Shubnum Khan's Blog, page 10
October 12, 2016
A Moment (from this moment)
It is raining and outside on the street, a man is shouting to a woman down the street that yes, he has strawberries and they are very cheap.
My mother, no longer with a washing basket in tow (for that, was for the old fruit and veg man who she bought all her potatoes and tomatoes from) climbs up the wet driveway and often, these days, my father joins her and they pick lemons and avocados and sometimes butternut from the back of his truck. Sometimes my mother says his lemons are cheap but most of the time she comes back complaining that his prices are too high.
He's not like our old fruit and veg man, who had knobbly knees below khaki shorts and smoked a pipe while he read the newspaper. His truck was stolen, that's what we heard.
I was moonfaced back then with polka dot shorts, hanging off the edge of the truck in bata sandals as I played with the weights on his rusting scale.
When he took out his pen from behind his ear to add up the vegetables in the washing basket I would run down the driveway to get ready for madressah.
My mother, no longer with a washing basket in tow (for that, was for the old fruit and veg man who she bought all her potatoes and tomatoes from) climbs up the wet driveway and often, these days, my father joins her and they pick lemons and avocados and sometimes butternut from the back of his truck. Sometimes my mother says his lemons are cheap but most of the time she comes back complaining that his prices are too high.
He's not like our old fruit and veg man, who had knobbly knees below khaki shorts and smoked a pipe while he read the newspaper. His truck was stolen, that's what we heard.
I was moonfaced back then with polka dot shorts, hanging off the edge of the truck in bata sandals as I played with the weights on his rusting scale.
When he took out his pen from behind his ear to add up the vegetables in the washing basket I would run down the driveway to get ready for madressah.
A Moment (in the coffeeshop)
Once when I told her that I was going away, she began to cry for me. Sitting at the table, she dabbed the edges of her eyes with a crumpled tissue and laughed embarrassedly and said she was so happy for me.
And I knew then the love of those who love as if you are theirs.
And I knew then the love of those who love as if you are theirs.
October 8, 2016
A Moment (from the village)
One night N and I went walking in the dark, shining our torches, shivering, looking for pieces of wood to burn in the fireplace. And while, stooping to pick the bundle of sticks used to flick at the horses, uncle Saleem opened the door and shone his light on us in the dark and we threw down the horse's whip and acted like we were looking for something.
Later that night, he sent up some wood. We watched it burn, learned life stories from the embers, whispered in the dark upon our jaali beds, pulled our blankets closer, our socked toes at the hearth.
Later in flea-bitten dreams, Jala the bull bellowed at the moon.
Later that night, he sent up some wood. We watched it burn, learned life stories from the embers, whispered in the dark upon our jaali beds, pulled our blankets closer, our socked toes at the hearth.
Later in flea-bitten dreams, Jala the bull bellowed at the moon.
A bit about artist's residencies
I've decided that I really should be writing more about my travel experiences properly. I've already lost most of my photos from my trips in the last year to the States, Spain, Morocco and even China (hard drive crashed - very hard to talk about).
I didn't write nearly as much as I would have liked about my time living in the village. It was a hard and wonderful experience and thank God I had a friend with me who I can refer to about my experiences there (my memory gets a blurry at times and this is also why the lost photos are an extra blow). I didn't write in part out of laziness and in part out of fear and also because I suddenly started to shut down and wanted to stop sharing anything about me out there. This too, in part is something innate in me and also in part because I was told I share too much of myself online and maybe I wanted to be more private. In short there were many parts that stopped me from writing about my travels, that led to the decision to have this more of a visual blog with just excerpts and quotes and random thoughts and photos that expressed a little of what was going on in my mind.
I don't doubt I will feel the urge to take this post down soon after I publish it because I find it too revealing - to write like this - like a diary entry almost, addressing some other invisible person on the other side of the screen. I know how people lock other people into their words.
I feel as an opening in sharing something about my travel experiences I should speak a little about artist's residencies which I think are the most wonderful thing in the world. I've been for two so far - one in rural upstate New York and one in a hotel in Shanghai. I was also accepted for one in a dancer's village in Bangalore but I had to withdraw from that one at the last minute, although I really wish I could have gone.
For someone like me, who has lived, studied and grown up with my family in Durban in a small and fairly conservative community all my life, this kind of opportunity has been out of this world. It still blows my mind that there are institutions out there that take you to another country, care for you, even pay you to live in a beautiful studio or house for months just so that you can produce a piece of art. Yes, of course artists need space and time to produce things that real life may never give you the space or opportunity to do, but no one expects anyone to just... give it to them. It blows my mind that there are places like this where you are given the luxury of time and space to work on your dream.
So not only do you get to have time to work just on your project, you also get to see a different country (often for free, depending if the residency offers travel) and you get to live with talented musicians, architects, visual artists, composers, poets, writers etc. from around the world. You get to interact with new people and share ideas. And it truly blows open the world in new and wonderful ways.
I recently spent 6 months in China working on my new novel, Paper Flowers. I had a huge live-in studio overlooking the Bund in a hotel that was built in 1906 and I lived with an array of artists from Italy, Switzerland, Russia, France, Portugal, Argentina, Denmark, Taiwan, China, Vietnam, Belgium and so on. We had breakfast together, has discussions, arguments, went to exhibitions, restaurants, plays and parties. Living in the heart of China's biggest city was an eye opening experience. I met new people, had new experiences and learned a lot about who I was. You feel seemingly cut off from everything not only because you cannot understand the language anywhere but because you're also cut off from the rest of the world (YouTube, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, New York Times etc. is all banned in China). It was also the longest time I had lived away from home and that itself was a whole different experience.
This of course, is a very short story to a very long experience (that sometimes felt like it was never ending). Artist's residencies are ridiculously amazing. For me, they are heaven on earth - in one swoop they combine everything I want: travel, new friends, work, leisure, experience, knowledge, freedom, space and good food. Most importantly they offer you time, which we all know is a luxury. For me, residencies are the most fantastic thing in the world. There are stories about people stealing from one another, hating each another, loving one another and growing together. Some of the loveliest friendships I have made this part year are from my residencies. It's easy to bond when you're living in a foreign country together (easier to fight too). At the the dinners I think I am the most quiet; just watching all the minds working as they talk and laugh and argue and discuss politics or literature or art under a foreign night sky.
Artist residencies are outrageous. They are outrageous and wonderful and crazy.
I didn't write nearly as much as I would have liked about my time living in the village. It was a hard and wonderful experience and thank God I had a friend with me who I can refer to about my experiences there (my memory gets a blurry at times and this is also why the lost photos are an extra blow). I didn't write in part out of laziness and in part out of fear and also because I suddenly started to shut down and wanted to stop sharing anything about me out there. This too, in part is something innate in me and also in part because I was told I share too much of myself online and maybe I wanted to be more private. In short there were many parts that stopped me from writing about my travels, that led to the decision to have this more of a visual blog with just excerpts and quotes and random thoughts and photos that expressed a little of what was going on in my mind.
I don't doubt I will feel the urge to take this post down soon after I publish it because I find it too revealing - to write like this - like a diary entry almost, addressing some other invisible person on the other side of the screen. I know how people lock other people into their words.
I feel as an opening in sharing something about my travel experiences I should speak a little about artist's residencies which I think are the most wonderful thing in the world. I've been for two so far - one in rural upstate New York and one in a hotel in Shanghai. I was also accepted for one in a dancer's village in Bangalore but I had to withdraw from that one at the last minute, although I really wish I could have gone.
For someone like me, who has lived, studied and grown up with my family in Durban in a small and fairly conservative community all my life, this kind of opportunity has been out of this world. It still blows my mind that there are institutions out there that take you to another country, care for you, even pay you to live in a beautiful studio or house for months just so that you can produce a piece of art. Yes, of course artists need space and time to produce things that real life may never give you the space or opportunity to do, but no one expects anyone to just... give it to them. It blows my mind that there are places like this where you are given the luxury of time and space to work on your dream.
So not only do you get to have time to work just on your project, you also get to see a different country (often for free, depending if the residency offers travel) and you get to live with talented musicians, architects, visual artists, composers, poets, writers etc. from around the world. You get to interact with new people and share ideas. And it truly blows open the world in new and wonderful ways.
I recently spent 6 months in China working on my new novel, Paper Flowers. I had a huge live-in studio overlooking the Bund in a hotel that was built in 1906 and I lived with an array of artists from Italy, Switzerland, Russia, France, Portugal, Argentina, Denmark, Taiwan, China, Vietnam, Belgium and so on. We had breakfast together, has discussions, arguments, went to exhibitions, restaurants, plays and parties. Living in the heart of China's biggest city was an eye opening experience. I met new people, had new experiences and learned a lot about who I was. You feel seemingly cut off from everything not only because you cannot understand the language anywhere but because you're also cut off from the rest of the world (YouTube, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, New York Times etc. is all banned in China). It was also the longest time I had lived away from home and that itself was a whole different experience.
This of course, is a very short story to a very long experience (that sometimes felt like it was never ending). Artist's residencies are ridiculously amazing. For me, they are heaven on earth - in one swoop they combine everything I want: travel, new friends, work, leisure, experience, knowledge, freedom, space and good food. Most importantly they offer you time, which we all know is a luxury. For me, residencies are the most fantastic thing in the world. There are stories about people stealing from one another, hating each another, loving one another and growing together. Some of the loveliest friendships I have made this part year are from my residencies. It's easy to bond when you're living in a foreign country together (easier to fight too). At the the dinners I think I am the most quiet; just watching all the minds working as they talk and laugh and argue and discuss politics or literature or art under a foreign night sky.
Artist residencies are outrageous. They are outrageous and wonderful and crazy.
September 27, 2016
It's not that I don't want to see him...
So it's not that I don't want to see him, I do. At least I think I do. But he's not the same anymore. I avoid him where I can. It kills me to admit this. I walk around him. Because I hate to see him this way. This confused, this lost, this sick. I don't want to remember him as this. I want to remember him as he was; strong, independent and wise.
So is it selfish that I avoid him in his last days?
Of course it is. Of course it must be. I feel like he knows I hardly go to see him anymore. Even though his memory has become a bit blurry I think he knows I'm avoiding him. Maybe it's guilt talking. Maybe he doesn't know anything. He smiles when he sees me. We became close these last few years.
But I can't see him like this. Can't look. My eyes don't know where to go. The last few times I spoke to him I almost started to cry. I kept looking away. He knew. Maybe. Maybe he didn't. I feel his world has become dim now. Shafts of light coming in through the blinds in his mind. He has gone stubborn. Frustrated. Angry. This is what he has fiercely avoided all his life - dependence.
I don't know what to say when I see him. I don't have words anymore. I want him to take out photo albums and explain but I fear he doesn't have the patience anymore for that. I hate to see him this way. So I avoid. Look the other way. Try not to think about it. Write posts at my computer instead of going to see him.
What do I say anyway?
My limbs, my tongue locked.
So is it selfish that I avoid him in his last days?
Of course it is. Of course it must be. I feel like he knows I hardly go to see him anymore. Even though his memory has become a bit blurry I think he knows I'm avoiding him. Maybe it's guilt talking. Maybe he doesn't know anything. He smiles when he sees me. We became close these last few years.
But I can't see him like this. Can't look. My eyes don't know where to go. The last few times I spoke to him I almost started to cry. I kept looking away. He knew. Maybe. Maybe he didn't. I feel his world has become dim now. Shafts of light coming in through the blinds in his mind. He has gone stubborn. Frustrated. Angry. This is what he has fiercely avoided all his life - dependence.
I don't know what to say when I see him. I don't have words anymore. I want him to take out photo albums and explain but I fear he doesn't have the patience anymore for that. I hate to see him this way. So I avoid. Look the other way. Try not to think about it. Write posts at my computer instead of going to see him.
What do I say anyway?
My limbs, my tongue locked.
September 22, 2016
A Moment (from Hypermarket by the sea)
If we were lucky at the end of the month, we could eat something at the restaurant at Hypermarket by the sea. My father would park the trolley near a table and we could order a plate of chips with tomato sauce and sometimes a chocolate milkshake to share.
And I remember thinking how wonderful life was to be eating chips at the big restaurant at Hypermarket by the sea.
And I remember thinking how wonderful life was to be eating chips at the big restaurant at Hypermarket by the sea.
A Moment (from next door)
My mother would lift me up at the waist and put me over the wall into the neighbour's yard.
There, aunty Ambi would give me white bread with jam and not meat, because I could not eat meat there, only jam sandwiches.
There, aunty Ambi would give me white bread with jam and not meat, because I could not eat meat there, only jam sandwiches.
September
I was so close to death, I could see inside her mouth.
September 19, 2016
September 11, 2016
Writer's Diary 1
I have friends who writing comes easily to. I have friends who produce a manuscript in 6 months, who produce a novel a year, who write sharp witty lengthy pieces twice a month.
I envy these people.
Writing does not come easy to me.
Granted I should be doing it more but I've spent the last 4 years generally and the last year intensely working on one piece of writing and yet the damn thing refuses to finish. Now, I know and many people have asked me what's the rush? Writing is something that requires patience and I do believe if it's organic and true it will grow at it's own pace. But still, it's so frustrating to have nothing to show for years taken off to work on one thing. And then of course there's the fear that it will never be good enough and that all this will be for nothing.
Which brings me back to how I began this piece - writing comes so naturally to some. I feel like the stories flow through some people. Something similar to what JK Rowling said about Harry Potter - he just walked out fully formed from her head. These writers plot and plan the piece and bring it together with determination. These are the people who produce a book almost every year, I think. They take out a piece of wood and they cut out the shape and then they fine tune it and shave bits and twiddle and tweak and then viola, it's ready.
Me? I feel like someone at a cutting board with a fish. I am hacking up a great writhing fish. And there are scales everywhere and bits of gristle and blood and slime. Each sentence is suffering and I rewrite and I rewrite and there's a character dying and I have to resuscitate her and the prologue is shit so I have to chuck it out and the story is twisting and turning all over the place and I can't keep it still and then nothing feels genuine so I cut that out too and the bits left that are good to work with they don't fit with one another and I'm scaling and I'm scaling and I'm to my elbows in guts and I've forgotten to wear an apron and there are people yelling at me and all I want to do, all I want to do is dump this bloody butchered fish into a pot and cook it even though I know it's not ready.
Some days I think, if writing is this hard maybe it's not meant for me. And maybe I should just be okay with that and do something else.
I am tired. I have been tired for a very long time. And before I start sharing more than I should (because as the blog title says, One day I will tell you everything - but today is not that day), I will leave.
I just wanted to get that big fat fish off my chest.
S.
I envy these people.
Writing does not come easy to me.
Granted I should be doing it more but I've spent the last 4 years generally and the last year intensely working on one piece of writing and yet the damn thing refuses to finish. Now, I know and many people have asked me what's the rush? Writing is something that requires patience and I do believe if it's organic and true it will grow at it's own pace. But still, it's so frustrating to have nothing to show for years taken off to work on one thing. And then of course there's the fear that it will never be good enough and that all this will be for nothing.
Which brings me back to how I began this piece - writing comes so naturally to some. I feel like the stories flow through some people. Something similar to what JK Rowling said about Harry Potter - he just walked out fully formed from her head. These writers plot and plan the piece and bring it together with determination. These are the people who produce a book almost every year, I think. They take out a piece of wood and they cut out the shape and then they fine tune it and shave bits and twiddle and tweak and then viola, it's ready.
Me? I feel like someone at a cutting board with a fish. I am hacking up a great writhing fish. And there are scales everywhere and bits of gristle and blood and slime. Each sentence is suffering and I rewrite and I rewrite and there's a character dying and I have to resuscitate her and the prologue is shit so I have to chuck it out and the story is twisting and turning all over the place and I can't keep it still and then nothing feels genuine so I cut that out too and the bits left that are good to work with they don't fit with one another and I'm scaling and I'm scaling and I'm to my elbows in guts and I've forgotten to wear an apron and there are people yelling at me and all I want to do, all I want to do is dump this bloody butchered fish into a pot and cook it even though I know it's not ready.
Some days I think, if writing is this hard maybe it's not meant for me. And maybe I should just be okay with that and do something else.
I am tired. I have been tired for a very long time. And before I start sharing more than I should (because as the blog title says, One day I will tell you everything - but today is not that day), I will leave.
I just wanted to get that big fat fish off my chest.
S.
