿAlī al-Nadwī dreamed of madrasah graduates who could engage fluently in both the language of PhD professors and the Shaykh al-Hadith. Ustādh Jī embodied this dream. He also personified the vision of Mawlānā ʿUbayd Allāḥ al-Sindī, who envisioned a reintegration of the “sacred” and “secular” sciences in India. Al-Sindī established his Jamīʿat Khuddām al-Ḥikmah shortly before his death and encouraged madrasah students to actively engage with the wider community and pursue dual degrees.

At the University of Karachi, the doctoral research program in Library and Information Sciences, initiated in 1967, admitted only five candidates between the years 1967 and 1971, one of which was Chishtī Ṣāḥib (the others being M. Adil Usmani, G. A. Sabzwari, Matloob Hussain, and Akhtar H. Siddiqui). Out of these five students, only Haḍrat Chishtī Ṣāḥib successfully completed his thesis, earning his doctoral degree in 1981. His research topic was “Islamic Libraries: 749 AD- 1257 AD” (See “Doctoral Research in Library and Information Science by Pakistani Professionals: An Analysis”). To my knowledge, he became the first doctoral graduate in LIS in a major Pakistani university. His supervisor, Dr. Abdul Moid, was the first Pakistani Ph.D. holder in Library Sciences from the USA (1964). Ḥaḍrat was thus well-suited to establish a similar department of LIS in any of the major universities in Pakistan, yet he chose the path of his mentor and older brother, ʿAllāmah Muḥammad ʿAbd al-Rashīd al-Nuʿmānī, and spent the later decades of his life devoted to bringing research skills to the madrasah graduate community. This has been my own dream as well, and I have endeavored to model much of my life after Ustādh Jī due to his career choices.

I have also strived to emulate him in other ways. In the realm of criticism, whenever I feel inclined towards imbalance, I remember his moderation and remarkable balance in critique. He served as a model critic, capable of criticizing Ḥāfiz Ibn Ḥajar for his bias towards the Ḥanafīs in one moment and being brought to tears, in reverence, for the same scholar’s contributions to Islamic literature in the next. He critiqued al-Dhahabī for his harshness against the Ashʿarīs, all the while describing him in admiration as a scholar with no equal who wrote what no one could ever replicate. Ustādh Jī possessed the pure heart of a critical hadith scholar, tempered by the careful guidance of spiritual giants. His heart remained soft and unhardened despite years of engaging in critique. I witnessed him tear up several times during the months I spent with him, particularly when he mentioned the names of Ḥaḍrat Rashīd Aḥmad Gangohī, Shaykh al-Ḥadīth Mawlānā Zakariyyā, or Ibn Ḥajar al-ʿAsqalānī and their various contributions to Islam.

Ḥadrat, like his intellectual predecessors ʿAllāmah Qāsim Nānautwī, ʿAllāmah Anwar Shāh al-Kashmīrī, ʿAllāmah Muḥammad Zāhid al-Kawtharī, and ʿAllāmah Muḥammad ʿAbd al-Rashīd al-Nuʿmānī, was a fervent defender of their intellectual traditions. Preserving the dignity of their legal and theological schools was at the forefront of their intellectual contribution. At the same time, they wrote with admiration about scholars who did not adhere to their particular schools or to any school at all. Take, for instance, Chishtī Ṣaḥib’s biographical work on the Ahl Ḥadīth scholar Mawlānā Wāḥīd al-Zamān. Their defense of the madhhab and the personalities within it was not rooted in emotional attachment  or fanatical devotion to tradition. Instead, it was part of a broader endeavor to maintain intellectual order within our history. 

Hadrat had a strong aversion to intellectual disorder and chaotic presentations of the glorious intellectual legacy to which we are fortunate to be connected. I believe this is why he vehemently opposed attacks on madhhabs and their imams. To him, an attack on the founders of the systems that underpinned Islamic civilization equated to an attack on Islam itself and its identity. Prioritizing later scholars over their predecessors deeply disturbed him, as it undermined the established intellectual hierarchy of Islam dating back to the time of the blessed Prophet, may Allah bless him and grant him peace. Even the notion that earlier scholars, such as Abū Ḥanīfah and Mālik, should be evaluated through the lens of later scholars, no matter how esteemed they may be, was considered intellectually chaotic or fantastical at best. Ḥaḍrat aimed to liberate us from false and fantastical conceptions of our intellectual history. We urged us to confront history’s harsh realities, even those involving our revered historical figures, so that our intellectual foundations rested not on the clouds, but on solid and stable ground. This entailed a willingness to expose the prejudices that some strands of Islam scholarship held against others. He ensured that we did not read the rijāl literature blindly, uncritically accepting the criticism of those who were proven to have held prejudices against their academic adversaries.

Intellectual Moderation and Breadth

One of the many lessons I learned from Ḥaḍrat was to appreciate knowledge for its own sake, to not discriminate based on its source.  He was willing to acknowledge that even proponents of heterodoxy could be recognized for their true knowledge while now blindly accepting their mistakes. He firmly opposed emotional approaches to challenging heterodoxy. “Scream all you want”, he would remark. “You won’t dismantle an ideology that has endured for over a thousand years by shouting slogans. You must read, understand, investigate, and then intellectually challenge the heterodox idea. Hundreds of years of scholarship and thousands of volumes won’t be discarded just because of an emotionally charged rally where young men shout at the top of their lungs that their opponent is a kāfir.”

Many statements that Ustādh Jī made in class only became clear to me years later. As I read more of the works that he drew from in his own life, I often experience moments of sudden realization: “Aha! That’s what Chishtī Ṣāḥib was talking about when he mentioned x, y, and z!” Ustādh Jī often spoke at a level above his students’ understanding and readings. I know that there must be others among my peers who, like me, continue to grasp his teachings more deeply as we gradually catch up to his level of comprehension and the breadth of his reading.

Of course, I can never hope to achieve the depth or breadth of Haḍrat’s study. In all my life, I have never seen anyone so engrossed in reading for such extended periods without tiring. There were several books we would discuss, and he would mention that he had read those works cover to cover multiple times while researching for his doctoral thesis. This included encyclopedic works such as al-Dhahabī’s al-Tārīkh al-Kabīr and al-Qalqashandī’s al-Ṣubḥ al-Aʿshā. Other students have told me that they heard him make similar claims about other books, stating that he had read them four or five times from beginning to end. I don’t know if it was due to his extensive reading, but he had undergone multiple eye surgeries during his lifetime and yet never seemed to let them rest. He never made excuses to stop reading, despite his poor eyesight or old age (his glasses were incredibly thick, and I can’t imagine how difficult it was for him to see without straining). Near the end of his life, he would use a magnifying lens for mutālaʿah. Students told me he would hold it for hours over his books without moving an inch. 

Some Final Points

During the brief time I spent with him, Ḥaḍrat tried to maximize my productivity by including research assignments in addition to the course work. I began by checking references for his introduction to al-Jamʿ bayn al-Āthār by his student Mawlānā Ayyūb al-Rāshidī. Later, he tasked me with the editing and improvement of his preface to another student’s thesis titled al-Imām al-Bukhārī bayn al-Ruwāt wa al-Aṣḥāb, a monograph that collected the biographical notices of Imam al-Bukhārī’s students. This thesis was the work of Mawlānā Shawkat Ḥusayn ibn Mawlānā Nūr Muḥammad from Chittagong, Bangladesh. Ustādh Jī’s preface, which was written with the assistance of another student, Mawlānā ʿAbd al-Ghaffār ibn. Aḥmad al-Khurāsānī, was filled with beneficial investigations into the nature of the students of al-Bukhārī. It highlighted the unique status of some students, such as Imam Muslim and Imam al-Tirmidhī, who Ustādh Jī was able to demonstrate should be considered more as student-contemporaries than simply graduates from his “intellectual school.” The preface included various other fascinating investigations, including:

1. A comparison between the status of al-Bukhārī’s al-Jāmiʿ al-Ṣaḥīḥ and Abū Ḥanīfah’s Kitāb al-Āthār and Mālik’s al-Muwaṭṭā. 
2. The classification of Imam al-Bukhārī as a mujtahid and the qualifications required for a mujtahid. 
3. The question of whether al-Bukhārī rejected legal analogy (qiyās).
4. Lists of the teachers that al-Bukhārī shared with Muslim and al-Tirmidhī.
5. The occasions where al-Tirmidhī drew from and quoted al-Bukhārī in his al-Jāmiʿ al-Kabīr.
6. The alleged contention between Muslim and al-Bukhārī in Ṣaḥīḥ Muslim’s preface (muqaddimah).
7. The contentious seven-tier categorization of hadith proposed by Ibn al-Ṣalāḥ.

The lengthy preface was already substantial, making it seem appropriate to expand it further and publish it as a stand-alone work. Ḥaḍrat set me on this task, asking that I review and edit the existing research and references that had already been provided and then add several new discussions, including the following:

1. al-Bukhārī’s attitude towards reports that are now termed ḥasan hadith.
2. A challenge to Ibn al-Ṣalāḥ’s claim that a report transmitted by both al-Bukhārī and Muslim reaches the level of epistemic certainty.
3. A critical view of Shāh Walī Allāh’s categorization of hadith works in his magnum opus, Ḥujjat Allāh al-Bālighah.
4. A historical analysis of the reasons behind al-Bukhārī expulsion from his hometown of Bukhāra and how many expulsions occurred.
5. Al-Bukhārī’s general attitude towards the Ḥanafīs and the scholars of the Ahl al-Raʾy disposition.

After adding these discussions to the preface and including a brief Arabic biography of Ustādh Jī, I was tasked with giving the new monograph a title. Then, I was to add al-Dhahabi’s biographical notice on al-Bukhārī from his Siyar Aʿlām al-Nubalāʾ as an appendix to the work, as Chishtī Ṣāḥib believed that the notice in al-Dhahabī’s work was worth publishing separately as well. 

Initially, I proposed the generic title: al-Imām al-Bukhārī wa Kitābuhu al-Jāmīʿ al-Ṣaḥīḥ, which Ḥaḍrat seemed to approve. However, I later discovered that a work by the same name had already been published recently by ʿAbd al-Muḥsin ibn Muḥammad al-Badr, and this work contained much content that was being challenged by Chishtī Ṣāḥib’s own findings. 

Given that a number of discussions in the work challenged two sets of extreme perceptions of al-Bukhārī’s work, I proposed a second title: al-Imam al-Bukhārī bayn al-Ifrāṭ wa al-Tafrīṭ. This was not Ustādḥ Jī’s own preference, and I remember him not being entirely satisfied with it, as it did not entirely reflect the work’s purpose, nor would it be received well. Ustādh Jī left it, however, on the draft, to be revisited later. However, before I was able to complete the draft, I was pressured to return home, and the editing work remained unfinished. Unfortunately, the research remains unpublished. For various reasons, the rough title seems to have stuck and has been recorded by several writers in their detailing of Hadrat’s biographical information. I would like to make the simple note that Hadrat did not choose or favor this title himself, and I imagine that it would have been changed before ever being published. Several other students also expressed reservations about this title with Ḥaḍrat, informing me that they also were under the impression that Ḥaḍrat would have changed it before publishing. Should this work ever reach the stage of publication, Allah-willing, I would prefer to change the title and would hope that Ḥaḍrat’s biographers note this when listing his works.