Of Books and Basant in 2026

My sister doesn’t read. That’s not to say she can’t – she’s perfectly capable after having spent 17 years in standardized education – but she just doesn’t find the written word compelling. I pardon her this dire flaw because, despite her repulsion of black-on-white print, she totes herself and her clanking handbag to the Lahore Literary Fest with me. She does this every February without fail.

This February was no exception. It was an exceptional February, don’t get me wrong, dotted as it was with orange kites and red fingers. Lahore seemed in danger of lifting up and floating clean off, tied at various points to the new safe dor; a city ballooning with swollen chests and cries of “kaat di!” after twenty-five years of silence.

Some people argued that they shouldn’t have scheduled LLF and Basant on the same weekend, as if it’s hard to fly a kite and read a book at the same time. I say that theoretically, of course, as readers are usually loathe to use their hands for anything more strenuous than turning pages. The last time I flew a kite was when my father still had a house to his name, but towards lighter breezes we go.

My sister didn’t once complain about the rooftop bedlam she was missing this Basant. Instead, she grounded herself with me as we heard five prolific authors talk about tackling taboos in female writing. The panel raised and answered important questions about what it means to write as, and about, women in both the Western and South Asian world.

Anything dirty sells, they said.

Write about the trapped housewife with the vicious mother-in-law, the dirt-poor vegetable seller with the drunkard potbellied husband and the female child with dirt-ringed curls swatting flies out of her eyes as she smears small hands on shiny car windows. Write about South Asian women ‘as they really are’ and it’ll sell. Empower them, but not too much. Readers in the West like when we bump our furry brown heads against glass ceilings and fold our wings after.

My sister draws empowered women. She draws them like tigers, slashing through the patriarchy with bold lines and flaming red lips. Each character holds her ground. They rise from their 3:4 confines and glare through digital screens, stopping distracted thumbs while scrolling. Sometimes, it looks like they’ll jump out and shatter the glass. Like my sister did. She paid her way through art school when my father couldn’t. She built herself with her own hands and sprung out of university, fully formed, on strong legs.

I couldn’t sell her life to a Western audience if I tried. They’d prefer a more realistic desi origin story. One where she made this art because her brown dad was abusive and art was her only escape. Or where she taught herself to make live sketches in charcoal because her family couldn’t afford to feed her. They crave the horrific reality of South Asian lives, even if that reality stands on shaky legs.

I’m glad my sister doesn’t read. Loving something and going to a festival for it is child’s play. Going somewhere that doesn’t truly interest you, year after year, because your sister likes it, is love. I don’t care if the West never gets to read this.