Of Honour and Heights: Maham Javaid's 'The Tallest Woman' is a worthy winner of the Zeenat Haroon Rashid Prize

First of all, I love the idea of the mere existence of the Zeenat Haroon Rashid prize. 

For years now, I’ve been trawling through lists of books awarded the Nobel and Pulitzer, the Newbery and the Nebula, Bram Stoker and Hugo, lists of prizes for fiction and non-fiction and everything in between, and wishing there could be something like this for desi writers as well. I didn’t much care whether it stuck to a genre or a gender, whether it was for short stories or novels, only that it identified and promoted local talent. A prize that not only focused on desi writing but also specifically that written by women? That was the definition of a dream come true.

That being said, I began reading the first story that won this prize in 2019 with a bit of doubt. Primarily because the award was so new, and I didn’t know whether the nascent years would be able to do justice to the kind of polished writing that I’m sure exist within this country. The formative years of any award, I assumed, must be marred by the following: a reluctance on the part of anyone with any actual talent to submit any work, since the whole thing is still so unknown; inexperience on the part of the panel, who might or might not be the best at judging exactly what good literature was; a low number of submissions, since the award might not be as widely known as possible. Taking all of that into account, I was pleasantly surprised, and rewardingly entertained.

The moment Zainab stepped into her cotton pants, she knew it was not the seamstress but her own body that had betrayed her.

The story, with such a short length, manages to cram a surprising number of things into the narrative. I loved the idea of a girl who wouldn’t stop growing in height, not only to an alarming but acceptable 6 or 7 feet, but taller still, until she is known as the local giant. On the surface, it’s not really the most original tale, but the author managed to do a lot with what she had. Honestly, I’ve always been iffy about short stories because I am mostly unable to see how anyone can generate interest without the comfort of a lengthy word count, where you can foreshadow and develop and mould the story into a proper beginning, middle, and ending. But over here, the story began almost immediately, without any time being wasted on exposition. By the third paragraph, we were already deep into the tale itself.

“How dare you embarrass me like this,” her mother had asked. “As if being a widow, and raising a daughter in this nosy town isn’t bad enough, now I have to deal with a miserably tall daughter? What kind of man will agree to marry a woman taller than himself?”

A major part of my enjoyment was borne from the fact that most of the reactions to Zainab’s tall height are exactly what you would expect from a desi society. There is something so very local about the story, even without any of the cliché descriptions of mangoes or dirt or load shedding, all the usual markers of South Asian storytelling. Weirdly enough, there is almost no finesse to the writing itself. Ironic for a writing prize, but over here it is the story, and only the story itself, which is the saving grace of the whole endeavour. There was absolutely no part where I could honestly identify a sentence as such a thing of beauty that I felt moved by the arrangement of words themselves, the way a little envy can sneak into a reader’s heart at the almost perfect construction of a sentence. Instead, over here the words served only the purpose of telling the story itself. It’s a good thing, then, that the plot is such that one keeps reading.

Zainab and her mother first went to the elected elder of the neighbourhood to complain about the young men who had attacked her — his son was one of them. But instead of placing a protective hand on Zainab’s head, he asked why the teenage girl found herself alone by the canal with five men?

A huge portion of the story itself lends itself to talking about how ridiculous life can be if, as a woman, you dare to stand out. One of my favourite things in stories, no matter their word length, is how well an injustice can be represented within the text without getting preachy. Most of this short tale honestly doesn’t leave much time for the author to expound in detail on how unfair life is for Zainab, because the author is too busy telling us what happens next, and frankly speaking, I love that. The smart reader will be able to read within the lines just fine.

At six feet, Zainab had inspired lust and loathing; at six and a half she was a freak that could either be brazenly displayed in the corner of an amusement park, or locked away in a tower; but now, at more than seven feet, Zainab terrified people. This realisation warmed Zainab, as if her years of invisibility had made her powerful.

The only reason my enjoyment of the whole story was ruined was that preposterous ending, left wide open and so unresolved a whole length novel could be written after this. I have read many a novel that claimed its origin from a short story, and it is only with this story that I can maybe glimpse why one would need a novel to complete it, since there IS NO ENDING. And as a person who prefers a conclusion so neat and tidy that each and every plot hole is explained perfectly, it was inevitable that I would absolutely loathe where the story left Zainab at.

However, besides that absolute pet peeve of mine, almost everything else works. For a story that is the first ever winner of a newly minted award, I can honestly say that the story is both entertaining and worthy of discussion, a delicate balance that a multitude of writers find themselves unable to handle. I’m honestly excited to see what other fiction this award can bring to the limelight.

NOTE: The Zeenat Haroon Rashid Writing Prize for Women, named after a founding member of the Women’s National Guard at the time of independence of Pakistan, aims to discover and promote English writing by Pakistani women and women of Pakistani descent.