character development

Flesh out your character. If you are developing one very important character, have fun with it! Give your character an entire profile! What is his/her name? Where were they born, and when? Do they wear striped socks or solid ones? Is their hair blue or flame-red? Write down a bunch of these details, even if they may not be necessary for the story. If you are writing a character's personality off of someone you know,keep in mind that the reader doesn't know who you're writing about. Make it so that the reader has a clear picture, and don't leave any important information out! You can't assume that the reader knows the character as well as you do.

Be prepared to let your characters and their responses surprise you; that's when you know you're really getting somewhere

 

Visual imagery Imagery of sight
Aural imagery: Imagery of sound (e.g., the soft hiss of snow skis)
Olfactory imagery: Imagery of smell (e.g., the smell of day old beer)
Tactile imagery: Imagery of touch (e.g., bare feet on a hot sidewalk)
Gustatory imagery: Imagery of taste (e.g., the spicy taste of Cajun food)

 

Writing trigger:
Gail stormed into the office muttering something about the fact that John just made a complete ass of himself.
Who is John? Who is John to Gail? Why is Gail saying he is an ass? This is not that hard. We all know people who act like an ass. We either work for them, are related to them, married to them, divorced from them, or gave birth to them.

Develop a Fictional Character with the personality of an ass, as you, the writer, perceive an ass to be.

Character Development Exercise: http://users.pgtc.com/~slmiller/characterexercises.htm

 

Nicnames!

 

FLESHY CHARACTERS: Bai Amma, Usman, Raza, Mir Nawab, Noor Jehan, Razia, Asad, Rani, Shahzadi begum, abba ammi, and narrator.

 

UNFLESHY CHARACTERS: Lala Bhai, Rani's husband and kids, lipstick sisters, phuppo, Nano in cameo role, etc.

 

 

 

It must've been something to do with Belonging. Fitting into shells carved out in another's soul, meant for you. Empty spaces we keep locked up inside, afraid to show the cocoons that might just be the Cinderella's-shoe to someone else's hurting soul. Slip inside to remedies, comfort, protection...whatever it is you're looking for.
What is inner peace? Is it inside yourself or inside the cocoon within another? Every time I see him with heartbreaking vulnerability and an ache deep inside my soul, I find my inner peace is inside him. Maybe that's why they call it 'inner', and don't attach pronouns with it..Inner could be inside anyone, not necessarily yourself.

Home is where the heart is. Peace is where you fit. Or maybe, who you fit. Maybe they're all one and the same thing. Maybe Plato was right when he said what he did about soul-mates.

Maybe.


(admitting to your vulnerability when so much of it resides in someone else can be a very difficult thing)

her lips were the color of summer peaches in Quetta, the dusky gold of the sun when it set.
.................

there are mysteries id like to solve.
he's the biggest one of all.
......................

there are abysses in rainbows, and loopholes in fairy tales

.......................

 

sometimes, i paint pathways in the greyblue sky and dot them with silver.

...................................

 

crumpled lotus flower form on a grey waterbed

...................................

 

 i am overcome with homesickness while still cosy in my room..

.................................

 

things have settled down in a plastic,contained sort of way. bound in strips of clingfilm and social gatherings; we are a-okay.

............................

 

.i construct war zones and romantic interludes at the back of my eyes, in the corner in the dark where no light from my present can reach.

.............................

 

How could i begin to weave the fleshy strips of my narrative, the internal monologue constantly repeating my story to myself..to spew out of a hollow dry mouth, hoping the inky strains on paper can covey some small part of the stories through which we live.


at what point do we being to unravel the story from our own, the completely aloof fictitiuos tale from reality...transcribed out of pure boredon, burst of litereary vomit or distracted musings carefully crafted to sit on the sidelines, (but never a reflection of soul, never)
..............................

 

sweat tears and the wonderful composing ability of anguish

............................

i want to become yours too,

in a permanent unquestionable way.

..............................

 

I sit besides my lonely fire -

And pray for wisdom yet:

For calmness to remember -

Or courage to forget”

...............................

 

I swim in the bluest skies,

seas are only finite after all.
..................................

i feel my soul is decaying rotten in pieces like the peeling moldy skin of Eden's fruit...i would ask you to rekindle it with lyric and song, paint it with lilac shades of romance, the deep crimson of lips bleeding in nervous anxiousness, the yellow of tiny daffodils littering my doorway.. sunshine, passion, want...all the familiar, forgotten.

........................................

..and since by no means am i bereft yet of all that is beloved by me, contained in your embrace,
i will persist in soldering on even in this bright sunny gloom of summer days..

.........................................

Society is a masked ball where everyone reveals their character in hiding.

,...........................................


 

 

 

key plot questions

a. why did bai amma switch twins?
b. what was the story/significance of the lost son?
c. what is the narrator's own storyline, if any? are we using her just as a proxy for the oral story-telling aspect? lack of development in narrator's character will leave audience unsatisfied, and secondary storyline must be developed.
d. what is the historical timeline for all the key events?
e. KEY: how will narrator find out the switch of the twins?
f. how does the twin switch impact narrator at a personal level 4 generations later? unless asad (rani's son or raza's son, comes looking for her and there's a love story/digging there? is that too similar to salt and saffron?

oral tradition and dastangoi

'the burden of cultural history'

'the culture of oral storytelling - Aliya is aware of the richness and vibrancy of the family stories and the craft of storytelling itself, but equally this storytelling culture has helped to create a web of ‘family identity’ which she now wishes to loosen. Salt and Saffron is thus a poignant exploration of the search for a balance between individual identity and ancestral and cultural heritage.'

How much of the story is going to be about the narrator and how much about cultural heritage? 

research-location and rampur

'the burden of cultural history'

'the culture of oral storytelling - Aliya is aware of the richness and vibrancy of the family stories and the craft of storytelling itself, but equally this storytelling culture has helped to create a web of ‘family identity’ which she now wishes to loosen. Salt and Saffron is thus a poignant exploration of the search for a balance between individual identity and ancestral and cultural heritage.'

How much of the story is going to be about the narrator and how much about cultural heritage? 

Rampur: KEY LINK!!! http://www.dawn.com/news/659762/flashback-rampur-glimpses-of-a-vanished-world-title=Flashback

Zindagi Ki Yaadein: Riyasat Rampur Ka Nawabi Daur in 2003
English version: Remembrance of days pat: glimpses of a princely state during the Raj
http://www.amazon.com/Remembrance-Days-Past-Glimpses-Princely/dp/0195793927


'In Rampur music was central to every occasion: on Eid the ceremonial naubat (drum, shehnai, trumpet and flute) was played and, at the Qila, amid notes of mubarak baadi and raag darbari there was also a mardana and zenana darbar, the latter attended by begums in farshi pyjama and spectacular jewellery.'

http://y-sasm.blogspot.com/2011/05/abstract-2011-razak-khan.html
http://www.epw.in/web-exclusives/case-falling-walls.html

more on the autobiography of Jahanarah habibullah about rampur.
https://books.google.com/books?id=GQUFAQAAQBAJ&pg=PT148&lpg=PT148&dq=rampur+habibullah&source=bl&ots=mFlqRmIszv&sig=yKUWEN4cRIZRu3v-2be2dxZ-Am8&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiapNTum83JAhWCJh4KHRUJC2YQ6AEIMjAD#v=onepage&q=rampur%20habibullah&f=false

more by muneeza shamsie:
https://books.google.com/books?id=GQUFAQAAQBAJ&pg=PT148&lpg=PT148&dq=rampur+habibullah&source=bl&ots=mFlqRmIszv&sig=yKUWEN4cRIZRu3v-2be2dxZ-Am8&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiapNTum83JAhWCJh4KHRUJC2YQ6AEIMjAD#v=onepage&q=rampur%20habibullah&f=false

look at this site: http://www.criticalmuslim.io/discovering-the-matrix/
use discovering the matrix and jahanarah habibullah's account to describe rampur setting

buy this book:http://www.amazon.com/And-World-Changed-Contemporary-Pakistani/dp/1558615806


may come in handy but not sure, exploration of affinity in south asian context particularly after post sept 11.
http://roar.uel.ac.uk/3896/1/Madeline_Clements_U0921278_Thesis_FINAL_March_2014%5B1%5D.pdf

story

When I was finally ushered in, I found her standing, draped in chiffon (that lovely elegance), by the golden sunlight, still pale against her.
Maybe other eyes disagreed, her life had worn her down, but to me, she was as full of magical exuberance as when I had first seen her...so, so long ago.
Her voice arose, shattering the silence and my nerves.
'I do so love a good story...and hate a poor ending.'
Pause.
'What about endings you spend years toying with, but never quite find out about?'
'Well, those are just the absolute worst, aren't they?' She said, finally turning to face me.

Even in that millisecond, I knew that I still hated her, I could still hate her. After so long, I had envisioned her leaping to turn towards me at the creak of the door, the fall of my footstep or perhaps, perhaps composed herself just until the first syllable left my lips.

She had still resisted.
Even now, she wouldn't grant me the comfort of this small victory.

 

................................

 

 

yellow wilting petals between hurried feet, the swish of a red pallu. white marble tiles and blue sky.
there was golden sunlight playing with the green in her eyes, i recall. she was smiling at me. fiesty, always so.

no, not feisty, tempestuous.she was the summer storm in all its glory, twirling and twirling amid red chiffon and yelloworange marigolds, threading themselves feebly through her toes in an effort to
become the Joy that was her.

.............

i play images like a disc on repeat, images like a vintage song of old. and almost magically, almost out of lovelorn nostalgia,...i can still smell the summer sticky heat, and the crushed marigolds of the gardens.
i keep playing.... looking for that infinitesimal moment somewhere between us that has lead to this; me, clawing at wispy memories, swishes of an uncontrollable breeze.

i smile wryly, thinking...how could it be that i grasp that moment?
it is, after all, impossible to capture the storm in an outstretched palm.

And then, to capture her?

.........
Such an exercise in futility..

The nights are long and cold but for when I see your face my heart explodes with sunbeams.

........
These are some tough times jaan, but for you,
A thousand times over.

So much can happen in a space of 2 weeks. To a phoenix soul, it is several lifetimes wrapped in a microcosm.
A thousand soul-crushing deaths. A thousand hopeful re-births, spluttering, fluttering of wings, tentative first steps back into the cruel world.

To the naive, the brave, the wise say,
do not go gentle into that good night.
rage, rage against the dying light.

....................................

Dec 04, 2014

There is poetry my soul sings I cannot hear.
Days when it blazes in vivid reds and yellows,
and days when it sputters and chokes, and barely makes a sound.

..................................

Gypsy.

(reflections on diaspora)


I know a lot of people find my lifestyle rather... intriguing. The constant shuffle, the up-and-go, the ability to constantly experience the New; except perhaps that its a misnomer, its not an ability or a talent, more circumstantial . However the grass is always greener when your toes are safely tapering the other side. The instability has lead to this feeling of acute restlessness in-bred in me now; the thought that at anytime things get 'too much' I can run to a New place and build up everything from scratch again: new image, new social circle, new interests, new preferences, new hobbies, new who-I-am's.... a completely re-vamped lifestyle.

It's not half as exciting as it sounds.

More like a disease of sorts, if I could name it such; The build-up, the frustration, the final decision before the escape, the excitement, the anticipation, the hope this-time-things-will-be-different, the meticulous planning of the various components I will choose to include in the self.....and the subsequent failure. The depression. The laments. The mourning. And then the whole wretched cycle over again. Incurable.

It is not always a wonderland. The death of something you so preciously created, destruction of a work-of-art can be devastating,specially if its self-inflicted. They say there is method in the madness, and perhaps that is cliche but only too relevant and true in this case; or perhaps once was true... I am increasingly at a loss for defining what that method could possibly be? The opportunity for re-creation? Re-birth? What if you mess up over and over again?
Maybe life, and God, and fate and all those other mystical things are offering me a chance to re-write this story to perfection, except the kindness is anything but. At best a trial, which satisfies no one and least of all, me.

And of course, when you have an option to escape, your tolerance for what 'too much' is becomes increasingly small. Add to that the fact that I have been extraordinarily blessed with parents who engage in my sensitivities, and cater to my whimsical 'I-need-to-get-away's, this life is becoming a habit. A very bad habit; like a cigarette that will slowly murder me with the pleasure of evasion it offers.


I am not naive enough to not see the side-effects, but sadly cannot give this life up and settle. The unrest is deeply ingrained in me almost like DNA, and I fear it will become the hallmark of our family; my ancestors...and then my children. At nights, it wakes me up staring blankly outside at the open road, my skin can hear its call. Then the jitters, the desire to up and run, or float, or to constantly move, between Here and Here and Here. The markedly few hours of sleep I do get are poignantly woven with dreams of all the places I've lived, the people I've been, and always, always the constant chase of finding a one true Home.


It is an unfortunate realization that the dreaded/anticipated cycle will continue as long as a satisfactory Perfection continues to elude my fingertips... It entices me in kaleidoscopic dreams alone, until which time I wander hoping that somehow somewhere everyone and everything will finally click together and fulfill the restless tingling in each cell in my blood. Eventual, not defeat per se... perhaps relief.

Idealistic hopes. Perfection itself is as elusive a concept as stability in my life, and in my case at least, one cannot exist without the other.


But it will happen someday, the settling down, for more or less...or so I console myself. The much-awaited arrival of Toronto suns have yet to burn away this heart, yet to make it yearn the need to heal...elsewhere. I will not fool myself that this is my final destination; not by any means...But I hope I can fool myself long enough; enough to surrender for just this little bit.
Enough for now.

locations

Locations impact people. Change people. Mold people. Build. Destroy. Even Annihilate.

Maybe I am naive and i can't point fingers at people and blame who did what to whom. Maybe it's easier to blame places and believe ke waqai shayad jagah raas nahee ayee.

Locations have an impact on people-mostly in that they can be a huge determinant of who you will be. I am the worst version of myself when I am on vacation, I know this, but you take me anywhere near water and I am a different person altogether. All at once, full of life but also all at once, calm, peaceful, serene.
Locations can have an impact on people. Even minor locations, like who you are in the bedroom, kitchen, bathroom. Imagine every 3 or 4 feet away lies a space that claims a different part of your soul.
I just hope our locations, don't end up destroying us.

People always say that packing is the hardest thing to do, but I digress; those people probably didn't follow up all that packing with all the unpacking that follows.

When you're unpacking, you're not just putting away clothes and accessories...you're taking out emotions and memories out of suitcases and carry-ons and handbags and wallets.... and then packing them back neatly into drawers, closets..little jewellery boxes..in between fingers.
It's the hardest thing to do.

It's knowing that the adventure is over, the memories you made have already reached their upper constant, that no more new memories will be added to the experiences you've just had.

-rewind-
Wrapped in a turquoise sari, single golden bangle, austere bun; each strand of taut, silken hair yelling for liberty,
like the voice of all her countrymen.

She was gathering fallen jasmines in my palms when they threw me out. House ablaze, men caged, the wail of a lonely child in the dusk,
The smell of fire and ash and wilted, trampled jasmines.

‘You Indian Scum’

And the sounds of echoing gunshots.

-forward-

Me.
Feet resting on metal rims of the stool, fingers clutching my bottle of chilled Pepsi.
My head swims in the artificial,

kaleidoscopic advertisements, Gucci bags, fur coats,
the aroma of my jasmine scented Calvin Klein perfume I sprayed meticulously earlier in the day.

story

she stood in the New York winter cold, looking at the dewy haziness shining off the metallic towers and thought instantly of Mordor, but also(and now chuckling to herself), of Karachi. Those early winter mornings bundled in blue cardigan over coffee colored uniform, walking across the long fields hazy with dew settling on the grass in her convent school. It reminded her also of Dubai, but the haze was golden bristling sand in the sun, masquerading around twisted metal and steel sculptures.

One of the other side-effects of diaspora she thought. Not only did it never really leave your genes, but also, you found a little bit of one place in ever other place you ever went. Or maybe, you were so busy trying to make one place less foreign and more like everything else you had ever known, that its own uniqueness was completely lost to you. Unless that is, you moved again, and then the nostalgia would re-shape every dusty mote into a gleaming gold memory you would now long for.

.............

Nomads never really stop longing, do they?

....................

Razia bano spread her gharara over the divan, tucking her legs gently under her and conscious as she did so that Bai peeped at her from behind the wooden jalli, sniffing her dis-approval. Maybe it was all in her head, Razia thought. It was winter after all, the season for the common cold and Bai Ama was old. Bai had been around for generations, almost as long as the neem tree in the verandah of their house, which ... had told her, had watched over the five Khan-nawab generations and the Single Heirs.

Razia wondered if Bai had ever known about the story of the lost son, and resolved to ask her when Bai wasn't sniffing at her, cold or disapproval.

'Raz, my jaan' ..... sauntered over and seated himself on the Divan, creasing her perfectly fanned out gharara. 'There is much hubub on the street today. You should thank my lucky palmlines I made it back alive'

'And which of your lines should I thank for forgetting my paan, again?' she asked, absent-mindedly taking his hair off his eyes.

The many years at Oxford had done nothing to dull ....'s casual elegance that came so easy to the Nawabs. He sat cross-legged at ease in his kurta and still looked suave despite his goofy smile.

'What do you say Raz? Could you ever leave this? (motioning towards the open verandah in front of them) for an unknown in another land?'

'Depends. We are so comfortable here and the violence seems so far away. But then there's this'

..............................

Bai Amma, or Asifa,