by Ayad Akhtar
Begin Reading
Table of Contents
A Preview of American Dervish
Newsletters
Copyright Page
In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
For my father. For Kimberly. And for Bernie.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Whereas tragedies are stories of subtraction, comedies depict a process of addition. In a tragedy there are fewer characters at the end of the story than at its beginning. All My Sons, Death of a Salesman, A View from the Bridge, all end with the passing of protagonists. At the close of Hamlet’s final act, the court at Elsinore is ravaged by elimination. And even when death is not a literal end, the tragic sense speaks to us of life’s inevitable loss.
Comedy, as tragedy’s opposite number, offers a depiction of life in the key of hope. This is why comedies so often end with marriage, a fulfillment that is more than a trope, an image of union and continuity, the archetypal precondition for the promise of new life.
It may seem strange to some for a play about the place of women in Islam to end comedically. For what, indeed, is funny about the troubling gender politics that obtain in so many quarters of the Muslim world? These would perhaps be the rightful subject of biting satire but certainly not of heartfelt comedy. But that is exactly what I hoped to bring off with The Who & The What.
I started this play as a dialogue with another comedy. The Bard’s Taming of the Shrew had always beguiled me, driven by a tension that seemed obsolete to the plights of modern men and women but speaking eloquently to my own experience of gender relations as a Pakistani American. One evening, in a New York cab, I reencountered Shrew in the form of an ad for Kiss Me, Kate. It was the spark that ignited the kindling I had been gathering for years. I had long been circling around the idea of a story in which a bright young Pakistani American woman attempts to separate from her father, with her deep filial piety, the circumstance of her mother’s death, and her own existential anxieties all working against her. She has found a way to proceed with the inner work incumbent on anyone wishing to individuate, but only by channeling her defiance, longing, and outrage into the writing of a book.
That book is no laughing matter: She is penning a humanizing, historically revisionist novel depicting an episode from the Prophet’s life, the circumstances around the so-called revelation of the veil. Her procedure is literary, but her challenge is something more than artistic. For her father’s religious devotion is part of the yoke she must throw off. Her book is, among other things, her instrument of rebellion.
For some time I had been preoccupied with the Prophet as a literary figure, his representation a construction that mirrored tropes from the Old and New Testaments. But any challenge to the received portrait we Muslims have of the Prophet is certainly not yet as primary a matter as the conflict that the challenge itself represents, a conflict familiar to us from the Rushdie affair and other similar controversies, and hardly the subject of comedy.
And yet, my long-standing preoccupation with the representation of the Prophet only came alive for me with the promise of a story about it rendered, as comedy is, in the key of hope. I have often felt that any good narrative idea is actually a convergence of three or four ideas, and in this case one of them was—decidedly—the notion of a story of addition, not subtraction.
So were these characters born and, as characters tend to do, they proved to have their own intentions. And yet, through their many unexpected reversals and revelations, one thing was constant: an abiding love between them that kept this story on comedic footing even as it turned darker and more unforgiving. A story about addition, then, but never without subtraction on its mind, one that completes with the comedic trope of a baby, but a baby whose arrival only seems to promise further dissonance ahead.
Perhaps this is as it must be, a tension embodying and expressing the inevitable loss that even the most redeeming act of self-creation occasions. Indeed, one of the perplexities of writing this play was the long process of coming to understand the fight at the heart of it: not just that of a daughter with her father, but that of my love for and my battle with my heritage, my family, my tradition.
Can we belong and yet be separate? Is the process of individuation fundamentally one of loss or gain? These are the questions the play is asking, and its comedic form more than hints at a response. For indeed, art seldom provides anything like answers, and yet, sometimes form is answer enough.
Ayad Akhtar
Los Angeles
June 2014
PRODUCTION HISTORY
The Who & The What had its world premiere on February 19, 2014, at La Jolla Playhouse in La Jolla, California (Christopher Ashley, artistic director; Michael S. Rosenberg, managing director). It was directed by Kimberly Senior; the set design was by Jack Magaw; the costume design was by Elisa Benzoni; the lighting design was by Jaymi Lee Smith; the sound design was by Jill BC Du Boff; and the stage manager was Dana DePaul. The cast was as follows:
ZARINA… Monika Jolly
MAHWISH… Meera Rohit Kumbhani
AFZAL… Bernard White
ELI… Kai Lennox
The Who & The What received its New York premiere at LCT3 / Lincoln Center Theater (André Bishop, artistic director; Paige Evans, artistic director/LCT3; Adam Siegel, managing director) on June 16, 2014. It was directed by Kimberly Senior; the set design was by Jack Magaw; the costume design was by Emily Rebholz; the lighting design was by Japhy Weideman; the sound design was by Jill BC Du Boff; the stage manager was Megan Schwarz Dickert. The cast was as follows:
ZARINA… Nadine Malouf
MAHWISH… Tala Ashe
AFZAL… Bernard White
ELI… Greg Keller
Gentlemen, importune me no farther,
For how I firmly am resolv’d you know:
That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter
Before I have a husband for the elder.
—The Taming of the Shrew, Act 1, Sc. 1
Act One: Scene One
Present day. Atlanta, Georgia.
A kitchen. In it:
Zarina—32, of South Asian origin—gimlet-gazed, lovely, though her appearance already lightly worn from worry. And…
Her younger sister, Mahwish—25—light and carefree. Even lovelier. A real knockout.
Both are American-born; both speak without any accent.
Zarina is in an apron, chopping vegetables.
MAHWISH: Stop changing the subject.
ZARINA: There was a subject?
MAHWISH: Zarina, did you get that link I sent you or not?
ZARINA: Wish. There is no universe. In which I start. Online dating.
MAHWISH: Z… if you don’t start showing some interest, Dad is not gonna let me—
ZARINA (Cutting her off): You don’t need me to get married for you and Haroon to get married.
Beat.
MAHWISH: You’re just flouting Dad.
ZARINA: Flouting?
MAHWISH: Because you can.
ZARINA: Do you even know what that word means?
MAHWISH: Yes, I know what it means. And I know it comes from a Dutch word that means to hiss at. In derision—
ZARINA (Impressed, lightly sarcastic): Wow.
MAHWISH (Over): Manuel says learning the words isn’t enough. You have to learn where they come from.
ZARINA: Manuel.
Your GRE teacher.
MAHWISH: Yeah?
ZARINA: With the muscles and the tank top.
MAHWISH: So Manuel’s a stud? What does that have to do with—
ZARINA: Does Haroon know how you feel about Manuel?
MAHWISH: I don’t feel anything. I just think he’s hot—
ZARINA: I think it’s good. You’re acknowledging your desire for someone other than Haroon.
MAHWISH (Over): I’m not acknowledging desire. I don’t have any desire for Manuel.
ZARINA (Lightly taunting): Manuel. Manuel.
MAHWISH: You’re just trying to change the subject again…
I can’t get married before you do, Zarina.
ZARINA: That’s absurd. This is not Pakistan.
MAHWISH: It’s not what’s done.
ZARINA: Neither is having anal sex with your prospective husband so that you can prove to his parents you’re a virgin when you finally marry him.
MAHWISH: I can’t believe you just—
ZARINA: There has to be a better solution. Prick your finger. Bleed on the sheet—
MAHWISH: You’re disgusting.
ZARINA: You’re the one doing it.
MAHWISH: Here’s what I know about you. Anything I tell you, sooner or later, you will use against me.
ZARINA: I’m a Scorpio.
MAHWISH: It’s a character failing.
ZARINA: Shoot me.
MAHWISH (Suddenly): Why are you cutting an avocado?
ZARINA: For the salad?
MAHWISH: We hate avocados.
ZARINA: You hate avocados.
MAHWISH: Dad hates avocados.
ZARINA: I love them.
MAHWISH: See? Flouting.
(Pause)
I never told you this…
You know that book you have of the Prophet’s sayings about sex. On your shelf…
ZARINA: Yeah?
MAHWISH: One day I was in your room and, when I saw it there, I had this weird feeling like I should take it down and open it. So I did. You know what I opened to? The Prophet saying that wives are like farms. That husbands could farm them any way they wanted. From the front or back. But not in the anus.
ZARINA: So the sin is on the farmer. Not the farm.
MAHWISH: Really?
ZARINA: Wish, I don’t think any of us should be taking sex advice from the Prophet.
MAHWISH: Then why do you have the book?
ZARINA: If you’re so worried, stop doing it.
MAHWISH: He’s a man. If I don’t do something with him, he’ll find somebody else to do it with…
(Beat)
So you don’t think I’m gonna go to dozakh?
ZARINA: Wish, you know I don’t believe in hell.
MAHWISH: But what if you’re wrong? Manuel said there was this philosopher guy—
ZARINA: You and Manuel were talking about a philosopher?
MAHWISH: This guy named Pasta.
ZARINA: Pasta?
MAHWISH: Who said that he wasn’t sure if there was a hell but it was better to believe in one just in case.
ZARINA: Pascal.
MAHWISH: Okay. Whatever.
ZARINA: And that’s not actually what Pascal said.
MAHWISH: How are you not scared of hell?
ZARINA: I can’t be scared of something I don’t believe in.
MAHWISH: It’s in the Quran.
ZARINA: It’s a metaphor.
MAHWISH: For what?
ZARINA: For suffering. For the cycle of human suffering.
Mahwish considers her sister. Impressed.
MAHWISH: See… you’re so smart. You’re beautiful. You’re young. But you behave… like a… hurridian.
ZARINA: A what?
MAHWISH: You know… a bossy old woman.
ZARINA (Pronouncing it correctly): Harridan?
MAHWISH: Is that how you say it?
ZARINA: Harridan. Repeat after me. Harridan—
MAHWISH: You’re like one of those compound wives on Big Love.
ZARINA: What in God’s name are you talking—
MAHWISH (Continuing): Too bad they canceled it. You’d be perfect. Married to me and Dad. I feel like you’re my sister wife.
ZARINA: You’re truly insane.
MAHWISH: Dutiful. Despotic.
ZARINA: That was right.
MAHWISH: Thank you. Up and at ’em at six thirty. Cooking breakfast.
ZARINA: For you and Dad.
MAHWISH: I never asked you to cook me breakfast.
ZARINA: You’re an ungrateful brat.
MAHWISH: You wanna cook breakfast? You wanna clean? Fine. I’m just saying, there’s better things for you to be doing.
ZARINA: Like cooking and cleaning and having babies with someone I don’t love?
MAHWISH: I love Haroon.
ZARINA: I know you do.
Mahwish’s phone sounds with a text. She checks.
MAHWISH: Some new barista at Java on the Park recognized Dad from TV. Gave him a free cappuccino.
(Off another text, reading, perplexed)
The eagle has landed.
ZARINA: The what?
Another text.
MAHWISH (CONT’D): God.
ZARINA: What now?
Mahwish shows the text to Zarina.
ZARINA (CONT’D): Dad’s sticking his tongue out at you?
MAHWISH: He just discovered emoticons. It’s so annoying.
(Typing into phone)
Busy.
(Beat)
You won’t go online dating. You won’t let me set you up with Yasmeen’s brother—
ZARINA (CONT’D): My life is fine. Leaves me time and space to write.
MAHWISH: So you keep saying.
ZARINA: What is that supposed to mean?
MAHWISH: You never talk about what you’re writing. You never show anybody anything—
ZARINA: Doesn’t mean I don’t write—
MAHWISH: Why don’t you ever talk about it?
ZARINA: Because I don’t want to.
MAHWISH: So you actually write when you go to the library? ’Cause that’s not what the librarian said.
ZARINA: What librarian?
MAHWISH: The blonde. Stacy. She’s in my yoga class. She says you stare out the window for hours.
ZARINA: I’ve had writer’s block. That’s why I’ve been staring out the window.
(Beat)
And I don’t just stare out the window. Sometimes I masturbate.
MAHWISH: You what?
ZARINA: Stacy didn’t tell you that?
MAHWISH: In public?
ZARINA: The desk I sit at is in the corner.
MAHWISH (Intrigued): What’s the book about?
ZARINA: This really hot guy who teaches me amazing words in my GRE class. It’s called Manuel.
Beat.
MAHWISH: Why can’t you just tell me what it’s about?
ZARINA: Gender politics.
MAHWISH: Hello? English?
ZARINA: Women and Islam.
Beat.
MAHWISH: Like what, like bad stuff?
ZARINA: Not only.
MAHWISH: Well, I hope not. ’Cause everyone’s always making a big deal about women in Islam. We’re just fine.
ZARINA: Good to know.
MAHWISH: You don’t actually do that in the library, do you?
ZARINA: For me to know, and you and Stacy to find out…
Pause.
MAHWISH: You’re hiding, Z. Behind the cooking and the cleaning and the “I’m working on gender politics…”
(Beat)
You have to put Ryan behind you.
Pause.
ZARINA: He is.
MAHWISH: No, he’s not.
(Beat)
He’s married—
ZARINA (Cutting her off): I know!
Zarina is suddenly emotional.
MAHWISH: I didn’t want to tell you…
I found him on Facebook…
He’s with his wife and they’re h
olding a baby.
Zarina is clearly affected at hearing this.
Mahwish goes to comfort her.
Zarina walks out.
Act One: Scene Two
A bench. At Java on the Park.
On it: a South Asian man—60—in a Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets sweatshirt—on his smartphone as he sips coffee.
This is Afzal, Zarina and Mahwish’s gregarious, larger-than-life father. He has a very noticeable Indo-Pak accent.
Afzal looking at his phone…
AFZAL: C’mon, Mahwish. I know you got my text. It says read at twelve thirty-one.
Just as Eli—30—enters. White, with a beard, looking cleaned up and eager. Not particularly handsome, but very soulful.
Afzal notices him. Types into his phone…
AFZAL (CONT’D) (Quietly): The eagle has landed.
(Putting down his phone, standing)
Eli?
ELI (Surprised): Yes?
AFZAL (Going to shake hands): Afzal, Afzal Jatt.
ELI: Do I know you?
AFZAL: Zarina’s father.
ELI: Her father?
AFZAL: She didn’t tell you?
ELI: Tell me what?
AFZAL: We thought it best you met with me first.
ELI: Oh.
AFZAL: Young man, we are a conservative family. She just thought—I just thought…
ELI: Uh-huh.
AFZAL: You’re disappointed.
ELI (Evasive): No, no, no… I just don’t know why she didn’t let me know…
AFZAL: Would you have come?
ELI: I mean…
AFZAL: And I wasn’t going to let her meet you face-to-face without me meeting you first… So you see… it really couldn’t be any other way.
ELI: Couldn’t it?
AFZAL: You’d be surprised at the types you meet online, young man.
(Off Eli’s continued perplexity)
Take a seat. Can I get you something?
ELI: Uh—
AFZAL (Winning): C’mon, take a seat. You came this far. Might as well…
You drink coffee? You like coffee?
ELI: Sure.
AFZAL: Milk? Sugar?
ELI: Black.
AFZAL: Drinks it like a man. I love it.
Afzal exits.
Eli looks around, uncomfortable.
