Libraries Against the Noise of Our Time

There are moments in life when the body is forced into stillness and the mind begins to travel. In such moments, memory sharpens its voice, and questions long postponed return with insistence. What shaped us? What taught us to listen, to speak, to write with care? Often, the answer is not found in grand institutions or official milestones, but in quiet spaces where thought was allowed to grow without haste. The library has always been one such space—fragile, modest, and yet profoundly revolutionary.

We live in an age intoxicated by speed. Screens glow endlessly, information arrives without context, and attention fractures into restless fragments. Reading, once an act of patience and intimacy, is increasingly treated as an inconvenience. In this landscape, the survival of libraries is not a nostalgic concern; it is a civilizational necessity. A library today is not merely a room of books—it is an act of resistance against intellectual erosion.

It is therefore fitting that one of the most compelling arguments for the relevance of libraries in our time did not emerge from a policy document or a university seminar, but from a small balcony in Chhatrapati Sambhaji Nagar. On 8 January 2021, a schoolgirl named Maryam Mirza placed a few books together and planted a dream. Five years later, on 8 January 2026, that dream stands transformed into a global educational model. What began as a handful of books has grown into a movement that has returned reading to children who had almost forgotten the feel of a page.

Under the guidance of Read and Lead Foundation president Mirza Abdul Qayyum Nadvi, Maryam’s quiet resolve carried books out of cupboards and into children’s hands. The significance of this gesture cannot be overstated. To place a book in a child’s hand is to affirm that the child’s inner life matters—that imagination, curiosity, and reflection are not luxuries reserved for the privileged.

The symbolic strength of this movement was evident from its very first steps. The inaugural library, named after Dr. A. P. J. Abdul Kalam, was formally opened by Dr. Fozia Khan, who immediately recognized that this modest initiative carried the seed of a far-reaching transformation. Her support reflected a rare clarity: that the most enduring educational revolutions begin quietly, in neighborhoods rather than headlines.

As the libraries multiplied, their resonance reached far beyond local boundaries. Social thinker Yogendra Yadav visited these neighborhood libraries, sat among the children, and described the model as “the true spirit of democracy.” His words pointed to a simple truth: democracy does not survive on slogans or ballots alone. It survives where citizens learn to read, question, and articulate their own experiences.

Journalism, too, recognized the deeper meaning of this effort. Senior journalist Rajdeep Sardesai described Maryam’s work as a “silent revolution against mobile culture.” In that phrase lies a profound diagnosis of our time. The greatest cultural shifts today occur not through confrontation, but through substitution—when the glow of a screen is quietly replaced by the steady light of a book.

What makes this library movement especially significant is its ability to speak across borders. From Chicago, psychologist Dr. Mohammad Qutubuddin visited with his family and described the libraries as a form of therapy—spaces that nurture emotional balance and behavioral growth. Two research scholars from Germany arrived to study how such a low-cost, community-driven model could produce large-scale social change. Their interest confirmed what educators increasingly suspect: that the future of learning may lie not in expensive infrastructure, but in trust, continuity, and shared responsibility.

Even the international media took notice. When the story reached Saudi Arabia, the editor of Arab News, Siraj Wahab, along with Dilshan Wahab, visited the libraries and carried Maryam’s story to a global audience. They saw in her work something deeply contemporary: a young girl in a small Indian city using Urdu, Marathi, and English literature to build bridges in a fractured world.

Perhaps the most moving impact of this movement is visible in the everyday lives of children. In neighborhoods of Aurangabad, Parbhani, Jalna, and Hyderabad, evenings once surrendered to mobile games are now given to books. Children serve as “child librarians,” learning not only to read but to care—for books, for shared spaces, and for one another. The simple act of distributing piggy banks teaches discipline and respect, quietly linking economic awareness with literary culture.

After five years, with more than seventy-five libraries standing as living testaments to collective effort, Maryam Mirza’s story offers a lesson both humbling and urgent. Change does not demand vast capital; it demands moral imagination and the courage to persist. In an era overwhelmed by noise, the library reasserts the value of silence. In a time of constant consumption, it restores contemplation.

Maryam Mirza is no longer just a student. She has become a reminder that the future does not arrive fully formed—it is read into being, one book at a time. And as long as libraries survive, so does our capacity to think slowly, speak responsibly, and write with integrity.