IN CONVERSATION
Spaces of discovery
T.A. HAFEEZ
"KAMILA SHAMSIE will be here in a few minutes. She's finishing with her class."
Soon, the Pakistani writer walks into the green room. In Chennai recently as the "writer-in-residence" for a week at the Stella Maris College, Shamsie's brief was to interact with students in various ways — at reading sessions, workshops and informal meetings. "It's been interesting. I even had lunch every day with different sets of students ... as a way of getting to know them," she adds.
Excerpts from a conversation with MURALI N. KRISHNASWAMY.
YOU come from a literary family — Jahanara Habibullah, Attia Hussain and Muneeza Shamsie. Did this shape your future in a way? Or was it much later when you studied in Clinton, New York, which eventually saw the beginnings of your first novel? Or was it the guidance of your thesis advisor Shona Ramaya?
I had always known I wanted to be a writer ... being in a family that has always been surrounded by books. It certainly helps to have a mother with the same kind of interests. By the time I went to college, I was clear that that was what I wanted to do.
Coming back to Shona Ramaya, it was she who suggested that you show your story to an agent who, by a quirk of fate, turned out to be the agent who had published Attia Hussain.
Attia Hussain published in the 1950s, and her work was republished by publishing house Virago. The person who picked it up for republication was this agent...
Attia Hussain wrote Sunlight On a Broken Column, set in the 1930s and about the lead-up to independence. Did this kind of a story-line make an impression on you ... after being described as "midnight's grand-child"?
My second novel Salt and Saffron has the background story of Partition. Sunlight in some ways may have had a role to play in Salt and Saffron. There are certain echoes and similarities.
In an essay "Here is a truth we can all agree on", (The Guardian, 2002), you pointed out that there can't be real friendship between India and Pakistan until two old angry wounds are healed — Partition and Kashmir. There was a phrase you touched upon: "two nations — two narratives" ... the first being that India always lies and the second being that Pakistan always lies.
I hope we are moving away from that. Politically at least. Things are certainly on the right track. Just because there is a level of mistrust, it doesn't mean it has to be this way.
There are the see-saws ...
We are more grateful when it see-saws towards the state of peace.
And, no one can afford a nuclear war.
In your first novel, In the City by the Sea, you brought Karachi to life and it led you to say that "Karachi is the only place I want to write about". Yet you like New York and London is almost your second home.
It is the place I am most interested in. Well, writing is an unpredictable business, so my next work may even land me up in say, who knows, Timbuktu.
Coming back to writing, and your second novel Salt and Saffron. It has been described as having a compelling narrative and vivid imagery, giving voice to alternative views.
It's always nice to read. Novels do create those alternative viewpoints but let you into the lines of individual characters and the complications that arise from any situation.
How is Pakistani English fiction? You have Mohsin Hamid, Bapsi Sidhwa and Rukshana Ahmad, the visible writers, and then the prolific Hanif Kureshi and Tariq Ali. What are their concerns?
They are all different writers. Different writers connected to Pakistan in different ways. Of the names mentioned, Hanif Kureshi of course deals with the migrant communities in England. Mohsin is perhaps the most direct of my contemporaries and deals with an urban Pakistan I can recognise. In the last couple of years, Pakistan English fiction has been developing.
There is also Aamir Hussian who belongs to a new breed of short story writer.
Generally, the 1970s and 1980s were a lean period. Now, with the media opening up in a way, people are expressing themselves more artistically.
Is Pakistani English fiction overshadowed by the sheer number of Indian writers?
Pakistani English fiction is a different category ... Indian fiction is very well established. Pakistani writers may have said they feel a connection with Indian writers, but Indian writing is far ahead. Also, Indian writing has a strong publishing industry to back it, while it is pretty bad here in Pakistan.
We have the OUP and Al Hamra, two established publishing houses. An indigenous publishing industry has to be established. Till then, there will be a stumbling block.
What are the feminist concerns in Pakistani English fiction ... Sofia Shafquat is one. And poetry? ... Attiya Dawood as the voice of rural Sindh?
There is also Fameeda Riaz.
In Urdu poetry, there is a wonderful tradition. It also took off in opposition to Gen. Zia-ul-Huq.
In the English language, most of the Pakistani women would consider themselves to be feminists, and there are portrayals of very strong female characters or fighting against expectations.
Your third novel Kartography is an exploration of love and politics in Pakistan after 1971. How does it compare with your earlier works?
With every novel, you try to do something different. Kartography was one such. While I was writing it, I grew more ambitious. I started off small, and then 1971 and the rest became interesting ideas as I started working on plot and character.
What helps you with your writing? What are your literary concerns?
I love telling stories and using language. I do not need to force myself. You find ways of creating the right kind of an environment. When I am teaching for example, it is tough to write. Once you are in the mindset to write, the process just takes over. There have been no major stumbling blocks.
Literary concerns? Start with something small. My main aim is to be as good a writer as I can be.
And the poet Agha Shahid Ali, your teacher?
He was my first teacher of creative writing. A very important figure. The complete poet. Always talking about language. He made me feel self-conscious of the way I wrote. He was uncompromising about the way you used words.
You write for the Guardian and Prospect magazine as well as speak on Radio 3 and 4 and the World Service. How then would you look at September 11 — I refer to your talk in September 2001. And that phrase "a clash of civilisations"?
A "clash of civilisations" was a very stupid comment. And it does not serve any purpose to tell a particular community that it cannot blend in. I am a Muslim but have no problems working and living in the West. What you have now is a result not of religion, but geo-politics and economic failings. It cannot be pinned down to a particular religion being at odds with a particular region.
About 2001, my reaction was "are my friends alive?" In 9/11, it was the constant media play that made it feel more real. Of course I felt great sadness, anger and fear. I saw a lot of people who felt nothing but sympathy. Then, a few days later, they went into an anti-George Bush rant. That was the frightening thing.
You have commented on the environment too in an essay (The Guardian, 2003) ... the 10,000-tonne oil spill on Karachi's Clifton beach, and its sting at the end when you talked of August 14.
I wasn't in Karachi when it occurred. The beach — a sanctuary — is one of the few places, in Karachi, where you can go and relax. The spill represented all levels of inefficiency ... all the preventable things that go wrong.
And yes, there was that note of irony there ... on August 14.
In 2000, you were chosen by the Orange Prize for Fiction's Orange Future's as one of their 21 writers for the 21st Century. How do you look back on that?
It's always very gratifying to get an award. The Orange Prize looked at 21 of us among 35 writers. I admired the rest. It was a celebration, no competition. There is no point in writing for a prize. But if it does happen, it is gratifying. It's good for the ego.
You teach creative writing at Hamilton, so what are the concerns you look at?
I don't tell my students what they should write about. What I teach may be about the craft of writing, language and telling my students of being unafraid of being what they are about.
I am for writing being habit forming. I just leave my students to go in different directions, even if these are directions I myself have never been in.
What have your impressions been of India?
I have had a wonderful time. The students here have been wonderful, displaying a curiosity to learn about Pakistan instead of coming with pre-conceived notions.
I flew into Bombay first, and then to Chennai and the differences have been interesting ... seeing them up-close.
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