In this day and age, reading a book -- be it a novel or biography -- has become tricky. The cynicism and the disillusionment of the 21st century seeps into one's consciousness and makes one question the integrity and motivation behind every publication. Not that the integrity and the honesty of an author shouldn't be questioned, for after all the reader is taking out the time and shelling out the cash to read the book with the presupposition that it will be worthwhile. It is the nature of the questions that has changed. Before we assess the literary worth of any book, we tend to gauge its commercial success and then wonder if its just a publicity stunt to write on controversial topics to sell more books. Keeping all this in mind the books, rather the graphic novels to be pedantically correct, under review here are Persepolis1 and Persepolis2 by Marjane Satrapi.

Ms Satrapi was born in 1969 in Rasht, Iran and is the great granddaughter of Nasser-al-Din Shah (Shah of Persia 1848- 1896). She grew up in Iran with a four year stint in Vienna as a teenager before coming back to Iran, and then in her twenties she left again, for France, where she currently resides. By profession she is a cartoonist, an animated film director and an author of children's books.

Persepolis is mainly autobiographical, based on Satrapi's experience of growing up in a country going through the turmoil of regime-changes. She depicts the effects of these socio-political developments from the perception of children and then adults. Before one delves into the story, its effectiveness and higher moral themes, one must of course give due consideration to the timing of the publication and the medium the author has employed.

Persepolis was first published in France in 2001 and 2002 respectively. Now, try as one might, one cannot ignore the political significance of those years. 9/11, the War against Terror, the invasion of Afghanistan, weapons of mass destruction and the ensuing invasion of Iraq, with sights clearly set on Iran as the next target on the 'Axis of evil.' The cynic in me must of course raise the question, is this another one of the 'conveniently' timed novels that have propped up the left, right, and centre in the race to either pander to "western ideologies" or a vain attempt at trying to justify and apologise to, once again, the West? The timing does seem quite convenient. With books like The Reluctant Fundamentalist, A Case Of Exploding Mangoes, The Jihad and what not, coming at a time when they would be swept up in the almost hysterical need, everyone seems to be trying to come to terms with the phenomenon that is 'Islam.'

Satrapi claims that she would like this book to be called a comic instead of a graphic novel because, once again, a comic has more global appeal covering a very wide audience, generations and genres. Consider Superman, Spiderman and Batman and the level of cult following they have managed to accumulate. No longer are comic books restricted to Archie and Garfield, they are coming into the mainstream of South Park. The Simpsons and many other socio-political comics has elevated this genre to much more than entertainment alone. The writer's desire to call her work a comic once again raises the question, is it just publicity? A way of standing out from the scores of other books dealing in one way or the other with the same topics? Nevertheless, in its defense, the graphics do make the novel more powerful. There are many instances in the book where the visuals works much more effectively than a description would have. For instance, Satrapis image of God, as a child, was similar to that of Karl Marx. Only by having the visual of what she thought God looked like can we understand what she means.

As much as these are all the points to be considered when approaching these books, let us leave those aside for now and look at the book itself. We are thrown right into the fray from the very beginning: the year is 1980, the year the Islamic revolution begins in Iran. The Shah has been overthrown and the new regime is taking over. We see all of this from the perspective of ten year old Marjane. Her voice retains the innocence of a child trying to understand and explain the tumultuous developments taking place around her, from the enforcement of the veil, to the shutting down of bilingual schools, segregation, and changes to all official government textbooks. As a Pakistani all these rules and regulations are horrifically reminiscent of Zia's time, which begs the question, were we far behind in our bid for Islamisation? If Zia had not been assassinated would we be very different from Iran? The recurring political cross-relevance persists throughout the books, and even as a teenager in Vienna Marjane is faced with the ignorance and prejudices of the people, some blindly hostile and others condescendingly ignorant of the reality of a war-torn nation. Is that not what our teenagers are facing today all over the world?

Satrapi has used the voice and perspective of a child not only for autobiographical purposes but to present the reality of what was going on from an objective point of view as well, because a child is invariably unaware of the historical and political rhetoric and reality, and tends to judge things from a simplistic, right or wrong, perspective. In this way she has cleverly interwoven the symbol of woman's veil and what it has become globally -- something she experienced at a personal level and also tried to understand. As much as she resents it at first, when it becomes a matter of identity she fights for her right to wear it when living in France, thereby brilliantly highlighting the confusion Muslims seems to be in, as far as cultural and religious identity is concerned.

What is to be noted of the narrators' agenda is that she speaks out not for one philosophy against another or one belief system against another. She speaks of humanity and justice and the intrinsic contradiction which lies in enforcing belief systems. Is she pandering to the Western preconceptions and in her own way apologising for the menace that America today considers Iran? Is she genuinely embittered, resentful and confounded by the reality of going through her formative years with so much oppression and confusion? The books certainly raise all the right questions. Whether it is the current political relevance or a generic question that has faced humanity since its inception -- it speaks of the human spirit, its resilience, its contradictions, dichotomies, goodness and in contrast, its cruelty. Certainly a book worth reading and due to its graphic quality, a very enjoyable read.

Guman Gasht

By Khawaja Razi Haider

Published by The Research Forum Karachi May 2007

Pages: 188

Price: Rs. 200

Khawaja Razi Hyder is a senior research scholar, critic, essayist and an excellent poet of a unique Neo-classical stance from Karachi. His first book Bay Diyar Shaam earned him a repute consolidating with his second collection Guman Gasht appearing last year -- both exclusively reserved for ghazal.

As compared to other genres, ghazal is associated with conservative tendencies. But obviously it is the poet to blame and not the other way round. Good ghazal poets have been emerging on the local literary scene. Razi Hyder is among the selected few, whose offerings document the validity of ghazal as a poetic form with immense possibilities. This is because of his well-suited temperament and talent.

In one of his articles, Irfan Sattar unfolds the key elements in Hyder's poetry with an intelligent account of how he himself perceives and appreciates good poetry. To him poetic essence, an individualistic diction and a poetic stance are the essentials of any outstanding poetry. He has a few interesting, though generalised, claims to make. According to him, during the last six decades none of our poets could live up to the expectations generated by their own first collections. Consequently, only a few could show an ability to grow vertically. The claim invites a number of legitimate counter arguments. Nevertheless, it still remains a useful write up. Understandably, to him, Hyder is the best example of unmatched growth among the recent lot and it is not a baseless claim. He is, in fact, one of the finest ghazal poets in present times -- obviously not the only one. The reader is caught up by the classical beauty and the contemporary content in his offerings simultaneously.

Guman Gasht is a captivating work documenting the poet's enviable command on the form and the philosophical depth which he harbours in his poetic self. On the whole, his poetry lives on suggestions, most often of a mystic or existentialistic nature. He revives the emotions with which he can identify himself and thus a personal note is consistent in the work. His inspiration finds vent in a rich blending of romantic subjectivism with an objective interest in the changes among men and values -- a blend which speaks of the new spirit of our times. An intense sense of loss also runs as an under current persistently in his offerings. The most noticeable is the climate of his personal premises which, coupled with a firm commitment to the fellow human beings, adds a categorically clear humanistic dimension to his poetry.

He doesn't believe in experimenting with words and tenaciously sticks to the traditional decor. He remains modern in sensibility instead of artificially posing for it. Although a respectable standard is aptly maintained throughout, his select couplets are extremely powerful and generous.

He has a huge wealth of material at his disposal to derive substantial power of individual expression. Guman Gasht is one of the most original and significant works offered recently, earning Hyder a respectable status among high ranked ghazal poets.

All things evocative, like pieces of music, take you back. The fantasy of a past more beautiful, more blessed than the present is a standard mode of human condition. Who doesn't long for a past when all our troubles seemed so far away? All our yesterdays are carefree. Nostalgia is an inseparable part of our existence.

The fact is that the past we all crave for was neither happier nor more secure than the present, but in our minds we enshrine it. Some years ago I wrote a short narration for a film in which I pointed out that the English dream of a day when the sky is blue and their island is rid of all foreigners -- especially those from the sub-continent. The Americans dream of a ranch, not an ordinary ranch but the kind which John Wain, builds single-handedly, after getting rid of all the baddies around. Many of us dream of the day when our green flag, is raised from the red fort in Delhi; the emperor appears in the balcony and we make our obeisance.

Past and wistfulness and memories, the grist to the mill of fiction. Novelists have always traded in nostalgia. Three fourths of all novels are about re-fashioning time, about revival of lost days, lost love and lost innocence. The protagonist does his best to recast his memories so that he can go back to a home he has lost.

The Odyssey is a splendid example of nostalgia. In the years of separation from Ithaca, Odysseus pines for his home and his faithful wife. It is the intensity of his longing that sustains him. Nebakov thought the communists had desecrated all that was beautiful in Russia, ruined the language and dismembered Russian society, and yet he imagined that he could go back and overthrow the Bolsheviks.

Not so long ago, I was entertained to lunch by a group of affluent Pakistani settlers in Southern California. The conversation was directed entirely on how the country (now gone to the dogs) was an honest place, secure and idealistic, and clean. For most of us the past is a nostalgic memory.

For me the Past never disappears. It is concrete, physical, and palpable. In our part of the world it is present everywhere. Ruins, monuments litter the streets, hold up the traffic. Election campaigns and cinema distributors plaster them with pamphlets and posters and so they remain: part of the Here and Now.

In other ways, too, the past clings. As sticky as glue. Traditions, customs. Why do you go to a shrine and touch your forehead to the ground? Why does a woman fast on this particular day? Why do hand-maidens carry oil lamps a night or two before a wedding? It is the custom, the tradition. No further explanation is required than this. It has always been so, it must continue to be so. And what will happen if there is a break in that tradition? Things too terrible to be named: the downfall of the family, of society, of religion, of the fabric of the country itself. So, a woman will paint kohl on her child's eye, a marriage need to be approved not only by parents but all the elders of the family and so life is lived according to its rules, rules prescribed by time, centuries of time.

Of course, time moves in other directions as well. Television sets invade homes, the shalwar is given up for a pair of jeans, the old soothsayer is laughed at, the past scorned. But it remains. Like the colour of one's skin and eyes it remain; it does not leave.

One aspect of my work is a monument to the past. A monument suggests a gravestone, grey, cold and immutable. I like to think that it sheds a little light and that while listening to me a few people, two or three perhaps, feel that I opened a door for them to stray into the past.

Pray do not think that I want my effort to be regarded as an unreserved paeon of praise for the past and that I regard "modernism" or "Westernisation" to be destructive of the old, traditional culture. The old traditional culture was full of cruelties and injustices, but it a was a pattern of life known and understood and therefore more acceptable.

I am a classicist which means that I belong to a minority that keeps whispering in the corner of a world which is full of strident noises that drown all our efforts. I believe that the creations that derive from the past should be enjoyed and understood. I believe that Dickens and Chekhov and Ghalib and Sarshar shall give us pleasure. What we need is not just to preserve the old masters but the capacity to enjoy and understand them. If the capacity is lost the printed words would turn to stone, sink down into museums, and die. The past is our future.

What do I whisper about? What have I got? Not much really, apart from a little knowledge about books and plays and tunes and a little skill in their interpretation. It is because I cannot sit alone with my books and tunes that I feel I must communicate what has been communicated to me. I inherit a tradition which has lasted hundreds of years. And yet those I come across don't want to have anything to do with this tradition. When I say good taste matters I am dubbed as an elitist.

Ought I to bother them? Ought I to interrupt their endless talk about the dwindling prices of their property, their pre-occupation with Bingo and cut-price Umra tickets, and say Sophocles and Dante and Maupassant await you? But who am I that I should worry them? People are indifferent to the aesthetic products of the past.

Culture is a forbidding word but one has to use it, knowing of none better, to describe the beautiful and interesting objects which men have made in the past and handed down to us.

So here goes: the aesthete in me cries out for better work, more chiselled, more refined, but the torrential darkness of my environment thwarts my faculties compelling me to lay everything to rest and be submerged in the cold darkness of the times we live in.