I Hate You Like I Love You: My First Reading

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.

My godsend, Nayomi

The Man I Love

As promised, the big reveal from the last blog post, the man I love. The love of my literary life is Vikram Seth.

I first saw him on across the room in the center of a bookshelf: A Suitable Boy, by Vikram Seth. The sheer girth of the spine sent tingles down my own- it took up the space of three books (I have abandonment issues and really like long books, so my "friends" will stay with me longer). Vicky did not let me down. 1400 glorious pages. Family upon family, character upon character who I grew to love and hate with delicious satisfaction.

I first met him years later. The CBC Radio Book Club was hosting a talk with Vicky and you had to write a 100 word piece about why you should be selected. Best writing prompt ever. I arrived an hour early, sat in the second row (you have to play hard to get). It was the most satisfying hour of my life. Better than my first bite of masala dosa dipped in coconut chutney, better than watching the sunset bobbing on a surfboard in Trinidad, better even than the most satisfying series finale ever, Breaking Bad. Every word he uttered was a gift just for me. Every word he uttered made me laugh or cry or grunt with satisfaction.

I searched the crowd for him beforehand and it was a while before I realized the rather unkempt man leaning against the stairs leading up to the stage was Vikram Seth. He could have been a student volunteer, so casual and unpretentious was he. Messy hair, loose, comfortable, slightly wrinkled clothes. And what melted my heart was how casual he was about the whole affair. He admitted right off the bat he was tired from the book tour and wouldn't likely be coherent (not true) and it made me feel so much better that you can be human and still brilliant.

During the Q and A, I found my feet moving to the mic of their own accord.

"Feet," I said, "Sit down this instant. We are introverts, we don't talk when there are more than two people present, let alone in a group of a hundred people at an event being broadcast across Canada." But my feet didn't listen. They placed me before the mic.

I asked Vicky to sing "Awara Hoon," a Bollywood song he'd mentioned in his memoir, From Heaven's Lake. He didn't want to. The crowd made him. His voice was liquid gold. Literally- a strand of melted gold emanated from his body and coated my soul.

Afterwards, as he signed my book, I apologized for making him sing.

"Oh, you're the one," he laughed, and drew a musical note by my name. Bliss.

                                                                    ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Ten years later, in January 2014, I saw that he was attending the Lahore Literature Festival. Though I had been in Lahore weeks earlier, I went again. I will travel to the moon for him, what's a fifty minute flight? Same disheveled hair, same unassuming manner. I sat in the first row (because the organizers wouldn't let me sit in his lap) and as the session came to an end, there was time only for one question. My hand shot up. There is something about Vicky that makes this introvert a ballsy bad-ass ( as proven by the fact I just said ballsy on a blog my mother reads).

I was given a mic. I reminded him of the last time I saw him, ten years before, and the song he sang.
"I'm sure I didn't comply," he said.
"Oh, but you did." Who was this cheeky brat, I wondered, even as I continued, "You proved that your singing is as amazing as your writing."
The audience went wild, began chanting for him to sing.
"Well, if it was in Vancouver, I'm sure I had some liquid courage," he said, pointing to his glass, "In Pakistan, all I get is tea."
I responded, "Don't worry, I've arranged for that, check your tea cup." I didn't recognize myself. I was bold, brazen, like it was just the two of us, not 1500 of us. I had never behaved this way in my life. Love does that to you.

He did end up singing a verse or so but without the gusto he'd had in Vancouver. I worried- had I offended him, made him do something he didn't want to do?

At the book signing, I apologized once again for making him sing.

And then the most wonderful two minutes of my life ensued:

He laughed off my apology, asking my name.

"Phiroozeh."

"Firozi, like your earrings."

Yes, Vicky, you worldly genius, firoze like the colour, turquoise. You see me, you know me. Let's get married.

I noticed he was writing my name in Urdu. We laughed together because neither of us could figure out how to spell the last syllable. When he spoke to me in Urdu, it was jarring because I'd discovered him in Canada,  met him there, loved him there and for a minute, I'd forgotten we were in Pakistan at all. It was jarring and it was amazing. The two spheres of my life connecting through the medium closest to my heart.

The whole exchange was so casual, so comfortable, like we were at home on the sofa, not at a national literature festival being jostled by fans wanting his attention.

I don't want much from our relationship. I'm a realist- I know I'm married and he has a partner. It's not about that. All I want is to live in his left breast pocket and follow him around the world. That's all.

Hustlin'

I have a hustle.

I'm a hustler.

I'm hustling.

"That's not how you use that word," says my little sister with that chuckle the young reserve for the old.

Maybe not, but still, I say:

My hustle: teach writing to older adults, teach Bollywood dance, and teach yoga.

It's a lot. But it's my hustle.

In the last 6 weeks, I've planned and schemed, feeling a bit schizophrenic to have three hustles and not one. But I've decided not to judge the hustle.

Now, the hustle is becoming real: Beginners' Bollywood starts in August (spread the word!). Seniors' yoga has begun, I've got several choreo stints under my belt. Writing is in the works.

I find myself 78% anxious and 12% excited. Math is not my hustle, so don't think too hard on that.

Being a hustler is many things at once:

I don't fall asleep till well past midnight. Either because I'm still working or I'm in bed, mind whirring.

I wake up convinced that no one is going to come to my dance class. Or that they will and hate it. Or hate me. Well, okay, not hate me, because I am adorable, according to (most) people I meet. But they will definitely hate my choreography or see through it and know I didn't grow up learning Bharat Natyam (Oh my God, that's not even how it's spelled!) or kathakali.

But at the same time as I imagine all the ways I will fail, I have moments of excitement, moments of I'm on the right track. Like the choreo clients who say they loved my work. Or talking about the writing idea with friends and hearing their excitement, hearing my own.

Or designing my website. ME. A humble schoolteacher from North Vancouver, BC, designing her own website? But again, I catch myself- because why not me? If I don't believe in me, how can anyone else? And you know what? The website is kind of awesome. I secretly love it. Much screaming and hair-tearing later, I have made my own website.

There is a part of me that thinks I'm dreaming too big. Or to be more accurate: who am I to dream at all?

There is part of me that doesn't think I deserve having things work out. So when things do work out, I don't really trust them. When people hire me for the job I told them I can do, I'm like, "Why are you hiring me?".

But here's the thing: I think part of hustlin' is having your initial idea, which comes from a deep and pure and real place, and then hanging the fuck onto it as you make it happen. Coz on that road from idea to product, these negative thoughts (your inner fear) are constantly trying to derail you.

This morning, I woke up thinking, I can easily cancel the new Bollywood class, it hasn't even been advertised yet. I just mailed the cheque yesterday, I can cancel it, and no one will ever know.

If I let myself cancel this first class, if I give into my fear at this first step, I may form a pattern of it. And then the hustle is over. Before it's even begun. That feels even worse than this pre-hustle anxiety.

So instead, I'm just going to lose a bit of sleep, live for a while with an elevated heart rate, up the self-care by 1000% and keep on hustlin'.

The Woman I Love: An Accidental Muse

Across the table, over a glass of red, she said, "Let's go back to the room."
We changed quickly, throwing off our jeans and slipping into Something More Comfortable.
We pulled out our laptops and began to write.

The first time I heard her name, I was hiking with my husband. Dave, my high school best friend, was in town for a computer people conference and asked if he could bring his old university friend along to dinner. I turned her name around on my tongue: Radha. I gave her jet black hair parted down the middle, a saucer-sized bindi, and of course, an accent.*

As she rounded the corner of the Santa Clara Hilton, the first thing I saw were her boots. Stocky, chunky motorcycle boots. Directly above them, a knee length skirt which looked like the gold leaf pallu of a Benarasi sari. Her forehead was disappointingly bare. We ate at an Afghani Restaurant where among the tech talk (I was severely outnumbered in the company of a Googler, an IBMer, and an Oracler), I asked her questions, tried to get to know her. I emailed her that very night, asked her to dinner.

We had a lot in common: we were both immigrants several times over, we shared a love for SRK, and then she dropped the bomb and the reason I had been so attracted to her that first night became clear: she was a writer too.

Years later, she asked if I wanted to go on a writing retreat with her. I pictured wine soaked nights sharing our deepest thoughts, most personal secrets, and maybe some writing on the side. We arrived at a wind swept hostel perched on a cliff in Half Moon Bay. She took the top bunk, opened her laptop and began typing. I went to the bathroom, got some tea, put on wooly socks. From above I heard nothing but thunderous typing. Sighing, I began to write.

Over a divine dinner, I got my wine, some deep thoughts, some secrets. She paid for dinner with a wad of cash she had received at Google for showing up to the Christmas party. (Note: I, as a teacher, had received for Christmas, ants in my classroom from all the candy the kids had eaten behind my back.)

It did not register the first time she said that after dinner there would be more writing.

"Write on a Friday night?"
"It's a writing retreat."
"I hate you."

It was not the last time I said that to her that weekend. After breakfast  the next day, we wrote. After lunch, we wrote. After dinner we wrote. I had snuck along a book and like a petulant child, I took reading breaks, Radha be damned. But every time I did, her typing rattled my conscience from the bunk above. I cursed her, put down my book, pulled out my laptop.

We did it again a few months later. Same hostel, same rules. But this time, it was a tiny bit easier to follow her oppressive schedule.

Our third retreat happened exactly two years ago: MLK Day long weekend. We holed up at the Fort Mason Hostel. More windswept scenery, but this time, we were surrounded by city folk and tourists having fun on their long weekend. She did not notice them. She did not hear the group of 30+ middle schooler stomping down the hall outside our room. She wrote and wrote. I copied her. We wondered why we were getting special treatment at the cozy candle lit restaurant where we dined. We realized it was Valentine's Day weekend. She allowed us a quick chuckle before marching us back to our room.

What happened next was a double edged sword: it was these writing retreats that she engineered that made me realize I could write all day everyday, not when the mood struck or the stars alligned just so. She inadvertently aided my decision to quit my job and write full time. Which in turn ended our writing retreats because I no longer wrote on the weekends. I think often to our waterfront hostels, the marathon writing sessions, a giggle here, a laugh there, well-deserved meals wolfed down between talk of writing, of life.

Last Friday, she accidentally pushed me again, brought the journey she had initiated full circle. I had asked her to read my almost complete manuscript. She texted that she would do it on the weekend. I had been having the hardest time finishing the last chapter, it had dragged on for weeks. Knowing someone was about to read it provided the kick in the pants I needed. I jumped off the comfy couch where I had been wallowing in self pity all morning, bought a fresh pot of black tea, and pounded the last two scenes in five hours straight.

The Bay Area, like any metropolitan city, brings people in and out of my life. Radha stomped into my life in her chunky black boots and threw my world wide open. She did it without fanfare, without expectations, just by being her fabulous self.



*The only time I heard an accent was when she was on the phone with family on one of our retreats. It was the thickest, most wildly exaggerated Indian accent I could have asked for, one I myself use when speaking to family. She hung up and blinked at me, unaware of the switch she had made. It made me love her that much more.

Bollywood Blues: Sheila Ki Jawani

Everyone may not love Bollywood but everyone knows of it. Even those of you who are rolling your eyes at the mention of the B-word know, at the very least, the painful rendition of Jai Ho by the Pussy Cat Dolls that you can name drop at parties when BTown comes up.

I listen to Bollywood music occassionally (only when I'm breathing, as King Khan said to Aish in Devdas) but, like with my BTown movie selection, I am selective with the music. The latest hit song, Sheila ki Jawani, is everything I hate about Hindi film music: the insertion of cheesy English lyrics among the Hindi, the gratuitous chest thrusts to make up for the lead actress's inability to dance, the  the lack of Shah Rukh Khan, the presence of Akshay Kumar. Yet this song is persistent. It pervaded my entire Karachi trip and continues to infest my California life.

Instance One: Every morning at breakfast, Uncle 2 blasted Bollywood videos as he passed me a steaming cup of lemongrass tea. Sheila was always played.

Instance Two: At the beach picnic, two Dad-aged men sang the song's chorus while dealing out cards in the hut. They got as far as the first line: "Sheila, Sheila ki Jawani"...then one asked the other, "What's the next line?" but neither knew. I wish I'd had the guts to tell them what it was, "I'm too sexy for you". They probably would have sung it.

Instances Three: Cuz 1's bro-in-law held Nephew in his arms and sang him this song in a perfect falsetto.

Instance Four: Nephew began singing the song, his two-year-old version sounding more like "Shee-a, Shee-a...wa-wee..."

Instance Five: I dreamed I was Sheila ki Jawani and was doing the dance that, in my waking hours, throws out my back.

Instance Six: Back in California for less than 48 hours, I found myself doing lunges and squats to the song during my ICC Bollywood workout. Everyone smiled and sang along as they squatted lower and lower.

Even me. I guess there really ain't nobody like Sheila.

But that's another quality of Bollywood (and all overplayed pop music worldwide): eventually, it wins.