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.
[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.
