Something new

About a year and a half ago I started writing a novel. When I will finish writing a novel is a whole other question. Might be a good time to start a pool. 

I feel quite nervous putting something so deeply personal out here in cyberspace, but if I ever actually want to publish fiction I guess that means I have to let people read it. Thoughts and comments are more than welcome. 

So here is an excerpt from the very first chapter ... here it goes ... and I will muster up the courage to paste the contents of it ... now!

Karachi moved beneath me and moved me along with it. Its warmth grew everyday. It seemed to liquefy every object within its jurisdiction. It stuck to you, and sucked you into its orderly chaos. It was this sticky heat that seemed to have consumed all my thoughts. My thoughts fell out of my ears and once the chaos stopped for a few minutes, all I had was scribbles and giggles.

I confidently started to write “the” on a clean page hoping it would inspire a sentence to follow when my bedroom door swung open.[1]

“Chai[2] time?” 

John stood in the doorway, somehow looking fresh as ever in a white tee and jeans faded the perfect amount to be considered cool. I quickly glanced down at my own appearance: a baggy linen shirt and tights. My dark brown hair defied gravity, as if I was consciously trying to get my waves to reach out to the world when in reality I merely stopped fighting the humidity. Along with my hair straightener, make-up also ceased to be a friend. Most of my lipsticks created a beautiful earth tone at the bottom of my make-up bag once they melted.  I felt too gross to consider that I might actually look cool.[3]

“JOHN! How many times have I told you? Common space is fine to pester me in but knock before entering my private space.  Helloooo I’m a woman, living in a house with boys I never chose to live with is bad enough let alone you-“

He interrupted my rant, “You are setting women back with your ‘I-am a-woman-treat-me-like-a-flower’ talk while you are writing away about elevating the status of women in this society through following a path of sustainable economic development.”

I thought about this for a minute. I hated John for challenging every little thing I said and contorting my words into opinions that went against those beliefs that lived at my very core – otherwise known as my unwritten thesis.

“Let’s just have chai.  You can sort your curiously contradictory ways later.”

I followed John into the kitchen where he made chai. Somehow as an American living in Karachi for three years he learned how to make chai better than me, a self-proclaimed Pakistani that rarely tagged on the Canadian bit unless I needed a visa for some place controversial.

“How’s your work coming along?” John asked as we sat in the only common area in the house. It was a long room with stark white walls and a few colourful paintings done by street artists the four of us living in the house pitched in money to get framed.  John and I each took seats at the unnecessarily ornate dining table.

I put a finger to my lips and shook my head vigorously. John understood this type of day. Just last week he went on a rampage while reviewing the first two chapters of his work. His entire six foot being stomped around the house like a madman tearing up each page in exactly eight pieces.[4]

His green eyes moved about as though he was physically searching for something to talk about when finally they lit up. “Want to watch the test match? Starts in an hour.”

I let out a deep sigh. No matter how many times I tried to explain to John, he never quite digested that just because I was Pakistani didn’t mean I pledged allegiance to the one thing all Pakistanis could actually agree upon – their cricket team. In fact, I didn’t even understand cricket. I watched snippets of matches when I was younger with my father mostly when I thought there was a crush-worthy player on either team. I did not discriminate.

“Samar, you have to immerse yourself in your environment. I am aware you don’t enjoy cricket, but view it as part of your research. Be one with your own!”

His eyes were wide and had sparkle in them as though he was Martin Luther King delivering his “I have a dream” speech.

“I have been the culture since landing. I eat all the same food, I shop at all the same markets. I go to women’s shelters, hospitals, orphanages, government offices, aid agencies and transform clients into human voices. That is my work.” I snorted, “John, you think your lens becomes more genuine because you’re one with the people watching cricket? You don’t see the neo-colonial relationships you create, the way people follow your every step, never missing an opportunity to call you sahib.” I played the race card. It was cruel but needed to be done to shut him up.

“Listen miss-I-think-my-skin-colour-legitimizes-me-” Thankfully I was saved from his impending monologue by a banging on the gate door. John shot me a nervous look.

“Well, go on. I am just a simple, defenseless woman afterall.” I batted my eyelashes to annoy him even further.

I slipped up the stairs as I saw John lead a man into our academic haven that also happened to be our residence. I placed myself strategically in the hallway to be able to view the visitor without being seen. He was talking to John and dressed in a khaki-coloured shalwar kurta. Perhaps this visitor was one of John’s many local friends that he collected to prove he was truly keeping it real. For a moment, the visitor turned around as though he knew I was standing just up the stairs and I caught sight of his face.

Perfectly symmetrical.

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[1] Had I not been interrupted, I am certain I would have come up with something or other to follow “the”, but John, as you will get to know him, is a master at impeding progress.

[2] Tea in Urdu. Although chai-tea-lattes are ubiquitous in North America, the way the word is used makes little sense. Chai is tea, so why say tea tea with a shot of espresso in steamed milk?  I am lost in this awful translation.

[3] I didn’t care to look fresh and cool for John in particular, but the way his perfectly groomed appearance was worn so nonchalantly irritated me.  It’s like he was always singing anything you can do I can do better ...

[4] He was strangely systematic even when enraged.

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