dabbled in poetry, writing a few pieces that were published but many more that could only be categorised as ‘teenage dribble’. There, were however, a few poems, based on images I had actually seen driving through the streets of Karachi, that stayed with me. These pieces, of beggar children scavenging through garbage, newspaper boys, and street children in early morning traffic, reflected my growing unease with the social and economic disparity that existed within my culture. However, it was not until I moved to the United States in January 2003 that I realised that I wanted to explore this theme further, using these images as the basis for an extended piece of writing that dealt with this and referred, at least tangentially, to the historic events of 1971.

After having worked in publishing for eight years, and that, too, textbook publishing, it was difficult to discipline myself and learn how to write in another way – that is, instead of breaking down language, as you often do as an editor, I had to build it up and do the seemingly impossible – create something out of nothing. I did not know where to start, so I took the pedantic route by scribbling down a rough chapter-wise outline that, to my surprise, I largely ended up following. The first draft was complete in about a year because I was able to devote about four or five hours a day to it. Still, the process was far more difficult than I had imagined because it required gruelling self-discipline, even in the face of extended periods (and I mean, weeks!) of dreaded writer’s block. (It cured me, once and for all, of my romantic belief in ‘inspiration’.) I had to be very firm with myself because, being an editor by profession, my instinct was to re-write endlessly and tear apart whatever I had written. I knew that if I did that, I would never write beyond the first sentence, so I made a pact with myself: just keep writing, no matter how bad it is, and save the editing for the very end.

When I wrote Without Dreams, my aim was to structure it like a fable/fairytale, or its modern equivalent, an urban myth. By keeping the coordinates vague, I wanted the reader to feel as if he or she were reading a representative story – a story of displacement and exile, of longing for one’s roots and one’s people, and, of course, of the perennial theme of the imbalance of power, which permeates every aspect of life in the ‘metropolis’ of the story, from the master-servant relationship to the patriarchal system. Brute force, which is seen as a part of war, is present in the contentious relationship between Haroon’s parents, Javaid and Tahira, as well as in Abdul’s relationship with the other servants. So, while history and politics play a role in the story, the main interest, at least for me, is not the event but its emotional consequences. In Abdul’s case, for example, the fact that he is orphaned by war, influences how he views the wealthy family he works for and, in particular, how he feels about Tahira, his ‘Begum Sahib’.

While the first draft of the manuscript was finished in 2003, it took almost four years to get published. I was to blame for this gap; after having written the book, I dreaded the task of going back to it and working on it a second time. (In all honesty, that is the worst part of the whole process!) Ironically, shortly after my manuscript was rejected by a literary agency, I was contacted by one of the agency’s representatives, who was now commissioning editor at a publishing house, asking if anything had come of it. It was this wonderful gentleman who gave me my ‘big break’ and signed me on. I was fortunate, too, that his editing style was non-interfering; while he made remarks on smaller stylistic issues, he allowed my manuscript to remain much as I had written it.

Without Dreams was published in November 2007. Two exciting events during and after its publication come to mind: the first was when it was long listed for the Inaugural Man Asian Literary Prize 2007 in July; and the second, when I had the opportunity of visiting India for the first time to attend the Jaipur Literature Festival in January 2008 and was part of a panel of Pakistani writers.

Having reviewed books for a number of years, I have read many that I enjoyed, but there are some that stand out from the rest. One of my favourites is Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things, which is a fine example of writing from our part of the world. Kiran Desai’s The Inheritance of Loss is remarkable for the richness of its prose as also for its flashes of dark humour, particularly about globalisation. I also admire Mohsin Hamid’s restrained, elegant prose in Moth Smoke. And, being a student of literature, I have a partiality for the classics, especially writers like Jane Austen (Pride and Prejudice), Leo Tolstoy (Anna Karenina), Ivan Turgenev (Fathers and Sons), Charlotte Bronte (The Mill on the Floss), and Henry James (Portrait of a Lady).

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