I’d like to file an architectural harassment charge. I do not refer to the draftsmen who stalk young architects and try to spread rumours about them, nor do I seek out stories of exploitation within the industry. Those are problems that need attention nonetheless. However, I speak on behalf of the old buildings in Pakistan, especially those that are subject to inconsiderate methods of revival; throwing cold water at one’s face does not make up for their lack of sleep.

For a people who like to talk about the Mongols destroying Baghdad’s House of Wisdom and reminisce about the Golden Age of the Muslim era, we are responsible for quite a bit of plunder ourselves.

Authorities in our country have a narcissistic relationship with historic infrastructure — it is romanticised and pictured as a very valuable part of our heritage, and yet there never appear to be resources to care for it. Dyal Singh Library is an example of one man’s extensive generosity failing to inspire similar sentiments in others. This is not to say there do not exist organisations that work to maintain and restore these buildings; I have had the pleasure of seeing some of the restoration work up close.

However, in this case, it is obvious that a lot of things went wrong in recent years due to informal interventions. The WCLA, a formal entity with the kind of expertise that is required, is currently working on restoring an ornate ceiling that collapsed in the main hall due to these reasons. Rubab Chishti, a young architect who runs her own restoration firm and has worked on numerous sites around Pakistan, tells me a tragic tale over the phone.

At first, one tends to notice a little irregularity in the elements employed to craft the façade. The red brick exterior dates to the late 1800s, but the white jaali covering the arches looks more recent. On closer inspection, one sees mullions and glass attempting to cover the space between the top of the jaalis and the arched openings, a poorly designed covering that tries to close off the verandah which was otherwise a quintessential part of the building. That space is now a newspaper hall.

Another outlet closed off to the interior is the new block, built to house the Urdu section. Originally a garden, it is now a column-beam structure far removed from the Indo-Saracenic form of the existing library. Not only is the new block engineered differently, it also stands in front of the windows that otherwise opened into the Children’s Section and the Main Hall. The construction is responsible for the loss of half of their light source. Far from encouraging children to read, the library is now dark and dinghy, with problems such as mold infestations creeping over several walls and ceilings.

There are some more disturbing facts. The columns in the older building have been subjected to repeated coatings of oil-based paint. While to the layman this might sound like an idea to quickly top off any ugly decay, it turns instead into a more expensive problem that comes back and bares its fangs as the materials on the inside continue to disintegrate without being allowed a breathable barrier. The restorer, Chishti, sighs at the dismal state of affairs.

The decay inside has resulted from years of drainage piling up in the walls. Most of the built heritage succumbs sooner or later to forces of nature — the rain, and the pigeons. Moisture in all shapes and sizes remains the enemy, unless healthy materials are consistently maintained. With many levels of human intervention on display, one would imagine someone had thought to put money into sustaining the building from the ground up. The kankar lime that pops up beneath the layers of paint begs for mercy. A more sustainable, weather-hardy material, lime requires less effort in the long run if preserved appropriately.

Pipes were long left clogged and no new outlets were designed, and as nature began to slowly unveil its harshness, Dyal Singh Library had no option but to bear it all.

What strikes me even more is the lack of contextualisation employed during the design of the newer structure. Years of studying about empathetic design and regionalism lead one to imagine the practical world would offer better standards of work. Again, while there are organisations working round the clock to make this possible, it seems that the line between restoring and rebuilding is a very hazy one.

Who is to say the people behind the design of the Urdu Section did not have an impressive concept in mind? If Libeskind can add giant crystals to the Royal Ontario Museum, who am I to tell a builder they cannot construct two-by-two feet panelled commercial ceilings for an extension meant to resonate with the spirit of the original or that the alleyway left in the middle of the two wings does not fulfill the landscaping needs of such a facility?

What if the builder tells me I cannot possibly fathom what it means to move with the times, and that space associated with intellectual pursuits should reflect such a progression? I might not always have all the answers, but I know a sorry state when I see one. Dyal Singh Majithia would not have been too thrilled.

The writer is the editor of The Anarchitect. She can be reached at theeditor @theanarchitect.com