Readers Place

Author Q&A

Hi Priya, We’d like to ask you a few questions on your wonderful new novel: Which of the characters can you identify with most?

To create any believable character you have to identify with the person. You can’t write convincingly about someone without making a great effort to understand their background, hopes, dreams and fears. Obviously, this is easier to do with some characters than others, because writers don’t only create characters they like and agree with.

The greatest challenge of writing is to express, credibly and sympathetically, views, motives and feelings that one does not share. When you do this well enough, you actually do identify closely, at least while writing, even with characters who are quite ‘other’ to you. So, during the writing process, I was absolutely persuaded by the very different positions of Lina, Shareef, Pravar and Merc – though now, in the distance created by real life, I feel at odds with certain aspects of their beliefs and behaviours.

The one character with whom I unreservedly identify is Selina.

How long did it take you to collect all the information on Islam?

It’s hard to measure exactly since I already knew a bit about Islam because I’ve had Muslim friends since childhood. Also, there was no fixed period of research before I started writing, the two activities were always happening in tandem. The book took two years to write, and I was reading books and articles, watching films or documentaries, and where possible, talking to people, about Islam throughout that period.

Was it difficult for you to understand the Islamic beliefs and write about them?

Yes, it was difficult, but I think the difficulty had less to do with Islam itself than the fact that I am an atheist, and so already disposed against religion in general. The main struggle was in overcoming my cynicism about all types of religious faith.

Certainly, there are particular interpretations of the Koran and Islamic law that I find especially problematic. I cannot understand, for example, how a good Muslim can be deemed an apostate because he or she chooses to love or marry a non-Muslim – unless that person converts. It seems outrageous that love – such an affirmative and positive act – should invalidate a person’s entire allegiance to a faith, just because that love is directed towards someone who is different.

For a long time, I was worried that my skepticism would overwhelm any attempts to portray Islam with compassion. I just couldn’t find the right way to describe religion kindly from the perspective of a pious man like Shareef. It would have been easy to make him seem intolerant and unattractive, but this was not what I wanted.

Since the attacks on the World Trade Centre in 2001, Islam has been in the media a lot. Most of the attention has focused on the extreme versions that culminate in violence, and this has given many of us the impression that the religion on the whole is fanatical and aggressive. In The Obscure Logic of the Heart I wished to explore the idea that having a very strong faith is compatible with being reasonable, decent and tender.

I knew this was possible because I have friends who are deeply religious, and yet their faith does not obviously impinge on every aspect of their lives, and they don’t foist their views on to others. Nevertheless, it was only when I heard some radio interviews done by the BBC, as part of a series called ‘Humphrey’s In Search of God’, that I finally figured out how I could write the character of Shareef. I was especially inspired by the approach of two religious leaders featured on the programme: Tariq Ramadan, and the Archbishop Rowan Williams. Both men spoke with real humility, and had such a deep regard for all humanity. This gave me the key into Shareef’s character: I realized that by using their loving tone and moderate language, I could create a passionate believer who was a mild man.

Why did you choose to focus on Islam even though you are not a Muslim?

Part of the challenge in writing this novel was to explore mindsets quite different from my own, in particular a devout religious sensibility. I chose to focus on Islam because it is the most discussed, and in some ways, the most problematic religion of our time. This is due partly to the ideologies perpetuated by radical branches of Islam like Wahhabism, and the Muslim terrorists who commit heinous crimes in the name of their religion. But also, as the Muslim communities in the Western world grow, we all face difficult questions of how to live together harmoniously, respecting each other’s traditions, but, above all, upholding essential human values like freedom and equality.

I grew up in Kenya where the Indian community was very mixed. Some of my closest friends were Muslim. I would fast with them during Ramadan, and even though I often ended up cheating, and sneakily having a drink of water or a little snack, my intentions were always sincere. I envied the festivity that marked the month of Ramadan. Obviously, I had the wrong impression, or perhaps focused on the wrong things, because it is, of course, supposed to be a time of abstinence, restraint and reflection. But what struck me most were the convivial evenings when the fast was broken: the abundance of food, and the gathering of family. I envied my Muslim friends these rituals, and I felt privileged to be invited to share in them. I used to wish there was some similar tradition in my own family background, instead of our flimsy relationship with Sikhism. (Only much later did I realize that it was exactly this loose tie to a faith that made it possible for our family to indulge in festivals like Eid and Christmas.)

In my mid to late teens, my attitude towards religion changed. I began to question the existence of God, and so it became harder for me to delight simply in the surface pleasures of religious occasions. I still enjoyed the sense of community and togetherness fostered at celebrations like Eid, but my doubts about religion, and my unsuccessful attempts to discuss these with believing friends, led to a slight sense of separation even as I continued to share in their holiest meals. This was my own fault. In the zealousness of youth, I was compelled to challenge the convictions of my Muslim friends. If it was them I questioned more than Christian or Sikh friends, it was because they were the ones to whom I felt closest – and frankness is the privilege (and sometimes the pain) of closeness.

Shifts in understanding with those one has known longest are inevitable, and even necessary, as one goes through life. I learned to accept and tolerate the convictions of my religious friends, but I didn’t really respect their beliefs. Throughout my twenties this did not seem problematic to me. In my mind it was impossible to respect something I completely disagreed with. Then, as the debates about Islam became more inflamed in the wake of September 11th 2001, I noticed that besides not respecting the belief, I actually disliked it. At a private level this was due to the way in which I saw Islamic rules inhibiting the lives of people I cared about. But there were also moments, in reaction to specific public events – like the terrorist attacks in London and Madrid, or the controversy over the cartoons of Mohammed – when I had unfair and ugly thoughts of the type expressed by the character Merc in my novel. Basically, my horror of those responsible for the mentioned incidents, spread to taint my view of all Muslims.

It disturbed me that I could harbour such sentiments. I suppose we do not always live up to our better selves. There is a quote I once overheard, it’s attributed to George Orwell (though I have not been able to verify this): “I can’t shed all my prejudices, the best I can do is to keep on arguing with them”. I like to hope one can overcome prejudices, and the way towards that is absolutely by challenging them. In a way, The Obscure Logic of the Heart, is my argument with my own prejudices. I still feel there are many problems with religion, and radical Islam. Nevertheless, through writing I was able to remind myself that there is another humane expression of the faith that has been over-shadowed by those who spread violence in the name of Allah.

Who is your favourite character? Which is your favourite chapter? Why?

Characters
Shareef, Lina’s father, is my favourite because he was the hardest to write, taking me farthest from myself. I think you always have a special regard for the achievements that were toughest to pull off.

Pravar, Anil’s dad, is another favourite, purely because his outrageous views made him fun to write – ‘absolutely, completely, yes’, to quote the man himself.

Chapters
I really like the chapters about Sudan because they required quite a change in gear for me as a writer. The scenes are very dense, and full of description and action, and I enjoyed building up the pace of the narrative in them.

However, I’m especially fond of the first and last chapters of the book, because they both represent opposite extremes of the great love at the heart of the story.

The first scene, where the two lovers meet at a qawwali concert, shows the most idealized and romantic side of love: full of poetry and possibility.

The last scene is all about the central truths of love: the small misunderstandings that have huge consequences, the impossibility of ever saying exactly what you mean, the hard choices that passion forces us to make. That scene is also a testament to the enduring power of love, and how it is the most defining force in every life.

How did you decide on the fate of the character Merc?

Merc plays a very special role in the book. He’s like a heavy-handed conscience, reminding Anil, Lina, and the reader, of things that we’d rather not face up to. Towards the end, his interference in matters has become so problematic that it’s just not possible for him to go on being part of the circle of characters without something terrible happening. So something awful does happen – and, sadly, he is the victim.

Why did you choose an open ending?

I’m not really sure that it is open! But since people read it differently, I guess I have to concede that it’s ambiguous. The most powerful endings are those which don’t quite give us what we want, or what we expect. They leave us hugging the story to our hearts, desperate for a sentence or two of further assurance from the writer, and yet, simultaneously, strangely hopeful and uplifted about life.

Thanks for answering our questions so deeply.

You’re welcome!