The Interview

I was on the other side, being interviewed. It wasn’t the first time but I constantly found myself asking the questions inside my head. It’s part of the experiences I have had. So, before I get to me, I shall get to them.

How does it feel to get into the mind of someone, I am often asked. The answer is always: Challenging. Almost all of my one-on-one interviews have been rather intense. It is two people in a room, not unlike the relationship between a psychiatrist and a ‘patient’, except that the roles can and do get swapped. It is amazing how much you discover about yourself in the very nature of the queries you pose. Even after all these years, I like to have some questions ready; there on I take off from the response I get.

Then, a Pandora’s Box opens, and the treasures could be precious memories, newly-formed opinions, or skeletons, and there have been occasions when the person has broken down or felt elated or got angry because what had remained submerged suddenly spurted out. The catharsis was not expected. I still recall this woman quite literally jumping on the sofa I was sitting on, her rage barely contained. It was a large house filled with antiques. Should I leave or leave her alone? The answer came in the form of tears - mine. I sat there, plunging my nails into the upholstery. She had calmed down and reapplied her makeup. There was a smile on her lips and her long fingers touched my hand.

One thing I know. If you are not honest, you won’t get honesty. It may sound strange but I have met honest politicians, or at least whatever was discussed was done so honestly. Recently, I had to make a sort of list of the interviews I have done and the range includes industrialists, gangsters, people from films, academics, science, sports, activism, feminism, theatre, writing, media, astrology, psychology, sexology, religion. These are what may be called ‘names’ in their respective fields, but there have been very many others who were interviewed on themes. It could be a story on beggars or eunuchs or nuns. (Me: “Sister, what do you fantasise about?”)

How much of oneself enters into the subject’s voice? It depends on how the interview has progressed. I do not buy into the theory that one must not express an opinion in an interview. I spend a minimum of an hour and besides the words recorded there are the background sounds and images and my own voice.

“I was looking for your voice,” said a writer-colleague about my book. “It was there throughout but I found it most evident in the section with interviews.”

“But, they were speaking.”

“Your questions were what created this chain and sometimes you’d just move on, almost impatient!”

It was a perceptive observation and quite true.

So five months ago, in October, when I got a call from Khaleej Times (UAE) asking for an interview, I did not at the time know anything about the media there. “Why,” I asked.

“Because of your book.”

“That’s been around for a while,” I said.

“Yes, but it will be interesting for our readers and we will also talk about the other issues you write about.”

She told me she had been “warned” that I was very particular about whether she had really read any of the stuff and promised me that she had and will read more before we met.

I walked into the hotel lobby where we were to meet. My foot was recovering from a fracture so it was in a stopgap air cast. I would have been easily identifiable although the white slacks did cover the pumpkin green cast. No, she did not spot me. I just went up to the lone young woman sitting there in a hijaab. We moved to the coffee shop and the first thing she said was, “I was told you are a veteran.”

“Hmm, well, yes, I guess so…”

“You don’t look…” and the thought trailed off.

I told a media friend from that part of the world about it and asked how one was supposed to look like a veteran and why did I not, and he was quite exasperated, “A normal person would take this as a compliment.”

The interviewer was honest. I could sense it. There were questions about inspiration, the book, my political views, the process of writing, and some fun queries. It went on for over an hour. I did not want a photographer around. Now, I don’t have a portfolio and I took a few self-timer pictures. It shows.

I got a small shock when I saw the paper (it was in the main section and not the supplement and was duly announced in an earlier page). The low-resolution image had been blown up. I immediately knew what had happened. It helps being a ‘veteran’. Most of the quotes had not been carried and it must have been a last-minute decision. People who know informed me that my views are not always ‘proper’, so they had to temper it. Why could they not use a long blurb, instead? It was also referred to as a new book, but again my friend said, “Some people think Anna Karenina is a new book.”

The problem is that if you have been an interviewer for long, you do tend to be understanding: People at the desk only know that chop means chop from anywhere, including have an abrupt end without any context. I was particularly distressed about discovering that I do not read. I do not read maniacally other people's views on the subject I am working on. It does interfere.

This is one more aspect to note. I research a person only to an extent that I know the background or the specific topic of expertise. In my case, I have already spoken quite a bit, written a lot, there are reviews, so rather unfortunately a good deal of that seeped in and the interviewer’s fresh queries and my replies went wasted, except about how the book happened which I have not spoken about yet. Heck, she should have asked me about favourite fragrances or something and there would be more words rather than the grainy picture.

But you know what? Most people don’t care for what you say or how you think. For them a big picture is the big picture. So, text messages were exchanged about how I was in the news. I found it embarrassing, which is why I held back until now. Because now I can see the humour when an acquaintance who does not have any interest in writers or writings had held the paper against the lamp in a Chinese restaurant and said, “Man, I did not know you had been mainlining. You look like you’ve been out of rehab.”

“Hrmph, so has Lindsay Lohan. And I am a veteran.”

- - -

The interview is uploaded on 'A Journey Interrupted blog' here.

Yes, there is a scanned image and I have never mainlined or mainstreamed for that matter!

Pakistani circus comes to town!

A Pakistani commentator has come up with a Pavlovian response to how Indians salivate over Pakistan’s misfortunes and are not all smelling of roses. To make this rather simple point, he moves from the dog in the science lab to sci-fi to Biblical metaphors.

Ejaz Haider’s column in The Express Tribune mentions his educational qualifications – a seemingly mandatory thing these days in some publications – which should tell us that he is all grown up and doing tickety-boo. So well in fact that he expects “scientific inquiry”, unlike aforementioned dog, from Indians in the World Wide Web. He forgets one basic tenet of the W word, and that is anonymity and the possibility of fake Indians and fake Pakistanis faking emotions to elicit fake critical faculties of columnists who are educationally well-hung.

His one-line tenet is that Indians pounce on any Pakistani for “putting things in a (sic) perspective”. He believes that his country is masochistic because while Indians can openly be critical of Pakistan, Pakistanis cannot do so in Indian newspapers. I think he should do a bit of research on internet behaviour. As I have already stated, Indians and Pakistanis rarely appear as themselves. Pakistani commentators are quite coddled in India, even if they write about some sidey actress and Nwaaz Shrif’s hair implant. All those Pakistan diary type items often talk the usual lingo of exotica which makes it rather charming. The same applies to Indians who discuss “daily life” or Bollywood or “peace initiatives”, the latter being the biggest-ticket event.

Before I am accused of doggie behaviour, I must add that Mr. Haider has rather magnanimously acceded that India does have its moments:

India has its strengths, without doubt. We need to emulate them, no gainsaying that either. But for Indians to embark on an exercise, every time a whistle is blown, to prove India is the best thing to happen this side of Eden is to ask for willing suspension of disbelief at a level that defies even disbelief.

Just a bit of semantics here: When you defy disbelief, you are a believer. Ergo, suspension of disbelief ought to be a dribble of saliva.

He then comes to the point:

There have been comments upon comments in this newspaper by Indians about, among other things, corruption in Pakistan. Something like the 2G scandal in Pakistan would have given the Indians a field day. Try placing a comment on the Radia tapes, a scandal which, alone in its spread, is enough to eclipse Pakistan’s collective scams over 63 years, or even offer to write on it in an Indian newspaper, and you would know what I am saying.

One moment. Corruption is endemic to our societies. However, it is a huge exaggeration to say that in 63 years Pakistan has not had a scam of this dimension. Is the reference only to the monetary aspect? How many tapes have been ever released about Pakistani politicians or Pakistani military leaders? India is also a larger country in every way. I don’t understand the need to compare and sound so insecure about being ‘eclipsed’ in this field. Having said that, who has stopped any Pakistani from writing about the scandal in a Pakistani paper? Why must a Pakistani write about this in an Indian newspaper? It might be noted that part of the scandal is the blurring of it in the mainstream media, so even if a Tutu columnist tried, s/he might not get in edgeways.

A few days ago I was asked by the people concerned when I would resume my ET column and the next sentence mentioned the Radia tapes. I was surprised that no one had written about it and when I said that I had already had my say on the subject, they told me they’d like to use a shorter version. I agreed, provided I could edit it myself and it would clearly state that it is an abridged version. It is still not up. It is about several lobbies, as I have often critiqued in both the Indian and Pakistani media about both India and Pakistan and several other societies.

However, while Pakistani newspapers might publish some views, are they open to ALL views? I have faced criticism for other opinions about ills in Pakistani society as I do from Indians. And, most amazingly, one reviewer of my book ‘A Journey Interrupted: Being Indian in Pakistan’ even mentioned that I had misused the hospitality! Pakistan or Pakistanis had not sponsored the book nor had India or Indians or even my publisher. This was an insult to the several Pakistanis I had met and they were the first to rubbish such a thought; it only revealed that when you talk to and quote real rebels, people who have been imprisoned, literally or otherwise, instead of part-time jingoists, you are not quite ‘with it’. These remarkable people are considered outsiders even today by their own smart-ass commentators.

On the flip side Pakistan, and India, choose their favourites. Interestingly, these ‘vocal critics’ become the flavour of the ‘opposite camp’. So, my criticism of certain aspects about Arundhati Roy sounds offensive to Pakistanis! Talk about co-opted cocoons.

Of course, Mr. Haider is all praise for the Indian’s pride in the state, unlike Pakistanis who talk about doomsday. That’s because they have been hearing the Americans go on and on about a ‘failed state’ so often that they feel like doing a little mirror job. But, when optimistic Pakistanis see the good side, they are considered wimps and fools. Besides, questioning the status quo is always good.

Finally, Mr. Haider sounds quasi ominous and forgets grammar:

Meanwhile, I have said India and Indians a number of times here; the circus is about to hit town!

I am sure you have told us: the circus is about to hit town. The problem is that having said it so often, we mistook the messenger for the message.

PS: When you assume Pavlov’s dog is on your mental leash, it can turn out to be quite a bitch.

Iss se pehle ke hum bewafaa ho jaaye....

Two years ago he died on this day. Ahmed Faraz is known for a varied range of poetry. I have chosen this one for two reasons. One is personal. The lectern says 'Holiday Inn'. It was close to his office towards the end of his life, an office he was thrown out from. It was at Holiday Inn that he asked me to join him for lunch and I had to decline. Had to? Do you refuse Faraz? Let us just say I had committed to be elsewhere and I think he would have done the same. The other reason for putting up this video is because he says before reciting that things have not changed much in Pakistan. This was the poem that got him in trouble and he was imprisoned during General Zia ul Haq's regime.

There are a few people who you read and read about and then you meet and it is not the same. With him, his poetry was him and he was his poetry.

Ahmed Faraz reads 'Muhasara' - The Siege

Star-crossed Borders

Star-crossed Borders
by Farzana Versey

Inside the well-rounded cosmopolitan atheist persona of Shujaat Rizvi, there was a Pakistani nationalist and Islamist waiting to come out.

I turned out to be the catalyst, unfortunately, for this ‘homecoming’. Today, when I sound a bit wary about cross-border alliances, I have reason to believe that even if you share a faith, the political dimensions leap out like dragons.

Sania and Shoaib’s saga became a matter of precarious acrobatics; there are many others that cannot even venture into the circus arena as static cable wires, phone lines and meetings die slowly. More importantly, they bring out certain prejudices that we do not know we possess. Our earlier conversations about Sartre and Sinatra came unhinged as it soon turned into a battle of, and for, national and religious identity.

The day I landed in Islamabad, Shujaat decided to take me for dinner. We sat across from each other, a flickering candle between us. It was a mellow moment. “Would you have ever married a Pakistani?” he asked.

We were not young. I was newly single, hammering the nail on the coffin of a marriage gone wrong; he was a confirmed bachelor.

I had never thought about people as countries, but apparently that baggage had gone along with me. “Perhaps...” I muttered, afraid even of hypothesis.

“It is easy to get you a Pakistani passport and even an ID card. All that can be arranged.”

“I said I did not mind marrying a Pakistani, I did not say I would live in Pakistan.”

“This is a better place. You can walk with your head held high. You don’t have to suffer during communal riots. This is an Islamic country. There is no pretence.”

He was curious about the Muslim women in India. When I told him about the relative freedom of movement, at least among the urban, educated woman, and cross-religious alliances, he flared up. “I do not think Indian Muslims can get equal status by marrying their women to Hindu men. It is nauseating to imagine...”

He could not understand that relationships were not based on religion. “With such westernised and modern views, do not tell me that the man would say Islamic prayers before, after and during their intimate moments.”

Shujaat’s knowledge of this aspect was based on biased news and stereotypes, mine on experience. His prism only showed him a Muslim utopia. Was this about the scriptures or nationalities?

“If you don’t have a problem about nationalities, then why would you not live in Pakistan?” he queried.

“I cannot live even in America.”

“I think your attachment to your country is like a bad habit. Like smoking it can cause cancer. I am sure Muslims in your country would feel the same.”

It was a curious exchange at many levels – he appeared to be testing me personally and politically. Rather than a candlelight dinner, it seemed like Roosevelt’s fireside chat to his people via radio.

He had been active in student politics and his ideological leanings were leftist. He was clear that if he married an Indian, they would have to live in a Muslim country. It surprised me, for he was educated in the West and had worked outside too. In fact, during his stay in the US, he came close to getting involved with an Indian woman.

“Not just an Indian woman, but a Brahmin one. There was this desire to have an affair, a short affair.”

“So, would you not become impure?” I asked, since he often alluded to my cultural impurity.

“This would not be about love but hate. It is like war. You don’t love the land you occupy.”

This was territorial, whichever you looked at it – geographically or psychologically. We drifted apart, never to meet again, characters leaving the stage empty for more biases to resound.

- - -

This is my column in The Express Tribune, Pakistan, dated April 17. It was a special exception after the first Guns and Lollipops, which they wanted for the launch issue on Monday, April 12. My scheduled column day is Tuesdays.

They omitted to add the following footnote in the current column, at least in the Net edition:

Some portions in this piece are from my book ‘A Journey Interrupted: Being Indian in Pakistan’.

- - -


Results of the blog poll:

Are cross-cultural marriages...

A political statement - 3%; A secular statement - 10%; A chance to discover another culture - 17%; A recipe for disaster - 10%; If not planned, then just 2 like-minded people getting together - 53%; Why marry when you can be a tourist or commentator?! - 21%

Character Assassination

I scrolled through the list of contacts on my cellphone. Tried first name, last name, middle name, nickname. Nothing. I could not find him. He was gone. Did he disappear or was he deleted? A gentle soul, I recall. He had shown me his city, taken me home, made me feel at home. Put up with my whims. We had sat in the muddy lanes on rickety charpoys and he took pictures of me with a bunch of kids. I saw the child in him, the man in him.

Salim was not there in my contacts. I wanted to get in touch. Call him up.

After days and days of feeling frustrated, I realised that I had forgotten his name. His name was not Salim. I had to change it to protect him. My guide in Peshawar had become a character in my book. And we don’t have real details of characters, do we? Often, we don’t have real details of people, too.

Sometimes, details give us too much meat and make us forget the bones, the stuff that flesh clings to.

Tracking Naheeda, the Pathan Village Woman

There was no chariness that Salim and Ali were chatting so openly with me, sitting cross-legged on a cot. Both the brothers liked their free-spirited young aunt, Naheeda.

Tracking Naheeda, the Pathan Village Woman
by Farzana Versey
State of Nature

She had not let childbirth and housework mar her looks, although some chubbiness had settled on her cheeks and chin. Her head was uncovered and her black hair was tied in a loose braid. ‘I want to work too, but I get no time. The schools are far, so I have to drop the children there. Women rule in the house. If I were under any restrictions, do you think I could talk to you in privacy? My husband is there praying, he could have stopped me.’ Just then he called out to her. She returned within minutes. ‘He has asked me not to let you leave without having lunch with us. He has to remind me to be a good hostess, I just talk so much that I forget basic manners.’ And what happened to the education she had acquired? ‘In future I don’t know, but for now my children will benefit. And it shows in the way I conduct my life. No one can boss over me.’ While her husband and mother-in-law were busy with their afternoon prayers, she did not feel it necessary to join them.

(Rest of this extract from A Journey Interrupted: Being Indian in Pakistan is at the link or the Journey blog)

Before the Taliban: Memories of Peshawar

Before the Taliban: Memories of Peshawar
by Farzana Versey
Countercurrents, May 12, 2009

As the city is on edge, and friends are being seen as enemies, I want to share recollections of the times I spent in the capital of the frontier province on the trips I made to Pakistan between the years 2000 and 2007.

* * *

We were hungry. I told Salim, my guide, I wanted to eat at an authentic Kabuli restaurant. Breads were being baked on upturned woks. The place was packed. I was the only woman in there. A scraggly-looking man came up to us and parted a curtain; the few men having their meal immediately got up and moved out without a word. Chivalry was unspoken and not brandished with a flourish.

The sofa felt wonderfully comfortable after the long drive. The moment I raised my eyes I found (Indian film star) Ajay Devgan staring at me. Stuck on the wall, his photograph typified the Afghan obsession with Hindi films.

We had a hearty meal. There was a stew, some barbequed meats and sautéed vegetables. The food did not leave you feeling full, cooked as it was with a touch so light that even flesh had a feathery texture. Bowls of yoghurt served as dessert.

Driving back to the city, we passed another route. This was Hayatabad; it was called the mini Islamabad due to its well-structured houses, trees peeping out of high walls, bursts of floral colour in the balconies. The inhabitants were invisible. Who were they? Salim explained, ‘Mainly Afghans, the ones who have made it big. But they can only rent the houses, not buy them. There are two million Afghan mohajirs here, so they say Peshawar should be theirs.’ --->

(more of the extract here or on the link in the title)

Author! Author!

I dislike the word author. Not for itself, but when applied to those who use their skill with words. Author is a larger term. According to some rumours, god is the author or the world.

Am I an author?

I was told a few months ago that I ought to change my profile on this blog. Heck, I was told to stop blogging “like that” and posting pictures of hair, nose, eyes, bits of clothing…I was told to behave like I mattered. I said all the parts of me mattered; without them I’d be handicapped, especially the bits of clothing…

Therefore, with the confidence that comes with dotage (stop right there before you hand me the walking stick; dotage also refers to second childhood), I decided to let things be as they are. They are still true, perhaps truer.

People continue to ask me, “What do you do?” I swallow. No, I don’t tell them that. I swallow my pride - is pride liquid that it can be swallowed? Why don’t we chew pride into little morsels? - and tell them that I am hot, cold, frigid, old, young, over-the-top, under-the-weather, between a hard rock and the waves…I give them this gibberish, which really isn’t because I am all of these and some.

If they are nice, then they nod the sort of nod stewards give when a diner tries to pronounce some unmentionable part of an unmentionable animal they are about to order from the menu. Then, they ask, “And what else? Like what do work as?”

Right. I mumble that I write.

Now, writers can be village postmen penning letters to a beloved spouse in a distant city… “Chunnu ke pitaji, hiyaan gai-bhains sab kusal-mangal hai. Jagdisva ka pairan ma moch huvai, sasura peid par chadayee gaya. Aur haan, bahut laaj aave bolna ka, par aapai ki marji se huva…hamra paaon bhaari hai. Jab gaon aavo to peepermeint lana na bhulvo. Chunnu ko bahut pasand hai. Hiyaan sab yaad karat hai…”

Or writers can be researchers working on dissertations with big fat Greek wedding type sounding names like ‘An Intestinal and Infinitesimal Analysis of Anal Retentiveness in Constipated Minds from the Perspective of Dysenteric Verbosity in the Colon’.

Or writers can be time-pass keyboardists…or part-time poets…or…you get the drift.

So, the person asking me waits and wonders which category I could belong to.

Suddenly, it strikes that maybe I could be writing those mystery novels…like ‘Shhh… koi hai’ on TV where there is a murder, rape, robbery, and the culprit is never that character whose eyes bulge out of the socket and tongue hangs out and hair looks electrified. The questioner may look at my eyes, tongue, hair to ascertain the possibility, though.

Someone even asked if I wrote like Mills & Boon stuff. Oh, I so wanted to say yes. Imagine spending your life writing about women with perky breasts that are definitely more interesting than the women, and men who are very good at inheriting money to keep perky breasts forever perky.

Finally, the inquisitor stifles a yawn and says, okay, nice meeting you…do you know Salman Rushdie? Everybody knows Salman Rushdie. Even the paanwalla, especially the paanwalla.

Now I have begun to say author. It sounds authoritative. Like I am the author of this idea. I wasn’t sure. So I looked up the contract with my publisher. It says, “This deed has been signed by the hip and happening (arrite, poetic license this) FV, henceforth referred to as the author, and Harper Collins, henceforth referred to as the publisher”.

I guess that makes me an author because someone who does authors is saying I am one.

Then comes the next step. Which is deadly, “What do you write on?” I wish I could say food, mocktails, wine, fashion, how to make hay during an eclipse…stuff like that…I stutter, “Well, my first book is on Pakistan.”

“Oh…” (face falls), or “Oh!” (face lights up because s/he has visited there for cricket matches and been in love with Imran Khan who has the bitters/Wasim Akram who has diabetes/Shoaib Akhtar who has ..ne’er mind). Last month, and this is real, I met an educated lady. She was all about how the launch went and how wonderful it is that am on the shelf (hah). She paused and asked, “So you actually went to Pakistan?”

To mess up an old saying, Poori Ramayana padh li ab poochte hai ke Hanuman Lanka gaye ya nahin.

It’s been funny moments. I don’t mind. I like introducing myself again and again. What am I?

A character…I have been written and erased several times.

- - -

I have been delayed, and some people who were supposed to post queries on my book (here) have not done so…you have some time. Or else I will use the email ones.

Want to grill me?

An inland letter arrived from Srinagar. An old reader. He says he was overjoyed to find my book in a store there. So am I.

I did not think I would end up answering queries by readers. Curiosity. Anger. Interest. Amusement. Sadness. They express it all.

It struck me that I should let those of you who wish to pose your queries do so. Right here. If you have read the book, then great. But don't get too specific and personal about the details. Those who have not may also ask what they want.

There are some restrictions. No abuses, just as I am not seeking flattery. Also each query, even if anonymously posted, must have a name/nick and country of residence. Mention whether you have read or not read.

Use the comment box on this post. I will compile them (if need be use the ones I have got via email too) and post it as an interview with your names and nicks.

Am not sure if it's a good idea but given that I am answering via email I may as well choose this space.

The initial posts on the Journey blog (linked on the sidebar) have some details.

Let's see how it goes.

- - -

This post may not be formatted as I am not at the PC. Hope technology works for me better than humans have done.

- - -

For Saturday

Song:

"Mujhe tum se kuchch bhi na chahiye
Mujhe mere haal pe chhod do..."

Weather:

November summer.

Mood:

Despondent.

Forecast:

I shall look into a kaleidoscope.

Be nice:

Hmm...er...ok...tomorrow is Sunday. Happy?

Doing me...

“Ma’am, we would like to do an interview.”

“About?”

“Just you, y’know, stuff.”

“Have you read the book?”

“Nooo…”

“Seen it?”

“Yeah. Cover looks cool.”

“So what will you ask me?”

“Stuff about your likes and things.”

“Hmm…I don’t have any likes and dislikes.”

“Aww, c’mon…if you are free we will send a photographer for a shoot tomorrow at your place.”

“What does a photo-shoot have to do with this book?”

“Oh, just stuff. Ambience, etc.”

Sure. I was getting the hang of it. Everybody I spoke to, including the serious types, told me I should go ahead.

I imagined myself curled on the sofa in the living room with the Indian flag in the background, holding a tasbeeh (prayer beads) in my hand while I gazed at a picture of the crescent and moon as a model airplane sat at a table beside me – all to convey the title of the book.

I have refused to give many interviews, some of the nature above. Even at the launch I was told a girl wanted to talk to me about the Partition. “But,” I told the person organising it, “there are people, I cannot just hole myself away.”

“It will take only five minutes.”

“Five minutes to discuss the Partition?”

Then I was told to name five books on the subject. I said not now. Fine, I was branded arrogant.

It really isn’t about arrogance, but not playing just about any game you are expected to.

One interview I did give, a fairly long one; it wasn’t carried. Wish the writer had checked with the publication about how ‘legit’ I am among certain media people!

I gave one more, this to a small web portal. The reason? It was new, the intent seemed right. I forgot all about it till I was told yesterday. It appeared in August and they have used the picture from this blog! Thankfully, they have removed the leopard eyes; if only someone had thought of taking out the half face too.

Talking of conducting interviews, I recall how much time one spent. Before the first big solo interview I did, the editor had asked me to prepare a questionnaire. I did. 60.

“How much time do you think he has?”

“As much time as it needs to finish these,” I said.

It was not meant to be cocky. If you want to probe a mind, discover something, then you have to give it time. He did. Of course, I did not stick to that structured questionnaire. And, yes, I did not know a darn thing about him. There were no search engines. I just called up several people to find out, read a bit – all this in a few hours and between completing another piece. This is how most of us worked.

I have been accused of being too hands-on, that I should delegate transcription and research to someone. I don’t know. Maybe it is possessiveness; maybe it is just replaying and rediscovering new things along the way.

Why am I talking so much about this today? A review has appeared. (I would not have known but for well-wishers who sent me the link. Thank you…)

Now, about reviews let me tell you about the one in a prominent publication. It was sent through a booktracking agency. As I read the words, they sounded familiar. I was shocked to realise that it was completely plagiarised from another review. With one original line - it said you should not buy the book. It would have been fair enough except that the full review preceding it was very positive!

A few days later, I clicked on the link and, poof, it was gone. Caught out.

This is intriguing. Why would any writer do such a thing? It wasn’t like s/he was getting a scoop, or it was a news story or something topical. It isn’t about a must-write-about thing.

Another point: When people say you are making generalisations, would they be kind enough to write out the words instead of adding dots?

I was telling this to someone and she said, “Enjoy it. This adds to the enigma.”

And here I thought enigma was a lonely hunter…

- - -

If you want to read the interview and the review, just click on the words. The latter gives quite a peek into the ‘characters’.

Baby at work

Trust the Japanese to come up with this.

- - -

AJI, my book, is now available at Liberty Books outlets in Pakistan. Also can be ordered from their website.

Cats and dogs

It is just a cartoon. But in a dog-eat-cat world, it really does not matter how big the cat is.

Taking it further, it can mean so many things…

The dog rides on the cat and shoots from its ‘shoulders’.

The dog wants to just assert itself.

The dog is just playing games.

The cat looks confused but why? Isn’t the dog so light?

If cats have nine lives, and the dog knows it, why worry?

- - -

Okay, on to other non four-legged matters. If interested, do go to the book blog for reader feedback and to hear my podcast...

What is your good name?

A friend is writing a novel. She is stuck. Not with the plot, not with the characters, not with finding a publisher. She does not know what to name them.

“You are lucky, you wrote non-fiction,” she told me.

Although mine is non-fiction, due to the sensitive nature of some political aspects, I could not disclose the identities of some people...so it was finding names. Fortunately, there weren’t many such ‘characters’. But it was really a task...someone’s real face would stare at me and I had no idea what to do about it.

Imagine if you were writing about a bald character and named him Samson? As the familiar faces came to haunt me, I tried to fit in what would sound right. I had to also keep the Sunni-Shia-Mohajir thing in mind. Whoever said non-fiction does not require creativity?

One of these hidden people got a copy of the book. Now, quite naturally, he wanted to know if he was a certain person. I said, no…but I had forgotten what I had named him. Off I rushed to my Press copy, clicked on ‘find’ and typed out one item of his clothing (yes, I like these details) and found him. Needless to say he has only read his portions! Another person did not like the name I gave her: “It is the name of one of my relatives and she is quite ugly.” Oh, well…

Strangely enough, I suspect that if I were to write fiction I’d use names of people I know. And make them into real ghoulish characters…that would be fun. (Incidentally, that is just a needling strategy, with the hope that someone somewhere names someone somewhere Farzana, with little horns, knotted hair, frothing at the mouth…here is an idea for free.)

PS: Okay, so one has written non-fiction. Now you know what the problem is? Some people who should be doing things have said, “Yeah, it is, but it is so personal.”

People want realistic characters even in novels and here when they get the real, and some really weird, they call this personal. Arre, eik-eik museum piece hai…so why do you want museums and stuff?

Omar's orgasm

I have not spoken as an "authentic" Indian Muslim voice, but my post on Omar Abdullah has got a lot of people angry.

So I watched him on NDTV's Walk the Talk show last night.

He is speaking with a forked tongue. Did he not say something about his conscience post-Gujarat? Okay, here is is talking about how he admires Vajpayee...the same man who as prime minister did precious little and kept quiet and took up for Modi in Gujarat.

All these guys are now gushing about Omar's role in national politics. He is smiling like a cat that has licked all the cream and looks doodh ka dhula hua. Let him milk the issue dry.

Have fun. As he did in his "3-minute" orgasmic speech.
- - -

Note: For those interested, a longish extract (an encounter with the poet Ahmed Faraz) from my book is in Dawn as well as uploaded on A Journey Interrupted blog.

The pigeonhole, please

Perception is a bitch; it is also a mirror.

As a mirror it can have tremendous value. But is it often intended to? What do you do with cracked mirrors, blurred mirrors – is it necessary for one to have to see oneself in them only to prove that one is open to another point of view?

As regards the bitch, how many barks translate into a bite?

I was chortling when I read somewhere that the reviewer had done a decent job but this book ought not to have been written! It is hilarious. The review is positive. So, if someone likes what I have written and is being commended for it, then isn’t it natural that he thinks I did a good job and therefore if you like what he has to say and he likes what I have to say then you must therefore like what I have to say? You can’t say, “Hey that T-shirt looks good on you, but it should not have been a T-shirt”. Weird world.

However, let me get to the real strange stuff. Apparently, writing about the identity question is a bad thing. It is passé. Oooh, I am so outdated…everyone else has completed their journeys and I am still unable to negotiate it.

Heck, if they had then they wouldn’t be spreading themselves thin over a ‘non-issue’, would they?

But, of course, an Indian Muslim Woman seems to be causing a whole lot of anguish. An Indian Muslim Woman writing about there has got to belong there.

Apparently, the term Indian is just an add-on. Sure. Ah, yes, I hear it said that the only reason I am not there is because I don’t want to let go of my jeans and expensive coffee.

This should be enough reason to laugh in these people’s faces (faeces?). Pakistani women don’t wear jeans? You don’t get pricey coffee in that country?

These are supposed to be our global citizens. The ones who don’t even know if they have an identity. Unless being incognito counts. Straw warriors.

Make hay, honey, while my sun shines.

Duh-uh...

I have promised to put up some things about the book, the launch etc, and it hasn't happened. Mainly because post-launch other things have come up.

I do not wish to reduce anyone's attempts at wanting to write about me; having been in the profession I know all about the stuff, or at least most of it.

Now, I read an interesting piece about book launches and while mine was given the thumbs up and the book was called a "tremendous and gutsy effort", I cannot imagine myself responding to a query like:

"But why did she choose Pakistan as her subject? For that reason, why are all so-called secular Muslims in India still obsessed with our cousins across the border?"

with a reply like this:

"Only because Pakistan is our neighbour and Pakistanis are our brothers and sisters."

The neighbour bit had a context, as to why we cannot explore that area, but brothers and sisters? Do I sound like I would use such a phrase that seems straight out of our old textbooks?

Anyway, it had me chuckling.

And if you want more chuckles at my expense, go to the Journey Interrupted blog for a slide show!

In search of an identity

If any of you want, here is an interview and review that has appeared in today's The News, Pakistan. Also uploaded on my other blog.

Talking of interviews, a small one appeared on July 4 in The Asian Age pull-out section. Damn, I have been misquoted so badly...when I said some Pakistanis wonder how I (as in an Indian Muslim) can live among idol worshippers and those who kill Muslims - and these were real quotes from people - the quote has been attributed to me. As in according to FV, "How can I..." blah, blah...

Such a long journey...

So, it happened. The formal book launch. And we forgot to launch the book!

There were some people already there and I reached by 6.30 PM for the 7 PM function.

Someone had told me before, “Oh, what is this discussion nonsense? I have been to 120 book readings. Authors get someone famous to read or read it themselves. Discussion!”

Yes, we had this interesting discussion. At first I read out Parveen Shakir’s poem. Then the Prologue. Filmmaker Mahesh Bhatt and academician and Indo-Pak peace activist Ritu Dewan, flanking me, co-read a few portions with me.

Detailed report will follow in the Journey Interrupted blog with more pictures.

Here, let me mention a few sidelights:

I did not know my co-panellists until the day I called to ask them two days prior to participate. May I add that several people did want to be a part of this debate; some are well-known names. I did not call them for that. If that were the case, it would have happened long ago. These are people who are known for being committed to the issues they stand up for. I shall therefore not flaunt those names here. It is more important to highlight that my city has the right attitude. None of them knew me personally. Just as I cold called Mahesh and Ritu. Both agreed and read most of the book before they got there. This shows just how seriously they took it; they could have chosen to take the easy way out and talk ‘generally’.

At the event, when I responded to something about people’s animosity and added that “There are nasty people everywhere…(pause) I too can be nasty”, this former MLA immediately shot back, “Farzana, that is such an understatement!”

Interestingly, on the crucial issue of peace measures and Kashmir, we – Mahesh, Ritu and I – disagreed; I was alone…and do believe that most in the audience was with them on this.

It was touching to see a very old man come up to me with a wrinkled piece of paper that had his name and address. “I have great respect for writers and I know your work,” he said as he handed me the chit. Or the other elderly gentleman who remembered Lahore.

The SMS I got later that said, “I was the young man with the persistent questions. I freelance and want to do a Q & A with you.” I called back the next day; he was surprised; he did not expect a call so soon. I always call back strangers (this is lest some of my friends jump in to say ‘Boo’). The reason was that he had not written his name. Later I got another SMS apologising for the oversight: “Had it been any other author it would have been the end of my fledgling career.” How could I tell him I had made many such goof-ups in my early days?

And I continue to make them. People must have wondered why I would not let go of my handbag and kept it near my feet. The reason is that I was carrying medicines and was in fact not feeling too well at all. Or the time I dropped the papers...

I could not talk to most of the people I have known; some left their visiting cards. It was touching, since I had not even personally invited them.

When the discussion was over, someone pointed out that I had not formally launched the book. So the copy wrapped in red with a satin ribbon had to be opened. The ribbon part was easy; I was gingerly trying to prise the tape when Mahesh said, “Just tear it”.

I tried and mumbled, “Must make this copy feel like Draupadi.”

It had been about two hours of reading, talking, answering…and I wanted to slump down. A Doordarshan camera appeared in front of my eyes and I had to say something; then some other channel walla wanted to know if I could speak Hindi, I said “Bilkul”, and then kept using words like “Nazariya”, “Daayra” and I thought it was quite impressive. He quickly finished his queries and said, “Bas, theek hai”. Earnest kid. Wanted me to sign a copy. I wrote his first name. “Khan bhi…” he reminded.

“Woh khud likh dena.” My pen was not quite in great shape.

I don’t know if anyone who reads this blog was there, but my thanks to every single person who attended. And to Ritu and Mahesh. I knew we are all different people and that was the idea.

I want you there!

There is a reading of my book A Journey Interrupted followed by a debate moderated by film-maker Mahesh Bhatt and academician/Indo-Pak activist Ritu Dewan.

Day: Friday July 4

Time: 7 PM

Venue: Oxford Bookstore,

Apeejay House, 3 Dinsha Vachha Road,

Churchgate, Mumbai 400 020

Churchgate.

I would like a healthy discussion about unhealthy issues surrounding the Indian Muslim question vis a vis Pakistan, so all are invited...and those who spend some time here and are in Mumbai, please treat this as a special personal invitation.

Those who wish to come with brickbats, carry your swords with care. My shield can be quite disarming…

- - -

And yes, I am quite thrilled to get a letter from the well-known artist Satish Gujral, who called up my publishers to get my email address. Here is a part of the note, with his permission:

Dear Farzana Versey,

I have read your book “A Journey interrupted”.

I am an artist, born in what later became Pakistan.

My father was one of the only two Hindu members of First Pakistan Parliament when ti was constituted on August 14^th 1947. In this capacity he was much involved in evacuating people and recovering abducted women, for more then six months after partition, and I was with him all along. I had personally witnessed the type of episodes you mentioned while reviewing film “Gadar”.

Needless to say that I was much impressed by your writing style and the way you handled the topic which is part of my life as well.

What are they reading???

I have added a separate blog for the book. The reviews are now trickling in…

Just as I perceive things in my way, others do so too. No quarrels with that. But one review had me wondering when the reader is told portions of the book are “along the lines of what Indians have come to expect from the ‘gee-whiz-they’re-just-like-us’”. Or that I have trotted out “Pakistani prostitutes and whisky-quaffing army men, high society bashes, gay designers, liberals-turned-jehadis, and the mandatory heart-warming scene at a Sufi shrine”.

This is not an opinion, it is a falsehood. I am at pains most times to point out the difference (which incidentally one perceptive reader criticised me for). There is no single prostitute, the way you understand her; no whiskey quaffing army men at all…sure the others are there, but they are not trotted out – they are a part of that culture and there are detailed interviews with such people. The scene at the Sufi shrine…ah, I haven’t talked about something life-altering. It is about someone no one would even notice.

At one point there is a reference to the ‘drama’…nothing about the intervening aspect of the indepth interview with Sheema and the other rebels.

And to think my friend in Australia wrote saying, “But you know what you have to do now don't you to make a mint? The fictional account with lots of sex and blood and beautiful people :-)”

I replied: “And what made you think there isn't any sex, blood and beautiful people in my humble offering?!Don't miss out what is between the lines...”