The Bengaluru-born Syed Nawaz Miftahi has changed the lives of many visually impaired individuals who wished to connect with spirituality through the study of the Quran and also others.

Born in a modest Muslim family, he stood apart from his four brothers. While his siblings did well in English-medium schools, Nawaz’s hand danced to a different rhythm. “I’d write ABCD from the right side,” he recalls. “But teachers and parents pushed me to start from the left. It was my natural way, yet it wouldn’t bend.”

He journeyed to Tamil Nadu to become an aalim, later earning a BA and MA in Urdu, his words becoming vessels of faith and fire.

In 2011, Mumbai’s electric pulse hosted a conference for blind children—a moment that would rewrite Nawaz’s destiny. As young voices rose, reciting Amma Para with a purity that cut through the din, Nawaz, fully sighted yet profoundly moved, felt his heart fracture.

Syed Nawaz receiving an award

“Their voices carried a pain I couldn’t ignore,” he says. In that crowded hall, Nawaz resolved to master Braille for those whose fingers ached to touch the divine. He gathered Braille scripts like sacred relics, carrying them back to Bengaluru. For Nawaz, this wasn’t just learning—it was a rebellion against a world that dimmed the visually impaired.

Sultan Shah Markaz in Shivajinagar, Bengaluru’s pulsing hub of Tablighi Jamaat, became his crucible. A sanctuary alive with seekers, it was the perfect stage for his vision.

In 2012, Nawaz, alongside Moulana Riyaz and Moulana Shamsuddin Bajli, launched a bold initiative: a branch for blind students. Weekly classes unfolded within the Markaz’s sacred walls, while daily online sessions spun a digital thread to the unseen.

His students were adults—many with decades carved into their hands, stepping into education’s embrace for the first time. Nawaz taught himself Braille while teaching others. “They teased me,” he chuckles, “saying I taught like I was one of them. But I saw their potential clearer than day.”

Teaching Braille to the elderly was a dance of patience. Nawaz, ever the innovator, turned challenge into magic. He introduced the “pinching technique,” a tactile ritual to awaken dormant senses. But his genius burned brighter. Drawing from the earth’s wisdom, he scattered kanki (broken rice), ragi, and jau (barley) across tables.

By 2013, Nawaz returned to Mumbai’s conference, leading 12 blind students, their presence a quiet thunderclap. Amid soul-stirring recitations, he mentioned his phone-based teaching model, which inspired many others across the country to explore similar approaches.

Picture Aslam, a 50-year-old whose Ramazan nights were once drenched in tears. “He’d hold the Quran to his head, weeping, convinced he’d never recite it,” Nawaz shares. Under Nawaz’s steady hand, Aslam didn’t just learn—he soared, reciting 8 to 10 khatms each holy month. “If God grants me sight,” Aslam vows, “Nawaz bhai’s face will be my first.”

Nawaz’s heart aches at a stark truth: Braille madrasas are rare, scattered like stars across Karnataka, Andhra Pradesh, Maharashtra, Tamil Nadu, Kashmir, Kolkata, and Gujarat. “It’s a tragedy,” he sighs, “that so few spaces honour the blind’s right to faith and knowledge.”

Enter Umang Foundations of the Blind—a vision as bold as it is inclusive, built “of the blind, for the blind. The foundation is led by a dedicated team of blind trustees.

Anusha, 20, a non-Muslim woman, with concern for humans, volunteered as a trustee for Umang. “Her care is a masterpiece,” Nawaz beams, “a young woman, the only sighted trustee, pouring her soul into our cause.”

Set to launch soon as a residential centre in Bengaluru, Umang welcomes all visually impaired, regardless of religion. Muslim students learn Quran taleem in Braille Arabic script, mastering tajweed, while all residents gain life skills, computer literacy, and vocational training.

It’s a home where faith and future intertwine, ensuring independence for every soul. Nawaz’s voice grows heavy as he explains the need for such an initiative. “Without support, many blind were drifting from their roots, some even converting. This is sadaqa-e-jariya,” he declares, invoking Surah Abasa’s call to prioritise Abdullah ibn Umm Maktum, the blind companion.

Some of the students of Syed Nawaz

“The elite can wait,” the Quran commands. Nawaz, with eyes that see beyond the visible, makes the unseen his mission.

“They don’t need pity,” Nawaz insists. “They need platforms.” He teaches as a partner, not a sage: “We came to teach, but they teach us patience, even perspective. Umang extends this, blending sacred learning with modern empowerment, ensuring every heart shines.

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Nawaz, with eyes that see the unseen, weaves resilience with revelation, proving that true vision lies in empathy’s gaze.