BY the end of it all, even the tone of someone as self-indulgent as Hanif Kureishi had softened. His preconceived notions about Karachi (and the ideas that he developed in his last visit to the city a quarter century back) had been altered.

In his first stint at the microphone on the opening day of the 3rd Karachi Literature Festival he was unforgiving and quick to pour scorn on Karachi suggesting it ‘was run-down, rough and in decay’. But in his last speech at the conclusion of the literary bonanza, Kureishi conceded that contrary to what people thought (Pakistan was the worst place in the world) he liked the desire of (Pakistanis) to speak. And that is exactly why the Karachi Literature Festival is important, and has assumed the status of one of the most important events, if not the most important, hosted in Pakistan. Kudos to the Oxford University Press, the British Council and Asif Farrukhi for making it possible!

It was sheer auditory and cerebral delight listening to the likes of Vikram Seth, Hanif Kureishi, Alok Bhalla, Siddhartha Deb and, in particular, Shobhaa De. The genuine interest that they took in the proceedings of the festival and their grasp on the subjects they were required to speak on was exemplary.

If on the one hand these big names provided a foreign view, so to speak, on a variety of literary, cultural and social issues, scholars like of Khaled Ahmed, Ayesha Jalal, Pervez Hoodbhoy, Intizar Husain, Zahida Hina, Iftikhar Arif, Nomanul Haq and Ayesha Siddiqa put a domestic spin on things with a great deal of certitude.

Shobhaa De did what she does best: entertain. This doesn’t imply that her chitchat with Kishore Bhimani and then responses to the audience’s queries only contained the glamour quotient. The novelist, journalist, columnist, Bombay socialite, is an eloquent woman. There was a ring of articulation about her assertion that Mumbai and Karachi were twins separated at birth.

Had the inimitable Vikram Seth been allowed to speak more on his personal experiences with respect to the world of literature and not on the rather pedantic ‘rhyme and metre’ intricacies, the session dedicated to him would have been much more
enjoyable. Not that it was any less worth lending an ear to.

His visible urge to listen to his Pakistani audience and read their minds was heartening. It was doubly delightful when he talked with unadulterated affection about his mother, father, siblings and the ustads whose music he loved. Yes, in between the talk, there were references from A Suitable Boy, An Equal Music, The Rivered Earth and Arion and the Dolphin.

The high point of Hanif Kureishi’s presence was when he read out a lovely passage from his novel The Buddha of Suburbia. It taught, one hoped, many writers who attended the gig how to read from one’s own text. Kureishi’s participation in a panel discussion on literary criticism imparted a distinct touch to it; however, it was his fellow panelist Alok Bhalla from India who sounded more convincing when he told a questioner that it was because of critics that the difference between great text (such as Joyce’s Ulysses) and other texts (for example, Chetan Bhagat’s) could be ascertained.

History and travel writer William Dalrymple’s speech in the opening ceremony in which he touched on Britain’s mistake
of invading Afghanistan was nothing revelatory. His dialogue with Kamila Shamsie illustrated his talent better.

Pakistani writers and opinion-makers were also in good nick. Ayesha Jalal’s line in a sitting on Partition and Manto, “Manto was a hard drinker in India; Pakistan turned him into an alcoholic” was picked up by the media. It was a profound observation, by the way.

But a far more serious and thought-provoking claim was made by journalist and writer Khaled Ahmed in a gathering titled “The Silent Minority: A Voice for the Voiceless”. Replying to a question (and pushed by the person who had asked the question) Khaled Ahmed poignantly commented, “only Muslims and men can live in Pakistan”.

Programmes on art history, Urdu fiction, book launches (including Ayesha Jalal’s The Oxford Companion to Pakistani History and Attiya Dawood’s Aine Key Saamne), heated discussions on the role of the media, a mushaira, clippings of Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy’s documentaries and children’s shows contributed effectively to the contextual richness of the two-day event.

Yes, this time round, there were a few things which suggested the organisers had begun to rest on their laurels. For instance, it was disconcerting to note that a majority of sessions and conversations with authors, particularly on day one, did not start on time. This is not unusual. Still, running half-an-hour behind time without a trace of the speakers or their moderators irked many who were present.

Then there was a sea of volunteers in red T-shirts. The children should be commended for their commitment to whatever they had been assigned to do. Having said that, the manner with which they stopped, sometimes even the panelists, from entering the discussion hall because ‘it’s full’ was annoying. Ironically, on certain other occasions the red army went lenient when it shouldn’t have.

A case in point is the screening of bits from Sharmeen Chinoy’s documentaries. The hall had the capacity of only 120 seats and at least double that number was allowed to saunter in. When the reality dawned, the programme was already half-way through.
These were no major faux-pas. The point is: they were nonexistent in the first two editions of the festival.

Content-wise, this time round there were not enough sessions on regional languages’ books and writers. One or two gatherings, such as “Pakistani Zabanon Ka Adab” curated by Mohammed Hanif with Amar Sindhu and Ahmad Fouad were good, but not sufficient. Works produced in Urdu and regional languages are just as important as those in the English language. But then this was an international festival, with international content.

Lastly, a word about the moderators: some need to know how to carry a dialogue at a pace and as per the celebrity author’s
disposition. In order for that to happen, they need to have done some homework to have asked the right questions.

The writer is a Dawn staffer

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