SOURCE: Sidhwa, Bapsi, and David Montenegro. “Bapsi Sidhwa: An Interview.” Massachusetts Review 31, no. 4 (winter 1990): 513-33.

[In the following interview, which took originally took place on March 26, 1988, and March 24, 1989, Sidhwa discusses Pakistani politics, issues facing Muslim women, contemporary Islamic literature, and the central themes of her novels.]

This interview originally took place on March 26, 1988 in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Because of the Rushdie affair and radical changes which occurred in Pakistan in the interim, a follow-up interview took place on March 24, 1989. The follow-up questions appear first in the interview.

(MARCH 24, 1989)

[Montenegro]: Could we begin by talking about how the sudden death of Zia and the subsequent election of Benazir Bhutto will affect the course of political life in Pakistan?

[Sidhwa]: Well, when Zia suddenly dismissed the then existing Parliament (elected on a non-party basis), he promised to hold elections on the nineteenth of November. This date was supposed to coincide with Benazir Bhutto's delivery of her child, and would put her out of circulation at a crucial time in her campaign. She surprised everyone by producing her baby a full month earlier, in October. The real date she was due was one of the better kept secrets in Pakistani politics. Only Benazir and the doctors knew the real date. I think this is fascinating, unprecedented. Here is a young woman standing for elections, and never before in the world of democratic politics has something like this been featured—that is, events being influenced by when a baby is due. Women entering politics adds a new dimension certainly.

Of course, very few people think Benazir Bhutto would have been elected had not Zia died when he did. He would certainly have created some excuse to outlaw the People's Party, or by some means seen to it that she would not be elected.

The elections went off very smoothly. We had hundreds of people from the foreign press waiting in Pakistan; everybody was expecting a bloodbath. But fortunately none materialized. I think Benazir knew her limits. Suddenly she really had this opportunity of being elected, so she and her party played it very cool. They didn't want to give anyone an excuse to rush in at this point and enforce martial law again.

How do you see her presence as Prime Minister affecting women's rights in Pakistan, and the Muslim world in general?

Well, the opposition certainly made a lot of noise that they didn't want a woman Head of State, but the majority in the country wanted her. The elections were fair and yet not totally fair, because we had the system of ID cards. It was declared that only those who had ID cards could vote, and not everybody had an ID card. Now the Chief Minister at that time—Punjab's Chief Minister and her main opponent—was in a position to issue ID cards, and he did apparently do so only to his party followers, by the thousands. And this was Benazir Bhutto's party's complaint that they were not getting the ID cards to vote with. I think that has influenced the figures that came out in the Punjab during the elections because the Chief Minister did win there. And one feels that if the elections had been on just the adult franchise basis, Benazir would have had a much bigger triumph.

As for women's rights, of course there was jubilation among the women. Well, not only among the women—who probably had the most to gain by it—but also among the vast majority of poor people. They were jubilant because her father had championed their cause. Benazir Bhutto got elected mainly on account of her father's memory. Otherwise she had no real political standing. She did develop a bit of support on her own, but the basis was her father's.

When she was appointed Prime Minister after the election, the opposition made a few noises, but one knew they wouldn't prevail. The very strange thing was that when they had to give her a vote of confidence in the National Assembly, a lady from the opposition cast a vote for her, saying: I just want to show my support for the idea of a woman Head of State in Pakistan. After casting her vote she crossed over to the opposition seats.

Many women hoped that she would now be in a position to repeal the Hudood Ordinance and the Sharia Law. These Islamic laws are interpreted harshly where they concern women. The women of Pakistan have, because of their strong opposition to these laws, developed a power base over the last few years. Pakistanis have become accustomed to seeing them out on the streets, protesting. In fact, people have had the most hope for change from women because they have been the most vocal on several issues. I think part of Benazir Bhutto's success in the elections is based on this phenomenon of women in Pakistan suddenly coming to the forefront and fighting the battles. The protesting women assumed leadership roles and their acceptance by people created the climate of acceptance for Bhutto. Otherwise it might have been too sudden for a country which was being dragged towards fundamentalism by a handful of people.

While I was in Pakistan, there were rumors of a sort of maneuvering going on, that we will accede these points, let's say, in one of the provinces somewhere, and the bargaining chip we want is that we should be able to do away—I'm talking for the P.P.P., Benazir Bhutto's party—with the Sharia laws. It would take time, but she was on the right path. Everybody was feeling encouraged.

But, as things stand today, the timing of Rushdie's Satanic Verses couldn't have been worse for Pakistan. Suddenly the fundamentalists are able to say: Look what the West is doing to us. Because of this book, the West is making very angry noises at the Islamic world. We have to fight this demon that is attacking our faith. And, of course, such people can manipulate religious sentiments. At this point, I think Benazir dare not bring the Sharia law issue forward. Her hands have been tied, for this issue. It would shake her government if she did. The fundamentalists were losing support but they are now organized again around the fury over Rushdie's book.

Would you describe the role of the book in Islam?

In Islam, the word “book” means more than it means in the West. Perhaps all over the East it means more. For example, the Moslems call the Jews and the Christians “those of the book.” The printed word in Third World countries is still rather dear. A book is seldom destroyed. And all this gives the printed word and a book more power than it has in the West. In the West, one is used to reading profanity in books, but the same thing in an Islamic country or a Third World country has a different connotation. Anything written down there is so much more powerful. After all the faith of the Muslims is based on The Book, on The Koran, which is God's word.

Do you think Ayatollha Khomeinie, in making an issue of Rushdie's book, partly hoped to destabilize Bhutto's government?

No, I believe the situation was quite different. I heard that the moderates in Iran did not want the ayatollha to even know about this furor over Rushdie's work. But after the deaths in Pakistan and India, the news could not be kept from him. When he asked what was happening, they had to tell him. Then inevitably, you know, somebody asked him: What is the punishment for this? So he pronounced the death sentence. And, I think, if it hadn't gone to this extreme, if the ayatollha had not gotten into the picture, things would have been different. It's a pity because in Iran the moderates were looking to the West for help to rebuild their shattered economy. And they were changing this absolutism. They are also in a bind.

I was in Pakistan during Benazir's election and, of course, the Rushdie trouble had started sometime in September. Many of Rushdie's fans had read the book. He was one of the very few Muslims who'd really made it big in the West, and many Pakistanis identified with his success, and they admired him for it. But now they felt they were betrayed. They couldn't see why he had done this, why he had mocked their religion. They felt that, as it is, they were being stereotyped in the Western press, and Rushdie, in fanning the flames, was encouraging the stereotyping of the Muslims as fanatical.

Fanning the flames? In what way did he do this?

Well, Rushdie—and I believe he said this in interviews with the media—counted on this confrontation to take place. I think, like many writers, he wanted some incident to make his sales grow. I had one little clue. When the book was first banned in Indian, Rushdie must have spent nights awake, dashing off letters to each and every newspaper and magazine there to create a greater controversy. It was not enough that a country banned it; he wanted a little more of what we would call a “tamasha,” a little more of a show. And I think he was at first very pleased with all the media attention. He said that if he'd known this was to be the reaction he would have written even more provocatively. But I don't think he was at all prepared for the ayatollha jumping in as he did with the death sentence, and I'm sure that rattled him. Because, since then, he's not really issued many statements. He did issue an apology but there was no thought of withdrawing the book, so there's no point in an apology. And after that the situation was exploited by everybody. I mean, the book and Rushdie are sort of in the background now, and only the mistrust between the West and the Islamic East prevails.

What effect do you think the death threat, which crosses international boundaries, will have on free expression world-wide? Do you think it will have a chilling effect on writers?

I don't think so. I think it's had an absolutely warming effect on writers. They're so enamored of the thought that a writer has been able to create such a stir all over the world. I think the feeling among some people is that the First Amendment in America is also being waved about a little opportunely. I think people in the writing business do know there is censorship here as well. It is much more subtle and much more effective. A book that is not wanted or an author who is not wanted is not published, which leaves no recourse to the author. At least, in Pakistan or India, a book is banned. That leaves the author—like Rushdie, with the power he has—the recourse to protest and to make a worldwide noise over it. So, I don't think this is going to have a chilling effect on Western writers. Except maybe it will just bring all this out into the open—that this very self-righteous tone is a little hypocritical.

Do you think reviewers here also exercise a degree of censorship in their choice of whom to review, and editors as well in their choice of reviewers?

Yes, of course. In fact, I have had personal experience with what these people can do, and, ironically, in the form of Rushdie. He tried to kill my book Ice-Candy-Man.

There is also the painful fact that people in Pakistan and India were killed because of the book or, perhaps, not the book itself but the political furor. How do you feel about that equation where there is loss of life and there is literature and there is also politics?

It's very sad. I believe twenty-three people have died. I don't think their lives are less important than Rushdie's life. Rushdie is an extremely powerful man. If he were not so powerful, there wouldn't have been such a big hue and cry over his book in such terms as Britain withdrawing its relations with Iran, and the whole world going topsy turvy—everybody ready to bomb Iran for Rushdie's sake. If he had not been so very powerful, this would not have occurred. And he was using this power as arbitrarily as the ayatollha.

(MARCH 26, 1988)

The partition of India and Pakistan appears in some form in all three of your books. You were nine years old at the time. What are your memories of Partition?

Well, the main memory is of hearing mobs chanting slogans from a distance. It was a constant throb in the air and very threatening. Then I saw a lot of fires, it was almost like blood was in the sky, you know. And I saw a few dead bodies on my Warris Road. In fact, that's figured in two of the novels. I was actually walking to my private tutor, and there was this gunnysack lying by the roadside. The gardener, who was with me, just kicked the gunnysack, and a body spilled out, a dead body of a very good looking man. There was a bloodless but big wound on the side of his waist, almost as if it trimmed the waist. And I felt more of a sadness than horror. It seemed so futile—even at that time when I wasn't really conscious of death—the waste of life.

And did your family feel the pressures of what was happening?

Apparently. I didn't feel the pressures myself, but my parents were tense: they were up much later than usual whispering and working all the time. And there were a lot of visits from aunts and uncles. Subsequently, I learned that some of my aunts and uncles from Bombay had advised my parents to get away from Lahore, but they chose to stay in Lahore.

Did the fact that your family was Parsi rather than Muslim or Hindu make a difference in how you were affected?

Yes, it certainly made a big difference, because Parsis, though involved in the Independence struggle, were not with any one side during the partition. Like the Christians. And, as such, they weren't harmed by any party. In any case, they were such a tiny minority that they had no clout this way or that.

In Ice-Candy-Man, it was very useful to use the voice of a Parsi child narrator, because it does bring about an objectivity there. Your own emotions are not so … or at least your participation in events is not so involved. You are more free to record them, not being an actor immediately involved.

So an outsider sometimes sees more clearly?

When you put yourself into the persona of a child, in a way you remove all those blurred images—other people's opinions, expectations about what life is teaching you and the stereotypes which come in. Everything is a little fresher and refreshing, I think, from a child's point of view—more direct.

In Ice-Candy-Man, Lenny is very candid. At one point, however, she finds that her honesty has harmed someone close to her, has betrayed her nurse, Ayah. Then she thinks to herself, “my truth-infected tongue.” At another point, she also asks herself: “A life sentence? Condemned to honesty?”

Well, I'm doing two things here. I'm establishing a sort of truthful witness, whom the reader can believe. At the same time, Lenny is growing up—learning, experiencing, and coming to her own conclusions—one of them, that truth, truth, nothing but the truth can lead to a lot of harm, too. And in understanding the nature of truth, it's many guises, she gradually sheds her innocence and understands the nature of men.

In contrast, there is the lead character of The Crow Eaters, Freddy, who, in the hilarious opening scene, tells his children, “The sweetest thing in the world is your need … Need makes a flatterer of a bully and persuades a cruel man to kindness. Call it circumstances—call it self-interest—call it what you will, it still remains your need. All the good in this world comes from serving your own ends.”

Well, for all his apparent guile and unconventional thinking, he is a thoroughly moral man. He's very close to my ideal of what a man should be. He is smart enough to inhabit this world and protect his family, friends and community, and realistic enough not to search after ideals which would make him ineffectual and cause problems in this world. He's not an evil man; in fact he sticks very close to the tenets of his faith, Zoroastrianism. Whatever his motives or reasoning, he ends up doing good to the people he knows. He's an active force for the good in this world.

He uses his gains to benefit other people?

That's right. No matter how suspect his motives, you know, he ends up doing more good than a do-gooder might in the end.

The Crow Eaters really portrayed the Parsi community—a secretive community—for the first time in literature. When the book was published, did you have any difficulties within the community in Lahore?

Yes, very dramatic difficulties. The book launch took place at an intercontinental hotel in Lahore, and since there are not so many books written in English launched, it was quite a function, with a lot of writers and eminent people reading out papers on the book and all that sort of thing. And there was a bomb threat, which subsequently I realized was from a Parsi who felt very strongly about the book. It took me some time to realize what turmoil the book had created within the community. They thought I was revealing secrets which I had no business giving out. The Parsis are a popular minority, and flourish partly because of their image as a noble and charitable people. And they felt I was damaging the image. But this is a typical reaction, I think, for anybody who breaks new ground in a community like this. They felt threatened by it, although it was written out of great affection.

Was there anything in particular that they objected to most?

The choice of title was unfortunate. I mean, they, just straight away, without reading the book, said, we will never read a book with a name like this. They misunderstood the title. It just means a chatterbox. In a lot of our dialects—in Punjabi, Urdu, Gujarati—they say: “Have you eaten a crow that you're talking so much?” They linked the title to the system we have for the disposal of the dead in the tower of silence, where dead bodies are placed in walled enclosures which are open to the sky. And the birds of prey eat the body. They thought I was capitalizing on this sensitive aspect of a Zoroastrian custom, making fun of it, which was not so. Not in the title, at least.

Was part of the problem the fact that the book was written in English?

No, not at all.

In each of your books people appear in flight. Most dramatically, Zaitoon's flight from her husband in The Bride, and, in Ice-Candy-Man, Ranna's story of his flight from the Sikhs. Why so much fleeing?

I've never thought of it quite that way. It's interesting that you should see a connection there. Perhaps it has something to do with my personality. I always want to be somewhere I am not at that moment. Maybe I do want to flee situations so I visualize people as wanting to get out of situations and flee.

And then, of course, there is the dramatic element; tension and story in a flight and a chase and the effort to survive. As a novelist, you always like to link yourself with something dramatic. I think that's why you see the theme of Partition played out so often in my novels.

Can we talk about language itself for a moment? You speak several other languages—Urdu, Gujarati, and Punjabi. What part does each language play in your life? Are there tensions created between them?

None at all, particularly when I'm in Pakistan. All of us there tend to speak a garbled mixture of languages. But, while in Pakistan, I thought: oh, I speak English fluently. Then I came here and discovered that it was difficult for me to speak a string of sentences without putting some Gujarati or Urdu words in between. Because in Pakistan that's how we have become accustomed to talking. Listening to people who say they don't know any English, you'd be able to follow what they say because they're really throwing so many English words into the conversation.

It's a patois or a salad of languages?

Salad perhaps. I think you just juggle for the best meaning, somehow. And certain words are so much more expressive in another language. Something which is zestful comes out so much better said in Punjabi, or something which is emotional or romantic comes out better said in Urdu. Or certain Gujarati words carry so much more meaning. And you just automatically adopt this mixture to be more expressive.

Is one language more dominant for you? Which do you consider your mother tongue?

Gujrati, the language of the Parsis. My parents spoke it, and my husband and I, among our children.

Actually, it is a language of the Bombay area, the Gujart area in India, because that's where we first came as refugees at the time of the Arabic invasion of Persia. The prince who let us stay, stipulated we must learn the language of Gujarat. And so that became our tongue in India.

And the majority of the Parsis live in Bombay?

Yes. I think, there are about seventy thousand.

And in Lahore?

In Lahore, we have now only ninety-two, but at the time of The Crow Eaters—that is, at the time of Partition—there were about three hundred.

Are there any tensions between the Parsi and the Muslim communities in Lahore?

No, I've not seen any tension, so far. Luckily, we've escaped that sort of thing. There's also a very enormous community of Hindus in the Sind, and fortunately, up to now, there have been no religious riots.

Back to language; your books were all written in English. Does this cause any problems in Pakistan or India as far as representing your culture is concerned?

No, I find myself comfortable writing in this language. My written Urdu is not very good, though I speak it fluently. As for Gujarati, hardly anyone in Pakistan knows the language. In Britain, of all places, people say, “Why don't you write in your own language?” And they bring very heavy political overtones to bear on this. But I think, well, the English don't have a monopoly on the language. It is a language of the world, now. And it is a means of communicating between various nationalities and the most immediate tool at hand. So I use it without any inhibitions or problems.

In fact, it is of great advantage to write in English and be in Pakistan. My books are popular there. And Pakistan has pretty strong censorship. Strangely enough, you can get away with writing in English what you can't writing in Urdu. So, when it comes to translating into Urdu, I will have to modify certain passages that could be considered obscene.

How severe is censorship in Pakistan? There is press censorship.

I think it's never been as free as I found it in the past two years, since martial law was lifted and replaced by a kind of grassroots democracy. I was amazed how much newspapers in English were permitted to report. In some respects, I think, they dared more even than the American press. But again that's in English.

But we do have this strong element of fundamentalist fanatics. And, because of them, everybody has to be on guard. When these people get agitated, nobody can control them, not even the government. They just burn the books, the newspapers and wreck the newspaper offices and nobody can control them at that stage. So I think everybody to some degree exercises a sort of a self-censorship, almost.

In the Urdu media, the government comes down very hard on what it terms obscenity. Everything is obscene. Any of my sex scenes would be considered absolutely beyond the pale, and some political statements, too, if they were in Urdu. People go to prison for these things.

Women in Pakistan: you have recently written an essay titled “Women against the Mullahs.” Is the Islamic fundamentalism that is spreading in the Mideast and Asia, pushing women back into purdah?

Into the medieval ages. But women are violently opposing it. What is very sad is that, you know, I don't think most of us were aware that the Hudood Ordinance had been passed. And they are trying to bring the Sharia laws back, but the women are opposing it tooth and nail. Every time the Mullahs open their mouths to talk of Islam, they end up saying, “Women should do this, women should not do this. This is how women should dress, this is how women should behave, this is how women should not bring pressure on them, and this is how women should not entice men.” All those ridiculous things. They can't talk of Islam without talking of constricting women. And women are getting more and more fed up with this, because they have just a few hard-won rights. Very unfair things are happening in the name of the religion. Most men, when you talk to them, are opposed and they see the injustice of it. Judges see the injustice of it much more clearly than anyone because they deal with these cases every day. And I just hope now the Sharia law is not passed. Although the fundamentalists are determined to have it passed.

What do you think are the chances that it will be passed?

It's so hard to predict. I don't know how strong the women are and for how long they can oppose the Mullahs, who seem to be gaining in power. I don't know how long the rational elements in government will be able to oppose the Sharia law.

This is not the same type of fundamentalism which Iran is facing. It was exacerbated by the Afghan crisis. Fundamentalism, religion has been used to fight the war against the Russians. So, the war gave fundamentalism an impetus. It became politically expedient to promote fundamentalism.

And what legal steps are women taking?

They are taking legal steps. But legal steps are dismissed offhand, because you go into unending tangles in the interpretation of The Koran. The men interpret it differently; the women interpret it differently.

There is an impatient element, and I myself belong to that element. But I'm not a member of the particular women's group known as the Women's Action Forum, which is making use of much more demonstrative methods of protest like protesting in the streets. In fact, most women's organizations are taking recourse to this strategy because it's the only way they seem to be able to draw attention to themselves and their causes. And they do a few things which, in the context of Pakistan, are very exceptional. They burn their veils or they shout on the road, which is, you know, very strange to see happen in Pakistan, and it does draw a lot of attention.

But these women are dismissed offhand by the religious element as being almost prostitutes. “These are loose women who do such things.” Yet these women definitely belong to the elite of Pakistan because they are the only ones who can take such action, who are lettered enough and educated enough to do so. The poor women who belong to the lower or middle class aren't even conscious really of what's happening. They just suffer and suffer. They're in such turmoil they don't even have time to be conscious of what's happening to them.

A book titled Women of Pakistan says that the rate of literacy among Pakistani women is fifteen percent.

Fifteen percent is a very exaggerated figure. I would say it's closer to eight percent. Because, when you say literacy in Pakistan, it means if you can just sign your name you are considered literate. And a lot of women who go to school, let's say, up to the age of nine, or ten, revert to illiteracy. They totally forget what they've learned. It's much less than fifteen percent.

Obviously, then, there's great resistance to education for women.

Pakistan has always had the potential to be a richer country than India. The GNP there is higher than in all the surrounding areas of the subcontinent. And those who are better off, particularly those in southern Pakistan, are seeing to it that their children go to English-speaking schools. They are very conscious of educating their girls, and this is a movement for the better. But, among the lower middle class and the non-monied class, there is certainly a sentiment against girls studying.

Among the Parsis, there is no purdah?

No, none at all.

You mention in The Crow Eaters that, while there is no purdah in the Parsi community itself, you are surrounded by an atmosphere of repression, and this takes its toll on Parsi women as well.

Well, the Parsis, wherever they have lived, have taken on the color of that country. Parsi women dress a little differently in Pakistan than those in Bombay. And they probably would even in England, let's say. In Pakistan, that general repressive atmosphere for women naturally does have its effect on the values and attitudes which the Parsis hold there, with the result that a Parsi child might say, “Oh, Mommy don't wear that sleeveless shirt. Don't come to my school without your shawl,” or something like that. So to that extent it is very repressive, I feel, for girls.

Has the Zia government permitted the Islamization movement against women to go forward and, if so, is this an attempt to win legitimacy from the fundamentalists?

The fundamentalist movement is gaining strength because of political reasons and because of the Afghanistan situation. It is definitely very linked with that. We've had the war at our borders now for seven years, and, because of it, the government needs a lot of money, and gets this from sources where there are fundamentalists also.

And how have the Afghans fought so long? There are countries like Yugoslavia and Czechoslovakia and Poland where the people couldn't resist the Russians even for days at a time. And these countries have, by our standards, a very developed and sophisticated, armed people. But here are these total primitives who carry homemade models of the Lee Enfield, who have given the Afghans so much fame in military terms for seven years. And there is a reason for this: they'd only be able to do this because of religion. Religion has played a very strong part in fighting this war. And this fact has been realized, and that is why fundamentalists have been promoted. They are the only force that could counter the Communist force there. It's so apparent, when they can resist for seven years while other countries can't for two days at a time.

There are around four million Afghan refugees in Pakistan. Has this created a large scale economic drain on the country?

Not only economic. It's an ecological drain. We have very little vegetation in the northern areas of Pakistan because of the poverty, but now these people have taken over almost every tree for firewood. They've brought their goats and cattle to graze, and wherever goats graze nothing will grow for centuries because they eat up the seed from inside the soil. It's been an ecological disaster on a very grand, massive scale.

What other effects do you think the refugees will have if the war continues for several more years or if they stay in Pakistan?

One terrible impact, which I've seen every time I've gone back during the past two years, is the proliferation of arms. My God, every household has a weapon now. And there were strict gun laws in Pakistan. Nobody had weapons; very few had licenses. And the other is the sudden outbreak and spread of drug use.

We are a very poor country, and now there's suddenly this enormous force of Afghans who are taking over the jobs of the poorer Pakistani. The Afghan, of course, through various forms of aid, is given a certain stipend every month. He's entitled to fifty rupees per head per month, plus food. Because of this, he can take on daily labor jobs for a much lower rate than the Pakistani can. So he's replacing the Pakistani. The Afghans are buying land; they're running this illegal drug traffic; they've changed the whole power structure of Pakistan. And they've done it overnight.

And they are a very ferocious, bullying, untamed people, you know. It's taken Pakistan thirty years to tame our own Pathans. The Afghans are totally a warrior people who suddenly descended on Pakistan with totally different values, very little consideration for life. They're liable to kill a person for ten rupees. They're being controlled, but with great difficulty. This doesn't reflect on all of them. When they've become entrepreneurs, they have more stake in the country, more stake in being peaceful.

Moving to another border, the border with Iran; Pakistan is predominantly Sunni rather than Shiite. What influence has the Sunni Khomeini government had on the Sunni population in Pakistan or on the Shiite minority?

I don't think the social revolution in Iran has made any change. There has always been a little Shiite-Sunni tension for a very long time. This has not posed any threat for Pakistan. Iran is on our border, but I don't think Pakistan has ever felt threatened by it, because the fundamentalism there is different. And, so far, I've not seen it, because the Shiites are also a minority in Pakistan. They seem to be a fairly enlightened minority; don't seem to be those extremists.

Pakistan also has a small border with China. What pressure does this exert on Pakistan?

China has always been a very good friend of Pakistan, and we feel strengthened by its friendship. Pakistan feels China has been its only reliable ally. America has always been an ally, but a very unreliable one. Whereas China, even if it's been able to help very, very little, symbolically it's helped a lot. Every time India, with its massive power on our borders, threatens Pakistan, China will come out with a humorous statement like: “Oh, the Indians have stolen eleven goats or eleven sheep, so we won't allow them to cross this area.” They give India little threats like that, that are a warning to leave Pakistan alone.

When India was at war with China in 1962, the United States shifted support from Pakistan to India. How serious a shift in the balance of power was this in the region?

The U.S. would much rather support India in every instance. But India plays a cool, non-aligned game, and has valuable assistance from the U.S.S.R. This leaves the U.S. little option but the role it plays in Pakistan. India is very powerful. Pakistan feels very threatened by India because it's massive compared to Pakistan. And there are so many internal pressures within India also, you see, which could spill over and suddenly make India attack Pakistan or threaten the border. Pakistan is very uncomfortable in its relationship with India.

And, of course, there's the nuclear problem. India did explode a bomb in 1974. [And in May, '89 it tested a nuclear missile.]

Yes. Once you pander to India, you abandon Pakistan. Pakistan feels it's just a small, kicked around and bullied neighbor to India.

Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto wrote a book called The Myth of Independence, which expressed that sense of being used by the superpowers. How do you feel about Bhutto's years in power?

Well, for me, those years were an exhilarating experience as a woman, and as a member of the minority. He had the sort of values most sophisticated people—in fact, he had the values most people in Pakistan agree with because he won by a huge majority in West Pakistan elections. And people were devoted to him, almost fanatically. At that time, during the elections, there was one party, which is still very much in power, called the Jamaat-e-Islami; they won almost no seats. Whereas whoever Bhutto put up on the call of social reform and a very secular platform got elected by enormous majorities. And that same mood has prevailed.

But it seems he became more and more isolated and defensive over the years.

Somehow, he became paranoid. He felt himself surrounded by enemies. And it wasn't really so much paranoia because he was beleaguered by superpowers. He was definitely targeted by America.

He was executed by Zia in 1979. What did you think then?

Well, when Benazir Bhutto appeared on “Sixty Minutes,” she was asked what she thought of Zia, and would she avenge her father's death. She answered something to the effect: “I don't believe in vendettas.” Naturally, she was very moved by the question and the memories it recalled. But she blamed America as much as Zia for her father's death. Most people in Pakistan believe America was responsible for Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto's death.

Thinking about cultural differences between East and West; first of all, are there differences in ways of storytelling? One reviewer has pointed out that The Crow Eaters is episodic, like an Indian folktale. Do you think a different manner of storytelling is used in the West? Or is there no difference?

No, there is a very enormous difference, especially if you compare America and Pakistan. I think it's pretty true of most western European countries, too. In the West, storytelling has been lost in the byways of verbal acrobatics and the need to be smart and innovative in writing. The story element is very often lost in what they call “literate fiction” in these parts of the world.

The Crow Eaters would be more in the style of my part of the world. It's telling a story. Then, again, I'm writing humor, and humor only comes out in scenes where you milk the scene for every ounce of its humor and drama. But The Crow Eaters is a novel. If you can call a lot of Naipaul's journalistic, self-indulgences a novel, this certainly is a novel.

In The Crow Eaters, Jerbanoo, the mother-in-law, is presented comically. In Ice-Candy-Man, Godmother is not and Lenny looks up to her. Yet, in a way, Godmother and Jerbanoo are very much alike. Has the attitude of the writer changed towards this type of woman?

These are two different people, though with some similar characteristics. But Godmother has somehow been able to become empowered. She has come to a stage in life where she's not dependent on men. Godmother's old husband is feeble by now. He's been relegated to the background. He's had his day. And she has come into her own as a woman. Whereas, in Jerbanoo's case, she is a widow and is still dependent for everything on her son-in-law. And, of course, the whole treatment of the story, the plot, the requirements of character is different in each book.

In Ice-Candy-Man, the narrator makes some very funny observations on Ghandi—with his weaving and talking about his digestive problems—and says that Ghandi is “an improbable mixture of a demon and a clown.” Later the narrator shows high regard for Jinah as a more reserved and serious politician. Do you agree with the narrator's point of view?

Yes. This comes down to a statement I'm trying to make in the book that there have been films like Ghandi which have sanitized him into a saint. He's not human in that film. And I tried to humanize him. While watching Ghandi, I enjoyed it as a writer and a person who is interested in drama. I looked at him from the perspective of the film which portrayed him totally as a hero, and I enjoyed the film. But at the end of it—my daughter and her friend were sitting with me, and they were almost in tears. They said, “How could you like the movie, Mommy? Didn't you see what they did to Jinah?” And they felt that they, as Pakistanis, had been personally hurt by the way Jinah had been treated in that movie. He was caricatured as a stick figure, as a very stiff villain of the piece. And I felt, in Ice-Candy-Man, I was just redressing in a small way, a very grievous wrong that has been done to Jinah and Pakistanis by many Indian and British writers. They've dehumanized him, made him a symbol of the sort of person who brought about the partition of India, a person who was hard-headed and obstinate. Whereas, in reality, he was the only constitutional man who didn't sway crowds just by rhetoric, and tried to do everything by the British standards of constitutional law.

Ghandi totally Hinduized the whole partition movement. This excluded the Muslims there. He brought religion into the Congress Party. And Jinah, who was one of the founders of the party, found he had to edge away from it because it was changing into a Hindu party.

Just one more question—a rather large one: What can the writer do? What makes writing important?

Well, I don't think the writer can—not a writer of fiction—change the world. I don't think so at all—or, if so, very little in practical terms. There are exceptions. Certain writers maybe are able to do it. The poet Neruda is one example. It depends, I suppose, on what country you inhabit and at what time. But I do think that a writer can at least place facts so that people recognize themselves and stop taking themselves too seriously or start seeing themselves in a more realistic light. We all are so prone to see ourselves as a little better than the other person. Some readers have commented, “Oh, you made me see myself.” Or “I'm an Oxford or Harvard educated person, and I find that really my thinking is no different from that tribal gentleman's in that tribal landscape you've portrayed.” And I feel my writing is at least making some people aware of what they are. That's going to have some impact.

Then there are these incidents I can describe where I feel very concerned about injustices, whether it is the behaviour of superpowers or the oppression of women or an injustice done to political leaders or to a country. At least, I think a lot of readers in Pakistan, especially with Ice-Candy-Man, feel that I've given them a voice, which they did not have before. They've always been portrayed in a very unfavorable light. It's been fashionable to kick Pakistan, and it's been done again and again by various writers living in the West.

So a voice gives … ?

It gives them a little self-esteem. This is a very strange thing, but the Western media has become so powerful that people in my part of the world are beginning to believe it. Their self-esteem is being eroded by their presentation as inferior persons. They're thinking less of themselves. And this has some strange results. When I was in Pakistan recently, I was suddenly struck by the fact that on a front page of a newspaper I saw an item saying: “Twelve Americans died, skiing in Colorado.” Then somewhere locked up in the middle pages, I saw a little item saying: “A bus fell down a gorge in the Karakorams, and fifteen people died.” So, you know, we have been diminished, in our own eyes. And that is the power of the media. And I feel, if there's one little thing I could do, it's to make people realize: We are not worthless because we inhabit a poor country or because we inhabit a country which is seen by Western eyes as a primitive, fundamentalist country only … I mean, we are a rich mixture of all sorts of forces as well, and our lives are very much worth living.