By Robert Palmer
In the summer of 1969, as a young Director of the Library at Barnard College, Columbia University, I went around the world, spending four unforgettable days in Kathmandu. It was during this brief visit—guided expertly by Juddha Lama—that I first fell in love with Nepal. That encounter planted the seeds for my return in 1972 as a Fulbright Library Expert assigned to Tribhuvan University Central Library (TUCL).
It was there that I met two extraordinary people who would profoundly shape my understanding of Nepal and the world of libraries: Shanti Mishra and her husband, Narayan Prasad Mishra. Shanti, the pioneer of the library profession in Nepal and the first woman professor at Tribhuvan University, was then the Director of TUCL. Narayan, her husband, served as Deputy Director. We worked together during that year in close partnership to strengthen the library, navigating the technical challenges of library development in a nation still young in its academic infrastructure. The sincerity and commitment both of them brought to their work were profoundly moving. Shanti’s leadership and grace were undeniable, but it was also clear to me that Narayan’s thoughtful intellect and principled manner played a critical role in their shared success.
My duties at TUCL focused on strengthening the connection between the library and the educational mission of the university. The library collection was surprisingly good, given the difficulty of obtaining books in Nepal at that time. In my work, I found that a key challenge was the passive tradition of education, which limited the use of the library as an active resource for teaching and learning. Too often, students relied solely on lecture notes, and faculty had yet to embrace independent reading as part of their pedagogy fully. I found I had to work closely with teachers to help them expand the readings they assigned, so their students would recognize the value of books and begin to see the library not as a warehouse but as an intellectual gateway.
My own journey into librarianship began in much the same spirit of discovery. While teaching Latin, Greek, and English at Brooks School in North Andover, Massachusetts, I was asked to take on the role of librarian in addition to teaching. I quickly realized how unprepared I was for the work. Being thrown cold into library management, I understood that good intentions were no substitute for proper training. I enrolled part-time at Simmons School of Library Science and earned my master’s degree in 1965. This academic training, along with summers spent at the Bread Loaf School of English, shaped my vision of the library as a tool, a resource, and a service center. It also gave me a crucial insight: librarianship is not simply about cataloging books—it’s about connecting people to knowledge.
That understanding informed all my work, both in the United States and in Nepal. I came to believe that librarians must be teaching partners, both in the library and in the classroom, showing students and faculty alike what resources are available and how to use them. Too many materials in libraries remain untouched, and the job of the librarian must include not just organizing information, but actively engaging with readers to meet their needs and interests.
This photo was taken during my first Fulbright appointment in 1972. It shows all of us—including Mishra’s infant daughter, Pragya Mishra—sitting on the steps at the main entrance of the Tribhuvan University Central Library in Kirtipur, Kathmandu. Today, Pragya is a medical doctor, serving as an internist and pediatrician in the USA. From left to right: Narayan Mishra, Robert Palmer, with Pragya on my lap, Shanti Mishra
By the time I returned to Nepal for a second Fulbright appointment in 1980, Narayan had transitioned from librarianship to become a senior high-ranking administrator at Tribhuvan University, serving as Deputy Registrar. Although his professional path had diverged, he remained involved in the development of the library alongside Shanti, and our personal connection remained strong. Over the decades, we have stayed close friends. In recent years, I have watched with great admiration as Narayan has emerged as one of Nepal’s most thoughtful non-partisan columnists, writing more than 210 essays for People’s Review. I have read nearly all of them.
Narayan’s writings are insightful, eloquent, and courageous—qualities not easily sustained in the climate of Nepalese politics and public life. Whether writing about corruption, aging, education, or personal values, he writes with a deep moral clarity grounded in lived experience. He is never shrill or dogmatic. Instead, he brings to his essays the same quiet wisdom and reflective poise that I recognized in him more than 50 years ago.
On March 29, 2020, I wrote to him after reading a portion of Shanti’s autobiography. I was especially moved by her description of their courtship and how she admired Narayan’s ability to communicate, his integrity, and his long view of life. That long view still shines through his essays today. I urged him then to write a memoir of his life, because both he and Shanti were trailblazers who devoted themselves to the betterment of Nepal’s people. Their shared sense of mission was evident not only in their professional work but in their personal bond.
Over the years, I have frequently written to Narayan after reading his essays, often finding myself struck by their emotional resonance and intellectual clarity. When he published his moving tribute, “Shanti Mishra and Tribhuvan University Central Library,” I was reminded of my own early missteps and later conviction that librarianship is a calling that requires both professional training and a deep sense of purpose. I have long been troubled by the belief—held by too many non-librarians—that anyone who reads can run a library. This misconception has led to poor decisions not only in Nepal but elsewhere, where administrative posts are sometimes given to the untrained. I myself took the job before I was ready, but I recognized my limitations and sought formal education. Librarians must have both skills and vision. They must not hide behind catalogs but serve their readers with contact and concern.
When Narayan published the two-part essay “Tribhuvan University Central Library and Me,” I found it to be not only a powerful tribute to his late wife but a compelling explanation of how libraries can uplift societies. As someone who has spent a lifetime in librarianship, I found his vision both familiar and inspiring.
His essay “Life of Senior Citizens in Nepal,” published in May 2021, offered another example of his compassionate voice. In it, he shed light on a segment of society often overlooked, writing with empathy and clarity. Our correspondence following that piece also led to a warm exchange about the U.S. State Department’s International Visitors Program, through which Narayan had the opportunity to experience American librarianship firsthand. His vivid recounting of that experience—traveling from coast to coast, participating in seminars and internships—showed the depth of his intellectual curiosity and global outlook.
Narayan’s writing has also moved others. A friend of mine, Lynne Chanin, was deeply touched by a poem he wrote for Shanti, saying it spoke to her own grief over the loss of her husband. She recognized, as I did, that his words reach across borders and experiences, offering solace and insight.
Narayan’s essays on democracy, professional integrity, corruption, and personal responsibility serve as mirrors to the nation. In “Democracy Without Values is Not Democracy,” published in April 2025, he added poetry to his prose, echoing truths we are grappling with not only in Nepal but also here in the United States. His critique of cabinet-level corruption and political malpractice—exemplified in his most recent piece, “Corruption in Cabinet Decision Making and Corruption Scandals in Nepal”—reminded me of the American muckrakers of the early 20th century. I told him he had become what we once proudly called “a muckraker,” a writer unafraid to uncover the rot beneath the surface.
One of the most striking characteristics of Narayan’s writing is his ability to integrate personal narrative with national reflection. In his essay “Weaknesses in Our Life and Necessity of Mending Them,” I saw a blend of humility, self-awareness, and public concern. I told him then that each new piece seemed like his best yet, and I meant it.
Narayan Mishra is, as one reader, Yoush Yalmo, recently described, a true Brahmin in the Vedic sense—not merely by birth, but by virtue: learned, honest, thoughtful, and humble. His self-portrait, “The Essence of Me,” is a succinct but revealing window into a life shaped by service, learning, and principle. But the full measure of the man emerges through his body of work—an archive of more than 210 essays that will, I hope, one day be collected and preserved for future generations.
It is rare to find a friend whose intellectual journey you can follow for more than half a century. Rarer still is the opportunity to witness that friend speak not only from the heart, but for the conscience of a nation. That is what Narayan Mishra does, time and again.
And so, from a young librarian in New York to an old friend still reading from afar, I say again what I’ve said many times over these years:
Keep on writing, Narayan. Nepal needs your voice. And the rest of us need your example.
The writer is the former Director of Library, Barnard College, Columbia University; a Fulbright Library Expert at Tribhuvan University, now residing in New York, New York. 10024
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