National Doctors’ Day. A Light That Lingered: Remembering Dr Nazir Ahmad Khan

National Doctors’ Day

A Light That Lingered: Remembering Dr Nazir Ahmad Khan

Dr Basharat Khan

There are some people whose presence in our lives feels less like an encounter and more like grace. They arrive without announcement, leave without ceremony, and yet, remain; woven gently into thepl fabric of our memories. On this National Doctors’ Day, I find myself returning to the memory of one such soul: Dr Nazir Ahmad Khan; a doctor by profession, but in essence, a rare embodiment of quiet nobility.

It was the summer of June 2008 when I first reported at PHC Nagri Malpora, a modest primary health centre tucked amidst the whispering pines of Kupwara. I remember stepping in with the anxious composure of a newcomer, uncertain yet ready to serve. And there he was, in the OPD room, absorbed in patient files and soft conversations. A tall frame, draped in modest clothing, bearing a calm face and a smile that asked for nothing but gave everything. He looked up, acknowledged me with warmth, and in that moment, the unfamiliar became familiar. I felt welcomed; not by formality, but by grace.

In the days that followed, I came to know the rhythm of his presence. Dr Nazir was not merely a medical officer stationed in a remote corner of Kashmir. He was a companion of the ailing, a listener of the unheard, and a healer of the unnoticed wounds. Whether it was an ageing man with breathless lungs or a young patient, he attended to each soul with the same patience and presence; as though healing were not a duty, but a prayer.

In the lanes and orchards of Nagri Malpora and the hamlets that surrounded it, he was known not as a government official but as kin. He didn’t command respect; he inspired it. His humility was effortless. His speech was free of authority, his manner unassuming. He had that rare stillness that made others feel safe; wherever he was, he brought with him a sense of quiet order.

We worked together for years, and what began as professional camaraderie slowly deepened into a bond I now look back on as a privilege. I would often find him during breaks, sitting on the PHC veranda, cup of tea in hand, gaze drifting toward the distant hills. “Life moves quickly,” he once told me, “but we don’t pause enough to let it teach us.” His words, always measured and thoughtful, carried the weight of one who had seen life from close quarters and remained gentle through it all.

He often spoke with tender fondness of his wife, Ruqaya Baji, and his children—Minhaj, Zuha, and Zara. His eyes softened when he mentioned them. They were not just his support system; they were his sanctuary. “Whatever strength I offer others,” he once said, “is rooted in the love they give me.” Behind the doctor the world saw stood a husband and father deeply rooted in affection.

Born on 1st March 1968 in the tranquil town of Trehgam in Kupwara district, Dr Nazir Ahmad Khan, son of Ghulam Mohammad Khan, carried the simplicity of his upbringing throughout his life. He began his early education at Government Boys High School Trehgam, completed his higher secondary at Government Higher Secondary School Trehgam (Hirri), and later pursued his MBBS at the Kuban State Medical Academy in Krasnodar (Europe). His medical journey took him far from home, but his heart never left the soil he came from. Appointed as a contractual medical officer on 10th October 2003 (Govt. Order No. 1083-HME of 2003), and later regularised on 20th January 2012 (Govt. Order No. 50-HME of 2012), he served at PHC Nagri Malpora until the very end. But those dates and designations tell little of the warmth he carried or the lives he touched.

Because the true biography of a doctor like him isn’t written in service orders or logbooks; it is etched in the eyes of patients who left his room with softened pain, in the villagers who trusted his word more than any prescription, and in the silence he left behind.

Then came the day I dread remembering; 19th January. I was midway on a journey from Srinagar to Jammu when the call came. Dr Nazir is no more. The air inside my car thickened. I pulled over, dazed. The road blurred. I had lost a colleague, a friend. But beyond that, the valley had lost one of its finest sons.

Today, as the nation pauses to honour its doctors; those who carry others' burdens with unshaken resolve; I do not remember Dr Nazir as a name among many. I remember him as a man who lived this day, every day. He wore his white coat not for power, but for purpose. He did not raise his voice, yet his silence carried weight. He didn’t claim to be extraordinary, and perhaps that’s exactly what made him so.

Let us understand that healing is not merely a science; it is a temperament. It is about being present. About standing steady amid human fragility. And in that quiet commitment, Dr Nazir stood taller than most.

Even now, as I write these lines, I can see him walking the corridor of the PHC; sleeves folded, pen in hand, his footsteps unhurried, his face serene.

May Allah (SWT) forgive his shortcomings, elevate his soul, and grant Ruqaya Baji, Minhaj, Zuha, and Zara the strength to carry forward his legacy.

Dr Basharat is a well known writer, columnist and critic and author of the book Literary Beats. He can be reached at chogalwriter@gmail.com 

chogalwriter@gmail.com