A Cry to the World

Lost Verses, Lost Voice—Will Latif Ever Be Heard?

Shah Jo Risalo is a timeless treasure, misunderstood and overlooked. Will Latif’s poetry break boundaries and reach the global stage?

Shah Jo Risalo is not just a collection of poetry; it is a world of its own—a vast, intricate narrative that unfolds in layers, waiting for the right reader to decipher its depths. It is a masterpiece that has shaped Sindhi identity for centuries, yet it remains one of the most misunderstood works, even by those who claim ownership of it.

The devotees of Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai, the poet-saint of Sindh, hold him in the highest regard, often placing him on a pedestal beyond mere literary figures. To them, he is not just a poet but a Wali, a saint whose words carry spiritual weight and divine wisdom. His name evokes reverence, and his verses are sung with devotion. But how many of us truly understand what he said? How many have engaged with his work beyond what has been handed down through the oral tradition or selective interpretations?

The reality is, most of what people “know“ about Shah Abdul Latif is based on hearsay, fragmented quotes, and interpretations that serve particular narratives. His poetry has been filtered through generations, each adding its own lens, often stripping away the complexity and nuance that make his work truly remarkable. Rarely do we see someone venture into the archives, dust off the manuscripts, and seek out the original voice of Latif. His words, locked away in neglected libraries and institutions, hold truths that remain largely undiscovered.

To read Shah Jo Risalo as it was intended is to live a life on different planet—one that challenges preconceived notions, breaks conventional interpretations, and reveals a poet who was far ahead of his time. It requires us to shed the comfort of familiar narratives and dive into a sea of metaphors, allegories, and mysticism. It is not merely poetry; it is a coded message waiting to be unlocked.

The question is: are we willing to read Latif beyond the words we have been told to believe? Are we ready to let Shah Jo Risalo speak for itself?

Latif died in 1752, and that was it. He didn’t leave behind instructions, nor did he concern himself with the idea of compiling his poetry into a grand manuscript. Unlike Rumi, who was conscious of his legacy and ensured that his words were preserved for future generations, Latif simply passed away—lying peacefully on Bhitt, with no expectations from anyone. His work, his thoughts, his vision—he let it all slip away into the sands of time, trusting that those who truly sought wisdom would find it, not in rigidly recorded verses, but in the essence of his message. Let him sleep peacefully.

Yet, someone—anonymous and unknown—decided that his words needed to be written down. As early as prior to 1207 Hijri, the first recorded collection of his Baits and Vayes appeared, now housed in the British Museum. It exists, yet remains inaccessible to the very people for whom it was meant—Sindhis. Thanks to the neglect of those who claim to safeguard Sindh’s heritage, this invaluable manuscript is now beyond reach. But not all has been lost. Dr. Nabi Bux Baloch, with a relentless dedication to preserving Latif’s legacy, made sure that Shah Jo Risalo was available for Sindhi readers, rescuing it from obscurity. His work ensured that Latif’s poetry was not just a distant relic hidden in foreign archives but a living, breathing testament to Sindhi literature and thought.

The first official version of Shah Jo Risalo is Ganj, compiled in 1207 Hijri—42 years after Shah’s passing. But this early manuscript is far from a pure representation of Latif’s voice. It is an entanglement, a blend of verses not only from him but also from Persian, Hindi, Siraiki, and Punjabi bards. To see Latif’s Baits standing side by side with the words of others is unsettling—almost like forcing him to share his eternal resting place with strangers.

Shah’s poetry is deeply rooted in Sindh—its language, its people, its soul. To have it diluted with the words of poets from different linguistic and cultural backgrounds disrupts the essence of his message. It is not just about authorship; it is about identity. Latif’s Risalo was never meant to be a melting pot of borrowed wisdom—it was a world of its own, uniquely Sindhi, unmistakably his. And yet, in this early version, his voice is entangled, almost lost in a sea of foreign words.

Then comes a long list of attempts to compile and refine Shah Jo Risalo. In 1913, Mirza Kalichbeg, dissatisfied with both Ernest Trumpp’s compilation and the Mumbai edition published in 1866, took it upon himself to create a more accurate collection. His version contained 4,163 Baits and 240 Vayes—a significant step forward in preserving Shah’s work. This effort set the stage for further refinement.

Following him, Dr. Hotchand Moolchand Gurbuxani, and later Dr. Umar Bin Muhammad Daudpota made their own contributions, each trying to restore the authenticity of Latif’s poetry. Several others also played a role, including Shahwani, Deplai, Advani, Allama I. I. Kazi, and Ansari. However, it was Dr. Nabi Bux Baloch, with the assistance of Dr. Abdul Gaffar Soomro, who undertook the most exhaustive effort. By consulting over 50 Qalmi Nuskhas (handwritten manuscripts) and various other versions, he pieced together what is now considered the most complete and authoritative edition of Shah Jo Risalo in 2009. And that’s it—the long journey of compiling Latif’s words into a single, reliable collection finally reached its conclusion.

Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai has not yet surfaced as one of the great global poets, despite the fact that every Sindhi soul proudly calls him one. The love for Latif is boundless within Sindh, yet beyond its borders, his name remains largely unheard. The question is: why? Why does a poet of such depth and universal themes remain confined within the walls of a regional identity?

For a poet to achieve worldwide recognition, certain elements must be in place. A poet cannot reach the world if the world cannot read them. Rumi became global because his works were not just translated but beautifully reinterpreted in English, capturing the spirit of his poetry. Latif, on the other hand, has suffered from rigid, often lifeless translations. The depth of his Baits is lost in direct word-for-word translations that fail to convey the rhythm, philosophy, and mysticism embedded in his poetry. Global poets are studied, researched, and taught in universities worldwide. Their works are discussed in literary conferences and published in academic journals. Latif, despite his intellectual richness, remains absent from major literary discourses. Without scholars championing his work in global academia, he remains invisible in the world of literature.

Poets like Pablo Neruda and Khalil Gibran did not reach the world merely through academic studies; they were introduced to the public through literature, films, and popular culture. Rumi, for instance, became a household name in the West largely due to pop-culture references, social media, and contemporary spiritual movements. Shah’s poetry has yet to enter the mainstream global media in any meaningful way. To be global, a poet’s works must be widely published, marketed, and made available in bookstores, libraries, and digital platforms worldwide. While there have been efforts to publish Shah Jo Risalo in English and other languages, these editions remain obscure, inaccessible, or outdated. Without a strong push from international publishing houses, Latif's reach will remain limited. Every great poet who has achieved global recognition has had champions—writers, philosophers, and public figures who introduced them to wider audiences. Who is speaking for Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai on the global stage? Who is presenting his work at literary festivals, international poetry readings, or TED Talks? The answer is: almost no one.

The fault lies with multiple factors. While much has been done to preserve Shah Jo Risalo within Sindh, there has been little effort to strategically present Latif to the world. Scholars have remained content within their regional circles, failing to engage with international literary communities. Unlike Rumi, whose works were reimagined in a way that resonated with global audiences, Shah’s translations have largely remained technical, uninspiring, or simply unavailable. There is no systematic effort to market him as a global poet. Countries that successfully promote their literary icons have government-backed cultural institutions working tirelessly to ensure their poets are studied worldwide. Iran, for instance, has spent decades promoting Rumi and Hafez.

Sindh’s government, on the other hand, has done little beyond occasional commemorations. There is no international Latif literary foundation, no Sindhi cultural diplomacy, no grants for global translations—just local admiration without global action. Poetry is a living tradition. Rumi is widely read today because modern authors, filmmakers, and musicians continue to engage with his work. Shah’s poetry, though sung within Sindh, has not been adapted into formats that resonate with modern global audiences. Where are the documentaries, the Netflix adaptations, the global poetry readings?

A new wave of poetic, engaging translations must be undertaken by skilled poets and linguists who understand both Sindhi and global literary traditions. Universities and institutions worldwide must be encouraged to study Latif alongside other mystical poets. Latif’s poetry must be read and performed at major international literary events, much like Rumi’s and Neruda’s. Shah’s themes—love, separation, devotion, and resistance—must be adapted into films, books, and contemporary storytelling mediums. A dedicated institution should work to promote his poetry worldwide through translations, digital platforms, and cultural exchange programs.

Latif is already a global poet in terms of depth, philosophy, and artistic brilliance. The only thing missing is the effort to bring him into the global spotlight. Until this happens, he will remain confined within Sindh—revered but unseen, loved but unheard, celebrated yet still waiting for the world to truly discover him. The question is: who will take the responsibility to change this?