THERE is always a latent touch of Mantoesque idiom that runs underneath almost everything that Mustansar Hussain Tarar writes. It is no different when he is not writing. It’s a mindset, actually. Talking about literary gatherings, festivals and conferences that have dotted the national scene in the last few years, Tarar refers to Thanda Gosht!

His argument is that while the gatherings have warmed up the literary scene for sure, we have yet to see if it leads to matching literary output. The words he chooses to express the opinion are rather colourful.

What the gatherings have already done is the equivalent of Eesher Singh’s interaction with Kalwant Kaur. “The society, like Kalwant, is making the ultimate — and, indeed, the logical — demand. Patta Phaink is the call, and we don’t know if Eesher will be able to deliver,” he says, his eyes flickering.

With a slight pause, however, he talks of the “seriously positive” role this warm-up process plays in the life of writers. “The chance to know your audience first-hand is a massive input. Nothing matches the energy it gives to a writer.”

But this is about the seasoned writers, the known ones. What about those who are in the struggling phase, the novices? “Young writers need to have their own sessions at these gatherings. That will bring them face to face with the audiences and if they have worthy stuff to offer, it will expedite their rise to acknowledgment. Asking them to read papers on different issues will only slow down that process,” says Tarar.

He was referring to a number of sessions at the Urdu Conference that had a presidium of known faces who did hardly anything except being present and listening to a hoard of young or lesser-known writers. The spotlight in such an arrangement, as Tarar stresses, remains on the celebrities. “In the session on novels and short stories, for instance, I saw Akhlaq Ahmed reading a paper. It is only when writers like Akhlaq will be able to read out their stories — their basic craft — that the literary process will move forward,” suggests Tarar.

A voracious reader of global literature, does he agree with whatever is generally said at literary sessions, gatherings and festivals regarding Urdu’s stature in international terms? “The worth of our output can only be judged by others; not by us. And for that to happen, we need to have our literature translated into English. What is portrayed as ‘Pakistani literature’ today is penned in English by writers who have nothing wrong with them except the fact that most such writings betray that the writers are cut-off from ground realities,” says the man who has penned a dozen novels already on subjects as varied as mere romance to the Taliban, and from mysticism to social change.

Though he doesn’t say it in as many words, Khas-O-Kahashak Zamanay seems to be the closest to his heart. It covers a story spread over a hundred years and multiple locations. With more than 70 characters moving in and out of the text, it surely is the biggest canvas Tarar has ever painted.

How does he prepare to tell a story? Is it some character, some incident that works as a trigger? “Stories are scattered all around you. This is what most people say. For me, it doesn’t work that way. My inspirations come from within … some thought … sometimes it’s a phrase that sends the imagination astray. Yes, observation is significant and helps build characters, but inspiration is something else,” explains Tarar, who is perhaps the only fiction writer in Pakistan to have shared his creative process with readers in his travelogue, Moscow Ki Sufaid Raatain.

To be able to share something as intangible as the creative process, one really has to be aware of it at the conscious level, but Tarar is nothing if not a conscious existence. His choice to lead a life with words — both spoken and written in the shape of television and books — was as conscious a decision as any. It was not an emotional decision, he insists, as all the calculations were realistically done. The only source of strength was his wife Maimoona, and Tarar never gets tired of stressing how important she is in his life.

From a young maverick who had been sent to England to study — hold your breath, folks — textile engineering, to an unconventional career with words — mere words — and his non-conformist belief system and life choices, it is somewhat surprising that Tarar has lived a very organised family life; all his children doing wonderfully well in their own professional lives. The credit must go to Maimoona, one guesses. “No!” The retort is as firm as it is quick: “I have an equal contribution in every sense of the word,” he insists and spends some time insisting on it. “These days nothing gives me more pleasure than someone introducing me as Seljuq’s father … or Sumair’s father … or Ainee’s father. I love it,” says the proud father who is clearly at peace with things around him.

He doesn’t sound one bit a maverick when he talks of his family life, but as soon as you pick up some other thread, the maverick returns. A septuagenarian, can he now say what, he thinks, life is? “Not really. I mean, it is what it is … I guess at the conceptual level, ‘death’ fascinates me more than does ‘life’. The whole beauty of the latter lies in the former.”

Tarar recently had what he calls “a minor health issue”. He just could not breathe. What do you expect a man to do in such a situation? Panic? Not if you know Tarar. While he kept trying to get out of it, he digested the fact that it may well be all over, and contemplated the possibility of “perhaps going through the process of experiencing the biggest experience of them all … death!”

With almost 50 titles under his belt — the latest being a China travelogue titled, Lahore Se Yarqand — what should we expect next? “A collection of short stories is all but ready,” he confides. But short story is a genre that he has not touched in the last several decades. Why now? Is he feeling low in view of the intensity that a novel demands? Tarar is quick to deny the notion.

“Every time I was writing a novel, there was always something, some idea that cropped up in my mind for another novel.” While doing the last one, the much-acclaimed Aiy Ghazal-i-Shab, says Tarar, “nothing cropped up”. And that gave him time to go back to the world of miniatures.

Any Tarar fan would hasten to find out if the writer is about to turn barren. “I have never tried to do anything … or write anything in particular. I love writing and happen to be an impulsive writer, but I don’t worry about the form too much,” he tries to reassure. But you still need a bit more assurance. Should one assume he is not feeling barren? “Not for a moment.” You dig deeper still. He is not going to be Manto’s Eesher Singh, right? “Hopefully!” Tarar remains realistic and that’s the fun of being Tarar.

The writer is a Dawn staffer