by Riasath A,li Asrar

You’ve probably heard of a numismatist: one who collects coins, or a philatelist: one who collects postage stamps; or at least a bibliophile: a lover and collector of books. People collect all sorts of things — mollusc shells, postcards, tokens, matchbox labels, receipts, fossils, and even teddy bears. Among these curious collectors is a special kind known as cartophilists — collectors of cards (and in our context – cigarette cards).

Cigarette Cards? What’s That?

Let’s dig into a bit of history.

Cigarette cards are trading cards originally issued by tobacco manufacturers to stiffen cigarette packaging. Their origins go back to the late 19th century America, when blank cards known as stiffeners were placed in soft paper packets to prevent cigarettes from being crushed or bent. Soon enough, the idea, of using these cards for advertising by printing pictures and text on them to promote brands, lit up!

Early cards featured sepia photographs or woodburytypes of popular actresses, politicians, and other celebrities. The size of each card was dictated by the cigarette packet it accompanied. Some of the earliest examples were even printed on silk attached to paper backings (which was later discontinued to save paper, post WWII). Occasionally, card-like coupons with special offers were included as well.

For many, these cards became a window to the world, offering glimpses of distant countries, exotic animals, soldiers, medals, and cultures. At that time, cigarette cards carried knowledge and imagery on countless subjects to millions of people. Today, these cards can be (and they are) studied as pieces of historical archives – for example, sports and military historians still study them for details on uniform design and historical accuracy.

Lighting Up the Market

Cigarette cards first appeared in the United States when the tobacco company Allen & Ginter began issuing them as early as 1879, featuring actresses, baseball players, Native American chiefs, boxers, national flags, and wild animals — some of the earliest examples ever made. Other companies, such as Goodwin & Co., soon followed, and the trend spread from the U.S. to the United Kingdom and beyond.

In 1888, W.D. & H.O. Wills became the first British manufacturer to include cards for advertising, and its “Kings & Queens” set of 1897 was the first to feature short notes on the back, offering background information about each monarch. Around 1900, other firms like John Player & Sons and Ogden’s Cigarettes released their own sets, covering a wide range of subjects — weapons, transport, racehorses, and sportsmen.

The Golden Age of Cigarette Cards

By the early 1900s, cigarette cards had gained an almost fanatical following. Over 300 manufacturers issued thousands of themed, full-colour sets — typically 25 to 50 cards each — designed to attract collectors and build brand loyalty. Production halted in 1917 due to World War I material shortages but resumed in 1922, ushering in the Golden Age of cigarette cards during the 1920s and 1930s. These sets covered every imaginable topic — from nature and geography to art and aviation — and reflected the era’s moods and anxieties. On the eve of World War II, cards like “Air Raid Precautions” appeared, while others depicting aircraft specifications were banned for security reasons. In 1940, the British government prohibited cigarette cards entirely, calling them “a waste of vital raw materials,” and post-war rationing ensured that their golden age would never return.

In the early days, the only way to collect cigarette cards was by pulling them from tobacco packets or swapping them with friends. Some vintage postcards even depict humorous scenes of eager collectors pestering others for their cards. The first known cigarette card dealer was Mr. G. A. Johnson of Netherton, Wishaw (North Lanarkshire, Scotland), who issued a four-page sales list in 1916, labelled “Number 6” — though issues 1–5 have never been found. A decade later, in 1927, Mr. Bagnall founded the British Cigarette Card Company, soon renamed The London Cigarette Card Company to avoid confusion with The British Cigarette Company. Its first Catalogue of Prices appeared in 1929, followed by a magazine called Cigarette Card News in 1933 — a publication that still exists today under the name Card Collectors News. Around the same time, organized collecting took root: the Dublin Cigarette Card Club was founded in 1933, followed two years later by The Cameric Cigarette Card Club in London, established by Derek Campbell Burnett and Arthur Eric Cherry. Their first annual general meeting was held on October 8, 1938, and that same year, the Cartophilic Society of The Great Britain was formed.

Legacy

The passion for collecting grew so immense that some individuals built collections of astonishing scale. The largest ever assembled belonged to Edward Wharton-Tigar, whose vast holdings were bequeathed to the British Museum after his death in 1995, and are recognised by the Guinness Book of Records as the world’s largest collection. Among individual cards, none is more famous — or valuable — than the T206 Honus Wagner card, featuring one of the greatest baseball players of the early 20th century. This card has repeatedly shattered auction records, selling in 2016 for $3,120,000. Ironically, Honus Wagner himself was a non-smoker.

What began as a simple stiffener for cigarette packs became, in time, a pocket-sized chronicle of the world. For collectors and historians alike, these little cards continue to tell stories.

by Riasath Ali Asrar

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The name of our organization: Kabikaj, does spark some curiosity. People are intrigued, asking about its meaning, its origin, and its pronunciation. The biggest question, though, is of an existential nature: “Why are you named this?” The answer to all these queries lies in the word’s rich history, which is exactly what you and I are about to explore in this piece.

Within the delicate endleaves of countless centuries-old manuscripts across the vast Islamicate world—from Arabic and Persian to Urdu and Ottoman Turkish texts—one may encounter an intriguing, almost mystical, inscription: “Ya Kabikaj!”.
My own curious journey into this tradition began a few years back, while sorting through my dadahazrat Riasat Ali Taaj (1930-1999)’s library. I first encountered a ta’widh² on the last page of a handwritten personal diary, and a similar inscription in a book of Urdu history. This latter book even mentioned that such an inscription on a book’s first or last page would protect it from all kinds of harm. The connection became clear when, while cataloguing manuscripts at the Abul Kalam Azad Oriental Research Institute, my historian friend Sibghat Khan pointed out the very word “Kabikaj” written on the margins and final folios of other works, we discussed this with Sahebzada Mir Ahmad Ali Khan – a learned member of the institute, whom we dearly call “uncle”. It was then that I realized the word embodies a unique historical approach to conservation, making it an ideal and suitable name for our initiative.

The Dual Nature of “Kabikaj”: Spirit and Science:

This seemingly simple phrase, Ya Kabikaj! often tucked away in the margins or final folios, holds layers of meaning hinting at a fascinating blend of botany, folklore, and spiritual belief.

Some say it’s the name of a jinn; others believe it’s an angel that protects the paper when invoked. A more grounded argument suggests it’s a type of plant with chemical properties that repel insects, used as bookmarks, or even in the paper, ink, and covers to preserve documents. The term “Kabikaj” is rich with a duality that speaks to the complex ways in which pre-modern societies understood and interacted with their world. It refers to both a specific plant and a metaphysical entity, each playing a distinct yet a strong possible interconnected role in the safeguarding of written knowledge.

Scholarship on “Kabikaj”:

This initial discovery spurred me to explore the topic further. What began with my grandfather’s annotations in calligraphy manuals and a couple of newspaper clippings, soon expanded into a fascinating survey of other works. One of the annotations is in the margins of a calligraphy manual and tazkirah – Saheefa e KhushnaveesaaN⁴ written by Maulvi Ehtramuddin Ahmad Shaaghil Usmani. Shaaghil Usmani mentions کبیکج along with other symbols and words like فسفع (fasfa’) and بدوح (budduuh) – regarding all the three as names of muwakkils (guardian angels). He mentions that these words under the chapter “khutoot e marmuza” (mysterious words/lines), and refers to a 13th century manuscript Sihah e Jauhari preserved at Aligardh Muslim University, and a couple of other works like Azhrang e Cheen by Munshi Debi Parshad (that cite such words). But Kabikaj is more than just a talismanic charm. A foundational study in this tradition is the codicological work of Adam Gacek, an author and lecturer at McGill University. In his seminal 1987 article, “The Use of ‘kabīkaj’ in Arabic Manuscripts,⁵” Gacek identified inscriptions spanning from the 16th to the 19th centuries across an immense geographical area, from Indonesia to North Africa. Building on this, James W. Pollock of Indiana University drew parallels between book preservation in 1880s Syria and the 1980s West⁶. In a more botanical vein, Kamran Mahlooji, Abdoli Mahsima, and Zargaran Arman—scholars of Persian Medicine from Tehran—explored the possibility of using the flower Ranunculus asiaticus L. (a.k.a. the Persian Buttercup”) as a protective in manuscript preservation⁷. Similarly, Syed Mahmood Mar’ashi, director of the Mar’ashi Library in Iran, detailed the word’s etymology and its relationship to the medical uses of the Ranunculaceae family of plants in his paper in Persian.⁸

Use of “Kabikaj”:

I asked Dr. Syed Tanveeruddin Khudanumai – former Head of Persian Department, Osmania University, Hyderabad and an expert in Muslim Occult Sciences – about the usage of this word. He referred me to the voluminous Dehkhoda⁹ Persian dictionary and some Persian manuscripts from his private collections, and spoke about how the word was written by scholars and laymen alike with a common believe that ‘Kabikaj’ is the name of a Muwakkil (an angel appointed by God over certain functions of the universe) that will protect the pages from being stolen by any human and from being eaten by book-worms, and discussed the occult science behind this belief.

These inscriptions were both decorative and functional, serving a talismanic purpose. Several variants of the word appear across manuscripts—such as kabīkaj, kabrkaj, kabkai, karkai, kaykataj, and even the corrupted kavkataj in Maghribi manuscripts—highlighting a fluid orthography influenced by pronunciation, dialect, and scribal interpretation. Although there is no standard recorded methodology of composing this invocation (as is usually the case with ta’widh), looking at various manuscripts, the way seems to be to usually write “Ya Kabikaj” (O Kabikaj!). Sometimes the word will be repeated 2 to 7 times in a triangular shape (similar to how ‘concrete poems’ or ‘shape poems’ are written), this might even increase to as much as 24 times, and might include other similar invocations like “Ya Kabikaj, ihfaz al-waraq” (O Kabikaj! Protect <this> page/paper), “Ya Kabikaj, Ya Hafiz/Hafeez” (O Kabikaj, O Protector). In some instances, the name paired with descriptive epithets like ḥāfiẓ (“guardian”) or mufahhiḥ (possibly “the one who hisses”, referencing a snake). More complex variations, such as kanīnka.j and aktkanj kaj-kaj, also appear, suggesting either scribal error or intentional mystical distortion¹⁰.

 يا كبيكج  يا كبيكج  يا كبيكج
 يا كبيكج  يا كبيكج
 يا كبيكج

Another form is of specific talismans written as magic-boxes with a combination of different Arabic alphabets and numbers (derived from the Abjad¹¹ system). The former is found to be casually written on manuscripts of books, while the later is found to be written on manuscripts of firmans, family trees and property documents indicating the importance of such documents. 

Mir Mubashir Ali Khan – custodian of his ancestral archives in Hyderabad, that include royal firmans from late Mughal and early Qutub Shahi dynasties’ eras – presented one such family document from 16^th century that has the seal of Mughal emperors Akbar, Jahangir and Aurangzeb, that has a written-box (in the style of a ta’widh) in red-ink which is said to be made up of grinded red cinnabar dye, that can not be approached by termites. Cloths dyed in cinnabar were also used to cover these documents, which would keep them safe from termites.

While discussing this with our family and team member Dr. Ayesha Nishath – a pharmacologist from Nottingham University, UK, and a student of traditional calligraphy from Idara e Adabiyat e Urdu, Hyderabad – she shared some anecdotes of encountering certain types of papers and inks that were made from animal skins and specific plants, that when touched with bare-hands or smelt closely would cause irritations to the eyes and difficulties in breathing. These were used for secret communication purposes or for subjects that were known to be “harmful in nature if dealt without supervision”. Talking about the antifungal and antibacterial potentials of Ranunculus species – of which the word ‘Kabikaj’ is said to be related to – she suggested the parallels between usage of specific red cinnabar dyed inks to draw borders on manuscripts, and usage of Ranunculus species (commonly known as Persian Buttercup) as borders of gardens to keep them protected from rabbits and deers in various parts of the world. Due to their bitter taste and toxic sap, which contains protoanemonin—an irritant that can cause blistering and gastrointestinal distress in animals, this natural defense makes them generally unappealing to them. While formal horticultural sources rarely list ranunculus specifically as rabbit/deer-resistant, their acrid, toxic properties likely discourage them. As a result, some gardeners plant ranunculus along garden borders in hopes of deterring browsing animals, particularly deer and rabbits. Though this practice is more anecdotal than widely documented in professional landscaping guides, it does allude to the plant’s potential as a natural deterrent. This too indicates to the possibility of dried buttercup leaves that were placed between pages to deter pests in humid climates and possibly o0ver time, the plant’s name itself took on symbolic protective power. A few books from our collections do include “butter papers” that were included while the books were re-bound by dadahazrath (often to include more pages for notes and customised hardcovers). Butter papers are semi-transparent, water-proof papers that are resistant to moisture – usually used for wrapping butter, but occasionally found in between pages for the same properties and purposes.

Parallel and Similar Traditions:

Speaking with Vishwas – a student of advanced Sanskrit studies, India – he notes that while any such invocations are rarely found in the north-Indian traditions, certain south-Indian manuscripts do mention Hindu deities that are believed to protect the manuscripts. Sri Lankan symbols or images of the Sinhalese “Fire Demons” are hung in the corners of libraries to appease the incendiary demons and to avert fire, lightning and cataclysm, according to Sinhalese mythology. Since fire and acid decomposition (also known as “slow fires”) are a special problem for libraries because of the concentration of paper products, the “Fire Demons” are also included when used to assuage these destroyers of libraries and books. Similarly, for the ancient Egyptians – the dung beetle and an artefact “scarab” based on dung beetle was the protector for written materials, and in some cases, protector of the mummies. Like St. Lawrence, St. Jerome and Catherine of Alexandria in certain Christian traditions, ancient Babylonian traditions also mention “Nabu” as the heavenly patron of books who invented writing. The ancient Chinese-deity “Wei T’O”, also found in some Buddhist traditions, is said to be the patron god of libraries and books, and examples of appeals are found in Chinese manuscripts. The major deity in Mayan Indians and Latin American traditions – Quetzalcoatl – is said to be the discoverer of writing, and a single feather or plume at the beginning or at the end of a document would indicate a dedication to the “Feathered Serpent”, which degenerated over time to a single fringed line – with or without the belief – that the paper will be protected due to this.

In the calligraphy manuals mentioned previously, and in some works on paleography certain symbols and mysterious words like فسفع fasfa’ and بدوح budduuh (mentioned previously) are discussed. About one such symbol is even ascribed to the Prophet and King Sulaiman (Solomon), and to Imam Ali bin Abi Talib (cousin of the Prophet ﷺ and fourth caliph of Islam). This symbol has been mentioned by a 16th century poet from Ahmedabad – Khub Muhammad Chishti – in his work حفظ مراتب Hifz e Maratib using Arabic and Persian couplets.

ثلچ عزصی صففت بعد خاتم ؛ علی راسیھا مثل السنان المرقوم
و میم طمیس ابتر ثم سلم ؛ تشتیر الی الخیرات و لیس بسلم
و اربعہ مثل الانامل صففت ؛ وھاء شفیق ثم واو منعکس
کانیوب حجام و لیس بمججم

صفرہء سہ الف کشیدہ مدبر سر ؛ میم کجکول، نردبان، بدودر
پا چہار الف کشیدہ ھا و وا دم سر ؛ این جملہء بود، نام خدائ اکبر

Shagil Usmani translated the meaning into these Urdu couplets;

چھ کونٹی ایک شکل ہے پھر تین الف پر مد | دو میم ہیں ملے ہوے سیڑھی کا پھر نشان
پھر چار انگلیاں ہیں کھڑی اور دو چشمی ہے | پھر واو دم ہے، جس کی مثال خم کماں

While many talismanic charms are used solely for protection, the case of Kabikaj is particularly distinct in the way that it is linked not only to metaphysical properties but also to a tangible-material entity (such as the flower Persian Buttercup) for protection, and specifically in our case, for book preservation. The botanical Indian equivalent of the Kabikaj plant is the Azadirachta Indica or neem, whose leaves are kept between manuscript folios to protect the paper.¹² This is still practiced commonly in the subcontinent.

“Kabikaj” – that once was a common tradition with seemingly rich combinations of different subjects dealing with occult, botanical, medicinal sciences, and paper-preservation techniques – is now getting erased from texts as well as memories. A great potential for research lies in this single word – that can be explored not just for its history and metaphysicality, but also for the different methods that were used to preserve manuscripts in the past – and open another door for the on-going preservation-methods.

NOTE: There is still some room for more research on this practice, and I will be updating if and when I find something new.

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Footnotes:

1. Gacek, Adam. “The Use of ‘kabīkaj’ in Arabic Manuscripts.” Manuscripts of the Middle East 2 (1986): 49–53. ↩︎
2. Ta’widh تعويذ is from the Arabic word awwadha, which means “to fortify someone with an amulet or incantation” – commonly translated as ‘amulet’ in English – which is drawn or written through various traditionally passed on processes – and worn as lockets or inscribed on certain places (including doors, papers and other things). ↩︎
3. a. al-Ghāfiqī. Kitāb al-adwiyāʾ al-mufradah (The Book of Simple Drugs), fol. 277a. Mid‑13th century manuscript. Osler Library of the History of Medicine, McGill University, Montreal. Reproduced in the Rational Sciences in Islam project, McGill University. Accessed August 5, 2025. https://islamsci.mcgill.ca/RASI/index.html
   b. Gacek, Adam. “Arabic Calligraphy and the ‘Herbal’ of al-Ghâfiqî.” Fontanus: From the Collections of McGill University 2 (1989): 49–51.
   c. “The Herbarium of al-Ghafiqi, named after the illustrious 12th century Islamist scholar versed in botany and pharmacology, Abù Ja’far Ahmad ibn Muhammad al-Ghàfiqi, brings together 475 entries including 367 color illustrations accompanied by calligraphy Arabic. The manuscript was acquired in 1912 by the famous professor of medicine at McGill University, Sir William Osler from an admirer, Dr. M. Sa’eed of Hamadan (Iran)” (translated from the French). https://www.sciencepresse.qc.ca/actualite/2010/10/12/lumiere-herbier-al-ghafiqi
   ↩︎
4. Ahmad, Ehtramuddin Shaaghil Usmani. Saheefa-e-Khushnaveesaan (صحیفہ ء خوشنویساں), Aligarh: Anjuman Taraqqi Urdu, 1963.
   2nd ed. New Delhi: Taraqqi Urdu Bureau, 1987. Printed by Super Printer South, Anarkali, Delhi. ↩︎
5. Gacek, Adam. “The Use of ‘kabīkaj’ in Arabic Manuscripts.” Manuscripts of the Middle East 2 (1986): 49–53. ↩︎
6. Pollock, James W. “KABI:KAJ TO BOOK POUCHES: LIBRARY PRESERVATION MAGIC AND TECHNIQUE IN SYRIA OF THE 1880’S AND THE 1980’S WEST.” MELA Notes, no. 44 (1988): 8–10. http://www.jstor.org/stable/29785407.
   ↩︎
7. Mahlooji, Kamran, Abdoli, Mahsima, and Zargaran, Arman. “Gabigaj: A Persian Herb for Protecting Manuscripts against Fungies and Insects from Safavid Era (1501–1722 AD).” Research on History of Medicine 9, no. 1 (February 2020): 63–68 ​​https://rhm.sums.ac.ir/article_46469_c2f0837990dee4d072aeb5cdf7b1b540.pdf ↩︎
8. Marʿāshī Najafi, Seyyed Mahmoud. “کبیکج در نسخه‌های خطی [Kabīkaj in Manuscripts].” میراث شهاب [Mirāth-e Shahāb], no. 26 (2010): 123–132. https://www.noormags.ir/view/fa/articlepage/1235878/ ↩︎
9.  https://dehkhoda.ut.ac.ir/fa/dictionary/detail/256324?title=%DA%A9%D8%A8%DB%8C%DA%A9%D8%AC  ↩︎
10. Gacek, Adam. “The Use of ‘kabīkaj’ in Arabic Manuscripts.” Manuscripts of the Middle East 2 (1986): 49–53. ↩︎
11. The abjad system is an alphabetic numeral system in which the 28 letters of the Arabic alphabet are assigned numerical values, and is used for different purposes. For an introduction and overview of this, see: Farooqi, Mehr Afshan. “The Secret of Letters: Chronograms in Urdu Literary Culture.” Edebiyat 13, no. 2 (November 2003): 147–158. ↩︎
12. Akkerman, ‘The Bohra Manuscript Treasury as a Sacred Site of Philology’, 195. ↩︎
13. Halimi Zuhdy, “Menelisik Asal dan Makna كبيكج di Pesantren,” Pesantren.ID (blog entry hosted at halimizuhdy.com), published (n.d.), accessed August 5, 2025, http://www.halimizuhdy.com/2022/09/menelisik‑asal‑dan‑makna‑di‑pesantren.html. ↩︎

by Maleeha Fatima and Riasath Ali Asrar

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The vibrant nature of Hyderabad’s Urdu literature in the first half of the 20th century can be highlighted through the examples of two books from our ‘Riasat Ali Taaj Collections’ – Halqa e Masmoom (1925) and Faust (1931) – both being Urdu translations of ‘The Poison Belt’ (1913) by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (d. 1930) and ‘Faust: Der Tragoedie erster Teil’ (1808) by the 19th century German poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Halqa e Masmoom, translated by Maulvi Muhammad Naseer Ahmad saheb Osmani, is a tangible artifact of a thriving cosmopolitanism that reached deep into the literary life of the princely state. Known across the world as the creator of Sherlock Holmes, Conan Doyle also wrote several lesser-known works of science fiction, including The Poison Belt, which imagined a catastrophic cosmic event threatening life on Earth. What makes Halqa e Masmoom so striking is not only its content, but also what it signifies – the presence of a diverse and literate Urdu-reading public in Hyderabad that was engaged with a wide range of literary genres. Its existence reflects the complex intersections between empire, education, and the flourishing of vernacular literary production in the region.

On the cover page, the title of the book is subtitled in Urdu as “چار دوستوں کا ایک علمی قصّہ chaar dostoN ka ek ilmi qissa” (A wise/knowledgeable tale of four friends), which is followed by the translator’s name. ‘Osmani’ in his name indicates him being a graduate of Jamia Osmania (Osmania University) – a practice common in the subcontinent to add a form of demonym or gentilic, showing affiliation to and taking pride in the alma mater. While ‘Maulvi’ (generally meaning a qualified graduate of Islamic sciences) in his name indicates his training in the Islamic sciences, it is followed by a line of credentials (M.A. and B.Sc.) and his designation as ‘معلم طبیعات (mu’allim e tabi’aat)’- which shows that he was teaching Physics at the university. This signaled both scholarly authority and modern Western framework of education in the Urdu institution Osmania University –  markers of colonial Urdu public sphere in Hyderabad. In the preface, the translator writes a note on the fame and importance of this work and the author, mentioning a few works that have already been translated in Urdu.  The paratextual emphasis on “ترجمہ  tarjuma (translation): ‘Poison Belt, authored by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle” on the first page, and the “اعلان” (announcement) of “قابل دید کتابیں  qaabil e deed kitaabeiN” (worth viewing books) with a list of different titles of the translator, author and the publisher available —  reflects a broader pedagogical and cultural project – whether intended or not – the aspiration to educate the public not only in moral and religious terms, but also through exposure to global currents of scientific and literary knowledge. 

Another such example from the same collection is an Urdu translation of the 19th century German poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s play Faust: Der Tragoedie erster Teil (1808, Faust: The Tragedy’s First Part). Translated by Syed Abid Hussain (d. 1978) who was a scholar and translator working at Aurangabad’s Anjuman Taraqqi Urdu (ATU) during the 1930s. 

Established in 1886 (and renamed in 1903), ATU initially had its headquarters in Aligarh, but later moved to Aurangabad within the Hyderabad State in 1913 – under the patronage of the Asaf Jahis. Besides publishing journals and books, supporting research and creative work in Urdu linguistics and literature and contributions such as Dictionary of Scientific Terms (1935) – also in our collections – has supported scholars for books like the one mentioned above.

Not only did Syed Abid Husain translated the play, but also wrote over 100 pages of a مقدمہ ‘muqaddimah’ (preface) divided in six parts – sketching German Literature’s history, introducing Goethe’s life and works, and the importance of his works, critiquing the German play, explaining and referring to important parts of the text amongst other discussions. 

The book is also notably a good example of the quality of print in those times — the paper being high quality with Urdu text typed in the naskh script in the style of Fraktur – the German type print (blackletter typeface that was widely used in Germany and German-speaking regions until the 20th century). The first folios of this edition also includes a sketch of Goethe, with his name written below in Urdu.

As Venkat Mani contends that the “worlding” of literature is facilitated through “information transfer,” a process significantly shaped by the infrastructure of print culture. In this context, publishers, booksellers, literate readers, and public libraries together play a crucial role in making ‘world literature’ accessible, especially when works are translated, printed affordably, and made available to wider audiences. The Urdu translations of The Poison Belt & Faust, thus, becomes part of this wider ecosystem of circulation and reception, emblematic of how literary cosmopolitanism was mediated through local languages and institutions in the erstwhile state of Hyderabad. The presence of such translations in Hyderabad speaks volumes about the erstwhile state’s openness to global ideas and its active engagement with the literary currents of the wider world. It also reflects the ways in which imperial networks, modern education, and local literary traditions intersected in unique ways within Hyderabad in this period. That a novel about planetary catastrophe – originally written in English,  or a German rhymed verse magnum opus (considered by many to be one of the greatest work of German literature) could find new life in Urdu in the heart of the Deccan region, underscores how deeply cosmopolitan the region’s literary culture had become. Through examples like Halqa e Masmoon and Faust, we see not only the reach of authors like Conan Doyle and Goethe, but also the vibrancy and adaptability of Urdu as a medium for translating and reinterpreting the world. These books are more than translations – they are a material trace of a dynamic moment in the history of Hyderabad as well as Urdu literature.

Urdu in Hyderabad during the Early 20th Century

While local Indic and neighboring Persian literature, with its unique blend of Indo-Persian traditions, remained prevalent in the Deccan, by the late 19th century, English popular literature had become widely accessible. During this period, authors like George W. M. Reynolds, Edward Bulwer-Lytton, and H. Rider Haggard, along with poets like Goethe, gained significant readership. Some of these works were less popular, while others were not only widely read but also translated into Urdu in various forms.

There are several ongoing conversations, both within academic circles and in the public domain, about the historical relationship between the erstwhile state of Hyderabad, and the Urdu language. Some of these discussions tend to adopt reductive perspectives. A common argument suggests that Urdu in the erstwhile princely state was primarily an expression of elite,  jagirdar (landlord) culture, owing to its limited accessibility among the general population. While it is true that Urdu literacy was not widespread in early 20th-century Hyderabad, this limitation must be understood within the broader context of low literacy rates across the erstwhile state as a whole.According to the Census of India 1921, Volume XXI: Hyderabad State, Part I – Report, approximately 3.3 percent of the population in the Hyderabad city of the erstwhile princely state of Hyderabad was recorded as literate. Moreover, around the first two decades of the early 20th century, the literacy rate in Urdu was less than 2 percent. These figures reflect the broader socio-economic and educational disparities of the period, highlighting the limited access to formal education in the region at the time. 

Recognizing the class-based barriers to education at the time is important, but it should not lead to the mistaken conclusion that Urdu itself was inherently elitist or disconnected from the wider social fabric. In fact, the spoken language of the majority of people in Hyderabad city was a form of Dakhni Urdu, which coexisted with formal registers and reflected the linguistic diversity of everyday life. The academic sphere during the time of the Nizam was equally engaged with Dakhni, recognizing its literary and cultural significance. Scholars, such as Riasath Ali Taj whose collection this copy is from, undertook important projects to recover and document neglected or nearly forgotten works of classical Dakhni literature. These efforts went beyond the translation and production of global texts – they signaled a commitment to preserving and revitalizing local vernacular traditions. Far from being overlooked, Dakhni was actively curated and studied within academic circles, underscoring the linguistic plurality and intellectual richness of the period.

Decline in Urdu Scholarship

Hyderabad, under the rule of the Asaf Jahi Nizams, was one of the wealthiest and most culturally vibrant princely states in colonial India. Unlike Bombay or Calcutta, which were shaped directly by British governance, Hyderabad maintained a degree of autonomy and developed a parallel modernity that merged Islamic scholarship, Indo-Persian courtly traditions, and global curiosity. The translation of detective fiction into Urdu, particularly lesser-known works, indicates not merely the penetration of Western narratives but their creative adaptation for South Asian readers. Translations like these were not simply acts of cultural borrowing; they were active interventions within a dynamic and evolving intellectual environment. The reading public of Hyderabad – comprising civil servants, students, clerks, and reformers – sought out new genres and ideas, especially those that offered both cognitive stimulation and moral depth. The widespread publication and circulation of such translations further suggest that access to these texts was not deliberately restricted to elite audiences. These were often small, affordable booklets intended for mass readership, making world literature available to readers across class boundaries. In this way, Hyderabad’s Urdu print culture functioned as a democratic force, opening up avenues for literary engagement, critical thinking, and imaginative exploration within the vernacular sphere.

However, this vibrant landscape underwent a profound transformation in 1948, when the Indian Union annexed the Hyderabad state. The political and administrative reorganization that followed brought about significant changes across socioeconomic and cultural institutions. One of the more enduring consequences was the gradual decline of Urdu. Once a language of both state and cultural life, Urdu increasingly became associated primarily with madarsa education (something that itself gained a negative perception), narrowing its perceived relevance and reach. In a broader context, the decline of Urdu literacy in Hyderabad reflects not just a linguistic shift but a profound transformation in cultural priorities and socio-economic conditions. 

While Urdu once flourished as both a literary and administrative language in the region – particularly gaining momentum in the early decades of the 20th century – its upward trajectory was abruptly halted by a combination of policy decisions, shifting demographics, and changing educational frameworks. Today, a century later, the presence of Urdu in Hyderabad’s literary and public spheres is a faint echo of its former prominence. What we witness now is a paradox: although the older class-based barriers that once restricted access to Urdu no longer persist, there is a marked absence of robust literary production in the language. The belletristic tendency to celebrate (or even fetishize) Urdu for its aesthetic elegance often masks a deeper disengagement with its intellectual and critical traditions. Much of the limited literature that is produced today emerges outside the conventions of the Urdu script or literary heritage, often catering to niche or commercialized markets. The result is a landscape where demand for serious Urdu writing is perceived as negligible, further contributing to the erosion of its public and literary life. This decline, while gradual, signals a broader cultural amnesia about the role Urdu once played in shaping Hyderabad’s identity. 
Our forthcoming work at the foundation builds on this legacy by revisiting Urdu’s place in World Literature. Through the study of translations, marginal texts, unpublished manuscripts, lesser-known periodicals from the Deccan, and researching the various print presses and publishing houses – we aim to highlight the region’s vibrant participation in global literary circuits. Upcoming writings will explore how Urdu readers and writers in Hyderabad, Deccan engaged with the world, often on their own terms, negotiating colonial modernity while preserving and reimagining their own literary forms. In doing so, we hope to recover Hyderabad and Urdu’s rightful place in a truly plural and decentralized map of world literature.

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