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interview Flash
Fiction Zia
Mohyeddin column
interview Mirza Athar Baig talks about his love of philosophy, language, postcolonial knowledge and his debut novel Ghulam Bagh By Arif Waqar The News on Sunday: Your debut novel Ghulam Bagh was not an easy read -- the readers had to be constantly on their guard -- but still it has enjoyed a reprint within a year of its publication. It rarely happens even in popular literature in Pakistan, while yours was dubbed a highly philosophical novel. How do you account for this popularity? Mirza Athar Baig: I do not
agree with this edict in the first place: ‘not easy to read’ books,
novels TNS: Ok, then we put it differently. How would you analyze the readability factor of your novel? MAB: Readability is a fairly elusive trait of a text, a response entirely relative to the total cognitive and aesthetic orientation of the reader. The same piece of writing can be easy for one reader and a jumble for the other. Then, readability as such, has never been a touchstone for the worth of literary fiction. There had been highly unreadable classics, like Finnegan Wake of Joyce on the one hand, and a page-turner like Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera on the other. TNS: So which of the two models have you been following? MAB: None. But when I started writing this novel, I decided I would incorporate whatever I deem conceptually and perceptually important in the narrative and I will also not compromise the interest factor. TNS: But that sounds hardly simple. How did you go about it? MAB: I focused on creating
reading experiences, no matter how unorthodox, even bizarre at times, to
incorporate what I wanted to say into the total scheme of the novel. But
interestingly in most of the TNS: So you confess that your novel is philosophical. MAB: (laughs). Rather I plead guilty of philosophy. By the way, making confessions has been one of the themes of the novel as well. In fact, the philosophical elements are so deeply ingrained in the fictional narrative that they never disturb an ordinary reader, but of course by ordinary I mean a reader of literary fiction, not merely popular fiction. And here again, the deeper philosophical structures of the novel have added to its readability by creating an engaging reading experience. TNS: General public, especially young people have been buying or borrowing your book throughout the year and vibrant discussions have been reported in the students’ circles, but I have yet to see it being discussed at a serious academic or intellectual forum. What could be the reason? MAB: I will not say that there has been a conspiracy of silence against me, because then you will advise me to become a part of it, but yes there is silence or rather inaudible, hesitant mutterings and uncomfortable groaning about Ghulam Bagh among the quarters you have alluded to, and I have pledged a degh of rice at Datta Sahib, if they break their silence, because you see, otherwise, I am doomed as a writer. So help me God. TNS: I happened to meet once some students of your university who called themselves the Ghulam Bagh group. They appeared to have adopted and interiorized the four main characters of your novel to the extent that one could feel that Ghulam Bagh had become a tangible, living world for them. Their talk gave me creeps at times. Can we say that it is the beginning of some cult formation around your novel? MAB: For God’s sake, no. All of them are serious students of literature. Two of them, at least, are creative writers themselves. They are becoming rather playful about their reading experiences of the novel. What they are really interested in are the matters of interpretation and aesthetic appreciation. TNS: According to Abdullah Hussein, “Ghulam Bagh is located vastly at variance with the tradition of the Urdu novel. The technique employed is rare even in English fiction. Its roots are to be located in the European, especially French, post-modern novel”. And then he has commented on the language of your novel, “Mirza Athar Baig’s language though apparently simple, when placed in the total design of the novel acquires a vigour which is hard to be found in the nature of the traditional diction.” Are you satisfied with these comments? MAB: Well, it is not a matter of being satisfied, I feel honoured at the nice comments of my mentor. TNS: Without going into philosophical technicalities, how would you make the deeper structures of the novel understandable to the general public? MAB: Of course I cannot go into detail here, and also, essentially there should be no need for a ‘key’ for the novel from the writer’s side, but if I talk about it as a reader, as if I have not written it, I would say that the most obvious theme of the novel is the phenomenon of dominance, ranging from inter-subjective and intra-subjective levels of the individual to their collective manifestation at the historical, cultural and civilizational planes. TNS: Some critics have pointed out postcolonial themes in your novel, do you agree? MAB: Yes, at a more manifest level there are fairly well recognized postcolonial themes running through the narrative and they determine in a very marked sense the course of events. Of course everything is actualized through the immediacy of the psychic and cognitive turmoil of the protagonist which on the one hand entices him to playfully reject Western theory, and on the other hand leads him to a cataclysmic revelation of “dobarra likho” ‘write again’ implying, obviously to rewrite history and create knowledge from the perspective of the marginalized humanity, the ‘urzal naslain’ or the wretched generations. TNS: What do you have in the pipe line right now? MAB: A novella, or should we call it a novel, because it would definitely be a two hundred plus affair, would be coming, hopefully along with the collection of short stories. It is entitled as ‘Cyber Space kay munshi ki surguzushat’ TNS: A strange title that! MAB: Deals with a world, even stranger! The world as it was transformed during the last decade of the twentieth century and the first decade of the twenty first century. I have tried to understand it through the almost picaresque adventures of a software engineer with an oppressed feudal background. Then another novel--no ambiguity about that, Jamal Shumssi aur Freed Rujab Ali ki tareek duniya, is almost ninety percent complete, hopefully to be published next year. TNS: Two other areas of your career, I mean, as a teacher of philosophy, and a TV drama writer; how, and in what sense, if at all, have they affected the course and shape of your creative writing? MAB: They had indeed a profound and, at times, weird effect on my writing. That is a whole vista of experience which I have preserved for my English novels. TNS: Forthcoming? MAB: (laughs) Hardly so. Though I am fairly on my way, as far as the one dealing with my career as a philosophy teacher is concerned, but the one which would be about the television world in Pakistan, I have only the title with me so far. What a piece of luck. TNS: And what is the title pray? MAB: ‘Hold it’ TNS: (Laughs) Sorry I can’t hold it. One last question, aren’t we still in the dark about your drama writing? MAB: Yes because darkness prevails there now. But earlier I enjoyed for years the rare distinction of being the most unpopular TV drama writer, with more than fifteen drama serials and almost hundred odd plays to his discredit. Though I have learned a lot about the craft of fiction writing from drama writing but I have now ended up as a jinxed television drama writer, and my name has become synonym for a ‘sure commercial disaster’ among the TV drama producers. TNS: (chuckles). Surely a highly exaggerated account that! MAB: What else do you expect from a fiction writer? TNS: Anything in Punjabi? MAB: Don’t entice me to sloganeering please. When I shall write one I shall talk one. TNS: Going back to your college days: after your graduation in science with Physics, Chemistry, Mathematics, you drifted towards Philosophy. Literature, I guess was already there. How do you explain this diversity? MAB: You can call me a medieval type, a philosophical synthesizer, or a big mess up who is not a jack of all trades even. When I was a student, I realized education has nothing to do with knowledge in our part of the world. So I tried to keep my higher education as low as possible; a bare minimum for survival in the academic world, just for naukri. TNS: So that’s why you didn’t go for a Ph.D. MAB: (laughs). Yes, but there was another more pertinent reason as well. I wanted to camouflage my jehaalat--please don’t translate it into bland words like ignorance, lack of knowledge etc, our jehaalat is far more profound-- in less obvious ways than doing a Ph.D. TNS: Ah, thank you… MAB: (Impatiently interrupting). You have not asked me anything about my food habits, my favorite dish, and stuff like that. I have fantasized throughout my life that if I am interviewed for any reason in my life, I sure would request the interviewer to put me some such question. TNS: I am afraid my editor will not allow that. MAB: What a pity. Then do tell the readers at least that the interview was conducted in pure English; no tri-lingual mess was involved. TNS: Trilingual mess! What’s that? MAB: Some other day, sir. May be we can have a whole session on it. By Sidra Omer It was amazing to see the same thing occur. The reiteration of the same word with that expression of anger and pain. My parents’ close friends, a couple, were having problems. The husband was carrying on an affair with another woman and the wife couldn’t bear it. She sat with my mom on her expensive sofa, not having tea. “The bitch” was the name with which the other woman was referred to. That’s the only name she would ever be called. The bitch. And so as my mom and I sat
next to our seamstress in her mud-brick house, something that The words formed in the same way from where I saw it. With my mom’s friend the lips pressed together and then parted with fury and anguish. With Taj, the seamstress, they never even touched. Her teeth and tongue kept them apart, almost like she would bite the word itself. Bitch. Kutti. How could she? What kind of a woman ruins a marriage, destroys a family? What kind of a woman doesn’t leave the married man in shame knowing that the wife and family know now? Does she not fear God? May God’s wrath be on her. Kutti. The bitch. I don’t know if my mom noticed the phenomenon. She did use the same approach with Taj though as she did with her friend. “But what about your husband? He’s in it as well.” The tense angry skin gave way to this dead, pancake like face both times. What was the expression? I couldn’t tell. The expression said something like they’re men. This is expected of them. They’re animals. They have no control. Would you explain that please. And so many others tried to. They’re biologically different you see. God made them different. So they can’t possibly be held up to the same moralistic standards. Women are the ones in control. That’s why male animals are lusting all year round but babies are only made when the females are excited. If women behave properly, men will have control. So, for now, I’ve realized that’s what I will get to hear. Whether it is from the riches or the rags. The bitch. Kutti. It will be whispered. It will be screamed, reverberated. It will resound. Santa The word ‘egghead’ never fitted any one more than the late Adlai Stevenson, an American intellectual turned politician who neither talked nor behaved like a politician. He cared a great deal about the world, particularly the Third World. The yellow press referred to him as ‘Madlai Adlai’. The right wing newspapers often chided him for not being American enough. Why he allowed himself to be pushed into contesting the Presidential election – which he lost obviously – was a puzzle for most of his admirers. I was once made to sit next to him at a dinner party hosted in his honour by Lawrence Langner, the head of Theatre Guild of America. Until then, most thinking Americans that I had met thought that the best way to engage someone from the Sub-continent into a conversation was to talk about Nehru or Tagore. I was quite prepared to discuss Tagore’s effete dramatic works, but he surprised me by talking most amusingly about his visit to Peru and an ingenious method the Peruvians had devised for irrigating some of their barren lands. I was introduced to Adlai Stevenson by Santha Rama Rau, who knew everyone worth knowing in New York. Santa – as the Americans pronounced her name – short story writer, novelist, dramatist, had adapted Forster’s ‘A Passage to India’ into a play that was about to open on Broadway. I soon found out after my arrival in America that, socially, she was one of the most sought-after authors in New York. Santa’s dramatization of the Forster novel had already been much praised during the play’s run in the West-End. The audiences in London could relate to the British presence in India during the days of the Raj. But Santa was not entirely sure how an American audience would react to a play which was not a part of American history. Her friends, experienced theatre-goers, assured her that Broadway theatre-goers were used to seeing plays which had no American presence, but Santa was a little apprehensive. She knew that a West-End triumph did not necessarily mean a Broadway success. Once the play was on – and it did not turn out to be a flop – she was, invariably, complimented on its success. “Oh, it was mostly Forster”, she would say without the slightest trace of false humility, “I only did a cut and paste job.” This was far from true. She had transformed a major novel into a terse and moving two-hour play – and it wasn’t as though she had just lifted much of the dialogue from the novel and bunged it together into three acts. Her treatment of Mrs. Moore (Forster’s most enigmatic character) in the context of the play was subtle and astute. Mrs. Moore, an elderly woman, who instinctively feels attuned to Eastern mysticism is a fascinating character. She goes on walks, unaccompanied, in Chandrapore, a provincial town in India, an act that the colonial rulers consider to be nothing short of madness. She befriends Aziz, an Indian doctor, which also annoys the English authorities. Mrs. Moore remains unconcerned and, in spite of warnings, accepts Aziz’s invitation to join in a picnic to explore the Marabar caves, Chandrapore’s historical monument. It is here, in the caves, that Mrs. Moore feels an odd sense of nothingness. The echo in the caves affects her intensely. When questioned about it, she says, “Boum is as near as I can get it. Bou-oun, ou-boum – utterly dull. It undermined one’s hold on life. It said, piety, pathos, courage – they exist but they are identical and so is filth. Everything just exists, nothing has value. If one had spoken vileness in that place or recited poetry the comment would have been the same – Ou boum.” Characters like Mrs. Moore are all right in a novel where the author can describe her thoughts and subject her to analysis, but how do you put over Mrs. Moore on the stage? If you assign too many lines to her, she becomes a chatter box and the essence of her thought is diffused. If you try to set her up by having other characters describe the drift of her thinking, the scene loses its tautness. I remember a late afternoon in Cambridge when Forster treated me to tea and crumpets roasted over the log fire in his sitting room. The Cambridge Don, George Rylands a.k.a Dadie (one of the most outstanding Shakespearian scholars of his era) was also present. For some reason, perhaps because of my presence, the conversation turned to ‘A Passage’ and Mrs. Moore. “Tell me, Morgan,” Rylands said”, What did the old bat mean by that boom-boom speech?” A flicker of a smile appeared on Forster’s face”. I don’t know Dadie, I’m not entirely sure she knew what she was saying.” Then he sighed and said, “She was such a tiresome woman”. This conversation took place well after the run of the play had come to an end, but I know that Santa held many sessions with Forster over Mrs. Moore. He couldn’t help her much. The job of creating Mrs. Moore on the stage, he told me, was left to Santa. And she did a splendid job. Picking on threads she managed to create a role that leaned heavily on the inner resources of the actress (what role doesn’t?) but at the same time aided with deftly conceived dialogue that managed to be significant without getting out of character. Santa was a handsome, silver-haired woman, unusually tall for an Indian. She had an irrepressible good humour running into gestures and laughter. Her pearl-white teeth glistened as she smiled. During the day she wore Western clothes, but in the evening she was dressed in beautiful Kanjivaram saris. There was hardly an evening when she wasn’t invited out and she somehow persuaded me to accompany her. When I protested that I would be an imposition she assured me that the hosts knew about me and would be delighted with my presence. If I still demurred she insisted that she had to show me off and that she was taking me around for her sake and whether I would mind obliging her. With Santa as my chaperone, Manhattan was an unending glitter. But for Santa I would not have met Truman Capote, a weasel of a man whose resentment against the world was so deeply ingrained that he wore a permanent sneer as a guard against a hostile universe: Norman Mailer, who held court every evening, demolishing anyone who interrupted him with a choice invective. He had a huge collection of invectives. There were a host of others; Algonquin left-overs, jazz musicians, architects; I wish I had kept a diary. In my professional career I can think of many people who sheltered me, protected me and rooted for me. I cannot think of anyone other than Vsanthi Rama Ran Bowers, who went so out of her way to lionise me – and with such grace.
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especially, and on top of it those compelling the readers, as you put it, to
be ‘constantly on their guard,’ hardly get reprinted within the first
year of their publication. And almost 40 percent of the second edition is
already sold out. The popularity of the book is in fact due to its
readability, not the other way round.
cases the unusual reading experiences served as an impetus for enhancing the
readability of the text instead of impeding it. As for as dubbing it highly
philosophical, and that perhaps in a derogatory sense, has come from the
circles which could easily jump to the conclusion that, because the writer
happens to be a teacher of philosophy, in his novel there could be nothing
except philosophy. The opinion was not based on any in-depth analysis of the
novel.
resembled a shed. I couldn’t help being awed by the word “kutti”
leaving the seamstress’ mouth.