You can barely get Karachiites to raise an eyebrow at disaster any
longer. I once went on a date with a guy who had been mugged a dozen times and
was still nonchalant about having lost nearly a hundred thousand rupees worth
of cell phones. A cat on a model’s shoulder on a runway still gets them though.
The Connection
The obvious, automatic bond I had with the 28-year-old protagonist
Ayesha in this novel might be because we share
the same field. My background in Mass Communication and my circle of reporter
friends meant I was pretty much laughing throughout at the media-related drama.
Ayesha’s arguments with her boss, her encounters with slimy men at rallies, and
her constant exposure to criminals are all offset by a horrified-yet-amused tone
that I’m very used to hearing in real life.
My newspaper runs a wildly popular comment section filled with posts
such as ‘why I hate my hairstylist’ or ‘I was discriminated against at a job
interview because my family is wealthy’ and ‘I left my air-conditioned room to
join the protest for your son’s murder case’. It has nothing to do with
journalism, but now everyone assumes it’s what all of us do.
It becomes even more hilarious when you realize the author’s
background, that she has in fact worked
for an actual newspaper with an actual blog which is more well-known than
the newspaper itself. But while on the surface the book is presented as comedy, Saba Imtiaz gets
pretty serious pretty fast, using
her characters and situations to present Pakistani media in a nutshell.
‘Why is the newspaper
so spineless,’ I scream. ‘How can you give up on a story that could—no, fuck
it, I know for sure that it will—MAKE HEADLINES WORLDWIDE.’
Kamran shrugs. ‘This
is a corporation. I’m running a business here. This is not a place where you
live out your fantasy of doing some expose that the world will love. I have to
put my interests first. How am I going to pay your salary if the government
cracks down on us because of this story!?’
Because this is one of the few rare Pakistani books which
use the media as a setting, it drops truth bombs left, right, and centre. The
author is not really concerned with keeping things nice and simple, instead
adding in a few sentences here and there among the comedy to keep the reality
of the situation in our faces at all times.
News channels are one-upping themselves in the race to show the
grisliest visuals possible of the bomb blast. ‘And as you can see we were forty
seconds ahead of our rivals in reporting the blast,’ one anchor crows.
What makes it both painful and funny is that most of it is
so heartbreakingly true. In fact, pretty
much all the depictions of media in this book are spot-on. Any conversation
with a reporter worth their salt will convince you that Yes, this is actually
How It Is. This stuff happens. And
sometimes it’s funny but most of the times it’s disheartening, but when one
can’t cry at it then one needs to laugh.
Get to the site after spending twenty minutes stuck in traffic begging
the cab driver to find a shortcut out of the snarl. He asks me why I’m in such
a rush, and when I tell him I’m a journalist, he tells me about his nephew who
was shot in broad daylight when a thug from an anti-Pashtun political party
heard the Pashto song that was his phone’s ringtone.
Probably the strongest point in this story, for a reader
from Pakistan, will be how much one can relate
to the setting. The author tackles everything. She understands,
and shows through Ayesha’s regular exposure to violence, how Pakistanis can
learn a sort of mind-numbing apathy at a
very young age.
My inbox is full of copy that needed to be done an hour ago: Five
tortured bodies found near the motorway, two people shot dead as they tried to
escape muggers, nine people killed after a bus collided with a train.
The City
The novel doesn’t restrict itself to the media only, taking
its time to take pot-shots at the social lifestyles of those living in Karachi.
None of our friends are on time, which is typical for Karachiites, who
start contemplating getting dressed at the time the invitation is for.
This form of social commentary works to the benefit of the author, because any reader who has spent even
one weekend attending events in Karachi will nod an affirmative to such a
sentence. ‘Ah, yes, that is very true, I totally know what she means’ produces
a connection to the narrative that helps keep us interested.
‘Anyway, tell us what’s
happening these days in the city! Things are so bad,
na?’
‘Wasn’t there a bomb
blast today? My squash buddy had to cancel our reservation because they’d
cordoned off his route.’
What’s interesting though is that Saba Imtiaz seems to be writing for
a very small minority of Karachi’s
population. In a country where the majority of the population lives under the
poverty line, this book caters to a very select section of the upper class; a
sort of elitist, uber-rich clique of
readers, even though one could argue that she is
technically making fun of them here.
I have a drawer full of lacy lingerie that mocks me every morning. I am
reminded of a line in 10 Things I
Hate About You, one of my all-time favourite films.... ‘You don’t buy
black underwear unless you want someone to see it.’
References such as these to American movies, Michael Jackson
songs, and Martin Scorcese films make the book relatable to a certain few but distance
themselves from a larger majority of non-English-movie-watching population.
Still, even with that particular pitch towards an exclusive, restricted batch
of readers, there are some scenes that are relevant to everyone reading, and also
out-and-out hilarious.
How did I not realize he was following me? He must have gotten lost
among my list of followers whose bios are inevitably a variation of ‘looking
for fraindship’ and ‘NO MoRe SiSteRz OnLy FrienDz No MoRe ThaN FrienD!!!!!!’
I genuinely starting laughing at this scene, because only a
few minutes before reading this my sister and I had been going through the list
of stranger’s friend requests we had both accumulated, and laughing at the
inane preposterousness that dotted our inbox. Hearing a character talk about
the inevitable sludge of crappy stranger mails every girl regularly receives
helps me share a connection with her that keeps me invested in the story.
The utility company shuts down the power the minute it starts raining,
hoping to avoid fatalities caused by electrocution, so now one just has to
worry about things like falling down the stairs in the dark and breaking one’s
neck instead.
This sort of relatability, this version of if-you-live-in-Karachi-you-probably-know-this
tone that the author employs keeps me even more deeply involved in the story.
Even though these sentences are short and spaced apart, they remain connected
to the narrative while also steeping the book deep into the cultural presence of the city.
The Elitist
It’s probably relevant to note how throughout the novel the
author balances two very different social realities. In this case, while our
protagonist constantly dines out at expensive restaurants, always has money for
beer and vodka, and flies out of the country at a moment’s notice, she also
travels by rickshaw (an act most of the super rich consider positively vulgar
in Karachi), has a gradually depleting wardrobe, and is seemingly perpetually broke.
One could write whole articles on the sort of contradiction between wealth and
lifestyle displayed in this book.
I find a rickshaw that blessedly agrees to drop me to work for a
hundred bucks. My phone beeps a few times but I’ve hidden it in a fold of my
dupatta so muggers won’t be able to spot it when they make off with my handbag.
The Hilarious
At its heart, the book is really a comedy, and treats itself as such. Even though it talks about death
and destruction and blood and gore, there is a thread of self-deprecating
humour that knows how everything in the city is a mess but there’s a joke to be
found anyway.
Kamran narrows his
eyes and sighs. ‘Well, thank you. I’m glad I didn’t have to spell it out for
you. You’ve always been smarter than the rest of the morons out there and
that’s why I sent you.’
This counts as actual
praise from Kamran. I could totally put ‘NOT A MORON’ on my resume.
It is only in a few places where
the sass turns vindictive. Because
Ayesha is, in essence, a snarky character, she is constantly belittling her
life choices in one manner of another in what one could essentially call
comedic but the momentary bouts of self loathing (very reminiscent of Bridget
Jones’ internalized self-doubt) sometimes
verge almost on bitter. In such moments, it’s hard to tell whether the
disparaging tone is funny or simply off-putting.
Why does the world hate me?
The Romantic
I feel relieved, like I’ve been running a marathon and now that Saad’s
here everything is okay. I don’t have to be anyone else—the perfectly witty and
charming woman to Jamie, the perfectly capable reporter to Kamran—around him. I
can just be myself.
The romance is so clichéd that it goes into the territory of
chasing-at-an-airport triteness.
He’s been her best friend since forever, but she’s never felt that way about
him! He only feels comfortable around her, but they’re only friends!! His
mother treats her like a daughter, but surely he doesn’t feel anything for
her!?!?
Wake up from a nightmare in which Saad is interrogating Jamie regarding
his relationship with me. What does this mean?
Uh, what do you
think?
Saad smiles. ‘See,
that’s a problem solved. Now what else is up?’
‘Jamie,’ I say, and
sigh.
‘Oh right,’ Saad says,
smiling a little too brightly. ‘How is that going?’
I mean, for God’s
sake.
‘He wanted to know if
you were okay, and actually asked me to come over and check on you. I know he’s
your friend, but the guy’s such a sweetheart... That’s the kind of guy you
should be with.’
‘What?’ The thought of
Saad and me together is…
Hmm. I inject the same
tone of outrage in my voice that I normally do when someone hints at this. ‘No,
not Saad, OF COURSE NOT!’
I can’t. I just can’t.
The Flawed
Every person you talk to who has read this book will mention
one thing for sure: the consumption of beer/vodka/gin/any-and-every-form-of-alcohol
EVERY. TWO. SECONDS.
I take a long sip, and as the cold beer hits my stomach I realize I
forgot to have lunch and dinner and I’m running on a stale packet of chili
chips I found in my desk drawer.
I get it; Bridget Jones was always drunk, always getting up
hungover, always with alcohol in her hand. In this book though, it borders on
the ridiculous. No hangout/get-together/party
in this book is complete until someone is standing behind a bar, pouring
someone a drink.
Two very large whiskey drinks and a plate of prawn tempura later...
But fine, maybe that’s a thing that happens in the super
elite, ultra rich circles of Pakistan? Maybe this could be forgiven, but the
alcohol is just the the first in multiple other increasingly irritating aspects of the novel.
I feel terribly sad. I want that life. I want to be in those photos,
not pressing the ‘like’ button on autopilot. I recall my last glorious
vacation—three years ago, five days in Bangkok with my friend Sam, happily
chugging beer in a jazz bar and laughing at the number of women on the streets
with fake Louis Vuitton bags and some manner of animal print clothing.
Take into account, for example, how Ayesha goes around
moaning and groaning about her ‘sad life’ and her ‘lack of social activity’. Oh
boo hoo, how absolutely pathetic. I get it, being in your twenties and wanting to hang out is a
realistic desire, and which one of us hasn’t seen pictures of other people hiking through
snow-covered mountains on their vacations and not felt jealous? But Ayesha’s
complaining borders on grating, a constant stream of everyone-doesn’t-give-me-what-I-want version of whining.
This culminates in what might be the most epic flaunting of
privileged upbringing ever. Ayesha gets into trouble with the authorities, as
any reporter interested in crime in Pakistan is bound to do eventually. Her
solution to the problem of being put on house arrest? Literally fly out of the country.
That’s right. Ayesha, who complains daily about money
problems, who has no social life and cries continuously about her future
prospects, has a best friend rich enough to pay a ticket to get her out of the
country at the slightest hint of trouble. Who then helps her shop for
expensive, branded clothes, takes her out clubbing, and basically treats her
like a princess.
If one is looking for a realistic portrayal of media in the
country, this book could maybe be a good bet. A realistic portrayal of a
reporter in trouble? Not so much.
The Gender
Discussions
‘Oooh! So? Do we like him? Like like him?’
Saba Imtiaz does female friendships well, providing Ayesha
with a whip-smart, sarcastic, and utterly supportive best friend in Zara, a
reporter working for another channel. But then she ruins it all by turning
Ayesha into a fake, snotty person who regularly hates on other females. The girl-on-girl hate, so easily found in
this book, is boring and repetitive and not fun to read.
..a girl swishes by in a pink and green sari, high heels and a cloud of
Chanel No. 5 that ...makes me want to puke. Her hair is a perfect reflective
sheet all the way down her back. Sidling up to Saad, she kisses him hello.
At this point, I was groaning: Was this going to be one of
those books where the heroine is going to hate on her best
friend’s/crush’s/ex-boyfriend’s girlfriend, who will inevitably be super
gorgeous and completely put together and yet the said best friend/crush/ex-boyfriend
will only have eyes for our heroine, no matter how bad she may look?
I am still in my crumpled t-shirt from the festival, the one that got
rained on, as did my hair, sporting the remnants of a tube of bronze lipstick I
discovered in my bag when I last groped about for a lighter.
Yes. Yes, it was.
‘So,’ I say, eyebrow
arched. ‘Explain.’
Even to myself, I
sound ridiculous. ‘Explain’? I’m not his grandmother. I should be happy he’s
met someone, even if I don’t instantly warm to her glossy, airbrushed
perfection.
What makes me mad is the misogyny here: this idea that any
girl who is well-dressed and who knows how to use her make-up (red lipstick?
Well-manicured nails? MUST BE a home wrecker) is automatically airheaded and
destructive. This idea of equating feminine habits of using make-up with the
‘mean girl’ trope is old and over-used and I was disappointed.
I spot Saad and Samya
in a corner; he’s smiling at something she’s showing him on her phone.
Probably her five million
selfies.
How last century is it to be hating on girls who take
selfies? Haven’t we moved past this already? Saba Imtiaz could have done so
much more with the smart, self-assured protagonist she had taken her time to
build, and sometimes, thankfully, she does, but not enough.
I walk up to the police van on the site and hide behind it to light a
cigarette. Ali’s cameraman has a penchant for filming footage of women smoking,
and showing it to everyone in the office. Clearly women smoking passes for
pornography these days.
These sort of comments on society’s expectations of women
fit nicely into the frame of Ayesha doing a job which isn’t considered respectable by mainstream standards in
Pakistan. But Saba Imtiaz takes this opportunity too rarely for it to make a
difference.
‘You seem like a nice
girl. Why do you smoke?’
Even though I’ve been
smoking for years, the question always sends me into spasms of guilt. I think
of my father, who disapproves of the fact that I smoke but is glad I’m not
doing drugs instead. I want to tell the cop off for asking me this when every
other man on the site is also smoking...
Recommendation
People tend to think living amid bombs and blood is inspiring. It
isn’t. It just makes me feel exhausted with the sheer pressure of either trying
to shrug it off like nothing happened or having to write about it—how many new
ways can one come up with to write about blood and gore?
This book has some obvious, unfortunate flaws: an awkward
beginning, completely random use of headlines which have no connection to the
story, a distinct lack of artistic flair in the writing. But Pakistani writers
have barely been producing the sort of slapstick, farcical humour that Saba
Imtiaz so naturally adds to the story, so just for that this goes on the Recommended list.