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Facing Christ, on the opposite side of the room, is a map of the subcontinent in black stone.The borders of what was Pakistan, East and West, are lined in silver.A visit to the national museum of Karachi is proof enough that they continued not to bother. His books, which he kept fastidiously free of markings, are stamped from booksellers in Rawalpindi, Peshawar, Karachi, Bombay.He collected them on his travels and placed them in a room that he built, consciously or not, along the lines of India itself.He was a prolific writer but an even more omnivorous reader.His library has literally everything—Nick Cohn’s At the entrance of the library, after you open the old mirrored Sindhi doors, are several seals embedded in the walls.
It is not Sir Syed Ahmed Khan or Mohammad Ali Jinnah who line the shelves that hold over 20,000 titles (together, those two they make up a shelf at most–in fact Jinnah’s papers, three chunky lime green volumes published in 1997 were added to Bhutto’s collection decades after his death).
No, the names you see most often in my grandfather’s library are Jawaharlal Nehru, M.
K Gandhi, Napoleon Bonaparte, Bertrand Russell, James Baldwin.
Our cities are marked with small turquoise pins: Larkana, Karachi, Quetta, Dacca and Chittagong. Its periphery does not shine with metal; its cities are not remembered with gemstones.
The map bears no remembrance to the partition of Pakistan, no snuffing out of its Eastern parts, that would come later.