FARZANA 9

"But you see Farzana, her intent at first is to go home, forget all these crazies. But somehow they swallow her up, change her. She ends up staying, belonging."
That's a stretch, but I ain't the boss in this story. As if I'll ever fit here! But then I remember hearing one of my father's friends talk of AA (Alcoholics Anonymous), "if the body keeps going, eventually the mind will too." Meaning attend enough meetings and you accept AA. Maybe I will eventually be what my face says I am.
"You ok, Farzana? Did I hit a nerve?"
"No Lt, just thinking on what you said."
"So, your opinion, better if she goes back to Canada or stays an Afghan?"
"Lt, more believable if she ends up staying."
"Yeah, all that influence on her during her formative years. Total isolation from her home culture. Her own culture changed during her absence. Back home in Canada, she missed out on all that schooling, would end up a dishwasher. Here with the Afghans, a celebrity. Bit offbeat, but valued for her English instruction. Old story of small frog in big pond or big frog in small pond."
"Lt, sounds like a small frog in a small pond."
"Not for long. Gets power and influence fast. Way too fast for a lotta people."
"Come on Lt, a ten-year-old girl does that?"
"You'd be surprised, there's magnets for power floating around. She's one. My how time flies! Join me for supper."
Nasiba swears me to secrecy, I'm not allowed to tell anyone we're writing a book.

I return from supper, flop on my bed.
Nilo asks, "so, how'd it go?"
"Rumor is true. She doesn't do much. I helped her do it."
"Just talked all day? She as nuts as they say?"
"More."
"Look at the bright side, could have been KP."
I grin, "so Nilo, how was your day?"
"Well ..."

"So Lt, any thoughts on how the ship comes to grief?"
"Look Farzana, we know beans about the technical, the hard science of it. So let's make it juicy. A flight engineer, overcome by a combination of dope, insanity and desire for revenge sabotages some circuitry."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Come on, don't be a wimp. Afghan women pride themselves on being the fiercest women on the planet? So why not?"
I query, "but over 2,000 lives at risk?"
I'm starting to get the picture. She wants to make all the major decisions, let me do the line-by-line donkey work.
But then I remember something I read in the library here. Western-world novels are terse, condensed down for so-called busy readers. Novels from India are usually in a conversational tone, less work to do, more fun. I recall reading one of the famous authors, the name now escapes me, was a busy woman who only managed to write Sunday mornings.
So, I'll do Indian style, only way it'll get done in 2 months. First draft, then a combined revision/proofreading and presto. Either works or flops. Either way, a fun summer.
Me, nothing on the line. If it flops, they blame Nasiba. Succeeds, she and the organization will be fighting over the credit; none will filter down to me. So, no ego on the line, just do it, have fun, be the ghostwriter.
The tone is soon set. She wanders a lot, supposedly in the library, but I suspect sleeping.
I never bust a sweat, just keep moving. Two weeks and my first draft is done. I do the math, revise so many pages per day and finish on the last day of summer.
It's duly sent to HQ to examine, publish, whatever. With what I've heard of publishing, don't expect any news for a year.
I'm immensely surprised to hear back in a month. An American woman with a Masters in English Literature is doing volunteer work in HQ. She's claims it's totally unmarketable in the west. But with good strong story line and characters, she'll revise to western standards and submit for publication.
The story, as is, will be serialized in the organization newsletter. Nasiba and I get a minor decoration, the Award of Merit. The look on the CO's face conveys surreal disbelief, as she pins us. The citation is short, "an absolute tour-de-force. Best fictional representation of Afghan women in living memory."
Well, I think, not the best, the only. I have no competition. Who else writes about them? Still I'll take the award, looks nice.
Nilo punches my arm in fun, "so that's what you did all summer. How come I wasn't a character?"
"You were, inspiration for Parvana."
"Too cool."

I had sort of assumed this would get me on track socially, help to defuse the Cannibal Princess image. Nothing could be further from the truth. Made me more of an outcast.
Shoulda just goofed off, produced dreck. Oh well, live and learn.
At the time, I didn't realize I'd wait 2 years for an answer. See the American woman couldn't sell it, glutted market. So she brutally edited out half my characters, turned it into a novella and sold it to a magazine. Proceeds were used for sick bay equipment here.

Nilo asks, "that crazy Lt, what's her name?"
"Nasiba."
"Notice how she's putting on airs, ever since the decoration? Walking around like a little tin goddess? You aren't. Why not?"
"Ever hear of hubris? Ancient Greeks believed anyone boasting too much was trying to be a mini-god. At that point, Zeus got ticked, sent down a lightning bolt. Besides, the citation was a crock. Best representation? Come on, only one."

The first edition of newsletter with serial story is out. The newsletter isn't forbidden to girls, it's just only the older and closer-to-join set reads it. Not enough copies to go around, handed around til it's ratty.
This edition breaks all records, everyone in camp reading it. Reaction is 98% outrage that the crash is blamed on an Afghan woman. Everyone wanted it blamed on the Americans, improper inspection prior to handover.
I could wimp out, by saying Nasiba is the boss, but I don't. I simply tell people the whole point of the story is to inform westerners aboout us. So it wouldn't be too brilliant to blame them in Chapter One.
I had portrayed the heroine as a combination of mystified by this strange culture, but still willing to cope with the hardships. This too drew a firestorm of criticism. Everyone wanted her portrayed as a spoiled whiner. Again I replied, offend the western reader in Chapter One and you lose her. She never finishes your story.

It's been a bad day, probably a hundred girls have lambasted me on these 2 topics. I flop tiredly.
Nilo cheers me up, "look at the bright side. Least they're reading it. How would you feel if no one read it? Other than the 2 complaints, how do they like the story?"
I grin, "seem to like the rest of it. Never seen themselves in print before."

A week after publication, Nasiba throws herself off a cliff into the ocean. I'm guessing stress of all that criticism is pinching her inflated ego. My thoughts are uncharitable, "coward, run away and leave me to face it all. It was all your decisions."
The furore had barely died down from the first edition, when the second came out. Somewhere in the world, publishing people with laptops, cellphones and nice clothes are getting big money to listen to feedback. I'm doing it for free.
Third edition, criticism dies. Now they're hooked on the story. Lotsa people can see friends characterized there and are wildly curious how it'll turn out. Spoil my suspense? Not on your life.

CO sends for me, sets out tea. Gentle smile, "tell me, how much did you write? How much did Nasiba?"
"Ma'am, she made all the major decisions."
"The line-by-line writing?"
"She ah didn't do much of that, ma'am."
"I see. So if I asked you to write on your next vacation, it wouldn't be a hardship?"
"No ma'am, it was fun."
"Consider yourself asked. HQ loves this, doesn't want it to run out. Want more editions. First time ever, that many people read the newsletter. Usually perceived as well ah boring, stodgy."