The news hit like a quiet thunderclap, rippling through the hearts of countless Georgians who once sat, wide-eyed, in the lecture halls of King George’s Medical College. Professor Abdul Halim, the gentle giant of anatomy, was no more. A man who seemed to defy time with his towering presence and timeless wisdom had finally taken his leave, leaving behind a legacy etched in chalk dust and the minds of generations.

“Alvida, Sir,” I whispered to myself, the words catching in my throat as memories flooded back. I could still see him standing at the blackboard, chalk in hand, crafting diagrams so precise they rivaled the MRI scans we marvel at today. “Watch closely, my boy,” he’d say, his voice soft but commanding, as he drew the occipital bone with a single, unbroken stroke, building the anatomy of the head from vault to menton. “Anatomy is not just science—it’s art, it’s life.” And we’d watch, mesmerized, as muscles, nerves, and vessels came alive in three dimensions, no eraser ever needed. His proportions were perfect, his lines flawless, like a master painter who knew his canvas by heart.

I remember my first day in his class, nervous and overwhelmed, clutching my notebook like a lifeline. “Triangles of the neck,” he announced, his eyes twinkling with quiet enthusiasm. “Borders, contents, relations—learn them like the back of your hand.” And learn we did. Even now, decades later, I can recite them as if his voice still echoes in my mind. Before every surgery exam, I’d pore over my notes from his classes, his elegant handwriting a roadmap to confidence. “Sir, you’re still teaching me,” I’d mutter, flipping through pages worn thin from use, even when I became a teacher myself.

With 38 years at King George’s Medical College, Professor Halim wasn’t just a teacher—he was an institution. As Head of Anatomy from 1983 to 1989, he shaped countless surgeons, his lessons a foundation we built our careers upon. His pursuit of knowledge was relentless. “Education must evolve,” he’d say, recounting his time at JIPMER, Pondicherry, for a WHO-sponsored course, or his fellowship at the University of Dundee, Scotland. He’d visited medical schools in Edinburgh, St. Andrews, London, Nottingham, and Southampton, always seeking new ways to teach, to inspire. “We don’t just teach anatomy,” he told a colleague once, “we teach students to see the human body as a miracle.”

His books—Surface and Radiological Anatomy, Human Anatomy: Regional and Clinical, Anatomy of the Head & Neck—were treasures, their pages dog-eared by students across India. I’d beam with pride telling my own students, “Professor Halim was my teacher.” Their eyes would widen, as if I’d just claimed kinship with a legend. “Really, sir?” one once asked. “The man who wrote that book?” I’d nod, smiling, knowing his aura still dazzled, even secondhand.

Yet, for all his brilliance, he was modesty incarnate. Tall, impeccably dressed—his trouser fittings were practically folklore among us students—he moved through life with a quiet grace. “Never raise your voice,” he once advised during a hostel meeting, his role as Provost of our Trans-Gomti Undergraduate hostel making him a father figure to us all. “Discipline comes from respect, not fear.” Even during ragging days, when chaos ruled, his presence was a calming force. “You’re safe here,” he’d say, his warm smile disarming even the rowdiest seniors.

As an examiner, he was a maestro. During vivas, he’d tilt his head slightly, never staring directly, giving us space to breathe. “Tell me about the brachial plexus,” he’d begin, his tone gentle, easing us into the conversation. He’d build the questions gradually, giving us time to think, never rushing. “Take your time, beta,” he’d say if we faltered, his patience a lifeline. I once overheard a student whisper after a viva, “He made me feel like I knew more than I thought I did.”

A devout man, he lived his faith quietly, leading his joint family with the same care he brought to his classroom. “Family is like anatomy,” he once mused to a colleague, “every part connected, every part vital.” His younger siblings looked to him as a father, his love for them as precise and unwavering as his diagrams.

Lucknow’s culture—its tehzeeb, its grace—found its embodiment in him. “He was the perfect Georgian,” my batchmate said at a reunion, raising a glass in his honor. “Flawless, like one of his drawings.” We laughed, but it was true. Professor Abdul Halim was a teacher unmatched, a researcher of the highest caliber, a disciplinarian with a heart of gold. Our world feels emptier without him, his absence a void no textbook can fill.

“Alvida, Sir,” I said again, staring at the old notes on my desk, the triangles of the neck staring back. “You taught us more than anatomy—you taught us how to live.” And in that moment, I could almost hear his voice, soft and steady, saying, “Keep learning, my boy. The body is a miracle, but so is the mind.”