Abbas Ali Khan Bekhud: The Kolkata Poet Who Found Beauty in Borrowed Books and Broken Dreams

What happens when a boy reads poetry under streetlamps because his home has no electricity? Abbas Ali Khan Bekhud answered that question with a lifetime of verse that transformed ordinary suffering into extraordinary art. His story begins not in literary salons but in the crowded alleys of early twentieth-century Kolkata, where dreams were as common as dust and twice as easily lost.

Early Days: Kolkata’s Forgotten Son

Born as Ali Abbas Khan in Kolkata on July 2, 1906, Bekhud grew up breathing the city’s unique air, a mixture of rickshaw bells, tea stall conversations, and Urdu literary gatherings where brilliant minds discussed poetry between sips of chai. His father collected secondhand books whenever money allowed. His mother hoarded Urdu magazines like treasures, saving them from whatever little remained after household expenses. The family lived, often struggling to make ends meet.

One story, passed down by his first student, captures those early years perfectly. Young Bekhud wrote a poem about monsoon rains flooding their narrow alley. He gathered the courage to recite it at a local mushaira, where poets shared their work before audiences. The evening went well, but walking home through the downpour, his precious page got completely soaked. Later, he called this incident his “first lesson in losing and longing.” Education came hard for Abbas.

Many school days were missed because survival demanded attention elsewhere. He often studied under street lamps, copying lessons in dim light while other children slept in comfortable homes. Yet these hardships shaped him. The awkwardness of poverty, the sting of exclusion, the weight of unfulfilled desires, all became material for his poetry. Kolkata’s chaos taught him empathy. Its streets schooled him in human nature.

Late at night, he listened to Urdu broadcasts on the radio, scribbling couplets that transformed bitterness into something beautiful. Pain became his teacher, resilience his subject. This foundation, built not in comfort but in struggle, gave birth to a poetic voice that would speak for countless others who lived on society’s margins.

Mentors, Madness, and the Making of a Poet

Every artist needs guidance, and Bekhud found his in Wahshat Raza Ali Kalkatvi, a poet whose understanding of human pain matched his own. Their first encounter has become legend. Wahshat attended a poetry symposium where young Bekhud recited a ghazal. The older poet sat stunned, later describing the experience as “hearing a rain-thirsty garden bloom overnight.” That moment changed everything. But recognition did not mean easy success. Bekhud taught Urdu in colleges to earn his bread, composing verses alone in modest hostel rooms after long teaching hours.

The journey proved rough. He sent his poems to established magazines repeatedly, collecting rejections like others collected praise. Then came the day he adopted his pen name “Bekhud,” meaning “the lost one.” The name fit. His poetry explored loss in all its forms, innocence surrendered to cynicism, dreams crushed by daily routine, and love destroyed by separation. One particular story stands out. After a family crisis forced him to pawn his favourite pen, Bekhud wandered Kolkata’s streets through an entire night. Dawn found him returning home to write a nazm about hope rising with the sun.

These dark episodes never turned him bitter. Instead, they added luminous fragments to his ghazals, creating verses that glowed with both sorrow and tenderness. His mentors recognised this quality, teaching him that wounds provide the ink for genuine poetry. They nurtured not just his technical skills but his emotional honesty. Between moments of madness and stillness, between struggle and small victories, Bekhud quietly became the voice that Kolkata’s Urdu community needed, even before anyone fully realised his worth.

Evolving Verse: From Personal Strife to Universal Connection

As years passed, Bekhud’s reputation expanded beyond local circles. He earned degrees in Urdu and Persian from Calcutta University, transforming himself from a struggling survivor into a skilled artisan of language. His position at Islamia College allowed him to influence young minds, teaching them that poetry could carry both empathy and truth. Students remembered him as someone who found meaning in everyday sorrows and brief moments of happiness. His anthology, Jaam-e-Bekhudi, collected the bittersweet essence of his experiences into one remarkable volume.

Former students shared stories about his dedication. Despite recurring health problems, Bekhud wrote daily without fail. He often returned late from lectures, yet still found energy to compose couplets about Kolkata’s evening light or the ache of lost friendships. His famous lines, “Tawajjoh chaara-gar ki bais-e-taklif hai ‘Bekhud’ / Izafa hai museebat mein dawaon ka asar karna”, revealed his gift for finding irony and insight in life’s contradictions. Through his verses, readers discovered their private miseries transformed into words that healed and celebrated ordinary human experience.

Personal tragedies marked his path. His mother’s early death left lasting scars. A near-fatal illness reminded him of mortality’s presence. Yet Bekhud responded not with withdrawal but with a deeper connection, reaching out through poetry to both common readers and sophisticated critics. These struggles refined his art, making him a poet who offered more than beautiful words. He extended a hand to fellow travellers navigating life’s difficult roads, proving that poetry could be both art and companionship.

Lasting Legacy: Inspiration In Every Struggle

Abbas Ali Khan Bekhud died in Kolkata in 1969, but his influence refuses to fade. He distilled lived reality’s pain and beauty into verses that continue pulsing with gentle power. His students, including notable poets like Munawwar Rana and Qaisar Shameem, carried forward his quiet revolution in Urdu literature, a blend respecting classical tradition while embracing new emotional honesty.

Today, his couplets echo at mushairas, whispered by lovers, recited by teachers, remembered by street-side dreamers. The untold stories of his life prove that creative brilliance needs no grand stage. It grows quietly in adversity, nurtured by silent acts of courage and kindness. Bekhud’s journey, built on unseen sacrifices and stubborn hope, teaches contemporary poets that obstacles hide new metaphors, heartbreaks conceal hidden melodies.

His ghazals are not museum pieces but living echoes of courage, a literary hand resting on the shoulder of anyone fighting private battles. Reading Bekhud today means remembering that inspiration is not some distant star. It is the quiet fire glowing in every trial overcome, every sorrow accepted, every verse written despite doubt and loss.

For those who struggle with language and life, Bekhud remains a steadfast friend, urging everyone to discover poetry in their lived reality’s rough edges. His voice continues speaking across decades, reminding us that beauty often grows best in borrowed soil, under streetlamp light, in hearts that refuse to stop dreaming.

Also Read: Saqi Farooqi: The Rebel Poet Who Kept Urdu Alive in London

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