Chapter 7 – Apocalypse
Chapter 5 – Holy Body
Review: And the World Changed
And the World Changed
Edited by Muneeza Shamsie
The Feminist Press: New York, 2008
I read fiction to be reminded that my experience of the world both is and is not singularly mine. I read it to experience the pain and joy of others, to be moved by their stories, and to try to see their truth in my own. I read fiction because it is full of the humanity that is sorely lacking from our daily lives—because I cannot be petty when I experience life through a lens of comparison. And sometimes I even believe that reading fiction makes me a better person.
And the World Changed is the first-ever collection of short stories by Pakistani women written in English. Spanning generations and continents, editor Muneeza Shamsie has compiled an amazing work of 25 writers and nearly 400 pages. Situated chronologically, the stories seamlessly flow from one to the next and the reader is hard pressed to find a flaw. Because flaws have a tendency to provide character, I will share the only one I was able to locate: Prior to each story, Shamsie provides a brief biography of the writer along with a pithy analysis of the meaning contained in their contribution to the book. I wish this had come after the reading instead of before, as Shamsie’s synopsis interrupts the story’s natural unfolding. This, however, is a minor complaint, which is easily rectified by reading the chapter’s sections in reverse.
The stories jump temporally and geographically—from Lahore to Oaxaca to Berkeley to Japan to London to Karachi. The voices that emerge are as diverse as the population itself, and represent the internal and external struggles caused by differing ideas about issues such as religion, modernization, violence, and gender roles. These issues cause liberation and enslavement, a double yoke that is so difficult, at times impossible, to transcend.
A young bride-to-be is devastated when she bumps into her future in-laws wearing jeans after a day of hiking. An older woman considers how her life has been shaped by the world’s bloody conflicts (Partition, Vietnam, Civil Rights, Zapatistas, Sandinistas). Childhood friends are reunited far from home and re-open wounds that refuse to heal. A new immigrant searches for a mosque in New York City in the days following 9/11, only to be turned away because she is a woman. A community of poor women scheme to utilize cultural norms in order to protect an innocent who cannot protect herself. There are numerous stories of love’s joy and devastation.
Much meaning is gently folded into words as they are lined up to create these fictions, and sometimes the weight is so heavy that it literally pulls you down. Other times the descriptions are so wonderfully precise that you can almost taste the sweetness of paan or chai rolling around on your tongue, feel the acrid pollution burning your nose, or hear the honking of cars and squawking of crows blaring in your ears. Time and place becomes intertwined as you move between the spaces of past, present, and future. And all is lost and found in the exquisite placement of words on each page.
An Affair with Porcelain Turtles
a/ I am looking for my lost voice
for telling a story of my secret love affair with porcelain turtles and …
I do not know what to keep
Love friendship or sex
It’s easier when it’s trivial
like stitching papers with a stapler
or cutting clippings from the newspaper on things
that matter in the long run….
What is it that really matters in the long run?
Money comes, money goes. Friends come, friends go
And love is too abstract for any kind of explanation
It’s easier when you’re good at giving a heart
My porcelain turtles say, what’s in front of you
is only the beginning of a vast horizon:
a peasant man waiting to take me for my ride to office,
a wide cup of latte & sudden appearance
of a scholarly man in the café I’d loved,
a small cup of tea & a cabin girl on the chair next to me telling me to go faster
a table with many chairs and some new folks tuning into my lost voice
b/ You heard a woman on television say once,
“It’s only sex, not a space rocket launch!”
Buses, prams, trains and planes have schedules
no one waits
for late comers
Deadlines are flashing on every news channel
You cannot afford to rush
to meet your match, your crush, your lover and friend
You are at the back of your race and it’s only the waves
catching up with you, carrying you and cleansing you of all the dirt on your body
and keep going, keep going, keep going back to where they came from
leaving you at a signal station where you are lost for words again
to tie up this little band-
width of friendship we have scaled.
ENDS
Calculating
Not even in footnotes can I encompass
my sense of expansiveness since
you left. Funny
I stayed away from writing countless
when we loved. It wasn’t merely
friendly antipathy
to low kins of romance – it was how much
you wanted that representation.
That I scratch tree
barks has more to it than cute. That Sindhi
meal you wanted
to make
me
eat was more you
(hunger). I’m hungry since you left
I’m vast. Enough to devour
you if I choose
Only you’d chalk my cannibalistic to
more craziness. Scratch
that tree and
find me eccentric flesh erratic blood. Since
you left I can plot with peace and
not be accused
conspiracy. The creek is more vivid to me
appropriates serene and
cleans little
worms in memories practising pain. One
day I’ll write you a song of
gratitude
This
moment I’m graphing sense of insides also
absorbed in mild grass sun me
(I am large)
I’ve been afraid of confronting you in
countless but since you left
this came on auto
I even speak of it to people I don’t know
too well.