Dear Readers,
I began this blog in January, less than a month after my fall. For seven months I’ve been rambling about my condition, hoping to reach you somehow, to tell you what it is like to live without the use of your arms or legs. It is no fun, to say the least.
As always, if you have the means, it would mean a great deal if you could become a paid subscriber, and keep this show on the road.
Your loving writer, Hanif.
An old friend of mine came in to my hospital room with an envelope of photographs. He pulled one out, it was of me, taken in Cork in or around 1993. I am at a book signing, handing a paperback copy of my first novel, The Buddha of Suburbia, to someone. I am wearing a Levis jacket and a Paul Smith scarf, which I still have. My hair is long and black and tucked behind my ears. The light is on my face, which is smooth and pixie-like. I guess I am in my late thirties.
My friend pins the photograph to the wall opposite me without asking. I am not sure I want it there. But there is it, I am looking at it now. People come in and they say, in amazement, “is that you?” Now I am gaunt and unshaven with straggly hair, and, like all of us, barely resemble the person I once was. The picture reminds me, of course, of all that I have lost and I wonder if it is good for me to have it there.
I am mainly in bed at the moment rather than my wheelchair, since I have a huge pain, as I mentioned before, in my arse, due to a fissure which the clinical nurse identified after looking up there with a torch and a camera. I am taking liquid morphine to alleviate it, I’m trying to find a position that is less painful than others. When you are in pain, all you can think about is that pain; it is insistent, it doesn’t want you to forget about it. The whole thing is depressing as hell. I stare at this picture and realise there is no going back. The kids come in and say that all of this, what I’m going through now, my suffering, is only temporary - that is a good reminder.
This morning, in the unit’s kitchen, I took part in a physical therapy group with four other patients. Since I am in a single side room, I rarely see the other patients, and I certainly don’t spend time with them. We gathered around the table, playing with blocks and children’s toys. One of the women was young, around thirty, and was stunningly beautiful, looking like the young Jackie Kennedy. She could barely speak or use her hands. The physiotherapists were all very cheerful, often exaggeratedly so, speaking to us slowly and with a forced brightness, as if they are presenting a children’s programme. In contrast, the patients looked dazed, as if they couldn’t believe their misfortune. Their sadness was palpable. I was glad to be with them, though none of us spoke to each other. The woman who looks like Jackie Kennedy inexplicably started to weep and had to be taken out by a physiotherapist.
My son Sachin comes in and I reproach him for being late. My family and close friends are on a relay system so that I am never alone during the day. But sometimes there are gaps, which I do not enjoy, since I have dreadful thoughts when I’m alone. While my son Sachin feeds me, he says, “I hope we’re not going to have to do this for the rest of your life.” I look at my withered hands, which are not improving after much physiotherapy, and say “I think you are.”
(A note from Carlo, who is typing this: Dad is making improvements, his legs are much stronger and the physiotherapist has advised us that his arms will come back later, when he has gained strength in his core and shoulders. Dad is gloomy, he has every right to be, but the doctors and physios are much more optimistic than he is).
My two eldest sons, the twins, have become screenwriters. Seven years ago, when Carlo went backpacking in South America, Sachin and I wrote a movie called The Driver, about a Syrian refugee who goes to work for a rich rock star, and ends up looking after his difficult, spoilt and ungrateful son. It kept almost getting made, both as a movie and a TV show, and Sachin decided he wanted to become a writer. Not long after, his identical twin brother Carlo also decided he wanted to do that a living. The three of us, in various combinations, used to walk every afternoon around west London, talking about stories, structure, and how to succeed in the industry. We would start with an idea or an image, and we would string it out, develop it, until it began to look like a whole idea. It was fun and satisfying to do, and we enjoyed being together.
I guess I was doing with them what my father did with me, which is talk to them about writing. My father wanted me to be a writer, but I was never sure whether it was right for the boys since the industry is so difficult these days. But that is what they decided they wanted to do.
They are indeed finding the industry a struggle, and it is difficult for them to get things made. I am glad not to be a young writer now, particularly with the strike going on, and I am thankful to be able to write through Substack. I never wanted to be only a screenwriter, what I liked was the freedom to work in a number of forms. When I got stuck on a movie, I would write a short story, then I would work on an essay or a novella. To be a screenwriter is to be entirely dependent on the industry, on others. When I wrote films, they were usually for particular directors, Stephen Frears, Udayan Prasade (My Son the Fanatic, a film I am proud of) and my old late friend Roger Michel. I could write these films on spec, but knowing they would almost certainly get made, because the directors and producers could raise the money. It wouldn’t turn out to be wasted time, as so much screenwriting is these days.
I was lucky I was able to make a living my whole life, but it was, at times, a bit touch and go. There were periods in the 80s when it was possible to make a lot of money from writing novels, and I was able to buy a house. I’m not sure my kids will have the same security, and I worry about them. A lot of my friend’s kids have gone into the same profession as they were in themselves. I was glad my sons had found something they wanted to do with their lives, something meaningful, which gave them a sense of direction and purpose. Lying in this hospital bed, day in and day out, must be like being in a bad job. I am happy they are doing something they love, which gives them freedom.
It's Saturday, Hanif, in the USA. It's been hard to evade sadness, which is pervasive everywhere. One does worry about one's children, and if there are grandchildren, them even more. My two young granddaughters are moving to London with their parents, my son and his wife who I also love. I'm heartbroken that they are leaving but I wish them well and think life may be easier for the family there. And I've been concerned about you, who I do not know, over these last months, as well as a friend nearby who is stoically preparing for her death from recurring cancer. She is mostly in retreat, except for the company of a few friends she is close to. Thanks for writing. Always good to hear how you are feeling even if it is not so good how you are feeling. Progress is slow, it seems, but it is occurring. It must be very hard and grim for you. A few lights like meeting the other patients. You seem to enjoy that.
I'm glad to hear from your son that there are rays of improvement. Perhaps I'm over reading things, but it seems kind of huge if you can do anything with your arms and legs. I hope the therapists are right. I like the photo. You look so young, bright and open. Perhaps there is some joy to be found in just knowing you had such a time in your life.