The state of the written word

In 1985 Raza Ali Abidi published his book, Kutb Khana, a story of his travels across India and Pakistan looking for libraries where ancient (and not so ancient) manuscripts were housed in public and private collections. In easy to read, but beautiful prose that had been a hallmark of Abidi’s BBC Urdu’s radio programmes, he narrates the stories of rare manuscripts, letters, and their custodians. The stories are remarkable but sad. From Karachi to Hyderabad Deccan, Uch Sharif to Patna, Lahore to Lucknow, the state of the libraries and the books within them is painful. The state of private collections even worse. Dozens (in 1985 when the book was first published) were on the verge of extinction due to neglect, lack of resources and apathy. Most likely these manuscripts, largely in Persian and Arabic, have been lost forever.

Perhaps the only dark consolation one could find is that our problems are not new. Our disregard for knowledge is not a 21^st century phenomenon. We have been like this for a while. Writing in the mid-80s, Abidi notes that most book lovers and scholars complained of dwindling interest in the written word. Well before the era of texts and tweets, there was worry that reading and connecting with our heritage was of little concern to most. We can blame Twitter for a lot of things, but our ignorance pre-dates the tech revolution.

Texts and tweets aside, what is the state of our engagement with books right now?

A recent survey suggested that three in four Pakistanis (75%) do not read anything outside of their syllabus (if they are students — if they are not, no reading whatsoever!). Bookstores are becoming stationery shops, or carry more magazines than actual books. Occasionally, the Prime Minister is found reading a book, or suggests a book he thinks people in the country should read. Most (if not all) are in English and expensive to buy. Translation industry is non-existent, and in the absence of public libraries, there is little access to books. I doubt if most of my friends and family members can name a public library in their cities — one that is accessible or they have been to in the last year. Having one large public library somewhere far in a city of millions of people is not going to cut it.

The problem Abidi notes in his book is threefold. First, interest in reading is on the decline as a whole. Second, the resources needed to maintain libraries are simply not there. And third, the custodians of books and manuscripts do not trust state institutions to preserve their prized possessions. There was good reason for this lack of trust when Abidi wrote the book in 1985. Bureaucrats and government officials were seldom interested in reading or writing — few cared about these priceless treasures. I doubt if we are better off in 2020 than we were in 1985. Our national archives are in a disarray. The national archives building in Islamabad, when I saw it earlier this year, itself seemed like an archeological site. The state of books and manuscripts inside is much worse.

So where do we go from here? Perhaps a better question would be what would happen if we do not change our course. Not only would we lose priceless collections, we would lose our heritage and connection with our history. We would lose our connection with our past and its richness. In a society that is still unsure of who we were, and what our identity is, these manuscripts are an invaluable source to fill the gaps. These manuscripts are far more worthy, and reliable sources to remind us about our scholarship, culture and heritage than a Turkish drama.

Published in The Express Tribune, October 13^th, 2020.

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