I have been experimenting a bit with poetry videos in recent months. Here's the channel link:
https://www.youtube.com/@AnnieZaidi-writer/videos
Here's a five part poem to start with. If you're into poetry and things, listen, watch, and share etc:
Friday, May 08, 2026
Thursday, April 23, 2026
Saturday, March 28, 2026
A video review for The Comeback
A video review by Sayari for The Comeback on Scroll's video channel:
Friday, March 27, 2026
A new review for The Comeback
Veda Pahurkar writes about The Comeback in the Asian Age:
'What begins as a story of friendship slowly reveals deeper layers of rivalry, regret and the lingering weight of past decisions. Zaidi approaches the narrative with subtlety rather than spectacle. The drama here is not loud or exaggerated; instead, it lies in the emotional spaces between the characters. Through carefully drawn scenes and internal reflections, the novel captures the quiet turbulence that accompanies ambition, the desire to succeed, the fear of being forgotten, and the pride that sometimes blinds people to the consequences of their actions.'
Monday, March 09, 2026
An interview from The Quarantine Tapes
I had forgotten to post this when it first appeared but during the pandemic, in 2021, I did this wide-ranging conversation with Naveen Kishore for The Quarantine Tapes. One of the things we talked about was call-out cutlure and here is a brief extract from the interview:
The thing with calling-out culture is that it does not affect people who are, in any case, not wanting to respond to your critiques. For example, if you critique a patriarchal film, the makers of the patriarchal film are unlikely to be affected because they know why they’ve made it. If you critique a person for their transphobia, for instance, if they are genuinely transphobic, the chances of your critique influencing them in some way are very small. Not that anybody is not influenced or affected by other people, but the chances are small. The people who are most likely to be affected are people who do, in some sense, remain receptive to critics, want to change as much as you do in society.
So I think sometimes the way in which debates and criticism is framed is often quite hostile. And I find that when I frame my critiques, I like to just think a little bit about what is the nature of my critique and what is the other person actually like, or what impression do I have of the other person? Is this person essentially hostile to me?
I think that when we, especially in an anonymous framework, especially on the internet—and because we consume so much internet news, views, opinions—I have begun to feel a little bit like that it does have some kind of freezing impact on authentically open debate and critiques. So that is one part of my fear for sure.
Apart from that, of course, there are all other kinds. If you are in a highly patriarchal environment, as I am—in fact, India is quite a patriarchal country—there are other fears around that, too. I really do have to gather up my courage to say things, because it’s not just about how a fringe group might react. It is actually about how your neighbors will react, how your relatives might react, how your colleagues might react, whether your opinions will make them respect you less. All these things.
You can listen to the whole interview here:
The thing with calling-out culture is that it does not affect people who are, in any case, not wanting to respond to your critiques. For example, if you critique a patriarchal film, the makers of the patriarchal film are unlikely to be affected because they know why they’ve made it. If you critique a person for their transphobia, for instance, if they are genuinely transphobic, the chances of your critique influencing them in some way are very small. Not that anybody is not influenced or affected by other people, but the chances are small. The people who are most likely to be affected are people who do, in some sense, remain receptive to critics, want to change as much as you do in society.
So I think sometimes the way in which debates and criticism is framed is often quite hostile. And I find that when I frame my critiques, I like to just think a little bit about what is the nature of my critique and what is the other person actually like, or what impression do I have of the other person? Is this person essentially hostile to me?
I think that when we, especially in an anonymous framework, especially on the internet—and because we consume so much internet news, views, opinions—I have begun to feel a little bit like that it does have some kind of freezing impact on authentically open debate and critiques. So that is one part of my fear for sure.
Apart from that, of course, there are all other kinds. If you are in a highly patriarchal environment, as I am—in fact, India is quite a patriarchal country—there are other fears around that, too. I really do have to gather up my courage to say things, because it’s not just about how a fringe group might react. It is actually about how your neighbors will react, how your relatives might react, how your colleagues might react, whether your opinions will make them respect you less. All these things.
You can listen to the whole interview here:
Saturday, January 31, 2026
Essay: Because we live in this world and no other
When was the last time you read a story that well and truly blew your mind?
I suppose, in order to answer that question, you’d have to first consider what it means to have your mind blown? To me, it means coming upon a story that makes me reconsider the very foundations of society, and which challenges my assumptions about what it means to be human.
Because we live in a human body, and because we can see it, smell it, inhabit it and drink of it, we imagine that we know it. We certainly fall into the trap of thinking that we know what human culture is (or what it ought to be) because that’s how we already live, and we’d like to keep it this way. At most, we might need to stretch the frontiers of what we can achieve, how far we can travel, and the limitations of our bodies. That’s the kind of science, and also the kind of fantasy, we like to conjure up. But every once in a while, along comes a story that shakes our self-assurance, and forces us to reconsider humanity...
I suppose, in order to answer that question, you’d have to first consider what it means to have your mind blown? To me, it means coming upon a story that makes me reconsider the very foundations of society, and which challenges my assumptions about what it means to be human.
Because we live in a human body, and because we can see it, smell it, inhabit it and drink of it, we imagine that we know it. We certainly fall into the trap of thinking that we know what human culture is (or what it ought to be) because that’s how we already live, and we’d like to keep it this way. At most, we might need to stretch the frontiers of what we can achieve, how far we can travel, and the limitations of our bodies. That’s the kind of science, and also the kind of fantasy, we like to conjure up. But every once in a while, along comes a story that shakes our self-assurance, and forces us to reconsider humanity...
Read the full essay in Outlook magazine: https://www.outlookindia.com/books/because-we-live-in-this-world-and-no-other
Essay: White sheets and white lies
Imagine then, my perplexity when I found myself trudging from hotel to hotel, baggage in tow, and my friend refusing to check in anywhere. The rooms looked fine to me, the hotels reasonably secure. What could be the matter? At the third hotel, my friend finally explained: she refused to stay at any hotel that didn’t have white sheets.
White bed linen. White towels. White robes. Code for luxury.
All five-star hotels have them, and most four-star and three-starred hotels
too, since they model themselves on the five-starred ones. But oh! The quiet
boredom of five-star décor! Over the years, I have also written a few stories
for travel magazines, which involved staying at five-star hotels with the
implicit understanding between the editors and the hotels (who were also advertisers
for the magazines) that the article should subtly nudge the reader towards the
joys that were on offer. For a writer like me, this is a hard ask. Part of the
problem is that I don’t like to do as I’m told, but even when I am willing, there’s
the additional problem of not having much to write about. Every fancy hotel is
more or less like another fancy hotel. They celebrate this monotony by putting
out advertising jargon that describes the experience of staying at such hotels
as ‘home’.
Read the full essay in Frontline: https://frontline.thehindu.com/other/travel/luxury-hotels-white-sheets-class-illusion/article70486103.ece
Saturday, January 03, 2026
New year, and a new book review
'Annie Zaidi’s The Comeback is about one man’s journey from self-absorption to consideration for others staged as an ode to theatre as an artform. It asks important questions of popularity, selfishness, stoicism and leadership, about life on social media, and about working in cinema, TV and OTT — all of which represent contemporary India. Also thrown in is a bit of the magic of small towns and possible models for theatre to thrive there.'
- Akankshya Abismruta in the Hindustan Times
Friday, December 26, 2025
Surma eyes and how we're taught to see
Extract from a new essay on representation of Muslims (Muslim men in particular) in Hindi movies:
In and of itself, the Muslim-as-terrorist trope would be less damaging were it not for a quiet lie surrounding these narratives. The lie is that only Muslims are responsible for terrorism, that Muslim trauma is dangerous only because it leads to radicalisation. In real life, this falsehood is generated by politicians who have a monopoly over the terror discourse: who experiences it, who gets tainted by it, who gets off scot-free?...
In a country like India, complexity of representation is a big ask at the best of times. Most communities have been stereotyped in Hindi movies, including people from Hindi-speaking regions – the paanwala, the gun-toting gangster, the dacoit, the princeling or nawab, the jolly Sikh, and so on. In fact, most communities have not been represented at all. There are over 3,000 castes, more than 700 tribes, and each religion also has distinct sects, each with their own culture. A Bohra Muslim woman, for instances, looks nothing like an Ismaili, and a Kashmiri Muslim is different even from a Ladakhi Muslim. Their problems, like those of any film protagonist, are simultaneously unique and universal, and they deserve to be treated as such, for we cannot separate the invisibilisation of a community from their sociopolitical marginalisation.
In and of itself, the Muslim-as-terrorist trope would be less damaging were it not for a quiet lie surrounding these narratives. The lie is that only Muslims are responsible for terrorism, that Muslim trauma is dangerous only because it leads to radicalisation. In real life, this falsehood is generated by politicians who have a monopoly over the terror discourse: who experiences it, who gets tainted by it, who gets off scot-free?...
In a country like India, complexity of representation is a big ask at the best of times. Most communities have been stereotyped in Hindi movies, including people from Hindi-speaking regions – the paanwala, the gun-toting gangster, the dacoit, the princeling or nawab, the jolly Sikh, and so on. In fact, most communities have not been represented at all. There are over 3,000 castes, more than 700 tribes, and each religion also has distinct sects, each with their own culture. A Bohra Muslim woman, for instances, looks nothing like an Ismaili, and a Kashmiri Muslim is different even from a Ladakhi Muslim. Their problems, like those of any film protagonist, are simultaneously unique and universal, and they deserve to be treated as such, for we cannot separate the invisibilisation of a community from their sociopolitical marginalisation.
Read the full essay in Frontline magazine:
Sunday, December 14, 2025
Another review for The Comeback:
'The novel begins on a note of restlessness where the writer deliberately carves a distinct image of John K. and Asghar based on class. It cannot be denied that art, especially in the present time, is heavily tilted towards capitalism and becoming either politically distant or neutral. At the same time, with accessibility, most artists have grown susceptible to policing and fear losing what they possess. In the novel, John K. says something that lands his friend, Asghar in trouble. Zaidi captures the anger of the latter but keeps ‘care’ in the forefront.'
'The novel begins on a note of restlessness where the writer deliberately carves a distinct image of John K. and Asghar based on class. It cannot be denied that art, especially in the present time, is heavily tilted towards capitalism and becoming either politically distant or neutral. At the same time, with accessibility, most artists have grown susceptible to policing and fear losing what they possess. In the novel, John K. says something that lands his friend, Asghar in trouble. Zaidi captures the anger of the latter but keeps ‘care’ in the forefront.'
- Kabir Deb in Outlook
Sunday, December 07, 2025
Jab bhi rukhsat ka samaa yaad aa gaya
Today (Dec 6) is my grandfather's death anniversary. Sharing one of his Urdu ghazals here in Roman script.
Jab bhi rukhsat ka samaa yaad aa gaya
Door take gehra andhera chha gaya
Tez-tar hoti gayi shamm-e-yaqeen
Shola-e-namrood hi bujhta gaya
Usne nazrein pher to li.n bazm mein
Phir bhi maathe par paseena aa gaya
Khud-ba-khud chatki kali ya subah dum
Unke hothon par tabassum aa gaya
Kaun poochhe karobar-e-ishq mein
Jisne sab kuch kho diya, kya pa gaya
Dars-e-haq dete hain shaikh-o-brahman
Jaise sab unki samajh mein aa gaya
Sunte hain Zaidi javaar-e-daar mein
Ik nishaan-e-raah bhi paaya gaya.
- Ali Jawad Zaidi (page 58, Naseem-e-dasht-e-aarzu)
Vocabulary:
Namrood: Nimrod, the Babylonian king who tried to burn the prophet Abraham
Dars-e-haq: Lessons or lectures on truth
Javaar-e-daar: In the vicinity of the gallows
Monday, August 25, 2025
A prize for short fiction
One of the good things that happened over the last year: my short story, ‘Zinnias in the Graveyard’, won third prize (shared with Brecht De Poortere) at the Hudson Review Short Story competition 2024-25. It took a while but the story has finally been published in the Summer 2025 issue of the Hudson Review. Here's a brief excerpt:
The last gardener Shafiqa had hired asked for three months’ advance on his pay and disappeared. Just as well. He didn’t do much without supervision, and her every waking minute was consumed by a sick man who could barely chew or swallow without gagging. Mashing his rice and daal, putting fruit and spinach into the blender. A whole hour would pass between bringing a tray to his bed and coaxing a few spoonfuls of goop into his mouth. Scolding him for not sitting up, yanking at his wrist, prodding with increasing degrees of impatience until he uttered a soft oath and allowed her to shovel the spoon into his mouth.
She had scolded him with every spoonful. Eat! Eat! Eat a bit more, for God’s sake! Will you kill me with trying to keep you alive?
She hadn’t been able to keep him, of course. Five months of turning him this side and that side and, yet, bedsores all over his back. Between the feeding, there was the cleaning, the bandaging, the laundry. Wiping the corners of his mouth. Shaving his chin. She barely had time to bathe herself. At the end of the day, she would simply lie prostrate beside him and whisper her prayers, underlining each Arabic phrase with just one thought: Let him stay alive.
He slipped away, complaining about the lack of salt in his porridge. By the time she returned from the kitchen with the salt shaker, he was gone.
He could have asked for a bit of sugar instead, she thought later. He hadn’t tasted sugar in years. She often left out a bowl of temptation, disappearing into the garden for a bit so he could sneak a spoonful. If he asked, she was duty bound to refuse. No, the doctor said, no. Sugar is poison for you. Still, she would leave a bowl of kheer to cool on the dining table. One spoon wouldn’t kill him, but he never touched it. She always knew when her kids stole a few spoons of kheer or halwa. She’d know if the surface of the dessert bowl had been disturbed, no matter that they made clumsy attempts to level it flat again. But her husband?
He had wanted to live. But five months ago, he had begun to murmur in the dark. Enough. Enough. Enough what? she wondered. Pain? Being turned, his sores suppurating, smelling his own shit? He never said anything more than that word, enough...
You can read the fully story here:
https://hudsonreview.com/2025/08/zinnias-in-the-graveyard/
The last gardener Shafiqa had hired asked for three months’ advance on his pay and disappeared. Just as well. He didn’t do much without supervision, and her every waking minute was consumed by a sick man who could barely chew or swallow without gagging. Mashing his rice and daal, putting fruit and spinach into the blender. A whole hour would pass between bringing a tray to his bed and coaxing a few spoonfuls of goop into his mouth. Scolding him for not sitting up, yanking at his wrist, prodding with increasing degrees of impatience until he uttered a soft oath and allowed her to shovel the spoon into his mouth.
She had scolded him with every spoonful. Eat! Eat! Eat a bit more, for God’s sake! Will you kill me with trying to keep you alive?
She hadn’t been able to keep him, of course. Five months of turning him this side and that side and, yet, bedsores all over his back. Between the feeding, there was the cleaning, the bandaging, the laundry. Wiping the corners of his mouth. Shaving his chin. She barely had time to bathe herself. At the end of the day, she would simply lie prostrate beside him and whisper her prayers, underlining each Arabic phrase with just one thought: Let him stay alive.
He slipped away, complaining about the lack of salt in his porridge. By the time she returned from the kitchen with the salt shaker, he was gone.
He could have asked for a bit of sugar instead, she thought later. He hadn’t tasted sugar in years. She often left out a bowl of temptation, disappearing into the garden for a bit so he could sneak a spoonful. If he asked, she was duty bound to refuse. No, the doctor said, no. Sugar is poison for you. Still, she would leave a bowl of kheer to cool on the dining table. One spoon wouldn’t kill him, but he never touched it. She always knew when her kids stole a few spoons of kheer or halwa. She’d know if the surface of the dessert bowl had been disturbed, no matter that they made clumsy attempts to level it flat again. But her husband?
He had wanted to live. But five months ago, he had begun to murmur in the dark. Enough. Enough. Enough what? she wondered. Pain? Being turned, his sores suppurating, smelling his own shit? He never said anything more than that word, enough...
You can read the fully story here:
https://hudsonreview.com/2025/08/zinnias-in-the-graveyard/
Monday, May 26, 2025
Review of 'Bread, Cement, Cactus: A Memoir of Belonging and Dislocation' in Cha journal
A new-ish review of my book Bread, Cement, Cactus: A Memoir of Belonging and Dislocation in Cha journal:
'The plurality inherent in the experience of belonging necessitates a perspective that moves beyond national constructs. While borders impose physical limitations, the sense of belonging is irreducible to a singular or monolithic national identity. The persistent enmity between India and Pakistan has repeatedly forced individuals to define their sense of home in terms of national affiliation, leading to existential questioning of their identities. National belonging, however, cannot supplant the deeper sense of belonging, which transcends borders and walls. Before asking “Where is home?”, one must first grapple with the preceding question: “Where do I belong?” The search for home, in and of itself, signifies dislocation—a condition that has become increasingly acute in contemporary India.
Each essay in the book addresses distinct issues, problematising various aspects of life in modern India. Zaidi’s narrative traverses timescapes, weaving historical contexts with contemporary realities. Rather than offering a definitive answer to what home means, her memoir questions what it means to live in today’s India, a reality that proves more daunting than the book’s length might suggest. Another commendable aspect of the work is its brevity, a stark contrast to the trend of overly lengthy memoirs that often lose focus. Zaidi avoids falling into unproductive digressions, instead delivering a concentrated exploration of longing and memory.'
'The plurality inherent in the experience of belonging necessitates a perspective that moves beyond national constructs. While borders impose physical limitations, the sense of belonging is irreducible to a singular or monolithic national identity. The persistent enmity between India and Pakistan has repeatedly forced individuals to define their sense of home in terms of national affiliation, leading to existential questioning of their identities. National belonging, however, cannot supplant the deeper sense of belonging, which transcends borders and walls. Before asking “Where is home?”, one must first grapple with the preceding question: “Where do I belong?” The search for home, in and of itself, signifies dislocation—a condition that has become increasingly acute in contemporary India.
Each essay in the book addresses distinct issues, problematising various aspects of life in modern India. Zaidi’s narrative traverses timescapes, weaving historical contexts with contemporary realities. Rather than offering a definitive answer to what home means, her memoir questions what it means to live in today’s India, a reality that proves more daunting than the book’s length might suggest. Another commendable aspect of the work is its brevity, a stark contrast to the trend of overly lengthy memoirs that often lose focus. Zaidi avoids falling into unproductive digressions, instead delivering a concentrated exploration of longing and memory.'
Monday, May 12, 2025
Another nazm by Ali Jawad Zaidi
Kufr hai gar na karoon naghma e asnaam ki baat
Yaad aati hai har ik baat pe ilhaam ki baat
Jhanjhana uthte hain sab taar kisi veena ke
Zehen mein goonjti hai guzri hui shaam ki baat
Ye mohabbat hai koi shakl e riyazi to nahin
Tumne aaghaaz mein kya chhed hi anjaam ki baat
Jalwagah, qatlgah, ahl e mohabbat bhi to hai
Jo na jaane vo kare mehar e lab e baam ki baat
Muskuraate hue alfaaz ki tah tak jaao
Mere ashaar mein hai shorish e ayyaam ki baat
Zindagi jalwa e sadrang hai pehle ki tarah
Ik guzarti hui ru hai gham o aalaam ki baat
Poochho Zaidi se ke bas ek vahi hosh mein tha
Subah ke bas mein kahaan hai ke kahe shaam ki baat
- Ali Jawad Zaidi (page 70, Naseem-e-dasht-e-aarzu)
Vocabulary:
Asnaam: Idols, plural of sanam
Ilhaam: Revelation or intuitive inspiration
Shakl: Face, likeness, condition
Riyazi: Mathematics
Ahl: Able, suitable, or inhabitant
Mehar: Love, mercy or grace
Lab e baam: Corner of the roof; also decadant
Shorish: Commotion, confusion
Ayyaam: Period, season
Sadrang: Hundreds of colours
Ru: Cause, countenance or surface
Aalaam: Grief, adversity
Tuesday, March 25, 2025
Interview in Helter Skelter magazine
From an interview in Helter Skelter magazine:
The first thing that struck me when reading The Comeback is that it feels like it takes place at a distance from where the quote unquote “action” is. I found that such an interesting choice, where we’re hearing about things from a distance, and we’re not on the stage itself. What made you want to set it at that distance?
That’s interesting you pick up on that. It was not done consciously, but I think one of the reasons I wrote the book at all was that I felt like I was at a distance from everything. I was missing theatre. I wasn’t writing theatre anymore, I wasn’t even watching too much professional theatre. It came out of my own sense of feeling like I was missing out on something and wanting to be at the centre of things, but at the same time, being in a smaller place and recognising that being at the centre of things doesn’t necessarily mean being in a big city. Sometimes you can be in a big city and still have serious F.O.M.O. because all the cool things are happening somewhere else, you know?
Also, a little bit consciously, I was thinking about our commitments to big cities in the arts. I think it’s unconscious and we can’t always control it, because we go where the money is, and we go where the big industries are. Writers tend to congregate around places where the publishing hub is, [actors] to where the film scene is. But at the same time, I think that we also are then controlled by the big scene. It’s a trade-off, and we trade our own sensibility. The other possibility that is traded in is of actually having control over what you want to do, setting up your own thing in your own social context. So I think it comes a little bit from there, the sense of wanting and not wanting to be in the thick of things.
Link to the full interview: https://helterskelter.in/2025/03/interview-annie-zaidi-the-comeback/
Wednesday, March 05, 2025
Reviews for The Comeback
'Annie Zaidi’s new novel, The Comeback, is a delightful journey into the heart of Indian theatre, with a focus on small-town India...'
- Jahnavi Acharekar in Frontline magazine
Link to review: https://frontline.thehindu.com/books/theatre-life-review-the-comeback-annie-zaidi/article69385271.ece
'... economical and absorbing. It contains more than a few touches of broad irony, especially when it comes to the business of art and the way eastern and western dramatic traditions are appropriated by the cognoscenti.'
- Sanjay Sipahimalani in The Hindu
Link to review: https://www.thehindu.com/books/book-review-the-comeback-author-annie-zaidi-theatre-films-friendship-betrayal-drama/article69412332.ece
'Through the story of a somewhat successful actor, Zaidi imagines how corrupting any kind of adulation can be. If being ruthless in the guise of ambition is bad, then being conceited as a natural result of one’s success is even worse.'
- Sayari Debnath in Scroll.in
Link: https://scroll.in/article/1080920/the-comeback-annie-zaidis-short-and-sweet-novel-about-second-chances
- Aditya Mani Jha in the Mint
Link to review: https://www.livemint.com/mint-lounge/art-and-culture/book-review-annie-zaidi-the-comeback-friendship-stagecraft-11740722742207.html
'The book grapples a lot with the worlds of theatre, cinema, and television; and through this, triggers contemplation on an interesting hierarchy that's right in front of us but never paid heed to - that of the politics of where a play should be performed.'
- Garima Sadhwani in the Financial Express
Link to review: https://www.financialexpress.com/life/lifestyle/the-comeback-by-annie-zaidi-review-returning-to-your-roots/3778064/
'At its core, The Comeback is a meditation on lost dreams, fractured relationships, and the possibility of redemption. With a narrative that is both intimate and expansive, Zaidi masterfully captures the emotional turmoil of betrayal, the quiet resilience of those left behind, and the unexpected ways in which life circles back.'
- Anjali Chauhan in the Deccan Herald
Link to review: https://www.deccanherald.com/features/books/meditation-on-broken-bonds-and-lost-dreams-3456598
'The author’s own training in theatre is evident in how the novel is structured. She sketches the backdrop with an enviable economy of words, then allows the characters to take over. The dialogue is crisp, the characters (including the supporting characters) are well-developed, and the plot moves forward at just the right pace.
- Natasha Ramarathnam in Youth ki Awaaz
Link: https://www.youthkiawaaz.com/2025/02/a-story-of-friendship-and-betrayal-set-in-the-theatre-world/
- Natasha Ramarathnam in Youth ki Awaaz
Link: https://www.youthkiawaaz.com/2025/02/a-story-of-friendship-and-betrayal-set-in-the-theatre-world/
'Novelist and playwright Annie Zaidi turns to this trope in her latest, The Comeback, and sets the novel in a milieu that she knows intimately — the world of the theatre. The result is a slim novel that is part parable and part a fairy tale.'
- Shuma Raha in The Asian Age
Link to review: https://www.asianage.com/books/book-review-can-theatre-reunite-offer-redemption-1876623
'What follows, thereafter, is a tale of soured friendships, bruised egos, fluctuating fortunes, starting from scratch, and, of course, drama in every which way. An award-winning dramatist, Zaidi has seen the world of theatre, up-close and up-front, and is clearly partial to it. Her descriptions of rehearsals, the shoe-string budgets, the uncompromising determination to stage quality stuff, make for inspiring reading.
Link to review: https://www.asianage.com/books/book-review-can-theatre-reunite-offer-redemption-1876623
'What follows, thereafter, is a tale of soured friendships, bruised egos, fluctuating fortunes, starting from scratch, and, of course, drama in every which way. An award-winning dramatist, Zaidi has seen the world of theatre, up-close and up-front, and is clearly partial to it. Her descriptions of rehearsals, the shoe-string budgets, the uncompromising determination to stage quality stuff, make for inspiring reading.
This is a book that many from the world of grease-paint and arc lights will identify with. Others will enjoy a story, well-told.'
- Alpana Chowdhury in The Free Press Journal
Link to review: https://www.freepressjournal.in/lifestyle/book-review-the-comeback-by-annie-zaidi-a-captivating-story-of-ambition-friendship-and-betrayal
'Asghar’s journey, from brokenness to renewal, is rendered with a sensitivity that avoids clichés, making his evolution not just compelling but deeply affecting. His rediscovery of theatre serves as both an artistic and personal revival, showcasing his resilience. The supporting characters—family, friends, and the theatre troupe—enrich the narrative...'
- Namrata in Kitaab
- Kabir Deb in Outlook
'The Comeback tells us that relationships can be old and strong, yet, fragile.. It deftly delves into the anxieties of people in the contemporary world and the issues that crop up with fame along with personal egos and social status.'
- Newsbits.in
Link to review: https://newsbits.in/the-comeback-annie-zaidis-novel-on-friendship-and-a-strange-betrayal-charms-the-readers#google_vignette
'Though slim, The Comeback travels a full circle in a consistently engaging story that reads like it could be a lively movie (or a series?). Held up against Zaidi's other books, including the acclaimed Prelude to a Riot and her memoir Bread, Cement, Cactus, The Comeback can seem lightweight, but it is warm and large-hearted.'
- Neha Bhatt in India Today
'Zaidi approaches the narrative with subtlety rather than spectacle. The drama here is not loud or exaggerated; instead, it lies in the emotional spaces between the characters. Through carefully drawn scenes and internal reflections, the novel captures the quiet turbulence that accompanies ambition, the desire to succeed, the fear of being forgotten, and the pride that sometimes blinds people to the consequences of their actions.'
- Veda Pahurkar in the Asian Age (Mar 25th, 2026):
Thursday, February 27, 2025
A first review for The Comeback in Youth ki Awaaz:
A first review for The Comeback in Youth ki Awaaz:
'The entire novel is built on the perceived hierarchy of the performing arts, and the author subtly makes a point about how many of the attempts at decolonisation end up magnifying the same systems they were supposed to overthrow. Through Asghar’s stubborn decision to insist on centring his theatre in his hometown, Baansa, the author pays homage to the theatre, which could flourish in smaller towns but is subsumed in an attempt to reach a wider audience. At least in this novel, Asghar is able to resist the temptation to do so!
The blurb promises that The Comeback “is a story of the price of betrayal, friendship and forgiveness, second chances, and the transformative power of art,” and the book certainly lives up to that promise. In this book, Annie Zaidi demonstrates yet again why she is considered one of the finest Indian novelists writing in English today.'
Link: https://www.youthkiawaaz.com/2025/02/a-story-of-friendship-and-betrayal-set-in-the-theatre-world/
Monday, February 17, 2025
An extract from my newest novel
An extract from the first chapter of my newest novel, The Comeback. Read, and if you find yourself enjoying it, do pick up a copy.
.png)
There were five missed calls. By the time I got around to calling Asghar back, it was past midnight but he wouldn’t mind, I was certain. We often talked into the wee hours even on weekdays. He never said a word about having to be up at six in the morning and dropping the kids off at school at a quarter to eight. My own brother might say something like, some of us have real jobs, you know? Not Asghar.
I used to get drunk a few times a year and call him, raving and ranting about how I was passed over yet again, the injustice of it, and how I was sick of everyone, mostly myself. Asghar would get me through the night and into the pale dawn of a new day. Me pouring myself cheap gins, him rooting about in the fridge for a midnight snack. He didn’t get fat, no matter how many kebabs and cream rolls he ate, and his eyes never failed to crinkle when I called him a good-looking bastard with his head of curls, hazel eyes, and lanky frame. If he spent any time at all in the gym, he’d have the kind of torso that sells business suits. He could sing and I bet he could dance, too, if he took lessons. I, on the other hand, with my short legs, big nose, and square jaw, would never turn any heads. Yet, I had ended up the actor and Asghar, the bank manager.
It could so easily have been the other way around. Asghar had a better grip on literature and stagecraft. I had a better head for math. But then, I cleared high school with less than 80 per cent marks and all hopes of getting into engineering college died. Not that I especially minded. I didn’t particularly want to be an engineer, or, for that matter, a banker. Because my own father was a banker, I had signed up for a Bachelor’s in commerce but my first week on campus, I ran into Asghar and I never attended a lecture again. Asghar and his group of friends had founded an undergraduate theatre club in Baansa and I had started acting only because he picked me to play the lead in the club’s first production. That’s all I had been trying to say in the Buzz interview that set off a storm and blew all our boats off course.
For over fifteen years, I had hung about on the fringes of Bollywood. While I waited for my big break, I did whatever jobs came to hand. Plays, theatre lighting, bit parts on television, radio jingles, audiobooks. Fifteen long years of auditioning for meaty roles but, zilch. Then a film producer happened to listen to a Hindi novel that I had narrated. He didn’t just buy the adaptation rights, he insisted I play the narrator’s role in the film. This character was supposed to be an unattractive guy, fortyish, and with a mean streak, and the producer thought that I looked and sounded the part. The film was shot on a low budget. I was paid peanuts but the day I was invited to see the rough cut, I knew, from now on, things were going to be different for me. And they were.
The week the film released in theatres, Buzz called about doing a profile. Now, a profile is already different from merely being interviewed. First, the magazine sent a photographer who shot my face with some love, bringing light to its creases, gouging the hollows under my eyes even deeper. There I sat, holding a book under a lamp, cast into shadows that made me look like a man of obscure and dangerous origins. There I was again, leaning against a balcony railing in a rumpled night suit. Unwashed, unbrushed, almost sexy.
Then a journalist came over to interview me. She insisted on visiting me at home because, she said, she was looking for texture. So I made her a cup of tea and talked about growing up in a small town called Baansa, north of Lucknow but south of Bareilly. How I’d cut classes to meet girls, how swirls of dust rose up in the first week of June and how they filled your nostrils and throat until you felt as if you’d choke to death, and how December brought a sort of rolling fog that blinded you and made you jump at the sound of footsteps so that you started to believe in ghosts. That sort of thing.
This chapter was published here: https://scroll.in/article/1078778/by-annie-zaidi-devastated-by-betrayal-asghar-retreats-to-his-hometown-and-rediscovers-theatre
I used to get drunk a few times a year and call him, raving and ranting about how I was passed over yet again, the injustice of it, and how I was sick of everyone, mostly myself. Asghar would get me through the night and into the pale dawn of a new day. Me pouring myself cheap gins, him rooting about in the fridge for a midnight snack. He didn’t get fat, no matter how many kebabs and cream rolls he ate, and his eyes never failed to crinkle when I called him a good-looking bastard with his head of curls, hazel eyes, and lanky frame. If he spent any time at all in the gym, he’d have the kind of torso that sells business suits. He could sing and I bet he could dance, too, if he took lessons. I, on the other hand, with my short legs, big nose, and square jaw, would never turn any heads. Yet, I had ended up the actor and Asghar, the bank manager.
It could so easily have been the other way around. Asghar had a better grip on literature and stagecraft. I had a better head for math. But then, I cleared high school with less than 80 per cent marks and all hopes of getting into engineering college died. Not that I especially minded. I didn’t particularly want to be an engineer, or, for that matter, a banker. Because my own father was a banker, I had signed up for a Bachelor’s in commerce but my first week on campus, I ran into Asghar and I never attended a lecture again. Asghar and his group of friends had founded an undergraduate theatre club in Baansa and I had started acting only because he picked me to play the lead in the club’s first production. That’s all I had been trying to say in the Buzz interview that set off a storm and blew all our boats off course.
For over fifteen years, I had hung about on the fringes of Bollywood. While I waited for my big break, I did whatever jobs came to hand. Plays, theatre lighting, bit parts on television, radio jingles, audiobooks. Fifteen long years of auditioning for meaty roles but, zilch. Then a film producer happened to listen to a Hindi novel that I had narrated. He didn’t just buy the adaptation rights, he insisted I play the narrator’s role in the film. This character was supposed to be an unattractive guy, fortyish, and with a mean streak, and the producer thought that I looked and sounded the part. The film was shot on a low budget. I was paid peanuts but the day I was invited to see the rough cut, I knew, from now on, things were going to be different for me. And they were.
The week the film released in theatres, Buzz called about doing a profile. Now, a profile is already different from merely being interviewed. First, the magazine sent a photographer who shot my face with some love, bringing light to its creases, gouging the hollows under my eyes even deeper. There I sat, holding a book under a lamp, cast into shadows that made me look like a man of obscure and dangerous origins. There I was again, leaning against a balcony railing in a rumpled night suit. Unwashed, unbrushed, almost sexy.
Then a journalist came over to interview me. She insisted on visiting me at home because, she said, she was looking for texture. So I made her a cup of tea and talked about growing up in a small town called Baansa, north of Lucknow but south of Bareilly. How I’d cut classes to meet girls, how swirls of dust rose up in the first week of June and how they filled your nostrils and throat until you felt as if you’d choke to death, and how December brought a sort of rolling fog that blinded you and made you jump at the sound of footsteps so that you started to believe in ghosts. That sort of thing.
This chapter was published here: https://scroll.in/article/1078778/by-annie-zaidi-devastated-by-betrayal-asghar-retreats-to-his-hometown-and-rediscovers-theatre
Sunday, January 12, 2025
Against the Calculus of Skin
I have a new essay in Ananke magazine's 10th anniversary special edition. My essay is titled 'Against the Calculus of Skin'. I was thinking of how much of a woman's existence is defined by her body - how much skin is (in)visible, and how cultural notions of attractive/acceptable intersect with politics in our times. A brief extract from it, here:
I am tired of skin. I am tired of the way women’s skin seem
to swallow up their kidneys, aortas, phalanges. For all the space taken up by
skin in public discourse, it is almost as if these other bits of us had nothing
to do with us being women.
Skin. The largest and most vulnerable organ in the body. It protects
us with no protection of its own. At one time in history, humans began to cover
up skin with more layers. Some scientists suggest it was during the first iceage, 180,000 years ago. Clothing brought us protection from cold, but also sun and rain, from insect
bites and bruising gravel. Men needed it as much as women did. But ever since people
began to read gendered meanings into clothing, it has begun to mess with our
sense of justice. We make assumptions about how others, especially women, deserve
to be treated based on what part of her skin can be espied – how low a saree
hangs on her hips, how high the skirt, whether or not her ears and neck are
covered – at what time of day. And while I am tired of men who look at a
woman’s knees and jump to the conclusion that she desires sexual congress, I am
thoroughly sick of women who look at another woman in a bikini and call her a
prostitute.
Those who say such things surely know in their hearts that
they’re wrong. They say those things anyway because, if a woman is neither
within grasp nor concerned about how she’s viewed, they feel compelled to
punish her. Some punish with rape, others by perpetuating a moral binary
whereby women are split into whore/saint. And I am very, very tired of women rationing
out their allyship based on skin so that some of us are cast to the wolves of harassment
and bigotry.
Reader, I say, ‘we’, although I want to exclude myself from
this reckoning. Still, I say ‘we’ because so many women fall prey to one form
of categorical splitting or the other. If it’s not the whore/saint binary, it’s
the oppressed/liberated one. Can white women in France or Denmark possibly
believe that a woman who refuses to show her face does not deserve to eat? Do Indian
women across the spectrum of religious affiliation (or even atheists) truly think
that a woman who keeps her neck and chest covered, cannot achieve financial autonomy?
Are you that brown woman who refuses to accept that there might be a
kind of freedom in not showing off your legs or your cleavage in a
culture that demands it of you? Do you sit around calculating how much of an education,
what jobs, how much of a political voice should be allowed to a woman based on
what percentage of her skin is visible? Hands and arms, elbow down, okay?
Ankles, okay? Shoulders, great? Waist, mandatory reveal?
I am sick of this calculus. The expectation of majoritarian assimilation often masks a wilful blindness towards the human struggle to balance individual circumstance and choice against cultural norms, and nowhere is this blindness more insistently inscribed than upon the skins of women. Yet, the meanings we attach to women’s decisions to clothe themselves in particular ways almost always turn out to be wrong if only we would bother to look closer. An image that brought me up short recently was a representation of St Hild of Whitby in the Durham Cathedral. At first glance, I thought it was it a painting of an Iranian or South Asian woman in a chador. Indeed, but for the saint’s name written on the painting, anyone would have thought so. I found myself wondering how people might be impacted by the painting with or without the name. How does our response change, knowing that it is not a present-day Muslim woman, but a medieval Christian saint who dressed that way? Would the average white woman looking at that painting think of St Hild as oppressed or subservient to any mortal man?
You can read the whole issue here: https://issuu.com/anankemag/docs/ananke_10th_29_
Saturday, December 28, 2024
Ye khyaal e diwana aaj phir kahaan guzra (ghazal by Ali Jawad Zaidi)
Ye khyaal e diwana aaj phir kahaan guzra
Ik-ik lamhe par hashr ka gumaan guzra
Nok e khaar par chalna kal humin ko tha maloom
Aaj khaarzaaron se poora kaarwaan guzra
Zikr doston ka tha doston ki mehfil thi
Dushmanon ko kya kahiye dost ko garaan guzra
Jab firaq aa pahuncha bhoolne ki manzil tak
Qafila ummeedon ka dil mein nagahaan guzra
Tohfa e judaai tha ashk e surmaye e aalooda
Main jo ro pada aakhir mujhko kya gumaan guzra
Bheek humne maangi thi zeest se tabassum ki
Vo bhi ik ravaan lamha jaane kab kahaan guzra
Khatm hai safar apna, ab kahein to kya Zaidi
Kaise sakht dushman par dost ka gumaan guzra
- Ali Jawad Zaidi (page 48, Naseem-e-dasht-e-aarzu)
Ik-ik lamhe par hashr ka gumaan guzra
Nok e khaar par chalna kal humin ko tha maloom
Aaj khaarzaaron se poora kaarwaan guzra
Zikr doston ka tha doston ki mehfil thi
Dushmanon ko kya kahiye dost ko garaan guzra
Jab firaq aa pahuncha bhoolne ki manzil tak
Qafila ummeedon ka dil mein nagahaan guzra
Tohfa e judaai tha ashk e surmaye e aalooda
Main jo ro pada aakhir mujhko kya gumaan guzra
Bheek humne maangi thi zeest se tabassum ki
Vo bhi ik ravaan lamha jaane kab kahaan guzra
Khatm hai safar apna, ab kahein to kya Zaidi
Kaise sakht dushman par dost ka gumaan guzra
- Ali Jawad Zaidi (page 48, Naseem-e-dasht-e-aarzu)
Vocabulary:
Gumaan: suspicion, false belief
Khaarzaar: thornfields
Garaan: dear/costly
Nagahaan: unforeseen
Alooda: polluted/soiled
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)