I really enjoyed this story which quickly became the stuff of my nightmares from a possible runaway tale - as always you took me by surprise!
My question relates to my own struggles: since my recent upping of certain long term pain medications, while I thought the opposite would be true, my creative juices are now kaput. I was hoping opiates would unearth a hidden Mary Shelley within! How have you found medications have altered your creative flow? While you have managed to keep writing, early on this seemed based on real events but here are examples again of you writing creatively - you are unstoppable! Do you have particular strategies to work through the hazy days? With much love, Kate x
Your gripping story makes me want to share a brief tale I just heard yesterday on a French radio, and which could entertain you for a short while. A man recalled a terrible childhood fright when one day, as an eight-year-old boy who lived in a poor suburbs of Paris in 1962, he was playing with a football under a half-built bridge and he was suddenly surrounded by what he first perceived as two huge glistening waves. Yet, in a matter of seconds, he realized the grey waves were actually two dense packs of rushing rats. The animals started to squeal out of excitement while biting his ankles, calves and legs, while jumping up to try and bit his hands and arms. The boy immediately sensed that he could well die on that day since he was all alone in this dilapidated area and there was no one around, and they were so numerous and fierce and dogged. He desperately tried not to fall. He also remembered thinking about the people who would find him after his death, after he had been half eaten by those determined beasts --he thought about his mum in particular. Hopefully, a ragpicker heard him scream and emerged from a nearby shabby shop where he brought back all kinds of rags. and keys The boy was familiar with the man since they lived in the same neighbourhood : he had been nicknamed "M. Gruyère" (a Swiss cheese full of small and big holes). The man was quite stout, he had a white beard, wore a hat and carried a pouch. He also wore leather boots typical of those worn by French soldiers in the trenches during WWI. And he had a stick in his hand, that he probably used as a hook to search through the litter. The boy instinctively understood he would be safe with that man, who started to strike the rats (a blow fell on the boy in the process), to shake them off the kid and who kept on "slaughtering" the assailants even after the boy was out of danger, as in revengeful frenzy. Like the boy, the smart rats instinctively understood that the tide had turned and they immediately scurried away and scattered around, like an army in disarray. The man and the boy parted without a word. The boy did not thank him because that was not done in those days and in that kind of place, They each went their own separate way and the boy never thought of thanking M. Gruyère. Recalling that episode yesterday, the former boy was submerged by a profound regret because the ragman is probably dead now and the now grown-up kid will never have the opportunity to tell him about his gratitude for rescuing him on that day. That could stand as a mirror story to accompany yours --all the more so as the time coincidence between listening to one tale yesterday and reading the second one today is quite striking in itself... Best wishes from Florence
Thanks Hanif - truly chilling. Before I read your story, I was going to ask about your thoughts on narrating Israel and Gaza. But having read it, I felt that was exactly what you narrated. Then I found myself wondering why choose a mother and 5 year old son to face the dogs, and how might the impact be different with a father and daughter or a grandparent and baby, or a father and son etc. So many possible angles of innocence, isolation, vulnerability and horror. Did you consider other victims or was the story born in your mind with a mother and son fighting for life? If the victims were different, I also then wonder about ‘the man waiting on the other side’ ... and his / her potential alternative manifestations. I think of the man as a lure rather than a promise of possible salvation and wonder how you think of him? Thanks.
What piece of music would you take with you to a desert island (desert island discs) and have you been on it (desert island discs). About your short short story - I wanted there to be another ending and another character. But without your short short story in the first place wouldn't have been prompted to think of that. Suffice to say like all your writing it really does leave a lot of questions - and the answers don't matter so much as that there are lots of them. Are you aware of this I wonder - is that your way of writing. this is my third attempt at a comment well a response the others just whistled off into somewhere and carried my alternative ending with it. so that must be the ending. you sound a bit chipper this time - it is drawing nearer your rehoming. (that makes you sound like a Battersea dog!) Going to leave it here as a long message from my daughter awaits - it is full of the usual family angst so must have my undivided attention. With love Maddi in the tiny village in North Yorkshire where it is definitely colder. The wind has changed. X
Not sure if this counts as a juicy question, but how do you know if an idea for a story is substantial enough to translate into a novel? Do you just keep writing and see where it leads you?
Thanks
Oh and I'm really looking forward to your Chrimbo broadcast on R4 btw (just read about it today in The Guardian!).
Reading this short story, I could feel my jawbone tightening at the hinge; a physical manifestation of internal tension. I was attacked by an alsatian when I was a boy. That dog is long gone from this world. My enduring nervousness around canines is a part of its unsettling legacy. The more rational part of me recognises that there is no better companion than a dog who is on your wavelength. There is a very good reason why this bond between animal and man had endured.
The only occasion that I fired a gun with intent was in east Yemen, in the desert outside of Tarim – a town composed of seemingly infinite mosques. All over the country there are packs of inbred domestic dog breeds that roam the outskirts of human settlements. They carry rabies along with other diseases. They will, usually very tentatively at first, sound you out. If you demonstrate weakness, then they will sometimes attack.
I had made my way partway up the bank of a dry wadi; a skirt of scree made up of pale, fist-sized boulders that reflected back the oven-like heat of the sun, even as they were sliding away underfoot. I was experiencing a mild asthma attack as a result of my over-exertion. I had been climbing towards some Arabic writing that had been spelled out in loose stones against a backdrop of loose stones and that had vanished back into the landscape as I had approached. If there is a better illustration of the search for God, or spiritual meaning, I have yet to encounter it.
All around me there was the sound barking, echoing off the rocks. Ever so slowly, I scanned the canyon in search of the source. I had almost turned a full revolution when I caught sight of the dogs, that had seemed so distant, emerging from a jagged vertical fissure in the rock perhaps thirty feet away from me. There was something not quite right about them from the outset; the barking that was intended as a warning incongruous with the way they moved which was stealthy and almost catlike, as if they were stalking me.
I fired my revolver, for the first time; an idiotic warning shot aimed at some nearby rocks. I fired several more shots, before I ran, my panama flying off my head. Unlike Indiana Jones I did not return for it. Fictional characters can afford to be bold.
Also, I have a question:
You are somebody who has worked in the arts his entire life. Your writing has undoubtedly been of comfort to some of your readers during low moments in their lives. It has also likely to have served as a guiding light for those who were struggling to define themselves.
I wonder, in the wake of your accident what role, if any, art has played in your ongoing rehabilitation.
Brutal. I read it as a dream nightmare. The line that stood out, that doesn’t make see we had except as a dream is where she doesn’t understand why she’s ‘not fascinated’ by the aggressive dog?! My question is simply: what is the metaphor here Hanif? I see it as glimpsing death in the far distance then suddenly it’s racing towards you and eating you up in the midst of life. Someone’s waiting for her on the other side (of common ground) God? (We all know god is dog spelt backwards) The child is her life/health: she can’t protect it though she desperately tries.
What light relief after trying to write about Gaza, and, on the other hand, the history of Afghanistan. Thank you. My lovable Spoodle was being mauled by a Huskie during a walk in the park, when, I'm proud to say, my motherly indignation and 5 feet of ferocity, scared it off. It ran away with its tail between its legs.
My question: any advice on how to set standards and boundaries when mining real life for writing? I have an achingly overwhelming story to tell inspired by a poetic, tragic love affair, full of mad dreams, music and longing, but don't want to do a kiss and tell. How to walk the fine line between truth and transparency? How do you draw lines for what is appropriate to share and what is not? And how do your sons Carlo and Sachin feel about it?
Bloody sheer horror. The mother helplessly protecting her child while the wolves come from all sides. Hopelessness, defeat. Pretty relatable for some right now, as always. This is the stuff of reality and not relegated only to nightmares.
Thoughts to you in your space. Your soul is clearly not confined as your body currently is. The creative juices are alive and well. Flowing fast and furious. Jo 😊
I really enjoyed this story which quickly became the stuff of my nightmares from a possible runaway tale - as always you took me by surprise!
My question relates to my own struggles: since my recent upping of certain long term pain medications, while I thought the opposite would be true, my creative juices are now kaput. I was hoping opiates would unearth a hidden Mary Shelley within! How have you found medications have altered your creative flow? While you have managed to keep writing, early on this seemed based on real events but here are examples again of you writing creatively - you are unstoppable! Do you have particular strategies to work through the hazy days? With much love, Kate x
Dear Hanif,
Your gripping story makes me want to share a brief tale I just heard yesterday on a French radio, and which could entertain you for a short while. A man recalled a terrible childhood fright when one day, as an eight-year-old boy who lived in a poor suburbs of Paris in 1962, he was playing with a football under a half-built bridge and he was suddenly surrounded by what he first perceived as two huge glistening waves. Yet, in a matter of seconds, he realized the grey waves were actually two dense packs of rushing rats. The animals started to squeal out of excitement while biting his ankles, calves and legs, while jumping up to try and bit his hands and arms. The boy immediately sensed that he could well die on that day since he was all alone in this dilapidated area and there was no one around, and they were so numerous and fierce and dogged. He desperately tried not to fall. He also remembered thinking about the people who would find him after his death, after he had been half eaten by those determined beasts --he thought about his mum in particular. Hopefully, a ragpicker heard him scream and emerged from a nearby shabby shop where he brought back all kinds of rags. and keys The boy was familiar with the man since they lived in the same neighbourhood : he had been nicknamed "M. Gruyère" (a Swiss cheese full of small and big holes). The man was quite stout, he had a white beard, wore a hat and carried a pouch. He also wore leather boots typical of those worn by French soldiers in the trenches during WWI. And he had a stick in his hand, that he probably used as a hook to search through the litter. The boy instinctively understood he would be safe with that man, who started to strike the rats (a blow fell on the boy in the process), to shake them off the kid and who kept on "slaughtering" the assailants even after the boy was out of danger, as in revengeful frenzy. Like the boy, the smart rats instinctively understood that the tide had turned and they immediately scurried away and scattered around, like an army in disarray. The man and the boy parted without a word. The boy did not thank him because that was not done in those days and in that kind of place, They each went their own separate way and the boy never thought of thanking M. Gruyère. Recalling that episode yesterday, the former boy was submerged by a profound regret because the ragman is probably dead now and the now grown-up kid will never have the opportunity to tell him about his gratitude for rescuing him on that day. That could stand as a mirror story to accompany yours --all the more so as the time coincidence between listening to one tale yesterday and reading the second one today is quite striking in itself... Best wishes from Florence
Wow, quite horrifying...I couldn't stop myself checking the last line hoping for a happier resolution. Stunningly done!
Thanks Hanif - truly chilling. Before I read your story, I was going to ask about your thoughts on narrating Israel and Gaza. But having read it, I felt that was exactly what you narrated. Then I found myself wondering why choose a mother and 5 year old son to face the dogs, and how might the impact be different with a father and daughter or a grandparent and baby, or a father and son etc. So many possible angles of innocence, isolation, vulnerability and horror. Did you consider other victims or was the story born in your mind with a mother and son fighting for life? If the victims were different, I also then wonder about ‘the man waiting on the other side’ ... and his / her potential alternative manifestations. I think of the man as a lure rather than a promise of possible salvation and wonder how you think of him? Thanks.
Hi Hanif!
Is this an allegorical tale about modern times?
What do you miss most about the "before times"? What can you cherish about where you are now?
What piece of music would you take with you to a desert island (desert island discs) and have you been on it (desert island discs). About your short short story - I wanted there to be another ending and another character. But without your short short story in the first place wouldn't have been prompted to think of that. Suffice to say like all your writing it really does leave a lot of questions - and the answers don't matter so much as that there are lots of them. Are you aware of this I wonder - is that your way of writing. this is my third attempt at a comment well a response the others just whistled off into somewhere and carried my alternative ending with it. so that must be the ending. you sound a bit chipper this time - it is drawing nearer your rehoming. (that makes you sound like a Battersea dog!) Going to leave it here as a long message from my daughter awaits - it is full of the usual family angst so must have my undivided attention. With love Maddi in the tiny village in North Yorkshire where it is definitely colder. The wind has changed. X
Your short stories are the best, Mr. Kureishi.
Gripping tale.
Not sure if this counts as a juicy question, but how do you know if an idea for a story is substantial enough to translate into a novel? Do you just keep writing and see where it leads you?
Thanks
Oh and I'm really looking forward to your Chrimbo broadcast on R4 btw (just read about it today in The Guardian!).
Reading this short story, I could feel my jawbone tightening at the hinge; a physical manifestation of internal tension. I was attacked by an alsatian when I was a boy. That dog is long gone from this world. My enduring nervousness around canines is a part of its unsettling legacy. The more rational part of me recognises that there is no better companion than a dog who is on your wavelength. There is a very good reason why this bond between animal and man had endured.
The only occasion that I fired a gun with intent was in east Yemen, in the desert outside of Tarim – a town composed of seemingly infinite mosques. All over the country there are packs of inbred domestic dog breeds that roam the outskirts of human settlements. They carry rabies along with other diseases. They will, usually very tentatively at first, sound you out. If you demonstrate weakness, then they will sometimes attack.
I had made my way partway up the bank of a dry wadi; a skirt of scree made up of pale, fist-sized boulders that reflected back the oven-like heat of the sun, even as they were sliding away underfoot. I was experiencing a mild asthma attack as a result of my over-exertion. I had been climbing towards some Arabic writing that had been spelled out in loose stones against a backdrop of loose stones and that had vanished back into the landscape as I had approached. If there is a better illustration of the search for God, or spiritual meaning, I have yet to encounter it.
All around me there was the sound barking, echoing off the rocks. Ever so slowly, I scanned the canyon in search of the source. I had almost turned a full revolution when I caught sight of the dogs, that had seemed so distant, emerging from a jagged vertical fissure in the rock perhaps thirty feet away from me. There was something not quite right about them from the outset; the barking that was intended as a warning incongruous with the way they moved which was stealthy and almost catlike, as if they were stalking me.
I fired my revolver, for the first time; an idiotic warning shot aimed at some nearby rocks. I fired several more shots, before I ran, my panama flying off my head. Unlike Indiana Jones I did not return for it. Fictional characters can afford to be bold.
Also, I have a question:
You are somebody who has worked in the arts his entire life. Your writing has undoubtedly been of comfort to some of your readers during low moments in their lives. It has also likely to have served as a guiding light for those who were struggling to define themselves.
I wonder, in the wake of your accident what role, if any, art has played in your ongoing rehabilitation.
Brutal. I read it as a dream nightmare. The line that stood out, that doesn’t make see we had except as a dream is where she doesn’t understand why she’s ‘not fascinated’ by the aggressive dog?! My question is simply: what is the metaphor here Hanif? I see it as glimpsing death in the far distance then suddenly it’s racing towards you and eating you up in the midst of life. Someone’s waiting for her on the other side (of common ground) God? (We all know god is dog spelt backwards) The child is her life/health: she can’t protect it though she desperately tries.
Sending Love xxx
What light relief after trying to write about Gaza, and, on the other hand, the history of Afghanistan. Thank you. My lovable Spoodle was being mauled by a Huskie during a walk in the park, when, I'm proud to say, my motherly indignation and 5 feet of ferocity, scared it off. It ran away with its tail between its legs.
Thank you for the story. I love your words.
My question: any advice on how to set standards and boundaries when mining real life for writing? I have an achingly overwhelming story to tell inspired by a poetic, tragic love affair, full of mad dreams, music and longing, but don't want to do a kiss and tell. How to walk the fine line between truth and transparency? How do you draw lines for what is appropriate to share and what is not? And how do your sons Carlo and Sachin feel about it?
Not the typical dog story! Didn’t see that coming!
Bloody sheer horror. The mother helplessly protecting her child while the wolves come from all sides. Hopelessness, defeat. Pretty relatable for some right now, as always. This is the stuff of reality and not relegated only to nightmares.
Thoughts to you in your space. Your soul is clearly not confined as your body currently is. The creative juices are alive and well. Flowing fast and furious. Jo 😊
I love this! I read this weeks ago but I keep coming back to it. So short and brutal in the best possible way.