I want to write, but I don't have readers...

“I want to write, but I don't have readers.” With this quiet lament, Nagendra Vijay; editor of Safar, announced the end of a magazine that, for over four decades, had faithfully delivered science in Gujarati to curious minds across India. For me, someone who love to finish reading entire issue of safari as soon as it arrives; Its closure is not merely a matter of lost pages but a signal of a much deeper cultural crisis: the erosion of scientific temperament in contemporary India. Safari kept me ahead from my time, I knew about Brahmos in 1997, I knew about Gazi Attack, Iraq evacuations, RAW missions, Massod Missions, Gaza Conflicts, Afghan war etc. before films/series were made on them through safari, Safari covered, history, polity and sociological topics in most engaging and intriguing ways. This magazine played vital role in groming my personality, my career and my thinking pattern. Now I think, what happened to a country that once positioned science at the heart of its national identity? Let us walk through the story; one that touches institutions, ideologies, and imaginations.

The Quiet Genius of Safari

1. Digital Attention Erosion: Younger audiences are increasingly raised in environments shaped by short-form video and dopamine-driven news cycles. Depth is replaced by distraction. Safari, with its demand for sustained attention and reflection, simply did not fit the algorithm.
2. Educational Contraction: The removal of topics like Darwin’s evolution and the periodic table from NCERT textbooks signals a dangerous trend; the institutionalisation of anti-rationalism. This not only makes Safari's content seem 'extra' rather than essential, but subtly devalues the entire premise of scientific thinking.
3. State-Backed Pseudoscience: Government support for astrology, 'cow science', and mythologised history under the guise of Indian Knowledge Systems (IKS) sends a message: speculation is acceptable if it flatters national pride. In this environment, fact-based publications are sidelined, if not subtly sabotaged.
4. Funding Gaps and Ethical Stances: Unlike populist magazines peddling miracle cures or nationalist mythology, Safari refused to compromise on integrity. It rejected questionable advertisements. But editorial purity comes at a price; and without state support or philanthropic patronage, it became unsustainable.

So where do we go from here?

The Idea That Must Not Die

Few publications have managed what Safari did. It decoded black holes and ballistic missiles with the same clarity it used to explain the origins of zero. It was regional, ethical, and refreshingly unpretentious; avoiding advertising that flouted scientific sensibilities. In many homes, it wasn’t just a magazine but a monthly ritual of wonder.

First launched in 1980, Safari rose not on institutional support but sheer perseverance. Its founder, Nagendra Vijay, battled illness, market forces, and a shrinking attention economy to keep it afloat. Despite being written in Gujarati, it discussed the cosmos with the ambition of Scientific American. Its strength lay in respecting the reader’s intelligence while still speaking in their tongue.

That such a magazine had to shut shop is not just a business failure; it is an epistemological loss. Safari didn’t just explain science; it nurtured a way of thinking. What does its end tell us?

India’s post-independence leaders saw scientific thinking not as an academic pursuit but as a civic virtue. In The Discovery of India, Nehru wrote of “a temper of the free man,” one that questioned, examined, and doubted; precisely the attributes that democracy needs to thrive.

This ideal became enshrined in Article 51A(h) of the Constitution: the duty of every citizen “to develop the scientific temper, humanism and the spirit of inquiry and reform.” Yet, scientific temperament isn’t about laboratories or equations. It is about habits of mind: scepticism over dogma, evidence over ideology, and curiosity over fatalism.

In a society as complex as India, with layers of tradition, caste, and religion, this mindset is essential for progress. The problem is, it is disappearing; quietly, steadily, and now, visibly.

While print’s decline is often cited as a reason for Safari’s demise, it is only part of the story. Several deeper currents converge here:

Together, these forces did not merely shrink Safari's audience; they dismantled the ecosystem it needed to survive.

It would be mistaken to view the decline of scientific temperament as incidental. What we are witnessing is a deliberate reengineering of public discourse. When political leaders claim that genetic engineering existed during the Mahabharata, or that ancient Indians invented aircraft, they do more than rewrite history; they erode the distinction between fact and fiction.

This is not without consequence. Vaccine hesitancy, climate change denial, and anti-scientific health practices have real-world impacts. As the 2018 vulture extinction case showed, ignorance of ecological science cost India over $69 billion annually through cascading public health failures.

Moreover, when pseudoscience is institutionalised through education reforms and celebrated in mainstream narratives, it becomes more than misinformation; it becomes orthodoxy. This reverses decades of effort spent building a rational, secular, scientifically literate public.

With Safari gone, a gaping hole emerges in regional science communication. English-language science journals may persist, but their reach is limited. Government outlets like Science Reporter do not have Safari’s accessibility or emotional connect. Platforms like Vigyan Prasar, once tasked with science popularisation, have been wound up or underfunded.

The void will not be filled by one institution, but many. Scientists must become public intellectuals. Teachers must shift from rote to inquiry. Local YouTube educators, school science clubs, and community radio must all become torchbearers. Science communication must move from institutional silos to digital, decentralised, vernacular spheres.

India doesn’t lack talent. It lacks translation; of knowledge into curiosity, and curiosity into culture.

Safari is gone, but the question it posed; can science speak in the people’s language and still be heard? is now ours to answer. The decline of scientific temperament in India is not inevitable. But reversing it will require recognising that Safari’s death is not isolated; it is systemic, symptomatic, and serious.

If India is to reclaim its place not just as an IT hub or nuclear power but as a society that values reason, then it must rebuild what it is losing: its ability to think, doubt, and learn freely.

Scientific temperament, once declared a constitutional duty, is now a cultural emergency. And unless we act, we may find that we are not just losing magazines; we are losing minds.

To read science in one’s mother tongue is to reclaim dignity. To question myths is to build democracy. To write for those who no longer read is to keep faith with the future.

Nagendra Vijay did all three. The least we can do is ensure his pen was not the last.