“How do you deal with the potential impossibility of it all?”

An Interview with Ayesha Manazir Siddiqi

Illustration by Shyamli Singbal

A couple of months ago, I read The Centre by Ayesha Manazir Siddiqi, a thought-provoking, propulsive book that raises questions about identity and assimilation, amongst other things. The book is not only worth checking out but also a fine example of the new global South Asian voice, grounded in the realities of its narrator while being a London novel about something universal. From careful plotting to surprising twists to insights about appropriation, gender and friendship, it’s a book that raises many questions. A couple of weeks ago, I was fortunate enough to sit down with Ayesha and talk about some of the secrets behind her novel and her writing process more broadly.

I suppose the best place to start is where the book started off? What was the origin of the idea and the process from there to a manuscript?

So, The Centre is about a Pakistani translator living in London, who comes across a mysterious language school that promises immediate fluency, but at a sinister cost. 

As you know, there are various twists and turns in the novel, so I’ll try and explain how it began without giving away spoilers. The main plot came to me first: woman goes to language school, discovers how it’s run. There’s sort of a beginning, middle, and end within that story. After that, it was about filling in the blanks. Who is this woman? Why does she want to go to this school so badly? Here, it made sense to make her a translator, especially since I myself am interested in languages and translation. And then, more questions: how does she find out about the school, and so on. 

As for writing it, I wrote it fairly quickly. And I think a part of this was to out-run my own inner critic. And to maintain my own interest. It’s been interesting to me how this is now being reflected in the book itself being a quick read. It’s often described as ‘propulsive’ and people tell me how they read the book in a matter of days, or even one sitting. I like that idea. 

I read it in two days as well, it definitely has that element of wanting to uncover the mystery.  

Maybe this propulsive element is also connected to the style of writing itself. The idea of accessibility and intimacy is important to me. I try to write the way that I talk, as if I was sitting here telling you this story, and since this particular story contains elements of the confessional, and there’s mystery at the heart of it, it is as if I am telling you a secret. 

Did you always want to write or was it something that emerged from this idea?

I’ve always enjoyed writing. When I was very young, I’d put together magazines with my siblings and cousins, like just pages stapled together, and we’d distribute them to friends and family. I also wrote for the school magazine, and I had a diary. But then again, it’s easy to form these narratives retrospectively, like to take examples from your childhood and be like, ‘oh yes, that proves this was meant to be.’ Like, maybe if I’d become an engineer, I’d be telling you stories now about how I stapled the magazines with such skill or something like that. 

And for this book, was there an outline or a routine you had in place, or did you just write as it flowed?

As I said, I had the plot, and then I started writing, and I wrote quite quickly. I think the idea was to get the draft done before too many questions and doubts start to emerge, the things that stop you from writing. 

Can you speak more about how you got from there to a book deal? 

Yes, so much of the process felt like it was about dealing with the psychological and emotional barriers that come up while writing it. Like, how do you deal with the potential impossibility of it all? You’re giving so much time and space to a project that may very likely not manifest in published form. Sometimes, it can feel ridiculous. But you have to find the resolve, somehow. And there is also here, the playing out of privilege. That of being able to afford to pour that much time and space into something. Which is why the publishing world remains inaccessible to so many - well, one of the many reasons. And some countries are better than others in providing the support to help with these massive structural inequities, but it’s a serious problem. 

I found that it also helped to become more comfortable with the idea of embracing the ordinary, the imperfect. I’ve read writers say so often that their first draft is terrible, and I don’t know if I really believed it, but it’s true! The first draft can be terrible, Terrible with a capital T, or may seem like it, and that’s ok. It’s just a place to begin.

My first draft was around forty thousand words. By the time I had a final draft, it probably contained very few of those original forty thousand words, and I guess it’s like the riddle about the ship, where, if over time, all the parts of the ship are changed, is it the same ship? I would say in some sense it is, as the final wouldn’t exist without the former. Anyway, once I had my forty thousand, I started filling in the gaps and revising it. Turns out there’s always so much to fill in, and that got me to about sixty five, seventy thousand words. When I had that draft, I sent it to a literary consultancy. They gave me some useful feedback. Then, I revised it some more and sent it out to agents.

And now it’s out in the world! During this time, what were your biggest challenges? Were you writing for a set time every day or what was your routine? 

In the beginning of a project, I find it difficult to get the momentum going and have to force myself to write. So, for example, after getting frustrated with myself for not doing anything for a long time, I eventually set a rule of thirty minutes a day. Once I’m absorbed in the project, I will automatically spend more time on it. And then at some point it becomes all-consuming, which is an exciting phase but also sometimes overwhelming. 

Let’s go into the book more specifically. In the novel, there’s a pivotal bit set in Delhi, and I was wondering how much of this was related to your experience of living in India.

I lived in India many years ago, in my twenties. Now, of course, with Modi in charge, it would be impossible for me to get a visa to go there. But because it had been a while, I myself was surprised that Delhi came up so strongly in the book. It made me think that maybe I had some unprocessed emotions from my time there, even though the events of the book itself are fictional. But it can be difficult to  identify my motivations. It’s usually some kind of lingering question though, but explored the way one processes things in dreams - through symbols and projections, narratives and make-believe.

It was also simply interesting to explore the relationship between Pakistan and India. It’s a complex one, made up of both loathing and longing. My own family moved from India during Partition. There’s quite a lot of writing that focuses on Partition, but maybe less on how things are today between those two countries. I wonder if that’s pandering to a Western demand.

I suppose it’s also because it’s often hard for people to travel between the two except when the UK or the US become a middle space, because there’s probably more interaction between these cultures here than back home.

Yes, that sounds right. It becomes a meeting ground and the solidarity that can develop feels so nourishing and special. At the same time, the ‘desi’ or ‘South Asian’ label can also erase differences, and privilege the less marginalised. 

Was it also the same when looking at the status or power that different languages might have? I found it intriguing how you point out the respect accorded to, say, a British person speaking Japanese or Urdu, while so many Asians speaking English or French is not quite seen the same way. 

Yes, it’s funny, isn’t it, and sometimes stark, sometimes infuriating, how some languages are seen as exotic or literary while others aren’t. How some accents are mocked and others elevated. And it’s interesting that you mention French - I lived in France for a little while and there, even more than here in London, there would be a sense of ‘if you’re here, learn to speak the language’. But those same people would then go on holiday, to Sri Lanka, say. And they wouldn’t apply that rule to themselves. 

And then, there is also literature itself. Anisa longs to translate ‘great works of literature’, but I wanted to interrogate what that even means. What is great literature and why? And how much of this boils to how we see ourselves, and to the ways in which we might internalise a certain sense of inferiority? It was probably necessary for me to interrogate these hierarchies in order to be able to write the book itself. 

Another thing I found quite interesting about the book was the fact that there are two female friendships at the heart of it. One between Anisa and her best friend, the other between her and the woman she meets at the language center. Was this a conscious choice, to set these two kinds of friendships in juxtaposition? 

I really enjoyed writing about the friendship between Anisa and Naima. That kind of sisterhood goes so deep sometimes, oftentimes deeper even than romantic heterosexual relationships and certainly most male friendships. Perhaps this is because of the shared solidarity that comes from living in a patriarchal setting, and also because women have more space or permission to be emotionally intimate with each other, to be vulnerable. The other side of this, though, is a deep pain when things go wrong. And all the deeper because the external world doesn’t see it the way they would a romantic break-up or a loss through death. I haven’t explored this as much - the friendship breakup - but am thinking about it a lot these days. 

The relationship between Shiba and Anisa is different; it’s not quite friendship. It is something more mysterious, less clear, and it is also somewhat romantic, at least from Anisa’s side. 

I think that leads to something else I wanted to ask, about the romantic relationship in the book. It was really interesting how it felt almost inverted. You have the expectation that the British white man will be more privileged than the Pakistani woman, but in the book Adam is working class and when he travels with Anisa to Karachi, it’s a reversal of sorts.

Yeah, I think it’s a bit of both. There are many ways in which privilege manifests in the book. Adam may have a privilege related to his masculinity or his whiteness, but Anisa has class privilege that she is frequently oblivious to. I was attempting to explore these layers through that ‘reversal’, which is, in fact, not such an uncommon dynamic. 

Another thing I found interesting was that both Anisa and Naima are drawn to the unconscious, to alternative kinds of medicine or healing or meditations that play a role in the book. Was this something you were drawn to? 

I’m definitely interested in introspection, and in various forms of self-investigation. I think the modalities that Naima works with are fascinating, and can be useful and transformative. Of course, there is another side to this too, particularly around psychedelics. I think Naima’s approach to psychedelics is somewhat evangelical and Anisa’s fairly skeptical. Maybe I’m somewhere in the middle – I see the value and also recognise the risk. It may be useful to remember that in the novel, we see another side of substance-taking with Arjun and his friends, when he mentions that the idea of the Centre came to them while they were under the influence. 

I think some of the propulsiveness of The Centre also made me think about technology. You write in a way that is quite ‘online’, quite compelling and closer to how we talk than, say, the classic literary voice of the previous century. I wanted to ask what role technology or the internet plays in your writing. 

It’s weird to me when people try to write contemporary prose in an antiquated style, and felt intuitive to write the way that I do. The way we communicate has shifted dramatically over the years and surely that would be reflected in our representations of the way we communicate. 

Of course, I don’t think using informal or casual language means you simplify the ideas themselves – I think you can retain the depth without being convoluted. A brilliant editor, Salma Begum, once said to me that you should write as if you’re writing for your most intelligent friend. I like this idea, and sometimes find, when I am writing, that I am doing just that, like telling the story to my sister, or mother, or my best friend. 

The final thing I wanted to ask was about influences. You’ve talked a lot about reading, so what are some of the books or writers you’ve most enjoyed? And do you read differently while writing? 

I have some all-time favourites such as James Baldwin, Adrienne Rich, Audre Lorde, Elena Ferrante. I also love the poetry of Emily Dickinson. These are books I can return to again and again. As for recent books, I just read Miranda July’s All Fours which I enjoyed. 

And yes, what I’m reading is definitely influenced by what I’m writing. It all depends on what phase I’m at: sometimes I need distraction, and sometimes focus, but almost never am I not reading anything at all. 

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Ayesha Manazir Siddiqi’s debut novel, The Centre, was published by Picador (UK) and Zando (US) in 2023. Ayesha has also published essays, reviews, short stories, poetry, and monologues, and has written for radio and for the stage. She was contributing editor for the Serial podcast the Trojan Horse Affair, and lives in London. You can find her on X at @tweetingayesha .

Abhay Puri is a writer, and the founding editor of Hammock Magazine.