I have to meet a photographer afterwards for pictures and he wants to shoot me in an Edgware road café. I remind him that I am not an Arab.
Mohammed Hanif
Mohammed Hanif, another of the 'Hay 21', is the author of A Case Exploding Of Mangoes. He spends a week trying to find a Pakistani publisher willing to publish his book despite its inflammatory nature, being a 'Capote nut' and doing 'manly crafts' with his ten year old son.
I have finally met a Capote nut like myself. We both agree that In Cold blood is a far superior book that Norman Mailer’s The Executioner’s Song. Splendid.
Monday
I receive a guest list for my Pakistani launch. After being rejected by all the mainstream publishers in the country, my old friends and employers at Newsline magazine have decided to publish it. Mangoes is being published in ten countries but I badly wanted a publisher in Pakistan where most of it is set. Those who rejected it all told me that they loved the book but found it too much of a political risk. But now I have got the perfect publisher; the magazine that gave me my first break in journalism is going to publish my first book. They have never published a book before and their enthusiasm is infectious. They want to do launches in three cities in Pakistan. I have always suspected that a lot of people want to write books so that they can have a launch party. And this is going to be the only proper one I will get. High Tea in a five star hotel, with two hundred plus guests. The business director at Newsline is sure that she will sell a copy to every guest. There are people on the list I haven't seen for more than a decade. Everyone wants to be a star in their own city and I feel beyond smug. I am also moving back to Karachi in August so this seems like that grand homecoming that every immigrant dreams of.
Tuesday
A gentleman from The Times comes for an interview. I take him to Bush House club where I work and hang out most evenings. He buys me a coffee with 'Murdoch money' as he puts it. He asks me really searching questions. He has read the book. "I stayed up all night," he tells me. He asks about the village in which I grew up, '80s politics, and refreshingly about what is going on in Pakistan these days. I can go on for hours on that subject since my day job involves covering Pakistan. I think I go overboard, trying to impress him with my knowledge. I also worry whenever he scribbles something in his notebook.
I have to meet a photographer afterwards for pictures and he wants to shoot me in an Edgware road café. I remind him that I am not an Arab. But the guy is incredibly cool; my age, lives in South London like me, has a kid as old as mine, has covered Afghan war and smoked dope with Pakistani cricketers. He promises he'll just use the cafe as a blurred backdrop only. Then he takes me to Regent's Park mosque. Talk about clichés. We discuss strategies to disguise my double chin. We share our paranoia about how to make sure our boys don't get into knife fights. He asks for one of my roll-ups and tells me that his children have never seen him smoke. I am ashamed of myself. But he is definitely the most relaxed professional I have met in London in a decade.
Wednesday
Our BBC bosses send us a group email reminding us about the guidelines for media interviews etc. I write back coyly saying there might be some press coverage of my book. They reassure me that it wouldn't be a problem. Another gentleman from a newspaper meets me in Bush House club for an interview. I am already more relaxed. I guess it doesn't take long to become a media whore. He tells me all the things he likes about the book, shows me the passages that I should choose for readings and then tells me that he is worried about me. How will Pakistanis react to the book? With a high tea, I tell him. He tells me about his own book project that involves a visit to Kansas to retrace Truman Capote's struggles to write In Cold Blood. I have finally met a Capote nut like myself. We both agree that In Cold blood is a far superior book that Norman Mailer's The Executioner's Song. Splendid. The only problem with London is there are not enough Capote nuts.
Thursday
My first book-related event, but it turns out that it's not really about the book. I am supposed to talk about British Asian identity at a posh venue. Other person on the panel is Mohsin Hamid who I know is stunningly articulate and like me thinks that he is no British Asian. The only problem is that the moderator is a famous British Asian, hasn't had the time to read our books and insists on getting our views on British Asian identity. I keep redirecting questions towards Mohsin who handles them superbly with statistics and all. I wander off into half-remembered Marx quotes and insist, without really knowing it, that more British Asians go to pubs than to the mosques. Later my book is on sale for the first time. Some people, mostly friends, buy it and ask me to sign it. I have never asked anyone to sign a book so I am slightly freaked out. But my ten-year old son is with me. He has always made fun of my books. He looks suitably impressed. This is why one writes books, I tell myself.
Friday
I don't have a publisher in Pakistan anymore. I get an email from my publishers that their printer has just read the typeset manuscript and said no way. There is a nineteenth century British law in India and Pakistan which says that when you libel someone it's not just the author and the publisher who gets hauled up, the printing press can also be sealed. It has not really happened lately. I am very angry. Since when did printers start making editorial decisions? What about the high tea launch? It dawns on me that they are only acting out of a sense of self-preservation. Why should anyone jeopardise their livelihood, and their lives, for someone who has written a silly little book sitting in London?
Saturday
Since when did email interviews become a kosher journalistic practice? I have six sets of questionnaires from India in my inbox. What happened to the good old-fashioned practice of picking up the phone and talking to the person you want to interview? It seems to me that the editors can get you to write a thousand words without paying you for it. I write random answers to random questions. I almost beat my son on a Nintendo wii tennis game. We go cycling then we come back. I check my email and another rejection from Pakistan. 'It's hilarious but we'll get into real trouble.' My son want us to do some 'manly crafts', as he puts it. We slash the end of a random stick into a spear to hunt deer. We renew our pledge that we are men and our hobbies are hunting, fishing, climbing mountains, and producing man-sweat fumes.
Sunday
An old friend comes to visit from Pakistan. I tell him about my publishing troubles in our home country. He reassures me that if anyone really wants to read this book, some enterprising soul will just pirate it. I hope he is right, but there will be no high tea welcome for me.
Friday, 6 June, 2008
In My week
- Charlotte Grimshaw
- Susan Hill
- Ed Hollis
- Ali Sethi
- Wells Tower
- Con Coughlin
- Dirk Wittenborn
- Kathleen Kent
- Daniel Everett
- Mark Crick
- Glyn Maxwell
- Rabih Alameddine
- Nicholas Hogg
- Charles Boyle
- Mohammed Hanif
- Sarah Hall
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