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review Literature
together
Zia
Mohyeddin column "No," said one of them, "We are neighbours."
The
Reluctant Fundamentalist By Saeed Ur Rehman Mohsin Hamid's 'Moth Smoke'
marked an impressive debut. As a storyteller he made a point by using multiple
points of view and narrative voices and a clever, though somewhat too
perfectly planned, twist at the end. Though the experimentation was useful in
unearthing the numerous layers of an Still, if compared with 'Moth Smoke', though it is not fair comparison, for they deal with very different subjects, 'The Reluctant Fundamentalist' is a more mature performance and tells a story of greater significance. What is immediately apparent is that Mohsin Hamid has developed an extremely controlled way of telling a story. The flaunting of literary tricks and self-reflexive cynicism of the multiple narrative voices are absent from this story. Instead, Hamid has done something which many Pakistani writers, especially those who write in Urdu, should learn: the art of understatement. The deceptively easygoing narrative of 'The Reluctant Fundamentalist' is about global geopolitical alliances and civilisational solidarity. In Anarkali Bazaar, our narrator, Changez, meets an unnamed American at a restaurant and proceeds to tell his story. The name of the narrator, because of the built-in pun (many internet-chat users prefer to use a 'z' instead of an 's' to pluralise words), somehow gives away the plot of the novel. Changez begins to tell his story in the first person and Hamid limits the voice, narration and commentary to this narrator. Not even once, we hear the American interlocutor. The reader only accesses the American as his words are echoed in the questions or answers of Changez. As far as storytelling is concerned, this device works perfectly and its deployment is superb. The politics of using this device are even more interesting. For the first time in Pakistan's intricate and messy relationship with the United States of America, we have a scenario, though fictional, where the American listens to the Pakistani for such a long time. The American voice is missing or is only present through the Pakistani voice. The various ramifications of this fictional interaction are healthy for Pakistani literature as well as Pakistani identity. What is not very encouraging is that the narrator ultimately ends up believing in the division of identities. Either one can be subsumed in the West or withdraw into fundamentalism. This either-or problem is solved reluctantly by an intellectual rejection of the West (represented here by the USA) and uncritical solidarity with the Orient (represented by Pakistan): hence the title 'The Reluctant Fundamentalist'. The rejection of the USA by Changez is even more disturbing when one considers that he is an extremely successful financial analyst working for an elite firm in New York. Changez's rejection of the USA is different from that of a Mullah. Changez does not withdraw from his Western life because he has found religion as a zone of ultimate comfort but because he is not happy serving a civilisation which does not respect his culture of origin and because the USA is a shallow country (this is suggested in a discussion of the fake grandeur of the ersatz Gothic architecture of Princeton University). This dissatisfaction with many things American is not helped by a doomed love-affair with a psychologically fragile American girl named Erica. Changez's growing uneasiness with America intensifies when he becomes a target of a racist slur as his opponents mistake him as an Arab. Changez displays his capacity for potentially murderous rage, which is perhaps the most tense situation in the narrative. Even this incident does not lead to direct violence. It is a success of Hamid's understatement that it unnerves the reader with hints of, what sociologists term as, structural violence. The main resolution of the narrative comes at a location which is neither Pakistani nor the United States. On an assignment to Latin America, Changez meets an elderly publisher who provides the necessary epiphany for Changez to choose his sides. Changez sides with his culture of origin and gives up his role as globe-trotting mercenary of American capitalism. All this makes fine storytelling: an easy grace, an unputdownable narrative, the familiar cultural and civilisational forces pulling and pushing the loyalties of Pakistanis everywhere in the world. What is disturbing about Changez is the way in which he reflects many Pakistanis who believe that the world comprises of two neat halves -- the West and the East -- and the twain will never meet peacefully. In this context, the schizophrenic split personality of the fundamentalist self as captured by Mohsin Hamid becomes very astute. As a depiction of the clash of fundamentalisms (to borrow a phrase from Tariq Ali), it is an excellent achievement. If one wants to learn something about how to question the civilisational divide, one has to turn to other books which help one question the solidity of identity labels. This book is a realistic depiction of those people who suspend their questioning in order to reach definite conclusions. (The author is a researcher at Zentrum Moderner Orient, Berlin) Literature
together
By Ali Sultan "Saadeqain, you see, was a great showman,"
Sarwat Ali smiles. Sitting in an office, Sarwat Ali reminisces the time when
he was a student and president of the English Literary Society at Literary societies, especially in campuses, are usually a small groups of students who gather together to discuss a piece of literature in depth. The discussion is guided by students' response to what they have read. You may hear talk about events and characters in the book, the author's craft, or personal experiences related to the story. Literary societies provide a way for students to engage in critical thinking and reflection as they read, discuss, and respond to books. It also encourages them to write prose and poetry, listen to guest lecturers such as writers, artists and scholars talking about their craft and experience. Collaboration is at the heart of this approach. Students reshape and add onto their understanding as they construct meaning with other readers. Finally, literature circles guide students to deeper understanding of what they have read through structured discussion. In the 1970's, literary societies in colleges were at their zenith. Colleges such as the Dyal Singh, Oriental College and Government College were famous for their literary societies. "There were so many eminent personalities that came to speak to us," says Sarwat Ali. He recalls people such as Intizar Hussain and well known critic Sajjad Baqir Rizvi coming and holding discussions. "The greatest day, was when Faiz Ahmed Faiz came and recited poetry for the students and then had a talk." Literary societies have a long history, dating back at least as far as Ancient Greece when their philosophers, the primary poets of that era, gathered in the streets to discuss and debate. "The main purpose of having a literary society today is to find new creative writers and to groom them," says Asghar Nadeem Syed, an eminent playwright who heads 'Majlis-e-Iqbal', one of the oldest and revered Urdu literary society based in Government College. "It is a place where students can read literature and poetry, where they can participate in criticism and also write." Asghar Nadeem Syed feels that a literary society imparts a vision of Urdu language and how it has changed its dimensions through so many different literary movements. Asghar Nadeem Syed emphasises: "Not everyone can be a writer or poet, but at least one can become well versed in literature, and can enjoy the meaning of a verse or a poem. The purpose of a literary society is to enjoy language as an art form; it becomes a part of one's personality." "The biggest drawback of writing is that you have to do it alone," says Ahmed Sarfraz. Ahmed Sarfraz is a third year student of psychology who is also a member of Majlis-e-Iqbal. "Being in a literary society means I can share my writings with my peers, which means that I get an immediate feedback and healthy well-meaning criticism." Rabia Afzal, a BA honours student, enjoys poetry. "It's just a great experience. Reading poetry with others has changed my perspective. When one verse used to mean just one thing, now being in a group and analysing it means that it can have so many different meanings."
A teacher having spotted in her class, two children looking alike, asked, "Are you twins?" "No," said one of them, "We are neighbours." My wife must have found it hilarious because she came into my study and read out this, newest joke that she had received on her mobile telephone. I was in the midst of a thoroughly absorbing chapter titled, 'The Sociology of the Novel'. "Why do the twins say we're neighbours?" I asked, in total bewilderment. "Because they..." but she stopped, pursed her lips, and left the room giving me a reproachful look that left me in no doubt that she thought I was being deliberately cussed and that this was not the first time that I had decided not to share a joke with her. The most notable and sudden change in our urban society is the advent of the mobile phone -- or the 'cell' as the more upmarket people refer to it. Everybody seems to talk on the mobile phone all the time, mostly telling each other where they are, or reading out the latest, risque, Sardarjee jokes. Television commercials keep showing us glamorous images to prove that communication has been made increasingly simple and extremely inexpensive. But what has it done to our lives? Most people I know spend half the time trying to look for their lost mobile phones which they have left in a shop or in a friend's office; the rest of their time is taken up in informing their near and dear ones that they have found their beloved 'cell'. Judging from the number of mobile phones that are snatched everyday, it's a wonder that they are able to locate them. In all the emerging Third World countries, a new technological gadget, like the mobile phone, is a wonder of wonders. When it was first made available in Pakistan, the affluent few, who could afford to buy one, carried it in hand much in the manner of the gay fops of yesteryear, who held the round tin of 50 State Express (999) cigarettes in their right hand. They gave up the practice when they realised that every Tom, Dick and Harry had acquired one. The toffs now assert their one-upmanship by acquiring a 'phone' which has "an in-built digital TV tuner with added DRM encryption features allowing for faster file transfers over the initial MMC speed." Don't ask me what MMC speed is. I don't even know the meaning of encryption; I am only quoting from an ad. But I have seen people proudly telling others that their Telebit Tuner card enables them to have access to a whole mobile broadcasting service. Why they should want to listen to the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra on a mobile phone is beyond me. My aversion is not to the mobile phone but its users, who never think of turning it off when attending a live performance. (Fear of death alone persuades them to make it dysfunctional during a flight). On all other occasions they blithely ignore the instructions to switch them off. The 'mobile' has become the wrecker of many of my solo performances. Only last week in Lahore, smack in the middle of my rendition of a particularly evocative poem by Louis Macneice, the screechy sound of a 'mobile' burst forth from within the confines of a lady's handbag. I was dumbfounded; the host of the evening had made repeated requests for all cell phones to be turned off before I came on the stage. I stopped reading. The lady picked up her bag from the floor and fumbled through it. It may have been the deathly silence or her own inner embarrassment, but she was unable to locate the little beast. The phone went off on its own. She heaved a sigh of relief and was about to put her bag on the floor again when the man sitting next to her mimed that she had better turn it off or it might ring again. I was informed afterwards that the lady said it wasn't her fault; she had come in late and had missed the announcement about the mobile phones. I ask you. Women chat to each other for hours over the telephone. Even women who are happily married seem to become unhappy if they don't have time with their women friends. It is generally believed that one of the things men cannot provide to women, is the capacity to listen to them, not just listen vaguely, but listen genuinely. Consequently, when she has a problem, a woman will talk to a woman friend (over the 'phone') and she will listen for any length of time, and be sympathetic. One of my students submitted a play to me recently in which a woman character says. "I have to be on the phone. If I talk to him (implying her husband) he will try to fix my problem. He will present solutions which I have already rejected. Men have this strange notion that they can fix everything up. Let me tell you something, if there is a leaking pipe, or a window to be fixed, talk to a man, but if you are in a bit of emotional turmoil you have to talk to a woman." My student's play is about a family in which the mother, the central character, who is involved with all kinds of social activities, is losing her grip on reality. She cannot confide in her husband, who is much too busy with his business deals. Her grown-up children, when not partying, are engrossed in their computer games. They seldom sit down together for a meal, prepared by the cook, because they find it to be greasy and desi; they prefer sending for a pizza or lasagne. The mother is steadily going downhill and she spends hours talking to her friends over the telephone. The telephone, indeed, is the catalyst. The play is much too desultory in its growth and needs to be knit together, but the idea of the telephone, in particular, the mobile telephone as a palliative in our new urban culture, is fascinating. The computer is our latest plaything. Most of us, in the big cities, sit at home with the screen linked to a telephone line. We never talk to people except on the screen or on a mobile phone. The home is no longer the centre of life. In today's soundbite culture, education is pared down to what is strictly necessary. The email generation feel that they don't need to know very much because it is all on the computer. They don't need to learn about Sophocles or Ibn-e-Batuta because you just have to log on to batuta.com, but when the mind no longer becomes the processor of information, you don't have any creative thought. |
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urban nightmare called Lahore, many reviewers considered the novel to be a
brilliant tale which reinvented common symbols in Urdu literature for our
postmodern age: the moth, the flame, the feuds of Mughal dynasties and the
intoxicated lovers were all used for depicting an unhinged contemporary
Lahore. Through this reuse, the novel laid bare the frenetic, drug-infused
shenanigans of the elite of Lahore. For the novelist, it won him the Betty
Trask award.
Government College in 1973. "When he came to Government College to have a
discussion with the students Saadeqain was wearing a sherwani and hauled some
of his paintings on a donkey cart. He himself was one of the most animated of
characters. During his speech Saadeqain would often go silent abruptly, stare
through the thick lenses of his spectacles at the captive audience, and start
up again. It was quite a performance!" he adds.