Where I was...

Changing houses is a good exercise to take stock of life especially if you’re like me and have chronicled your life through possessions. Sifting through the stuff while moving house recently, I came across ‘relics of my past’; books, picture frames, letters, toys, diaries, broken crayons, scribbled pages, forgotten knick knacks. And that’s where I was these past two months, in other places, other times, pouring over the stories of my possessions. 

Books and more...

I almost stole a book, once, from a library in Rawalpindi. It was a beautiful copy of Dombey and Son; I’ve never seen one like it again, with paper almost silk to the touch. I had kept a track of the book for months – it was never issued, except by me. It won’t be missed, I thought, and the theft will only come to surface when a yearly audit happens. Who knows where I’d be by that time? I held the book for a long time, justifying my action and finally walked out, without the book.

It was my first and last attempt. Do I regret it? Well, I have mixed feelings but if I speak in all honesty, I do. And please don’t start on the ‘others-will-read-it-too’ lecture because I’m sure it’s still at the bottom of the shelf, dust gathering on those silken pages. People hardly read Dickens (in this part of the world) and most of the ones who do usually read the more popular titles. A case in point is yours truly, who read Bleak House ten years after first reading Dickens only to realize that this was his best book.

The memory of the unsuccessful theft came a few days back when I was dusting my shelf and took out my, rather boring, copy of Dombey and Son. Of course when it comes to books, looks hardly matter. Yet over the years I have managed to accumulate numerous copies of the same book, owing to the cover, and at times, the cover alone. Mostly I am a sucker for first editions and sometimes, one finds these gems, lying under a pile of dusty books, in old book bazaars. It is hard to describe the rush of joy on finding such rare treasures. Open display of joyful feelings is best left for later if you desire a good (read: lowest) price. Among the many gems in my small library is a copy of The Brothers Karamazov (first edition by The John C. Winston Company, 1949) with an introduction by Somerset Maugham. I snatched this book from the hands of another customer with the pretext of having a look, turned around and bought it. I have no shame when it comes to books. Besides, I did him a favor.....(evil laugh). 

The power books wield is grossly underestimated. It’s not just an avenue of entertainment but a time portal which, at a turn of a page, can transport you from Mount Olympus to Mr. Wonka’s chocolate factory. But very few are willing to take the plunge from one world to another via the written word, opting instead for re-runs on television and/or throwing birds at strange contraptions. (Although I must admit, quite sheepishly, that I too, fall victim to the allure of killing green pigs).

But seriously, when was the last time you read a book? A book which made your heart race or one which had you rolling on the floor, hysterical with laughter? When was the last time you carried a book with you everywhere? And that one book, which you read slowly, because you didn’t want it to finish, ever? The book which inspired you to write or the one which made you suffer an inferiority complex? Maybe there was one which had you stay up late, because putting it down was physically painful?

Are books a part of your life?

[This post was  for World Book day, April 23^rd, but the visit of an un-expected and unwanted guest delayed it]. 

Prelude

The brief hiatus in my writing was brought about, partially, by a visit from Miss Procrastination, an old acquaintance. Though she pretends to be a friend, nothing can be further from the truth. She does everything in her power to keep me away from my writing work and I must admit, succeeds at it too. Even though she loves to take all the credit, she owes her success to me for it is my own fear which prevents me from putting pen to paper. My own fear being fear of failure and it is, at the moment, the biggest demon in my life which I cleverly avoid by keeping the company of the accursed Miss Procrastination.

This fear is so great that whenever I sit down to write it is with this conclusion in mind that the finished product will be mediocre. Since my mind is made up the result, also, is never good. I have provided my fear with complete access to my mind, heart and soul and in doing so, killed my self-belief and replaced it with loathing. So that everything I write, I hate. This was especially true over the last month and in the search for an escape from this fear I came across this.

‘Until you know who you are you can’t write’ – Salman Rushdie

Questions started pouring into my mind. Who am I? As a person and as a writer? Are they two different beings or one? Am I an honest writer? Is there any other fear which has me in its grip? Should I write with the blue pen or the black one? Do I finish the incomplete projects even though the new ideas are more exciting? Will I ever be able to produce a good work of writing? Why am I afraid of going through the process of creation?

The last question was my Eureka moment. I am running away (sprinting it seems) from the actual physical pain of writing which involves isolating myself not just from the external environment but from my non-writer self (which tempts me to play Angry Birds Space). I am running away from re-writing and editing, from spending days on a single page or chapter, from finding the right words which will lend expression to my characters’ feelings, from abandoning an attempt at a story even though it has an awesome title, from sleepless nights and feverish anxiety…and above all from discovering the truth -do I have what it takes?

There was no relief in this discovery – only a sense of shame and guilt, followed by anger.

This mixed plate of feelings helped me overcome my fear and I have banished the demon from my writing kingdom. With the demon gone, Miss Procrastination, too, has become redundant. She packed her bags and left a few days back to inhabit, I’m guessing, the dwellings of some other artist.

It’s very quiet around here now and although no writing revolution has come into my life yet, I have managed to put pen to paper.  

And Then There Was Lawn

It is that time of the year.

The time when outdoor signage companies, lace sellers, tailors and dyers make a lot of money.

Yes, it is that time of the year.

The time when women all over the country go into frenzy over lawn suits which, at the end of the day, is mere cloth. Nothing is more important than the acquisition of this mere cloth and  mind you, buying it is no ordinary matter. It requires courage (to make way through throngs of women), physical strength (for pushing others), good voice projection (to make yourself heard at the counter), and consistency (to display the same physical and mental prowess in each exhibition).

Step outside your house and your eyes will feast on (besides the usual trash in Karachi) beauties on all shapes, sizes and manner of billboards. Each beauty, local and foreign, is trying to exude charm, style, sensuality, originality and a solution to all life’s problems. Their awkward and some very suggestive poses have made lawn suits the equivalent of Victoria’s Secret. The prints, too, are mind boggling. A lot of them can be used for camouflage, especially against bathroom tiles. Others can merge effortlessly with minibuses. Some remind me of Lollywood films; a bit of everything and still not worth it.

The prices of these suits is another story altogether. This item of everyday wear is priced exorbitantly, prices range from Rs. 2k to Rs.5k, and yet there is no dearth of buyers. Is this need fulfilment or are these exhibitions fuelling the monster of materialism? Women want more variety, more brands, and more clothes in their wardrobe.  Inability to buy or wear a particular designer print earlier than others leaves them bereft. If an alien species landed on this part of the planet to study human behaviour, they won’t have much to write about the majority of women in Pakistan. Show me a woman who doesn’t love clothes – I, too, love adding to my wardrobe but there must be a balance between need and desire. Over the past few years this balance is tipping, at an alarming rate might I add, which speaks volumes about the nature of our society.

But my grievance doesn’t end here. This influx of designer lawn is also the death of creativity. They have assumed the role of Big Brother (and here I’m referring to Orwell’s 1984) and dictate the details of the dress to the last stitch. With the shirts come inadequate yards of ugly lace or satin strips. Unlike the West, where one can buy separate pieces of an outfit in a catalogue, here the whole three piece suit is a mandatory buy. The nightmare actually begins once the outfit is bought, stitched and ready to wear. Women live in perpetual fear of spotting a clone once they step out of the house in their so called ‘exclusive’ lawn outfit. Oh, the irony of it all!

There is no doubt that lawn is a must for surviving the searing, sweaty heat of the summer months.  And as more and more designers and textile mill owners step into the game each year, this lawn phenomenon is only going to get bigger, wilder, and crazier. Expect lawn prints based on television dramas (I can’t believe nobody has come out with a Humsafar theme yet!), truck art, city themes, Mughal art and wild animals. And if anybody decides to do that, I’d like some lawn designs inspired from literature, both English and Urdu please. A lawn print inspired by Tilsm Hoshruba – now that will be worth every penny!

P.S: Don’t stifle your individuality by following the herd even if it is that time of the year. 

Oscar for Pakistan. What now?

Ms. Chinoy's Oscar win is a cause for great jubilation. She has shown the world that there is more to Pakistan than drone attacks, terrorists and corruption. This award, unfortunately,will not solve any of our problems but it has, temporarily, given us hope that all is not lost. 

Will this win, which is a source of inspiration for us all, bring any positive change in our country, in us?  Will there be any funds made available for film makers who don't have the monetary means but possess the talent? The Prime Minister has announced the highest civil award for Ms. Chinoy, but what of the victims? Above all, what of the law which lets the men go around free while the women suffer forever more?  

Happy 200th Birthday Mr. Dickens!

The first Dickens’ book I read, at age nine, was an abridged version of Oliver Twist. Oliver’s tragic story was probably my first exposure to tragedy in literature. I cried tears of joy when everything fell into place for little Oliver and all was well in the end. All was not well for my younger brother though; whenever he complained about food I put forth the example of the poor orphan boy who was denied a second helping of an excuse-for-a-soup. My brother never read Oliver Twist.

Reading David Copperfield was easier and a little less emotional although I remember being immensely saddened by his wife Dora’s death. I still remember the illustration of David carrying his feeble wife up the staircase, she being too weak to climb. I was mortified by her death, blamed Agnus for it and didn’t re-read the book till much later.

But it was Great Expectations’ Miss Havisham who fascinated me the most and made me a Dickens’ fan. Estella’s beauty and her mannerisms affected my young mind and I tried to be like her (maybe still am). Both Miss Havisham and Estella were unlike women I had read of in literature (which at nine years old was limited to Enid Blyton and Nancy Drew) or knew of in real life, minus a few exceptions of course. Unlike Oliver and David, I wasn’t rooting for Pip and this feeling for him hasn’t changed still.

Even though Bleak House is the one Dickens’ novel I like best, it was Dombey and Son which almost made me a thief. It was lying on the bottom shelf of a library in Pindi when I first discovered and issued it. A hard cover, un-abridged version with the original illustrations on the most silky smooth paper; it was love at first sight. I read it five times just to check if anyone else besides me got it issued. Oh, if only I had hidden that book under my shawl on that cold December morning! I know, deep down, that if I pay a visit to that library even now, I shall find the book issued only five times. Okay, that sounds a bit filmi but yes, if I go there now, I’ll definitely steal it. Theft detectors and conscious can go to hell!

I plan to re-read all his books this year and maybe, just maybe, I might discover the secret which makes his writing relevant to readers around the globe even now, 200 years on. 

Coming soon: Dickens' on the beanbag

Albert Camus - The Outsider

 ‘Mother died today. Or, maybe, yesterday; I can’t be sure’.

This is the sort of opening line which is discussed, torn apart and chewed at in creative writing workshops. And it is just the beginning of this bizarre novel.

The Outsider, also known by the title – The Stranger, is an unusual piece of work. And Meursault, the protagonist, is a very unusual sort of man. You’ll either dismiss him as a jackass or become his huge fan, strictly depending on your age. To me he came across as a callous young man who is completely indifferent to everything in his life be it love, sex, death, murder, or injustice.

I was appalled at his casual attitude towards his mother’s death. How can a man be cold and indifferent at his own mother’s burial? He’s either naive or brutally honest and as the book progressed I realized he was a bit of both. As other characters entered the story in quick succession it became obvious that this lack of interest is directed towards everyone and everything. At certain points, especially with regard to his job, he comes across as a rebel; a man not bound to any relationship, personal or professional. Had I been younger and a boy, I might just have idolized him.

There’s his girlfriend, Marie, who he actually starts dating the very next day of his mother’s funeral. A heartless bastard and that, too, both towards the dead and the living. ‘Marie came that evening and asked me if I’d marry her. I said I didn't mind; if she was keen on it, we’d get married. Then she asked me again if I loved her. I replied, much as before, that her question meant nothing or next to nothing - but I supposed I didn’t.’

At work, Meursault turned down a chance to leave Algiers and work in Paris. ‘I told him I was quite prepared to go; but really I didn’t care much one way or the other. He then asked if a ‘change of life’, as he called it didn’t appeal to me, and I answered that one never changed one’s real life; anyhow, one life was as good as another and my present one suited me quite well.’ So much for ambition!

I found hints of another rebel, Darashikoh Shezad (Moth Smoke), in Meursault. Both of them reach the same end but in different ways.

Another character is the pimp Raymond, his neighbour, with whom he strikes an unusual friendship. Meursault might be crazy but he’s not a crook and a liar, while Raymond reeks of crime. When Raymond asks Meursault to help him punish his two timing mistress, he agrees, ‘I wanted to satisfy Raymond, as I’d no reason not to satisfy him.’

Reading this book made me realize how we tend to ignore the consequences of our actions. No matter what we do or say, with whatever intention, it can be used against us anywhere and not necessarily in a court of law. The main theme of the novel is conformity. Meursault refused to conform to the norms of the society; he didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral, he didn’t want a promotion, he didn’t regret his crime. He was an outlaw. Society feels threatened by a person who doesn’t follow their established rules and standards. And such a person is either banished, or executed.

Death, execution, and religion are the dominating themes as Meursault comes to term with the consequences of his action. He is an outsider at his mother’s funeral, at his trial and remains one till the end. 

‘It was as if that great rush of anger had washed me clean, emptied me of hope, and, gazing up at the dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, for the first time, the first, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe.’ 

This has to be the most absurd book I've ever read. Ever. 

Image: Google