I've had different versions of this basic question my whole life. People ask in a hundred different ways: "Where are you from?", "What's your nationality?", "You have an accent, discuss", and my all-time favourite, "Why is your skin a different colour than mine?".
Their guesses? Depends where I am. Abroad they go with Spanish, in California Mexican falls into the mix. Once and only once, I got Native American and once and only once, Singaporean. Persians always think I'm Persian (more on them later).
I always thought it was funny watching people struggle with how to formulate the question, trying to be PC (except for the skin colour guy, he was not PC. He was, however, drunk). But what's even funnier is watching me try to answer (unless you're me, in which case it's not so much funny as sweaty).
Last week, twice in one day I was asked, and both times, I stumbled. The first time, after teaching a Bombay Jam class, someone asked where I was from. First, I groaned, then I began. "Canada. Well, yes, you did see me singing along to the Bollywood. I was born in Pakistan so I speak Urdu. Which is the same as Hindi, really. No, not Muslim. My religion's Zoroastrianism? Zor-as-tree-an."
In my defense, it's complicated. If they're not South Asian, I start with "My ancestors were from Persia but then moved to India." And already I have a problem because I was born in Pakistan (more on this later).
If they're Indian, I go for broke, "Do you know Parsis?". If they're from the right place (Bombay, Pune), they say yes, my teacher/best friend/neighbour/accountant was Parsi and we're done. If they're Pakistani, this works too, followed by my teacher/best friend was your mother's neighbour/accountant.
If they're Persian, I have learned to say with my best, most expansive Persian drawl, "I am Zaaar-thushi". Note: not Zoroastrian, but Zaaar-thushti. Their eyes light up but (and this is key) in the very next breath, I say "But you know, the ones who went to India." At which point they bite back the avalanche of Farsi they were about to hurl my way, which I cannot speak.
It took me years (and a 400 page novel) to figure out where my confusion lies. It lies in the gaping discrepancy between my country of birth, the country of my religion's birth and the country my culture became what it is today. None of those are the same. So my religion is Persian, the culture is heavily influenced by the Indian culture, but because of Partition, I was born in Pakistan. Had I been born in India, then two out of the three categories would have matched and I might have had a slightly easier time of it all.
But then, I wouldn't be writing this novel (more on that later).
Nayomi Munaweera, and I were writing together as we do most Thursday afternoons. Out of the blue, she said, "I'm organizing a reading." Her eyes flew to me across the table. "You're going to be one of my readers."
I laughed. "I haven't published yet. I can't be a reader."
She looked at me in that way she does when I talk in that way I do.
"I don't like reading out loud," I hit my head against the table. "I don't have to. You can't make me. I'm a writer, an artist, a recluse."
After I exhausted myself, she opened up her laptop and said, "You're reading."
The whole week, I cursed Nayomi. Bollywood, as it so often does, gave me solace and I sang the following song to her in my head (warning: extreme Bollywood ahead):
Weeks later, I awoke to a gloomy, rainy Thursday, the day of my first reading. I tried applying my makeup three times, wiped it off three times, reveling in the drama of the moment, planning even in my frustration the line I would one day write, "Her hands shook so hard her eyeliner cast zigzags across her lids". I drove up to San Francisco cursing the world, cursing the weather, cursing Nayomi. I thought, if I get in a horrible car accident right now, that would actually be okay with me, preferable, really, to this.
The coffee shop where the reading was to be held was perfect. The warm red walls, the Moroccan light fixtures in shades of teal and purple, the Samba music. Ordering my latte, I saw at the counter a flyer for the reading.
"That's tonight," said the cheerful barista.
"That's me," I whispered.
"You're Phiroozeh!" he said. I was on their website, Nayomi told me later.
And with that revelation, it was officially too late to back out.
I had gotten a bit carried away with the invite list and was touched by how many people came. It was like our first year in Canada, when my mum invited Perviz Aunty to my first clarinet recital out of sheer excitement at having her daughter on stage and Perviz Aunty, bless her heart, came because she didn't have the heart to tell my mum elementary school band concerts were a torture reserved for parents only. But like Perviz Aunty, my friends came, braving peak hour San Francisco traffic in the rain (which does make city folk forget basic driving skills), were excited to be there, supporting me.
My cutest friend and husband, Hormazd
L to R: Usha, Dilnavaz, Mazarin, Naomi
L to R: Nazneen, Elher, Darius, Mazarin
As I read the first line, people laughed. In a good way. Throughout the eight minute reading, they were engaged, entertained. And, I noted, these people weren't my family, they didn't have to regard my work with that particular brand of blind love your family is pre-programmed to. I was in awe. Because for the last two years (six if you want to go back to the beginning), I've been working in my head, with no idea what came next. This was my first taste of that. And it was powerful.
The most unexpected gift that came out of this experience was it gave me the kick in the pants I'd so desperately been needing. I'd been in another woe-is-me-when-will-this-torture-end rut for weeks. This reading broke that rut. In fact, in the few weeks since, I've completed revisions and am gearing up for final edits.
And what of Nayomi, the cause of all this? Over the year I've known her, she's dropped several gems-disguised-as-atom-bombs onto my writing, always using her spectacular smile and melodic voice to ease the pain. Indeed, each time she gives me a gift, it hurts because she's pushing me to do things I don't wanna. But every time I come around, beauty results.
Ultimately, I stand by my word: I hate her like I love her: passionately.
I really didn't want to become a Bombay Jam instructor. The last
time I took something I loved a step further was when I said to myself, hey, I like
reading books, why not write one and now I have two bald spots and one giant
bruise on my forehead from pulling out my hair and beating my head against a
wall from that bright idea. Despite all that, I got certified. And then,
amazing things started to happen.
In case you haven’t heard me rant about Bombay Jam, it’s a
dance based fitness program that uses the latest, hottest Bollywood tracks and engineers
brilliant routines that simultaneously incorporate the moves from the big
screen while achieving target heart rates so that you’re too busy feeling like
Katrina Kaif to notice all the calories you’re burning.
I had pictured myself getting certified, spending the winter
memorizing routines, practicing cues (stressing out) and starting to teach
early next year.
One week after my certification, at a Sunday morning Bombay
Jam class, my teacher said, “Phi, which track are you teaching this morning?”
I laughed. “I just got certified.”
“Which track?” She was not laughing.
“I don’t even have my CPR.”
“Great, 'Dhaeon Dhaeon' it is.”
And with that, she slapped her microphone onto me and hit
play.
My body began moving and words came out of my mouth. “And
clap it. Hip sway. Looking good!”
Just like that, my teacher began my teaching career. No
stress, no mess. The following week, I took on a regular gig and next week, I add
another.
I began to wonder if the same applied to my writing. It’s
been two years, nearly two and a half. Yes, it’s hard work and yes, I’m learning
as I go and no, there’s no certification program for publishing a book but
still. There comes a point when you just do it.
The other really groundbreaking event happened last night. I
was asked to sub a class three hours before it began. No time to stress, lose a
night’s sleep, did I mention stress? Again, the mic came on, the music played
and then it was over. At the end of class, people said nice things. When people
say nice things about my writing, I smile but in my head, I’m thinking, you’re
an idiot. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Last night, though, about
twenty people high fived me, patted my shoulder, smiled smiles that didn't seem
malicious or even patronizing. And I thought, maybe I should believe them.
Maybe I’m not bad. Maybe I’m good. Maybe I’M the idiot for being so hard on
myself.
Photo courtesy of awesome hubby
So it turns out this thing I was so afraid to take on has become like the aircraft that the Space Shuttle Endeavor was strapped onto as it made its way home last week. It’s pulling me along, guiding me gently to accomplish my life's big endeavor.
This book just won't finish. I'm getting closer and closer, I see that, but I'm still not done. I have to ask myself, am I being persistent or just pig-headed?
I ask myself which school of though to subscribe to (and since the teacher fled long ago, it's up to me to flail between the two trying to come up with a decision):
On one hand, writing is 0.01% inspiration, 99.99% revision. I've heard this countless times, seen it quoted by famous writers over and over again. But they're famous, their persistence paid off, so it's easy for them to talk.
On the other, they say your first novel is your worst novel, it's your second or fourth or seventh that will actually sell. It's like what I tell my friends when they're having a hard time with a guy: if it's this much work, it's not worth it. What if I should put this one into the proverbial bottom drawer and start anew?
I used to picture the line between the two as one drawn in the sand, by one's big toe or a piece of driftwood. Now, though, it's a spiderweb, invisible but for when the sun shines onto it, revealing the places it's broken altogether, the dredges that remain clinging for dear life to some unknown entity, possibly my ego.
Just when I begin to wallow in its tender tattered state, the seeming hopelessness of it all, a small, quiet army sneaks up in the middle of the night and mends it, pushes me forth. Were it not for these people (who know exactly who they are) I would have given up a long time ago.
After this entry, a dear friend offered a quote by Ray Bradbury:
“If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling. You must write every single day of your life. You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next. You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories — science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.” --Ray Bradbury,
which tickled every fold of my brain, in particular the line:
You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads.
The first library I lurked in was at the Karachi Gymkhana. I spent hours, days, years among close friends: Famous Five, Secret Seven, and on less intellectual days, Archie and the gang. It was there that I climbed the stacks like ladders, in particular the one closest to the window. At the top, I hid my favorite book (the cover bore a terribly racist depiction of Chinese men peeking out from straw barrels) so that it would still be there when I returned and I would not face the stress of an absent friend.
In Canada, the bookshelves weren't as exciting to climb but the lending limit (twenty-five glorious books at once) more than made up for it. In fact, I lurked about these shelves so much that when I applied for a job there in my early twenties, it was a no-brainer for the librarian, who had watched me grow up and had no doubt of my bookworminess.
The most titillating library I ever visited was when I came full circle back to Karachi in 2002.
I'm sure my cousin thought it would be a quick round of Frere Hall when he pulled up to its gates to show us the famous heritage building. He probably didn't expect me to actually enter the small library tucked behind the structure. He certainly didn't expect me to march on in and make myself at home.
But my feet moved of their own accord, delighting in the rickety wooden floors, the shafts of sun streaking into high up windows, lazy dust motes nearly still in the calm of the room. I passed rows of men reading the paper at heavy tables, vaguely processing that I was the only female in there, that all eyes were on me, but my feet had found their destination.
I climbed the circular stairs which groaned under my weight from years of disuse (or possibly my increased paratha/biryani/kulfi intake). I ran a finger along the endless leather bound volumes, pulled one out, breathed in the musty perfume.
A frantic librarian chased me back down- the upstairs is off limits madam- and as he escorted me swiftly to the exit, I inhaled one last time the musty air, filled my lungs till they hurt so I could carry it with me, reveling in my sublime foolery.
Today is Pakistan's Independence Day. Today, I finished the (hopefully) last draft of my novel, which is set in the country of my birth.
We all hear about Pakistan in the news, we all know the other buzz words that follow in the same sentence. But the Pakistan I remember so vividly is different.
My Pakistan was so hot that after a rigorous game of hide-and-seek in the compound, I could squeeze the sweat from my sudrah. After an evening of swimming at the Gymkhana, where I always won the freestyle at the annual swimming contest, I cradled hot-from-the-tandoor naan in my lap in the back seat of the car, head spinning from too many dives to the bottom of the pool. Once a week, I stood quivering in Sister Bergman's office at the Convent of Jesus and Mary, unable to explain how it was I'd lost my Blue House badge yet again.
On the night we left for Canada, my best friend, Mehereen, and I stood in the passage of Nani Nana's house in front of the lattice work through which I had always been able to see her apartment, hugging and crying our goodbyes.
I went back twelve years later to a different Pakistan. Each day brought forth a torrent of memories, wave after wave of things that no longer were. I wasn't allowed into the pool area of the Gymkhana without a member accompanying me (no one cared I'd been the free style champion from 1986-90). We weren't allowed to enter the Convent our first two tries; Mehereen had moved away. It was a trip filled with nostalgia long felt, wishes not quite fulfilled, not fully understood in the moment.
Years after that, I began to write a novel. My main character decided to go to Pakistan. I tagged along to show her the way.
I know it's a place of perpetual turmoil. I know the political history, the literacy stats, the predictions for its future. I know that when I tell people where I was born, they judge me. I know that whatever I've made Karachi out to be in my novel comes from a place of naive nostalgia, of seeing the lassi glass half full.
But what do you do with the place that holds a part of you in its dusty grip, that calls you back to its raging sea at sunset which you know will glow brighter, thanks to the pollution in the air, than any you've seen the world over? How do you keep from tearing up when you speak to your family back home, the crows nearly drowning them out, hearing the ayah- your old ayah- come in and, you imagine, get on her haunches to sweep the patterned floor with the graying chindi in great damp arcs?
Even Pakistan's Independence Day is rife with controversy. Even in my myopic state, I see that. Yet today, like many other days, it is on my mind, in my heart.
This is a wonderfully tongue-in-cheek song I discovered in my research of Pakistani pop music. Its depiction of the state of things gets closer to the truth than I've ever managed to.
They say in order to write, you must kill the critic. You know, that little voice in your head that watches every word you write and hisses into your ear how awful it all is, forcing you to second-guess yourself till every last ounce of self-confidence is depleted and you slap shut the laptop and slump before the TV. That's the inner critic, a writer's worst enemy.
I told this to a friend who was saying her writing's crap and she described her inner critic to me (in a way that proves how un-crap her writing is). Inspired, I thought about mine.
My inner critic is a prissy Parsi girl who sits atop my shoulder twirling the end of one of her perfect plaits and, squinting at my writing, sucks in her breath sharply. "Really? You think that's how Parsis are?" she asks incredulously. "That's not how it would happen in Karachi," she laughs.
I'm from Karachi, I insist. Offering me a simpering smile, she crosses her legs daintily and lists my offenses: I was a mere child when I left, I know nothing of its politics, its history, its day to day occurrences. My Gujarati comes out a bastardized hybrid of Gujrati and Urdu and the Hinglish I've picked up from Bollywood, every other sentence caught in a downward spiral of confused tenses and misplaced pronouns till I give up and finish off in English.
I continue to type. She goes in for the kill. Didn't I attended... the Convent of Jesus and Mary, she asks, patting the emblem of her Mama Parsi Girls High School uniform.
People will see you for the fraud you are, she preens, plumping the ribbon at the end of her braid. You may as well give up now before everyone finds out, she smiles, revealing for an instant the flicker of a pronged tongue.
I wait for her to slink off to do her sadra kasti- being a good Parsi girl, she does her prayer ritual five times a day- and then, while her eyes are closed in prayer, I push her into a closet and get back to work.
