ourneys of personal connection and kinship, interwoven with complex themes of the country’s politics, culture, media, entertainment and literature added unique dimensions to various discourses during the 16th edition of the Karachi Literature Festival, which concluded last weekend.

Under the theme Narratives from the Soil, the festival featured sessions that offered intriguing perspectives – steering away from the obvious but oddly familiar. Set against the backdrop of a particularly sunny yet breezy weekend, the festival was held at the Beach Luxury Hotel. The venue, with its trademark nostalgia, has become almost synonymous with the festival itself. That such a place provides a back-in-time, almost lazy respite in a city as well known for the sea it borders as for its troubled and violent history is not lost on most Karachiites.

With the growing trend of festivals (popularly known as ‘lit fests’) held across cities, countries and continents, recent years have seen increasing critiques over the efficacy of such platforms in truly bridging intellectual gaps within societies – between the public and those they consider thinkers and opinion-makers. Critics have raised concerns about the regurgitation of familiar names and faces, often engaged in repetitive themes and discussions, reinforcing exclusivity rather than dismantling social barriers and stereotypes.

Be that as it may, a large section of those attending continues to be drawn to the charm of these festivals – the opportunity for in-person interactions and book signings; perhaps even a photograph or two with a favourite author, actor, or politician, should one get lucky.

But aside from what is popularly known, what would it be like to witness discussions where personal elements lie at the heart of public discourse? For instance, how would it feel to envision a conversation between two writers – a mother and a daughter?

“I know how I became a writer, but I’m interested in knowing when books, literature and writing became a real connection for you and when you wanted to do it,” Kamila Shamsie asked her mother, Muneeza Shamsia, writer, critic and author of Hybrid Tapestries: The Development of Pakistani Literature in English. An award-winning author, Kamila introduced Muneeza to the audience as “my mother” as she began the conversation in the session aptly titled A Literary Bond.

Muneeza narrated how she had grown up in a house where books and literature were commonplace. “Stories were what I loved,” she exclaimed. While her interest in reading developed while she was quite young, “...I really started writing after my marriage.”

As if equally intrigued, Muneeza went on to ask how Kamila had decided to become a writer at the age of nine. “At that age, reading was a great passion of mine…when people asked what I’d be when I grow up, I’d say ‘writer’ because I had a mother who wrote,” replied Kamila, noting that it was a ridiculous thing to ask children in the first place. Acknowledging that perhaps at that age, she didn’t feel deeply about wanting to be a writer, but she knew she loved reading.

The exchange of anecdotes and how family influenced their passion for reading and eventually writing offered candid insights into their bond, familial and literary, paving the way for inquiries into each other’s method and process.

Speaking about the influence of family, people and Karachi on her writing and characters, Kamila said she was never interested in autobiography. “Because a lot of joy for me in writing is in inventing characters,” she said. For instance, in her book In The City By The Sea, Kamila said, she used everything but the people, “the stories and the kinds of people I grew up with.”

Acknowledging the sheer impact of Muneeza on her as a writer, Kamila said there was an enormous influence “of having her as my mother… It was so important to have a mother who wrote.”

When asked for her advice to young people about writing, Muneeza quite simply said: “Just write, and don’t worry about getting published.” As if by way of caution, she went on to add, “And read, if you want to write so that you can learn.”

Kamila also pitched in: “The important thing is not to keep saying I’ll do it when I have time. You’ll never have time. You have to make time.”

Interestingly, the session was preceded by one featuring Sherry Rehman and Victoria Schofield discussing their friendship and the former’s political activism. “We have been friends for many years. We were inspired by the same person [Benazir Bhutto]. We have pursued different paths…” said Schofield to Rehman, who had delved deep into her transition from journalism to politics. Rehman interjected playfully, “Next time, let me interview you.”

Personalised exchanges amidst hard-core discussions on realities laying bare the challenges of our times are rare. They offer a unique luxury to the audiences of connecting with those on stage and speaking through the microphones, even if apparent; even if for an hour.

For instance, Sharjeel Akhtar, while moderating the session on the launch of the book Moin Akhtar: One Man Show, reflexively referred to the legendary television entertainer as Abbu, momentarily revealing an alternative dimension to the public discourse on a celebrity. Moin Akhtar, whom most of us knew solely as a remarkably talented entertainer and television host, was also a father – a man with family and friends who deeply felt his absence in their everyday lives.

“This is a deeply personal and very special occasion for me. 14 years later, we are bringing you this book. It is an autobiography of my father, Moin Akhtar,” said Sharjeel, as he opened the session. As if understanding the very next thought in most minds, he went on to explain that it took them these many years because the book was incomplete when his father passed away. Years later, they found his notes detailing the stories and the people he wished to include in his biography.

With emotional anecdotes from the likes of comedian and actor Zeba Shahnaz, of PTV’s Fifty-Fifty fame, and UK-based poet Ghazal Ansari – whom Sharjeel lovingly called Phuppo – the audience were deeply moved by stories highlighting the late actor’s empathy, kindness and generosity.

As if on cue, each heartfelt remembrance of Moin Akhtar was met with the playful wit and humour of writer Anwar Maqsood, whose interjections repeatedly transformed moments of solemnity into bursts of laughter – Sharjeel’s laughter the loudest of all.

“For me, he has always been Anwar Uncle,” said Sharjeel as he attempted to introduce the writer, the audience applauding even before he could finish.

“There is no actor like Moin Akhtar,” said Maqsood in a matter-of-fact tone as he opened his remarks about his dear friend and colleague of over three decades. “I used to watch his plays at Adamjee Auditorium. He used to play Tarzan,” he said amusingly, adding that the image of a petite Moin Akhtar playing Tarzan and performing in his usual [comic] style would make him laugh. At the time, Maqsood was writing for the Zia Mohyeddin Show and the host, legendary actor and broadcaster Zia Mohyeddin, had asked him to look for an entertainer for his show. “From that day on, Moin was all over television…in fact, television needed Moin.”

The interweaving of personal anecdotes and public personae left the audience fascinated. How could the political not creep up with Anwar Maqsood on stage? On one occasion, while remembering Moin Akhtar, Maqsood took a brief pause only to say, “I feel like talking to you some more, about other things,” the audience breaking into hesitant laughter, catching on his tone, “but I cannot. Not to forget, today is February 8 [referencing the 2024 general elections],” with crowds applauding and laughing.

From his days of working with Moin Akhtar in the satire show Loose Talk, Maqsood shared that they recorded over 400 episodes of the show “with just a round table, two chairs and the two of us sitting across.” Speaking about the popularity of the show, Maqsood said that he was asked repeatedly to record new episodes, but each time, he declined. “Moin’s chair across mine is now empty. The show cannot be continued.”

“Even today, when I write a script and put names next to characters, I always end up writing ‘Moin.’ Then, I have to cross it out. Moin has never left my mind.”

If words, books, thoughts and discussions are what festivals aim to bring together for people, then personal bonds and vulnerabilities shared in lived experiences perhaps hold the key to connecting us all.

The writer is a staff member

On the side-lines

ivided into expansive themes including education, public interest, literature and culture, the festival had a dedicated line-up for younger audiences as well with the Youth Pavilion featuring games; music and dance; and poetry and storytelling sessions. Children decked in school uniforms were seen making their way excitedly to the festival. Others, younger still, oblivious to the discourse around them, sat on rillis and floor mats, enjoying colouring and other art activities. Perhaps tempted by the rare luxury of being able to walk up to some of the in-attendance authors to get copies of their books signed, people were seen glued to a few book stalls. Busier crowds were witnessed in the afternoons at the book fair, now a regular at most lit fests. Whether that signifies a surge in reading or the mere interest in books, is anybody’s guess, but full points for an effort.

The writer is a staff member