Among the few Pakistani English-fiction writers who have won considerable critical acclaim in the English speaking world, Kamila Shamsie holds a respectable position. Shamsie is a graduate in creative writing from Hamilton College, New York and the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. She has written five novels and has also contributed to various publications of the UK and the USA. She has taught at Hamilton College and has been a judge for the Orange Award for New Writing and the Guardian First Book Award.

The body of work produced by Shamsie is handsome enough to merit a consolidated critical study; however, there is none at the moment. This endeavour is to fill this gap.

Shamsie's first novel In the City by the Sea was published in 1998. It is a story of Hasan, an eleven-year-old imaginative and intelligent boy, who is a son of a witty lawyer and an artist mother and is fond of Zehra, his neighbour. Hasan's calm and happy life is shaken when his uncle, a politician, gets arrested.

The main problem with the novel is its two central characters, Hasan and Zehra. Neither Hasan looks like an eleven-year-old, nor Zehra a thirteen-year-old. Consider the following: "I'm a pacifist with breasts," Zehra said archly. "That counts me out of the Round Table."

The characters appear too premature, to the point of being unacceptable. This is probably because of Shamsie's inability to distinguish between what she knew during her teenage and what she learnt in her subsequent years.

Frequently punctuated with witty repartee, the novel does not have much of a plot and at times Shamsie appears flirting with the stream-of-consciousness. Despite all its wit, intelligent charm and playfulness, In the City by the Sea is not an appealing read. It focuses on the trivialities of Hasan's life and ends as aimlessly as it started.

In 2000, Shamsie came up with her second novel, Salt and Saffron, which amply demonstrated her increased maturity as an artist. Told with the panache of a novelist, the story is about Aliya -- a character resembling Shamsie -- who has recently graduated from Massachusetts. On her way to London she meets Khaleel and immediately falls for him but her romantic advances receive a serious setback when she gets to know that Khaleel comes from Liaquatabad, a slum in Karachi. In Pakistan, while listening to elaborate and intricate stories of the "Dard-e-dils," Aliya is intrigued by another story of forbidden love. (Her cousin, Mariam, had eloped with their expert cook, Masood.)

At the heart of the novel is the complex phenomenon of social class division, which Shamsie masterfully explores. Her language is lively which makes it a charming read but her choice of words remains formal -- a tendency common among Pakistani English writers. The characters do not develop which is understandable because of several multi-layered stories.

At times Shamsie's work reads like that of an intellectual snob. Her characters quote from Greek mythology, Shakespeare and Eliot, too frequently and unintelligently making it look contrived. Even the cook is familiar with Ghalib; "Would you have asked Ghalib to write a letter to the telephone company for you?" But by the end of the novel, the reader is overwhelmed with a strong emotion. The intricacy of Aliya's emotions has been superbly articulated which shows Shamsie's craftsmanship. With its witty parallels and charming contrasts, Salt and Saffron adequately highlights the pomp and glory and sufferings of the Dard-e-dils.

Shamsie published her third novel, Kartography in 2002. The 'K' of Kartography seems to have been borrowed from Karachi. "Haven't you noticed all the Ks in business names in Karachi…"

Kartography looks like a sequel to In the City by the Sea with its protagonists, Raheen and Karim resembling Zehra and Hasan. It is an ever-fluctuating love story of Raheen and Karim. Because of lawlessness in Karachi, Karim is sent to London and later Raheen goes to America. As the narrative progresses, we get to know that back in 1971 Raheen's father was engaged to Karim's mother and Raheen's mother to Karim's father. Both the couples swapped lovers for some mysterious reason which slowly dawns on the readers.

Shamsie's third novel suffers from all the flaws of her first one, in addition to its own. Its setting in the start is similar to that of In the City by the Sea -- same aristocratic families and same over-intelligent kids. On which planet could one find a thirteen-year-old girl philosophising romance and a thirteen-year-old boy conversant with the technicalities of poetry such as metre? To a critic employing "mimetic approach" -- a corollary of the theory of "mimetic desire," developed by a French critic, Rene Girard -- Shamsie's teenagers do not appear convincing. They behave unlike their age and make the author look unskilled.

Raheen's disillusionment because of her father's ethnic remarks about Maheen has no "objective correlative" (a term popularised by T.S. Eliot in his essay Hamlet and His Problems) and appears preconceived. Like her other works, there is not much of a plot and Shamsie has tried blending political crisis with emotional setbacks. It would be an exaggeration if I say she has succeeded. Unlike Salt and Saffron, Kartography is a slow and dull read.

Despite her shortcomings, Shamsie has an admirably keen eye for detail, an extraordinary power of observation and a remarkable ability to word her observations aptly and precisely.

In 2005, Shamsie published out her fourth novel, Broken Verses, which is by far the most impressive and moving work of hers. It is a story of a girl, Aasmaani Inqalaab, who joins the Save the Date (STD) studio where she keeps getting encrypted letters by her colleague Ed who makes her believe that the poet (her mother's lover) is still alive after fourteen years of his disappearance. Coincidentally, Ed's mother, Shehnaz Saeed (a famous actress) and Aasmaani's mother (Smina Akram a political activist) used to be friends.

Broken Verses is the most readable book in the body of work produced by Shamsie so far. The story revolves around Aasmaani only which leaves the rest of the characters underdeveloped and as Peter Parker of Times Online calls them, "literary rather than affectingly human." Compared to her previous works, in Broken Verses Shamsie's attempt at marrying political and emotional are relatively better articulated.

Shamsie's latest novel Burnt Shadows is a highly ambitious (no positive connotations) attempt. Here, Shamsie seems to be a student of a creative writing course who is hell-bent to show that she could handle vast stretches of time, space, emotions and ideas.

Hiroko Tanaka loses her beloved Konrad Weiss in the atomic explosion of Nagasaki. She then goes to India to see Konrad's sister, where she falls for, Sajjad Ashraf. The novel then moves to 1982-83 in Karachi, when Raza, son of Sajjad and Hiroko, leaves for Afghanistan. The novel ends in 2001-02 with Raza having caught by the Canadian authorities for killing an American in Afghanistan.

The characters are driven awfully by the plot, which makes them loose their individuality. Hiroko's going to the US just after the bomb and later on settling there is a bit disturbing. The final section of the novel is too clichéd and the end too predictable. The deaths of the characters are all narrated in the same detached manner, which does not shake or impact the reader as the death of a character should.

Shamise's prose is clear, precise but not distinct. In a recent interview (Dawn, Books & Authors, April 26, 2009) she was asked if her style of writing has changed. She replied, "I think it changes with every book.' Notwithstanding Shamsie's statement, an intelligent reader could find striking similarities in her works: employment of cricketing parallels; unintelligent usage of Greek mythology; a preference of formal words over informal ones; characters going abroad; her poor knowledge of Urdu; the same ambience; characters quoting Shakespeare and other classics; bougainvillea and hibiscus; witty repartee; sameness of characters -- Hasan, Aliya, Raheen, Aasmaani and Hiroko; and the same style of narration.

Most of her novels are slow reads attempting a marriage of political landscape with emotional developments. Her central characters are mostly the-only-child of their parents who are artists, painters, teachers and the like. In all her works, we find her characters having a penchant for etymology and languages.

One could suggest Shamsie to give her opinion some serious second thoughts. To Julie Myerson of the Guardian Shamsie "belongs to a clutch of young novelists just crying out to be edited -- to be persuaded to let go of a few of their tricks…" The problem with Shamsie is, she loves writing but seldom has a story to tell.

It is rare to see people getting animated about writing, but as of late, the 'Life's Too Short' Short Story Prize has sent a wave of excitement through Pakistan that is usually only seen when books are burnt in large public gatherings. So what is the competition all about?

Being judged by three of Pakistan's leading writers, Mohammed Hanif (A Case of Exploding Mangoes), Daniyal Mueenuddin (In Other Rooms, Other Wonders) and Kamila Shamsie (Kartography, Burnt Shadows), the 'Life's Too Short' Short Story Prize was launched this year by columnist and editor Faiza S Khan, with the help of bookseller Aysha Raja, and aims to unearth talented Pakistani writers.

Sponsored by the ZZ & Zohra Ahmed Foundation, a philanthropic organisation, 'Life's Too Short' will not only award prize money to the three top winners, but will also publish some of the best submissions as an anthology.

With Pakistani writers winning accolades and acclaim both locally and internationally, it is hoped that the competition will not only help writers emerge out of the woodwork, but will also give them a chance to get their work judged by authors that may otherwise be inaccessible to them.

Faiza S. Khan says she started the competition out of sheer curiosity; "to see who was out there but not from our bubble. Because I keep reading about the same sort of experiences, all largely by people I know socially. I already know their story, time for something different please. So I really wanted to get a wide range of people to write, so that we can read authentic and not manufactured experiences."

One wonders if the judges were as excited as Faiza was about the competition. "They were wonderful," replies Khan, "Hanif instantly agreed, Daniyal was happy to do it, and Kamila replied in the affirmative so fast that I thought my e-mail to her had bounced back."

Khan says that what changed the notion of the competition into reality was Aysha Raja.  "The fact that her bookshop (The Last Word), which caters to a really sophisticated palette was doing well was a sign that there are enough people out there to make a success of a home-grown literary endeavour. There are enough discerning readers to keep a great bookshop going, so why assume that there aren't tons of potential authors out there?" Other than that, Aysha's enthusiasm, energy and enormous resourcefulness have made this project go from a good idea to a surefire success."

So have the entries that Khan and Raja have received so far been from the same group of people who are currently established writers, or are a diverse collection of people participating in the competition? "It's definitely a diverse group. There have been entries from published writers and some people whose names I can recognise from the local press. But otherwise, it's a swathe of people who are coming to this for the first time. Not writing, but publishing. We have an entry by a woman who used to write short stories before she got married and then left it, and has now come back to it in her 60s just because of this competition. It's an extremely good feeling."

What happens after the competition ends then? Khan says that she would like to see the good entries form an online literary journal and for the competition to be an annual event so that writers know there's always somewhere for them to send their work. "What I really want is for us all to discover a great new voice, who wouldn't otherwise have the opportunity to be read by so many people and by other writers, agents and publishers who can provide very concrete rewards for their work."

Khan says she wants the 'Life's Too Short' Short Story Prize to become the place that people look towards for spotting up and coming Pakistani talent. Khan says there has already been a fair amount of regional interest in the competition, which she feels can only be beneficial all around. "If ever we've needed to enter into a cultural war, to define ourselves through something other than the news, it is now. Otherwise we may as well accept that people's idea of Pakistan will boil down to the superficial observations of foreign journalists."

The submission deadline for 'Life's Too Short' Short Story Prize is June 30, 2009. Details can be found on www.lifestooshort.pk

Zia Mohyeddin column

Theatre-going is a habit and once you have cultivated it, you are hooked. It is grossly unfair to suggest that only a superior or a higher class of people patronises the theatre. Audiences of plays in our part of the world have always been of two kinds: popular and particular. The popular audience is composed of those who buy tickets (and crib about the entrance price); and the particular audience is made up of those who are present either by invitation or who demand to be present by virtue of their status and position.

There are variations within and between these categories. Those belonging to the 'particular' audience are dressed more fastidiously and they tend to show a curiosity about the appearance of others. Also they tend to be annoyed if they find that the best seats which they expected to be reserved for them have been occupied by those who have paid for them.

And what are the characteristics of the popular audiences? Well, they delight in jokes at the expense of their betters: they are over-enthusiastic in their approval and exceedingly derisive in their rejection and they enjoy applauding whenever possible. Both popular and particular audiences tend to arrive late and both think that all appeals to switch off their cell phones must be ignored.

Playwrights write in a particular way at a particular time. The great Russian dramatist, Chekhov, who was way ahead of his time, wrote The Sea Gull when the audience was used to seeing nothing more than melodramatic, romantic comedies or Grand Guignol. The play was booed; the audience left well before the last act, leaving Chekhov so down-hearted that he vowed never to write another play.

It was not that Chekhov was unaware of the concerns and preoccupations of the Russian audience of the time, or the common concerns of their time and place. The play had been presented, in Petrograd, by a bunch of actors and actresses so unused to delivering the poetic realism inherent in the play that it became a mockery. The same play presented at the Moscow Arts Theatre by Stanislavsky, a few years later, was a smash hit.

Gathering for a play, as audiences, we involve ourselves in the chief theatrical convention. We agree to assemble in a building which is usually called a theatre (but it may be a pubic or a school hall) to act as an audience. We become an audience because we are willingly to be involved in a dramatic experience.

A play is meant to be performed and not read at home. The proof of a play is in the acting and the proof of the acting is the quality of the relationship between actors and audience. This relationship has changed over the centuries and is constantly changing, but it still remains the central fact on which a dramatic performance depends. It is this central fact which is missing when we read a play at home or studying it at a desk.

An actor emphasises or modifies the words given to him by the playwright to bring to life the character he is meant to portray. Within the framework of a play, it is the actor who conjures a dramatic experience and makes what is known as 'good theatre.' He is helped by his director, of course, but he alone has the capacity to "amaze indeed, the very faculties of eyes and ears."

It goes without saying that the actors who move us do more than merely mouth their words. Dr Johnson wrote that we go to the theatre to "hear a certain number of lines recited with just gesture and elegant modulation". This is the literary view of theatre; it is reinstated by scholars and professors who feel that in the theatre the dramatist's words are all that count.

Such views have their origin in the study of the Elizabethan theatre where the words did play a much larger role. It is true that in many of Shakespeare's' plays narrative recitation did what is now done by scenery, furniture and stage business, but I refuse to believe that the great actors of the time Burbage, Alleyn, (of whose histrionic abilities we have heard from so many sources) did not break their lines by 'business'.

The scantiness of stage directions in Shakespeare's plays cannot be taken to mean that the Elizabethan actors did not insert 'business' even when the script did not insert it. The praise accorded the two actors I have referred to, certainly suggests that they did not merely recite their lines but did more with their character. Hamlet finds it astounding that an actor can give such expression to imaginary feelings that his face turns pole, tears come to his eyes and his voice breaks.

I am speaking of tragic acting. The comedies, we know, were performed by acrobats and dancers who may or may not have acquired 'reciting' as one of their accomplishments. Dr Johnson admits that the literary view of the stage is inapplicable to comedy: "Familiar comedy is often more powerful in the theatre than on the page; tragedy is always less. The humour of Petruchio may be heightened by grimace but what voice or gesture can hope to add dignity or force to the soliloquy?"

The answer is: the trained actor. The man who best helps us to see this is the actor-director-writer-thinker, Constantine Stanislavsky. Many people think of Stanislavsky primarily as the creator of a new style of acting known as the Method. What he will be remembered for will be his approach to acting -- in any style. The minimum requirements of good acting, he tells us, are to put words in their place. The place of the words is in the mouth of the actor, and, beyond the mouth, in his mind. It is the task of the director to sink the dramatist's words into the actors, and then help them to hoist them out again. When the actor has learned to subordinate words to the context from which they spring, he is able to create for an audience "the illusion of the first time."

It is thus that the audience receives the words springing from a situation and from a character. How many of our actors can do that? How many of them have the capacity to amaze the faculties of eyes and ears? I can name five: Munawar Saeed, Mohammad Qavi Khan, Rahat Kazmi, Salman Shahid and Talat Hussain. I have listed them in the alphabetical order so as not to injure their vanity about billing. (There are others, no doubt, but because their talent has not been honed in the theatre, they tend to 'recite'). In judging them, I have followed a simple syllogism: all good acting has more to it than recitation. The above mentioned people are good actors, therefore they do not recite.