Fatima Bhutto

Fatima Murtaza Bhutto, born 29 May 1982, is a Pakistani poet and writer. She is granddaughter of former Prime Minister Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, the niece of former Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto, and daughter of Murtaza Bhutto. She currently writes columns for The Daily Beast, New Statesman and other publications. She came to fame after the appearance of her first book, a collection of poems, titled Whispers of the Desert. She received notable coverage for her second book, 8:50 a.m. 8 October 2005. She is active in Pakistan's socio-political arena, supporting her mother Ghinwa Bhutto's party the Pakistan Peoples Party (Shaheed Bhutto), but has no desire to run for political office.
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Fatima Bhutto is from a Sindhi family. She was born in Kabul, Afghanistan, while her father Murtaza Bhutto, the son of former Pakistan's President and Prime Minister Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto, was in exile during the military regime of General Muhammad Zia-ulHaq. Her mother is Fauzia Fasihudin Bhutto, daughter of Afghanistan's former Foreign Affairs official. Her father was killed by the police in 1996 in Karachi during the premiership of his sister, Benazir Bhutto. Her parents divorced when she was young and Ghinwa Bhutto became her stepmother in 1989. Years later, her mother unsuccessfully attempted to gain parental custody of Fatima. She lives with her stepmother Ghinwa Bhutto, and her half-brother Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto Jr. They live at the famous residence 70 Clifton Road in Old Clifton, Karachi.

The title of Bhutto's book 8.50 a.m. 8 October 2005 marks the moment of the 2005 Kashmir earthquake; it records accounts of those affected. She has also written a book of poetry, Whispers in the Desert; a memoir, Songs of Blood and Sword, was published in April 2010.

Karachi air Breathed in through the lungs Is sickly sweet Like honeycomb left out to rot In the warm, unrepentant heat. Or else, It is thick, smoky Like mesquite The evening scent of garbarge burning At the first break of dusks early light. Mynah birds and ravens caw A jealous chord Singing to the street. At midnight I can hear the poor sweeper man Sweep sweeping The moonlit littered roads. I sleep in bed Covered in a sheet of sweat. There is no electricity now In this deadened August night

I trawl Middle Eastern airlines, terminals and luggage belts Stuck alongside students, Honeymooners in black robes and white thobes And slave labour, working through the night. Hiding my name on my boarding passes, A thumb obscuring the sight of letters, destinations and foreign nights And inventing new fictions, Identities And family trees. My legs are close to clotting And my bags unnecessarily heavy. Qatar, Etihad and Emirates I count them off as lovers I use in desperate times of need., Flying out every month Pretending that Im free, Subsisting on airline meals.

Parting from Karachi At departure gates And onwards worldwide. I wish it well My love unkind. Good riddance, Farewell. Memories are dulled as the pilot starts the plane Nostalgia side swept as stewardesses buckle belts and enquire about meal time. Nauseated Goodbye. From above, Even our citys lights Look bright. Even the noisy traffic Seems mild, The congestion meek, The airwaves clear. From the sky, From a passenger plane, Filled with labourers Dressed in January sandals And drinking whisky Theyd never get otherwise, Neat And singing ghazals To lull them to sleep, This mangled city, This wretched, wretched home Loses so much heart. But, Three days later My chest hurts for a sound Of something familiar An exhaust broken on a motorcycle. The smell of the salty, smoky air. The taste off a broken beetel nut Id never eat at home And I imagine Its worth Love Some of the time.

He moved my body continents, Pressing gently On the underside of my knee. It was winter When he sold me, Seventy five degrees I sleep on tarmacs Eyes half closed. I have become an exile With an open home. My valise holds all my shirts And coats Im packed for winter Wearing summer clothes. I left behind a country once, I cant remember when. Underneath it all Im bare boned Afraid Very simply alone. On white ironed sheets I wait, Cold. A knock on the ceiling A boot against the floor Sticky remote control at the foot of the bed I cower Concierge Bellhop Fire escapes winding under my window And an alarm reminds me I ordered room service way too long ago.

In nine years I hardly wrote a red line The crawl inside me subsided. In the car, Sunday, past noon, The freeway pulled me down And drudged up my lines. I spoke for him, For his embrace, Coated with warm sweat In a parking lot, For the kiss, And the scrape of his beard As I breathed him in One more hurried time. So, I wrote him these lines, Meaningless, But mine I go, Leaving him, My only memories Inside a kiss, Held in by his lips In a claustrophobic garage In which our farewells were disguised.

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