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SOCIETY: A NEGLECTED BALOCH INTELLECTUAL
Pakistan has an unfortunate habit of discovering its intellectuals only after they can no longer speak back. Anniversaries prompt conferences, commemorative volumes and polite speeches; once the date passes, so does the attention.
The centenary of Syed Zahoor Shah Hashmi, born in Gwadar in 1926, exposes this habit with unusual clarity.
Outside Balochistan his name remains unfamiliar; within it, he is spoken with reverence. That gap is not accidental. It reflects how the country has chosen to remember some histories while allowing others to fade into regional footnotes.
Balochistan is Pakistan’s most discussed province and its least understood. Its coastline is measured in strategic potential; its mountains are surveyed for minerals; its politics are examined through the language of security. Far less attention is paid to the intellectual traditions through which Baloch society has understood itself. The consequence is a national conversation that speaks endlessly about Balochistan while rarely listening to it.
This year marks the centenary of Syed Zahoor Shah Hashmi, who spent decades building the intellectual foundations of the Balochi language — creating dictionaries, standardising grammar and demonstrating that the language could carry modern thought. What does it tell us that he is so revered in Balochistan and unknown elsewhere in Pakistan?
Hashmi’s life and work complicate this picture. He was not merely a poet, nor only a scholar. He was a linguistic architect, a cultural historian, a teacher and — perhaps most importantly — a patient builder of institutions in a province where institutions have always been fragile.
Hashmi’s writings in Balochi, Urdu, Persian and Arabic placed him at a crossroads of intellectual traditions, yet his central concern remained local: how to give the Balochi language the tools needed to survive modernity. He did not write manifestos or slogans. He wrote dictionaries, grammars, histories and novels. These were not aesthetic indulgences. They were acts of repair in a society already suffering from educational marginalisation, cultural invisibility and a widening communication gap with the state.
The irony is sharp. Pakistan celebrates diversity rhetorically while allowing one of its oldest linguistic traditions to remain marginal in curricula, publishing and broadcast media. Urdu and English dominate public life; regional languages are honoured ceremonially and neglected structurally. In that neglect lie many of the misunderstandings that continue to strain centre-province relations.
Hashmi’s centenary, then, is not merely a literary occasion. It is a moment to ask why Baloch intellectual labour has been treated as local colour rather than national inheritance — and what it has cost the federation to do so.
BUILDING A LANGUAGE
Syed Zahoor Shah Hashmi understood a truth often missed by policymakers: development begins with intelligibility. A society that cannot record itself struggles to educate itself; a language without structure cannot sustain institutions. Long before “capacity-building” entered bureaucratic vocabulary, Hashmi was engaged in it at the most elemental level — through words.
Balochi, rich in oral poetry and storytelling, lacked standardised written tools for much of the 20th century. Dialectal variation, inconsistent orthography and the absence of reference works made formal education difficult and publishing sporadic. Hashmi set out to change this.
His lexicographical work, most notably his comprehensive Balochi dictionary, sought to gather scattered vocabularies and impose coherence without erasing diversity. Choosing spellings, fixing meanings and recording usage were not neutral acts; they determined whether Balochi could function in classrooms, libraries and official discourse.
Dictionaries are often mistaken for passive records. In reality, they are declarations of intellectual legitimacy. By documenting Balochi systematically, Hashmi asserted that the language deserved permanence, study and respect equal to any other.
Equally important was his contribution to Balochi prose. Poetry had long flourished through oral performance, but prose — essential for history, fiction, criticism and instruction — remained underdeveloped. Hashmi helped bridge that gap. His essays, historical writings and fiction demonstrated that Balochi could narrate social change, ethical conflict and emotional complexity, without borrowing authority from Urdu or Persian.
This mattered profoundly. Languages that cannot articulate modern experience risk being confined to nostalgia. Hashmi resisted that fate. His work showed that Balochi could carry the weight of contemporary life — urbanisation, gender roles, moral ambiguity — without losing its idiomatic strength.
Hashmi’s intellectual formation was shaped by Gwadar’s peculiar history as a port city with connections to Arabia, Persia and South Asia. Educated in classical Islamic disciplines as well as modern subjects, he moved comfortably between linguistic registers. This multilingual competence allowed him to translate ideas across traditions while remaining rooted in Balochi cultural life.
In an era when many Baloch intellectuals were pushed toward Urdu to gain national visibility, Hashmi chose the harder path: strengthening Balochi itself. That choice limited his fame outside the province but it deepened his impact within it. Hashmi’s literary reputation rests not only on scholarship but also on fiction, particularly his early novel, which explored social life in coastal Baloch communities.
Rather than dramatic rebellion, he depicted quieter forms of constraint: rigid customs, limited opportunity, and the slow suffocation of individual aspiration — especially for women. These were not polemical texts. Hashmi avoided overt moralising, allowing characters and circumstances to speak for themselves. That restraint gave his work durability. Readers recognised their own lives in his pages without feeling instructed or accused.
The relevance today is unsettling. Balochistan continues to struggle with low literacy rates, especially among women. Social mobility remains limited; migration drains talent; frustration fills the vacuum. Hashmi anticipated these pressures not through data but through lived experience. Where development reports speak of “human capital deficits”, his writing shows human lives stalled by circumstance.
Perhaps Hashmi’s most enduring contribution lies in his understanding of education. He believed that learning begins in the language one thinks in. Pakistan’s schooling system has largely ignored this principle in Balochistan, privileging Urdu and English from the earliest stages. The result has been predictable: alienation, high dropout rates and shallow comprehension. Hashmi’s linguistic work offered an alternative path — one in which Balochi functioned as a bridge rather than a barrier. That path was never fully taken.
The cost is visible today in declining educational outcomes and a persistent communication gap between state and society. This is not merely a pedagogical failure; it is a political one. When children experience schooling as linguistic displacement, education feels imposed rather than empowering. Over time, that experience shapes how citizens perceive authority itself.
THE COST OF SILENCE
Pakistan’s mainstream media has treated Baloch writers as peripheral voices speaking to peripheral concerns. Literary festivals rarely feature Balochi panels; book reviews seldom cross linguistic boundaries; translations remain scarce.
This is not merely cultural laziness — it is intellectual self-harm. A country that ignores the literature of its largest province forfeits insight into that province’s anxieties, humour, ethics and aspirations. Policies then emerge unmoored from social reality, interpreted as impositions rather than solutions. Mistrust follows. Silence deepens.
Hashmi’s marginalisation outside Balochistan exemplifies this pattern. Though officially honoured, he remains absent from national literary consciousness. His books are studied locally, cited respectfully, and then confined.
Pakistan remembers him the way it remembers Balochistan itself: formally, distantly and without sustained engagement. Balochistan’s underdevelopment is often framed as a technical problem — of roads, water and investment. These matter. But development without dialogue is brittle. Language is dialogue’s first condition.
Hashmi’s work implicitly argued that cultural participation is a prerequisite for political stability. A population that does not see its language reflected in public life will not easily trust institutions that exclude it. The communication gap so often lamented in policy circles is not accidental; it is constructed.
Commemorations can be empty rituals — or they can be course corrections. Remembering Syed Zahoor Shah Hashmi properly would mean more than conferences and speeches. It would require integrating Balochi literature into national curricula, funding translations, supporting local publishing, and allowing regional languages to function meaningfully in administration and education.
The alternative is familiar: another anniversary, another forgotten figure, another missed opportunity. Pakistan can afford monuments. What it cannot afford — particularly in Balochistan — is continued cultural neglect disguised as unity.
The writer is a columnist, educator and film critic. He can be contacted at mnazir1964@yahoo.co.uk.
X: @NaazirMahmood
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
A recent video showing a Quran that survived the devastating fire at Karachi’s Gul Plaza has reignited a centuries-old conversation. Throughout history, accounts of Bibles, Qurans or Buddhist sutras emerging unscathed from catastrophic floods and fires have been celebrated as Divine interventions. While these events offer profound spiritual solace, a closer look reveals a fascinating intersection of material physics and psychological bias.
From a physical standpoint, Dougal Drysdale, Professor Emeritus at the University of Edinburgh, suggests that a hardbound book’s survival is often due to the ‘Closed Book Effect.’ When shut, a book functions as a dense, oxygen-starved block of cellulose. Because fire requires a steady flow of oxygen to consume fuel, the tightly packed pages resist ignition by preventing airflow from reaching the interior.
In the event of a flood, the surface tension of water against tightly pressed pages creates a natural barrier. This prevents deep seepage for a significant period, often leaving the heart of the book perfectly dry.
American psychologist Thomas Gilovich explains that when a sacred text survives a disaster, it often becomes more than just a book. It is elevated to a sacred relic. This transformation, according to Gilovich, can significantly redefine a community’s cultural path. In the aftermath of the 2011 Joplin tornado in Missouri, US, survivors and news outlets frequently highlighted the ‘miraculous’ discovery of intact Bibles among the rubble of flattened homes.
The survival of holy texts in the aftermath of natural catastrophes is often termed ‘Divine protection’, revealing the cultural and spiritual narratives people love to attach to such instances
While hardbound dictionaries and cookbooks likely survived in the same ruins due to their similar physical construction, these secular items were ignored by the media as mere debris. The surviving Bibles were immediately elevated from functional reading material to sacred relics, often being framed and displayed as symbols of Divine protection.
By focusing on these specific books, the media triggered a cognitive bias that led people to view the event through a supernatural lens rather than recognising the simple physical durability of bound paper.
British scholar Susan Whitfield, in her 2004 work The Silk Road: Trade, Travel, War and Faith, details the discovery of the Mogao Caves in China. In that instance, the sealing of the Buddhist text the Diamond Sutra (868 CE) within a dry, walled-up chamber created a “natural vault” that protected the world’s oldest-dated printed book from the degrading effects of humidity and oxygen for nearly a millennium. The perception of such objects often shifts from the literary to the ‘miraculous’.
During World War I, pocket Bibles carried by soldiers occasionally stopped shrapnel due to the high density of their compressed paper. This led many soldiers to treat the Bibles as protective talismans.
The Codex Amiatinus, frequently referred to as the ‘Grandfather’ of Latin Bibles, has survived for over 1,300 years due to its immense physical durability. According to Drysdale, this enormous volume, created around 700 CE in Northumbria, England, weighs over 34 kilogrammes and was crafted from the skins of more than 500 calves.
The use of high-quality parchment makes the Bible significantly more resistant to fire and decay, as organic animal skins lack the highly flammable, oxygen-trapping fibres found in wood-pulp paper. This Bible remained virtually untouched for a millennium, preserved by the stable environment of an Italian abbey that served as a ‘natural vault.’
In West Africa, the Desert Manuscripts of Timbuktu offer a compelling example of texts surviving environmental factors, a story often framed as miraculous. When Islamist militants set fire to the Ahmed Baba Institute in 2013, there was widespread global concern over the potential loss of thousands of ancient Islamic manuscripts. However, according to the researcher Mauro Nobili, the extreme aridity of the Sahara desert was critical in aiding their preservation for centuries.
The persistently low humidity prevented mould growth and kept the delicate ink stable, allowing for their long-term survival, which many viewed as a modern miracle. However, the more vulnerable manuscripts were secretly shifted to safer locations before the militants set fire to the Ahmed Baba Institute.
During the Viking raid on Lindisfarne — a tidal island off the northeast coast of England — in 793 CE, a legend emerged concerning a sacred book, Lindisfarne Gospels, which was said to have been dropped into the sea by fleeing priests. Three days later, it washed up perfectly dry. While this specific account is often considered apocryphal, the physical survival of such ancient texts is frequently due to their durable leather and metal bindings, which act as a protective shell for the internal vellum.
Gilovich would point to stories such as this ‘dry’ recovery of a Bible as prime examples of how the media and oral tradition prioritise miraculous narratives over the mundane reality of material science, thereby reinforcing spiritual beliefs.
According to the prominent professor of psychological sciences J. Park, communities frequently transform these survival stories into powerful symbols of “Divine protection” as a means of processing the profound trauma of disasters. This phenomenon ultimately highlights a dynamic intersection, where material science meets deep human sentiment.
While the inherent fire-resistant properties of vellum offer logical, scientific explanations for the physical survival of many books, the human psychological element remains paramount. The inherent human need to find order, meaning and hope within chaos is what elevates these surviving sacred objects from mere material items to vital spiritual anchors for a community’s recovery and continuity.
The endurance of these texts represents a profound intersection between material science and human psychology. It is not merely the density of vellum, the chemical stability of ancient inks or the aridity of a desert that ensures survival. Rather, it is the way these physical realities interact with our inherent drive to find order in the wake of destruction.
Gilovich’s research posits that when a community witnesses the survival of a sacred text, they are not simply observing a quirk of physics. They are engaging in what Park describes as “meaning-making”, using the survived sacred object to process trauma and reclaim a sense of ‘Divine protection.’ Whether through the preservation of the Diamond Sutra in caves, or a Bible or a Quran found amidst the ruins of a modern disaster, these serve as a bridge between the tangible and the transcendent. Their survival is a testament to the fact that, while fire and time may consume the material, the cultural and spiritual narratives we attach to them remain indestructible.
Yet, it is equally important that we recognise the physical realities of their endurance, acknowledging that the science of material durability does not diminish the ‘miracle’, but rather provides a rational foundation for understanding how the written word survives the very elements meant to destroy it.
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
Different varieties of leafy green vegetables (locally known as saag) are commonly grown in the Subcontinent due to the favourable growing conditions here. These green vegetables are prepared in traditional meals that contain the signature South Asian touch. However, Swiss chard remains relatively unknown to many.
Swiss chard is one of the easiest-to-grow leafy green vegetables. Unlike other leafy green vegetables, Swiss chard has beautiful bright green-coloured leaves with white, yellow or maroon midribs and stem. No wonder that a few sub-varieties of the Swiss chard are referred to as rainbow chard!
It is also known as spinach beet and leaf beet, while other names reflect the colour of its stems. For instance, the ones with white midribs are referred to as silver beet and those with red or maroon stems are known as rhubarb chard. Its striking colour combinations make it attractive enough as an ornamental plant.
Scientifically known as Beta vulgaris L. var. cicla, Swiss chard belongs to the Amaranthaceae family, which was formerly known as the Chenopodiaceae family. While it is also considered a beet, its root is inedible. Due to its close resemblance to spinach and beet root, it is not recommended to grow Swiss chard near either of them. Pests and diseases affecting beet root and spinach will likely attack Swiss chard as well.
While many other types of saag dominate South Asian kitchens, Swiss chard — of Mediterranean origin — remains largely unknown here…
Contrary to its name, Swiss chard does not originate from Switzerland. The origin of the ‘Swiss’ prefix remains contentious. One theory is that it is widely grown in Switzerland. In fact, Swiss chard primarily originates from the Mediterranean region. However, it is extensively used in Swiss cuisine.
Another theory is that the botanist who first classified this vegetable was Swiss and used the prefix to create a distinction from other leafy vegetables. The most common theory is that the European seed merchants added Swiss to distinguish it from the closely related French chard. If that were not enough to confuse you all, the word ‘chard’ is of Latin origin, meaning thistle — a common gardening term referring to a flowering plant which has prickly bracts.
Swiss chard seeds are easily confused with those of spinach, due to their stark resemblance. The seeds of Swiss chard are faded brown to dark brown in colour. They have a dry, rough texture and are irregular in shape. The seeds are hard and are surprisingly light for their size. Like spinach, one seed of Swiss chard can result in three to four seedlings. For this reason, it is known as a seed ball, containing potentially three to four seeds.
Being hardy, Swiss chard has minimal requirements. One of the best aspects about sowing Swiss chard seeds is that they can be grown in almost any available space. You can grow it on a strip of land, small pots and even around other plants in the same pot. However, when sowing Swiss chard seeds for a full crop, certain aspects should be taken into account.
In climates similar to Karachi, the seeds can be sown from mid-October onwards or when the temperature falls to 20 degrees Celsius. The potting mix should be pre-moistened and clear of pebbles and stones. Seeds should be placed half an inch below the surface and covered with a layer of compost. The soil should remain moist, not wet.
Depending on the desired yield, any pot size can be used, since the roots are small. Pots should then be placed in a cool shade with indirect sunlight. If the Swiss chard plant is being grown in an open field or in raised beds, it should be shielded from direct sunlight exposure, to minimise evaporation.
Some gardeners prefer to soak the seeds in water for four to six hours to ensure better and quick germination. In favourable conditions, Swiss chard seeds are likely to sprout within one week to 10 days.
Please send your queries and emails to doctree101@hotmail.com. The writer is a physician and a host for the YouTube channel ‘DocTree Gardening’ promoting organic kitchen gardening
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
Dear Auntie,
Hope you are well. I am seeking your advice regarding a situation that has been bothering me for a long time. I’m a university student and I met this girl. She seemed very interested in me at that time and so was I in her. We had great chemistry, something I’ve never felt in my life. But I never confessed my feelings to her because of certain things I heard about her. Later, I found out she was dating someone. I internalised my love for her for quite a long time, almost a year, until I couldn’t hold it in, and confessed everything to her, even though I knew she was in a relationship.
The nature of my work requires me to face her and, whenever we work together, that chemistry-like muscle memory hits like a truck and I fall head over heels for her all over again. Even though getting her is nothing but a distant dream, I still can’t get over her and long for her all the time. It’s like a stalemate. I would really appreciate your advice on this.
Longing and Yearning
‘I Am Obsessed With a Woman I Can’t Have’
Dear Longing and Yearning,
This is a classic case of excellent chemistry but bad timing. Auntie has seen this film before and the hero always thinks that this one love is ‘different’. Maybe it is different for you. But the situation is very, very old.
Let’s start with the fact that you don’t want to face… that this is not love. This is emotional attachment, mixed with a heavy dose of imagination. And it is a powerful mix, made more powerful because the person in question is unavailable.
Every time you see her, your brain tells you “Ah yes, the unfinished business.” But notice something important… the girl chose someone else. This was not because you are not good enough, but because her life moved in a different direction. That is her choice, and chasing emotionally after someone who has chosen another path slowly kills your self-respect.
The chemistry you talk about is a result of you training your mind for a year to revolve around her. Of course, your brain runs back there. Our minds do what seems familiar and comfortable. Right now, you are feeding the feeling every time you replay moments and analyse your interactions with her. You are emotionally investing in a door that is firmly shut and you are wondering why you feel stuck outside. Of course, you are stuck!
It is time to start acting professionally with her. And it is time to stop any emotional conversations with her and avoid needless eye-contact. When your mind starts romanticising anything about her, interrupt it with reality, by reminding yourself that she is in a relationship and that you deserve someone who is available.
The person who is meant for you will not require this much suffering just to exist in your life. Mutual love is supposed to feel stable.
You are not losing her. You are grieving a life that you imagined. The grief will pass when you stop feeding it. You are simply holding on to an illusion because it once felt beautiful. Just let it be beautiful. And let it go.
Disclaimer: If you or someone you know is in crisis and/or feeling suicidal, please go to your nearest emergency room and seek medical help immediately.
Auntie will not reply privately to any query. Please send concise queries to: auntieagni@gmail.com
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
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