By: Kashf-ul-Iman
Sometimes, when the newspaperman knocked on the door of a house, it seemed as if the first news of the day had arrived on its own. The father would read the headlines while holding a cup of tea, the mother would ask from the kitchen, “What’s special today?” And the children would look for the cartoon page. The newspaper was not just paper, it was a relationship.
Ask the same newspaper today, who reads you? Then it falls silent. We have to answer: only a few elders whose fingers still remember the smell of ink.
The young man no longer has a newspaper in his hand, but a mobile phone. He says: “Sir, the news comes as a notification. By the time the newspaper is printed, the world has changed three times. For him, speed is important, don’t stop.” The middle-aged man smiles tiredly: “You have the passion, but where is the time? Breakfast for the children in the morning, the torment of traffic in the evening. If you ever open it on Sunday, the family says, “Look at it on your mobile phone.”
And the book. Ah, the book. If you run your finger over the skin, it would speak centuries of knowledge. Today, the library shelves are covered with dust. At the book fair, more people rush to the selfie corner than to the stalls. The Kindle screen has taken away the rustle of the paper, PDF has killed the fragrance of the book. That is why when someone says that “this is the last century of love for books”, the heart both believes and denies.
The truth is that love is not dead, it has changed its form. Earlier, we used to feel knowledge by touching it, now we spend it by scrolling. Earlier, one book used to carry with us for a month, now ten PDFs are opened and closed in a day. The thirst for information is still the same, but we have dug a well and installed a tap. The water is the same, but there is no peace.
According to. “Kahlil Gibran”
“Trees are books that the earth has written for the sky”
Perhaps these are the last breaths of the paper, not of the book. The book is still alive in someone’s bag, under someone’s pillow, in someone’s hand. The difference It’s just that now she’s alone.
The screen gives us knowledge, but the book connects us. The screen tells us what’s happening in the world, the book tells us what’s happening inside us.
I wish we could stop for a moment in this era of speed and listen to the sound of turning the pages. Because when the last book closes, perhaps we too will close a door inside us forever.
This smell of paper, this intoxication is about to be felt
This is the last century of love for books
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