We have lived in the era of saints

The Sufi tradition inspires the poets of all provinces

Not very long ago, within living memory, our lands still echoed with the footsteps of people who seemed carved from a different moral timbre. They spoke softly, lived simply, wrote fearlessly, and carried within them a nearness to the divine that did not require proclamation. We had lived in the era of saints, not miracle-workers of legend, but poets, thinkers, and dervishes whose words cleansed the dust from the soul. Among them stood the towering presence of Ghani Khan, whose poetry did not merely rhyme but questioned, provoked and illuminated. He wrote like a man intoxicated not by the world, but by the search for truth, beauty and Allah.

Ghani Khan’s verses were never sermons, yet they carried the quiet fragrance of tasawwuf. He did not preach spirituality but made the reader experience it. His thought does not move in straight lines; it wanders, questions, tests, and discovers. Saints, scholars, kings, labourers, lovers, and even madmen pass through his lines, each asked what they understand of Heaven, truth, and God. Through this exploration, he peels away ritual, pride, and showmanship until only the essence remains: human dignity, inner freedom, and love as the path to the Divine.

His poetry feels like thinking aloud on paper, a dialogue between mind and soul where truth is slowly uncovered. He was a philosopher in the garb of a poet and a mystic in the language of a rebel, a saint in spirit. Those who heard him did not feel instructed, but awakened, as if heaven were not distant, but hidden within the sovereignty of the soul.

He was not alone in this Pashto constellation. The gentle humanism of Rehman Baba, though from an earlier century, still lived on the tongues of 20th-century hujras, shaping how people understood humility and remembrance. In the modern era, Hamza Shinwari carried Sufi thought into the ghazal form with unmatched elegance, proving that mysticism could reside within refined literary craft. His poetry was not loud but deep, inviting reflection over applause.

Then came Ajmal Khattak, whose resistance and romanticism were tied to dignity, identity, and a moral vision for society. His words carried political awareness, yet remained soaked in cultural and spiritual rootedness. Alongside him, Abaseen Yousafzai represented a later generation that preserved the intellectual and ethical grace of Pashto literature well into the late 20th century, reminding audiences that poetry is a responsibility, not a performance.

From the same soil rose Samandar Khan Samandar, whose kalam flowed with the rhythm of zikr and longing. His verses felt like whispered prayers, carrying forward the Sufi inheritance into contemporary expression. And in literary gatherings, the thoughtful presence of Qalandar Momand added philosophical rigor to poetic beauty, ensuring that language remained a vehicle for truth rather than vanity.

This Pashto tradition blended seamlessly with the wider Sufi inheritance of the subcontinent. In Punjab, alongside the ever-living recitation of Saif ul Malook, figures like Saifuddin Saif kept the Sufi idiom alive in modern poetic expression, while scholars such as Mian Bashir Ahmad Farooqi carried its spiritual grace into gatherings, discourse, and lived example through the late 20th century. The kalam of Bulleh Shah was sung in gatherings as remembrance. 

Yet their words remain. Ghani Khan still whispers. Hamza Shinwari still invites depth. Ajmal Khattak still calls for dignity. Samandar still echoes zikr. Bulleh Shah still questions identity. Shah Latif still sings of longing. They wait to be read not as literature, but as guidance. We had lived the era of saints. The tragedy is not that they are gone. The tragedy is that we have stopped living by what they taught.

From Sindh came the eternal melody of Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai and the bold humanism of Sachal Sarmast. In the modern era, poets like Shaikh Ayaz, Ustad Bukhari, and Tanveer Abbasi carried that Sufi inheritance forward, expressing Shah Latif’s spiritual humanism through the language of contemporary love, resistance, humility, and reflection well into the late twentieth century. 

Balochistan offered the dignified voice of Gul Khan Naseer, whose poetry braided land, faith, and honour into a single identity. The region’s spiritual and literary temperament was also shaped by figures such as Jamaluddin Jamali, while poets like Atta Shad and Azat Jamaldini carried forward Balochistan’s reflective, humanist, and spiritually infused literary tradition into the modern age.

Many of these figures lived into the 70s, 80s, and 90s. They walked among ordinary people, attended modest gatherings, and spoke in hujras, shrines, and drawing rooms. They did not require amplification to be heard. Their presence itself reminded people that closeness to Allah was possible without wealth, display, or authority. Their common thread was Sufism not as a label, but as a way of being. Love of humanity was inseparable from love of God. They rejected arrogance, sectarian hatred, and hollow ritual. They emphasized inner purification over outward show. In their company, religion felt gentle, vast, and welcoming.

One remembers how gatherings once revolved around poetry recitation, zikr, and quiet reflection. Elders quoted verses the way messages are forwarded today. There was reverence for knowledge, humility in speech, and patience in disagreement. Even political differences did not erase personal respect, because society’s moral vocabulary had been shaped by people who taught adab before argument. 

Yet their words remain. Ghani Khan still whispers. Hamza Shinwari still invites depth. Ajmal Khattak still calls for dignity. Samandar still echoes zikr. Bulleh Shah still questions identity. Shah Latif still sings of longing. They wait to be read not as literature, but as guidance. We had lived the era of saints. The tragedy is not that they are gone. The tragedy is that we have stopped living by what they taught.