Akhtar Sheerani: The Poet Whose Heart Whispered in Verses

Born Mohammad Dawood Khan on 4th May 1905 in the princely town of Tonk, Rajasthan, Akhtar Sheerani’s early years were in privilege and paradox. Hafiz Mahmood Sheerani, the son of a great scholar, had a clear vision for his son’s future, Dawood. Dawood, a grandson of a great scholar, would be a great scholar who speaks Arabic and Persian and carries the intellectual tradition. Home life was a mixture of discipline, devotion and curious learning daily. 

Family lore spins around his childhood — like the day, too restless to sit in lessons, Dawood sneaks out to watch a local wrestling match, amazed by the wrestlers’ strength. His father does not get angry but takes Abdul Qayyum Khan, a famous wrestler, to teach young Dawood the art and hopes that muscle discipline will soften the poetry. But Dawood’s heart beats for other things — words woven with emotions, sighs, and stars.

Rebellion, Relocation and the Flash of Poetry

Akhtar was raised during the era of political upheavals in his teen years. His family was exiled when a rebellion against the Nawab of Tonk occurred. They had to find new roots in Lahore when his father was under a cloud of mutiny. It was the Lahore of dreams and lyric revolt, the city that had smouldered with fire as it spoke of defeat. This is where Akhtar’s formal education bloomed. 

He had his Munshi Fazil and Adeeb Fazil, literary achievements uncommon for a young man in exile. But behind this success lay a subconscious longing: he wanted not to be a student of form but a wayfarer of the wilderness of poetry.

Maulana Tajwar Najibabadi became his mentor, and under him, Akhtar found what he called as the sunlight of his soul. The years he spent editing magazines, learning under Allama Tajur and adapting children’s plays gave his poetry a newness and honesty that could not be ignored easily. He published his first poetic works, and a new pen name was born: Akhtar Sheerani, the shining star.

The Love That Was Never Named: Untold Stories of Salma

Ask any admirer of Akhtar Sheerani about the greatest mystery of his life, and the name “Salma” glides into the air like perfume. There are legends. Was she real or imagined, or was she a bit of both? His letters to some unseen woman, of whom none ever saw a trace, were interminable, and each one a love song, and the friends would laugh at him in the nights in Lahore. His real letters to Salma, which he sometimes wrote at night, became so celebrated that magazines were published in special editions devoted to their mysteries. 

Others say he had but one glimpse of her, above the clouds of the monsoon in a passing, saccharine encounter which branded his heart forever. Some say Salma was an allegory of beauty, loss, or time. Akhtar did not mention. But all the poems, whether Ae Ishq Kahin Le Chal or O des se aane wale bata, are blue in longing, tinged with suppressed pain and hope.

Brawls, scandals and the cost of being a genius

There was darkness in Akhtar’s life behind his glory as the Poet of Romance. His passion with Salma turned into unfulfilled desire, and the heartbreak was so scarring that even the best verse could not heal it. Most people do not realise that Akhtar was plagued by loss of love and loss. 

The sudden death of his beloved son Javed (nicknamed Zuboor), the suicide of his close friend Mirza Shuja Khan, and the drowning of his son-in-law plunged his household into the depths of sorrow. The rumours of his death, some of which had it that he died alone and his body was lying unclaimed, only contributed to his mythos.

His father and he did not have a good relationship, particularly when his early infatuations were discovered. Nevertheless, Akhtar never stopped writing; in his poems, he poured out his pain in verse that glowed with his vulnerability. He had wandered in the bohemian haunts of Lahore and, as was his manner, was generally drunk. He had thrown money at some poor paanwala who had been softened by his civil speech and had not brought relief to himself.

Rewriting the Norms: Writing for Children, Women, and the World

Akhtar Sheerani’s influence stretched far beyond adult hearts enthralled by tales of romance. People (critics and ordinary people) were surprised when he published a book of poems in Hindi, a children’s book titled Phulon Ke Geet. It was unheard of: a poet of passion and pathos writing for little ones! In the verses, there was what the adults so easily misplaced, the wonder and delight that revolved in every line.

He went a step further to glorify the role of women as not only beloveds but mothers, daughters and creators. His poems made three-dimensional portraits which were sensitive and daring. His prose was also adventurous; one of his five tales had been composed in a night, a story his friends were fond of relating, marvelling at the fecundity of his imaginative fires.

He edited magazines that nurtured new talents, was much sought after for his ability with stories and translations, would now and then contribute columns under fantastic noms-de-plume, and would love the disguise as much as the message.

The Final Chapter: Lonely Goodbyes and Lasting Legacy

Fame and fevered living left Akhtar Sheerani frail. His father died in 1946, and he was left drifting both financially and emotionally. Whiskey was misery and joy. His health went back; his heart, they said, never really cured of loss. Akhtar took his final bow in a hospital bed on 9th September 1948, miles away, and in front of people who never saw his brilliance.

There are tales of his last days–one version is that he was alone; another that friends flocked to him. But what is left are the poems that he left: his soul breathes in every line, his rebellious gaiety against the pain is the rhythm of the rhyme.

He is not only present in Urdu literature as the Keats of Urdu but as a troubled revolutionary – one who was not afraid to write beautiful things in the face of tragedy, to sing joy in the face of sadness and to believe, always, in the curative power of love and words.

Akhtar Sheerani’s story is not just that of a poet, but of a heart unafraid to break and a soul unafraid to sing so that the world might listen and remember.

Also Read: Talib Chakwali: A Life Woven in Words, Loss, and the Search for Meaning


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