Is anyone armed? Did they check them at the gate? I hope no one’s armed.
No? I’ll just read out Bilal’s acceptance speech, then. It was completely written by him. It’s on real paper and everything. (Assumes authorly disposition.)
Daniyal Mueenuddin. Kamila Shamsie. Moni Mohsin. Mohammad Hanif. Mohsin Hamid. Nadeem Aslam. HM Naqvi. Me. A constellation of stars so bright, that to stare at them with the naked eye is to risk optical mishaps. We illuminate festivals from coast to coast. We represent South Asian reality, which we refer to as South Asian just to make you mad. Our love lives are like poetry.
When it comes to Pakistani authors and Indian authors, where is the contest? Look at Daniyal’s beard. Look at Kamila’s complexion. Look at Moni’s profile. Against the cumulative attractiveness of this group of extremely talented humans, what can India put up? There’s only Jeet, and how much can he do on his own? He used to be such a sunny fellow. Due to the pressure, already his disposition has deteriorated so much.
The truth is, Pakistan is better than you in every single way. Our music has seduced you. Our cuisine has engulfed you. Our clothes make you look a little nicer. Our fast bowlers have terrorised you on a regular basis. Sania Mirza could not find a single Indian male who was up to the requisite standard. Even as a dystopia, you are second-rate. You think your country is messed up, but I can assure you that we are far superior in this respect.
I am not by nature a sympathetic person, but I do feel some sympathy for the inadequacies of Indian authors, so many of whom want to be like Salman Rushdie, who is also Pakistani. Their work is derivative, narrow and overly dependent on vocabulary, except of course, for The Competent Authority, a work of unparalleled brilliance, which will stand the test of time. I was initially concerned when I first heard that I was on the same shortlist as a comedian, but fortunately nothing untoward has occurred.
Today, you are vanquished, but this is just the beginning. We will not rest until we have successfully vacuumed every single prize in every single hemisphere, leaving you to wipe the dust of our chariot wheels from your tear-stained faces. We will steal your fortunes. We will deprive you of fame. We will make you rue the day you misguidedly picked up a pencil. This, I do solemnly swear, or my name is not Bilawal.
In conclusion, I would just like to say, open bracket, please pick up trophy, close bracket, no wait, I think that’s for me. Right. Open bracket, pause, hold up trophy, close bracket. EAT THIS, INDIA!
So that was Bilal’s speech. Thanks for listening. He’s asked me to take the prize money for him. Preferably in cash, because of RBI regulations. I’ll be sitting at the back.
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No? I’ll just read out Bilal’s acceptance speech, then. It was completely written by him. It’s on real paper and everything. (Assumes authorly disposition.)
Daniyal Mueenuddin. Kamila Shamsie. Moni Mohsin. Mohammad Hanif. Mohsin Hamid. Nadeem Aslam. HM Naqvi. Me. A constellation of stars so bright, that to stare at them with the naked eye is to risk optical mishaps. We illuminate festivals from coast to coast. We represent South Asian reality, which we refer to as South Asian just to make you mad. Our love lives are like poetry.
When it comes to Pakistani authors and Indian authors, where is the contest? Look at Daniyal’s beard. Look at Kamila’s complexion. Look at Moni’s profile. Against the cumulative attractiveness of this group of extremely talented humans, what can India put up? There’s only Jeet, and how much can he do on his own? He used to be such a sunny fellow. Due to the pressure, already his disposition has deteriorated so much.
The truth is, Pakistan is better than you in every single way. Our music has seduced you. Our cuisine has engulfed you. Our clothes make you look a little nicer. Our fast bowlers have terrorised you on a regular basis. Sania Mirza could not find a single Indian male who was up to the requisite standard. Even as a dystopia, you are second-rate. You think your country is messed up, but I can assure you that we are far superior in this respect.
I am not by nature a sympathetic person, but I do feel some sympathy for the inadequacies of Indian authors, so many of whom want to be like Salman Rushdie, who is also Pakistani. Their work is derivative, narrow and overly dependent on vocabulary, except of course, for The Competent Authority, a work of unparalleled brilliance, which will stand the test of time. I was initially concerned when I first heard that I was on the same shortlist as a comedian, but fortunately nothing untoward has occurred.
Today, you are vanquished, but this is just the beginning. We will not rest until we have successfully vacuumed every single prize in every single hemisphere, leaving you to wipe the dust of our chariot wheels from your tear-stained faces. We will steal your fortunes. We will deprive you of fame. We will make you rue the day you misguidedly picked up a pencil. This, I do solemnly swear, or my name is not Bilawal.
In conclusion, I would just like to say, open bracket, please pick up trophy, close bracket, no wait, I think that’s for me. Right. Open bracket, pause, hold up trophy, close bracket. EAT THIS, INDIA!
So that was Bilal’s speech. Thanks for listening. He’s asked me to take the prize money for him. Preferably in cash, because of RBI regulations. I’ll be sitting at the back.