My mother had been Father’s greatest admirer and supporter in all his endeavours. Her unexpected passing after sustaining an accidental fall, which resulted in post-surgery complications, was heart-breaking for all of us. It is unfathomable for a daughter to imagine the impact of this loss — my parents had been together for 50 some years; they were growing old together in harmony.

Mother ran the household seamlessly; she allowed Father unlimited space for his literary engagements. She had helped him in the struggling years when Shabkhoon was launched. She managed a successful career and a home in Allahabad. They built the library together.

Father’s library is like a palimpsest of his creative journey. Thinking and writing about it from faraway Charlottesville, I have so many images of that room as it evolved. The earliest one is of the drawing-cum-dining room with the “sofa-set” from Bareilly and a three-seater settee that Mother had custom made. A walnut Kashmiri centre table, rather modest, and Kashmiri nesting tables on the side. There was no carpet, because Father had designed the floor in a classic black and white pattern.

The room always felt cold in winter and terribly hot in summer. The dining table was old style with a laminate surface, with six sturdy chairs. It often served as an alternate study table for me. We used the drawing room only for very formal guests. Otherwise, the two spacious verandahs, with comfortable wicker chairs, welcomed visitors.

The library spilled over to the adjacent verandah. Father’s most amazing collection, the complete set of 45 volumes of the Dastan-i-Amir Hamza was kept in a steel almirah. Father’s personal literary output was so rich that it needed an entire almirah to itself. Shabkhoon’s archive is also held here. Forty years of the journal is bound into volumes and preserved in hard copy.

Throughout Father’s postings in different cities — Lucknow, Delhi, Patna etc — the room was seldom used even for dining. My younger sister and I ate dinner with Mother in her room. When the dining table was moved to the verandah to make space for the library, that is when it began to be utilised for meals.

A computer desk was not something one could buy in those days. Any old desk sufficed. I remember the keyboard sitting close to the computer screen, the heavy CPU on the floor; there was no place for a printer, so ad hoc arrangements were made. A tea table served as the platform for the printer. Some years later, a scanner was bought and added to the nearby table. Wires often got tangled as an internet router shared the desk.

There was a sofa right by the entry door to the library. At first, visitors might have sat on the sofa, but slowly it was laden with books. These were books that kept arriving in a steady stream nearly every day. Books from authors — poets, essayists, fiction, more poetry than any other genre.

The library spilled over to the adjacent verandah. Father’s most amazing collection, the complete set of 45 volumes of the Dastan-i-Amir Hamza was kept in a steel almirah. Father’s personal literary output was so rich that it needed an entire almirah to itself. Shabkhoon’s archive is also held here. Forty years of the journal is bound into volumes and preserved in hard copy.

After Shabkhoon ended its span as a journal, it was replaced by the Khabarnamah. The Khabarnamah, lived up to its name — it was a report of new books, reviews, letters and so on. Father was a great letter-writer. He must have penned thousands of letters in his pearly handwriting to the literati of his time. Some letters have been published, but there is an archive of correspondence that needs to be sorted.

The Khabarnamah couldn’t be managed alone. A secretary was the answer. Now, a third desk was accommodated into the space. This was possible because floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls. The bulky book racks were removed. The large room kept adjusting as the years went by. The worn out black and white floor was covered with linoleum and, when that became scuffed, an assortment of carpets brightened the room.

Father’s much-loved German shepherd Bholi loved the library. She stretched out on the carpet, keeping Father company as he worked. Our children enjoyed playing with the computer during summer vacations.

In his last years, Father faced the big question of what to do with his beloved library. Should the books be donated to an established archival library or should they be preserved at the site as a resource for scholars? His dream was to keep the collection in one place and possibly turn it into a reading room, open to researchers. We, his daughters, assured him that we would take care of the library; we would try to fulfil his dream of making it a resource library.

My sister Baran began the project in earnest by getting a recently retired professional librarian to catalogue the books. This has not been easy because of several reasons that need not be recounted here. But the project is close to completion now. The next step will be to keep it alive and blossoming; a space for sparkling conversations and lectures in the spirit of the vision of Shamsur Rahman Faruqi.

The columnist is professor in the Department of Middle Eastern and South Asian Languages and Cultures at the University of Virginia in the US. X: @FarooqiMehr

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, December 8th, 2024