December 2010


DECEMBER 24, 2010

Stories We Tell

Hasan Altaf

Reading about Pakistan has become, for me, a fraught experience. Every time I see the country mentioned in a headline, my first reaction – the news or analysis being so unending, and so uniformly disheartening – is to hold my breath. I don’t know how other people interpret our current ticking-time-bomb situation, but to me, it feels like a particularly bizarre and dramatic existential crisis, dragging on and on without end. I can never resist the articles, but it’s an exercise in masochism.

For that reason, I was both eager and anxious to read two recent collections of Pakistan-centered writing. The cover of Granta’s Pakistan issue, designed like one of the brightly painted trucks that were the representation of our country in what seems like a happier time, was a pleasant surprise; by itself, it did a great deal to alleviate my nervousness. The Life’s Too Short literary review was impressive for its novelty, its uniqueness – and its sheer audacity, too: In the middle of the madness, life goes on, life is lived, and life is always too short.

Beyond theme, the two collections have little in common, and they leave the reader with very different impressions. At first read, Granta seems more familiar, more in sync with other contemporary coverage of Pakistan. It’s not all beards and bombs, but none of the pieces seem too far away from the country we read about every day in the New York Times or the BBC – it has that sense to it, of bated breath, of decades of decay, of disaster around every corner.

The other anthology is kind of jarring; reading it, you would never know that this country has become a war zone, a deathtrap, a state whose list of failures grows by the day. In these stories, Pakistan is just a place, where people live and die, get by or don’t, fail and succeed, love and hate – as people do everywhere, anywhere. These are really the more familiar stories: what we did today, where we went, where we came from – but in the context of Pakistan, somehow I did not expect such ordinariness.

It would be oversimplifying to say that the difference between the two is that of macro and micro, capital-H History and ordinary stories. It’s more likely that the collections simply reflect their different intentions. Granta is geared to the “international market,” which in this context means, I imagine, the Western market, and that market has certain expectations from Pakistani writing. The Life’s Too Short anthology will probably not be read as much, outside of the country, and so does not have to meet those expectations.

There is a semantic difference, too, which is important. Granta published a Pakistan issue: The theme, the unifier, is “the country” itself, whatever that means, Pakistan as a concept. The other, when it advertised earlier for submissions, asked for writing “by Pakistanis,” and on its cover highlights writing “from Pakistan.” Granta takes the concept of Pakistan and examines it in light of our current situation; the other creates a Pakistan, or many Pakistans, out of the lives and stories of Pakistanis.

Given that they are engaged in such different projects, it doesn’t make sense to me to really measure the two collections against one another, but reading them together made me think about what it means to be writing, now, about Pakistan. Cynical as it may sound, this is an excellent moment to be a Pakistani writer: The mess and the mayhem make a fertile ground, and there is, for now, always someone willing to listen. This comes, though, with a kind of responsibility, or if that is too strong a word, a set of expectations and considerations that other writers do not have (although most corners of the world have been or will be in this strange spotlight at some point). What we say about the country now has a resonance that it would be foolish to deny.

I don’t see how anyone writing about Pakistan now, writing anything, could fail to at least indirectly touch on the current situation; it would be like writing about Atlanta in the 1800s and never mentioning slavery, writing about Europe in the 1940s without even hinting at a war. This is our environment, now; violence is part of the fabric of our lives, more so than it was before. But a story made up of beards and bombs, with perhaps an honor killing every now and then for spice, would be an uninteresting polemic with little to say about reality. It would be writing directly to an expectation, giving some readers exactly what they want and expect – and if that’s all it does, then what would be the point of writing?

People confront the current situation every day, but in small ways; the war may be general, but the battles are specific. A father whose son is disappeared; a child whose mosque is suicide-bombed or drone attacked into oblivion; a woman trying to drive across a dysfunctional city; even someone waiting for hours and hours for their lights to come back on – these are the battles, the small, individual ways in which Pakistanis live Pakistan. In some pieces in the Life’s Too Short anthology, the situation lurks like this, as background noise, part of the set – but never the star.

So perhaps we have a dual challenge, a double responsibility. In writing, the important thing is always going to be the particular, the individual, but ignoring the general would be disingenuous and blind. Maybe successful writing about Pakistan has to speak to both these challenges at once. Because both are important – no individual exists alone, and there is no experience that is without context.

In Create Dangerously: The Immigrant Artist at Work, the Haitian-American writer Edwidge Danticat touches upon the difficulty of this balancing act. When the place you’re writing about has become such an “issue,” then of course your work will be interpreted, by some, in that light. But for writers, the unique and the particular have to be the focus. She quotes a letter she wrote to a character in one of her earlier books: “And so I write this to you now, Sophie, as I write it to myself, praying that the singularity of your experience be allowed to exist.” The singular has to come first – for writers, at least, a bottom-up approach makes more sense than a top-down.

It’s a difficult balance, a tightrope act in which falling to either side is dangerous. In my view, one of the strongest masters of this art is Joan Didion, in her fiction and, especially, her essays. Books like Slouching Towards Bethlehem, Where I Was From and even Political Fictions tell stories, individual stories, particular stories, and somehow a larger theme emerges. Her books say something about an era, a place, a culture, while allowing singular experiences the right to exist.

We read a writer like Didion, now, with hindsight, and this kind of balance is much harder to do in the moment, especially when the moment is so bizarre, but I think this may be the only way to really deal, on paper, with Pakistan. You can’t write about Pakistan and get to Pakistanis – it has to be the other way around. Pakistan must be approached as Pakistanis, through Pakistanis, through singular experiences, through the stories we tell ourselves. We need these stories, even if they are never written down and exist only in words over coffee or just in our heads. These are the stories that get us through the day, through the “situation,” through the concept.

Posted by Hasan Altaf at 10:18 PM | Permalink

 

Ten Best Books of 2010

by LAPATA on DECEMBER 20, 2010 ·

In December, it is the custom of taste-makers everywhere to create lists of the ten best things of the year. Taste-makers, aware that they will be called upon to perform this task, work hard throughout the year winnowing through possible entries into this category so they will be prepared by December to do their duty by the public. We are sad to report that no one at Chapati Mystery has properly planned ahead for the preparation of lists of the best things of 2010. But when we read lists drawn up by other people, and find names of authors we have never heard of such as a gentleman named Jonathan Franzen, we feel it is incumbent on us to create a list of our own. We must admit we were not paying much attention to whether or not the books we were reading were published in 2010. We could perhaps instead attempt to make a list of ten best movies, or ten best Broadway musicals, but we feel we have not engaged with these media with sufficient rigor. And so, with all good holiday cheer, we bring you instead our list of the ten best books we happened to read in 2010, regardless of when they were published.

(This list is alphabetically, and should not be taken as a countdown, or up)

  • Ali, Agha Shahid, The Veiled Suite: The Collected Poems. The first time I carried it on the S-Bahn, I remember complaining about its heft – and its hard-cover. Then I opened it randomly: We shall meet again, in Srinagar,/by the gates of the Villa of Peace,/our hands blossoming into fists/till the soldiers return the keys/and disappear. Again we’ll enter/our last world, the first that vanished/in our absence from the broken city. I have never carried a lighter book with me. On ride after ride, I have reached for it, read a poem, a half-poem, two verses, a hint of a mood. Long ago, in another city, faced with another new beginning, I approached Faiz as a talisman, a mantra. This hardcover of Agha Shahid Ali fits the contours of my hands. (sepoy)
  • Asad, Talat & Mahmood, Saba, Is Critique Secular? Those crazy kids are at it again! Formidable scholars Asad and Mahmood give us the low-down on secularism, critique and the Danish Cartoontroversy. Make yourself the toast of any cocktail party when you smite down fellow party-goers’ paeans to secular critique with these erudite arguments! Additional essays by Judith Butler and Wendy Brown can be skipped. (lapata)
  • Devadasan, Rashmi Ruth, Kumari Loves a Monster. From the awesomeness that isBlaft comes a little jewel-like picture book full of Kodak moments documenting the happy romances of curvaceous damsels and a wide variety of monsters. The illustrations by Shyamare what make this a must-have item for any coffee table. (lapata)
  • DeWitt, Helen. The Last Samurai. This book, urged upon me by Jessa, rocked my world. Speechless, it made me. (sepoy)
  • Jalib, Habib. Kulliyat/Collected Poems. Zamana thak giya, Jalib hi tanha/wafa kay rastay par chal raha hai. ENUFF SAID. (sepoy)
  • Kumar, Amitava, Nobody Does the Right ThingMuch cyber-ink has already been spilled in these pages about this novel (published under the title Home Products in India). Suffice it to say, this is the great realist novel of Bihar you never realized you were missing. Oh, plus, it’s really well written, too! (lapata)
  • Life’s Too Short Literary Review. Had it just about up to here with the Granta issue on Pakistan, and even more so, discussions of the Granta issue on Pakistan? The antidote is in! This slim volume of terrifying (but not terrorist-centric) power is full of engrossing and original stories. As a major bonus, there’s also a translation from Urdu of lesbian erotica by celebrated author Mohammed Hanif. (lapata)
  • Lear, Jonathan. Radical Hope: Ethics in the Face of Cultural Devastation. Both this and Mumford, I read before, but didn’t read before, if that makes sense. This book has truly asked me some seriously hard questions – which I have no answers for, but which I might spend a decade or so trying to answer. (sepoy)
  • Mumford, Lewis. The City in History: Its Origins, Its Transformations, and Its Prospects. I literally quote this at cocktail parties. Ok, correction. I have not been invited to a cocktail party in years – but I quote this at pubs. Usually, people simply look at me “oh hai, crazy academic person.” But they don’t know that this 1968 classic is an astoundingly dark piece of work: The palace: the exchequer: the prison: the mad-house – what four buildings could more completely sum up the new order or better symbolize the main features of its political life. These were the dominants. Between them stretched the blankly repetitive façades; and behind those façades the forgotten and denied parts of life somehow went on.
    (sepoy)
  • Yashpal, This is not that Dawn. Did I mention that this novel is the War and Peace of Hindi literature? Oh yes, I did.