Let our libraries breathe again
There are libraries in Kashmir. Grand ones. With cushioned chairs, sliding glass shelves, proper catalogues. The walls are painted in hope. The wood is polished with pride. But the silence inside is not peaceful—it is haunting. You can hear it breathe. Like an abandoned child holding its breath, waiting to be remembered.
Once, not long ago, books in Kashmir were like bread. Shared, passed, broken into pieces of wisdom. They were read under flickering lanterns, on rooftops, in apple orchards, during snowstorms. They were read aloud, word by word, like prayers. Readers were everywhere—in fields, in classrooms, under chinar trees, by the hearth. Reading was not a hobby. It was a way of being.
But now, we have built beautiful houses—multi-storeyed, decorated, expensive. Imported tiles, false ceilings, giant mirrors, Turkish carpets, and ceiling lights that change colours. But no bookshelf. Not even a forgotten rack for a few paperbacks. The homes are lit, but the minds grow dim.
In this land that once cradled Kalhana, Abhinava Gupta, Lal Ded, Nund Reshi, Rupa Bhawani, Rahman Rahi and countless others who poured the essence of Kashmir into words—we are losing the culture of reading. Losing it like smoke slipping through fingers. Slowly, but irreversibly.
Books are still published. Writers still write. But there are fewer eyes to read. Fewer hearts that race with the turning of a page. What is a book if no one opens it? What is a thought if it never finds a listener? These questions hover over us like clouds full of rain that never falls.
Our libraries—those solemn, sacred places—have become hollow. Not for lack of space, not for want of books, but for absence of readers. No one bends over the pages anymore. No one smells the ink. No one loses track of time in the arms of a story. The chairs wait. The books wait. But the readers never arrive.And the young generation—what happened to them?
Allergic to books, they say. The phrase rolls off the tongue so easily. As if books were the problem. As if stories were toxins. Their eyes flicker not from line to line, but from reel to reel. They know how to swipe but not how to underline. They know trends but not metaphors. Their shelves hold perfumes, medals, game controllers—but not books. Not even one.
A bookshelf, once a symbol of pride, now feels like a relic. In many homes, there are shelves for decoration pieces, for plastic flowers, for crockery. But not for a single volume of poetry. Books are not invited into our homes anymore. As if they are untrustworthy guests. As if they speak a language we no longer understand
But the fault does not lie only with them. We—parents, teachers, elders—have failed too. We never handed over books like heirlooms. We did not introduce them to the joy of reading under a blanket, the thrill of a midnight chapter, the heartbreak of a final line. We handed over devices, not diaries. Screens, not stories.Still, it is not too late.
Let us begin again. Let us place a bookshelf in every home—not fancy, not full—but alive. Let schools make reading a ritual, not just a subject. Let there be mornings that begin with poetry and evenings that end in pages. Let books return to our public spaces, our bazaars, our wedding gifts, our daily lives.
Let us invite books back into our homes the way we invite guests—with warmth, with tea, with reverence. Let us raise children who ask for books on birthdays. Who carry novels in their bags. Who believe that a sentence can change a life.
Let our libraries breathe again. Let us, once more, become a people who read.
Khursheed Dar is a regular GK contributor.
