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Psychoraag
Zaf is a Scottish Asian radio DJ presenting his final overnight show at Radio Chaadni, a community station broadcasting from an abandoned church in Glasgow. In the six hours he has left Zaf decides to ignore his audience's requests, and instead play the songs that remind him of lost loves in Scotland, and painful memories from Pakistan. The novel is split into the six hours of Zaf's 'Madness Show', but the crucial divisions are found in the playlist, which helps the reader keep track of which song is playing, and therefore which of Zaf's memories are being triggered. His musical tastes range from the energetic beat of Asian Dub Foundation (when angry); the Beatles' Indian- flavoured songs (when lyrical); and the sonorous Lata Mangeshkar (when sentimental).
438 pages, Hardcover
First published April 27, 2004
3 people are currently reading
86 people want to read
About the author
Suhayl Saadi
11 books3 followersSuhayl Saadi (born 1961) is a physician, author and dramatist based in Glasgow, Scotland. His varied literary output includes novels, short stories, anthologies of fiction, song lyrics, plays for stage and radio theatre, and wisdom pieces for The Dawn Patrol, the Sarah Kennedy show on BBC Radio 2.
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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
October 8, 2013
Let me first say, this is not the sort of thing you book to the beach to relax with. If you pick it up when you’re in that sort of mood, you’ll throw it aside and probably never pick it up again, which would be a shame.
Psychoraag is written by Suhayl Saadi. Like Trainspotting, it is written in broad Glaswegian dialect, but on top of that, it is peppered with expressions in Urdu, Arabic, Punjabi and even Gaelic. Sometimes, with a book like that, you can glide over the words in another language, picking up the gist as you go along. But not here. Sometimes the author gives you a helping hand – as when he takes an easily recognisable expression and changes just one word [‘she would follow him even unto the gates of jahannam’]. Other times, he plays with the sound of words, juxtaposing an English word with an almost-homonym in Urdu and teasing the reader with their different meaning [‘Quaitch dreams. Jaams. Jams.’]). But most of the time, you will find yourself flicking back and forth to the extensive glossary, just to make sure you are not missing one ounce of the nuance Saadi is conveying.
The book all takes place in the course of one evening. It is the last night of broadcasting for an Asian radio station in Glasgow. For three months, Zaf has been filling the graveyard shift, from midnight to six am, with his Junnune (Madness) Show and this is his last broadcast. Downstairs there is a wrap party going on, but Zaf is alone in his little cubicle. We get to hear his playlist (from the Beatles to Asian Dub Foundation to rare early recordings from Hindi films), what he says to his listeners, and everything that goes through his head.
Zaf’s thoughts range over the changing nature of the South Asian community who are his audience, his parents’ long journey from Pakistan to Glasgow, his sometimes rocky relationship with his girlfriend Babs, and his even rockier relationship with his ex-girlfriend, Zilla, whom he may or may not have started on a path that led to drug-addiction and prostitution.
As the long night wears on, it becomes harder and harder to work out what is really happening and what is the product of Zaf’s exhausted brain. Does Zilla really turn up at the studio? Does she inject him with drugs? And does Zafar the gangster exist, or is he just another aspect of Zaf himself?
An exhausting, fascinating, thought-provoking book. Not for the faint-hearted but for those willing to take on the challenge, definitely worth it.
Psychoraag is written by Suhayl Saadi. Like Trainspotting, it is written in broad Glaswegian dialect, but on top of that, it is peppered with expressions in Urdu, Arabic, Punjabi and even Gaelic. Sometimes, with a book like that, you can glide over the words in another language, picking up the gist as you go along. But not here. Sometimes the author gives you a helping hand – as when he takes an easily recognisable expression and changes just one word [‘she would follow him even unto the gates of jahannam’]. Other times, he plays with the sound of words, juxtaposing an English word with an almost-homonym in Urdu and teasing the reader with their different meaning [‘Quaitch dreams. Jaams. Jams.’]). But most of the time, you will find yourself flicking back and forth to the extensive glossary, just to make sure you are not missing one ounce of the nuance Saadi is conveying.
The book all takes place in the course of one evening. It is the last night of broadcasting for an Asian radio station in Glasgow. For three months, Zaf has been filling the graveyard shift, from midnight to six am, with his Junnune (Madness) Show and this is his last broadcast. Downstairs there is a wrap party going on, but Zaf is alone in his little cubicle. We get to hear his playlist (from the Beatles to Asian Dub Foundation to rare early recordings from Hindi films), what he says to his listeners, and everything that goes through his head.
Zaf’s thoughts range over the changing nature of the South Asian community who are his audience, his parents’ long journey from Pakistan to Glasgow, his sometimes rocky relationship with his girlfriend Babs, and his even rockier relationship with his ex-girlfriend, Zilla, whom he may or may not have started on a path that led to drug-addiction and prostitution.
As the long night wears on, it becomes harder and harder to work out what is really happening and what is the product of Zaf’s exhausted brain. Does Zilla really turn up at the studio? Does she inject him with drugs? And does Zafar the gangster exist, or is he just another aspect of Zaf himself?
An exhausting, fascinating, thought-provoking book. Not for the faint-hearted but for those willing to take on the challenge, definitely worth it.
October 28, 2017
From its opening sentence “'Salaam alaikum, sat sri sakaal, namaste ji, good evenin oan this hoat summer’s night!'” this novel proudly proclaims its uniqueness. The tale of the last broadcast of Radio Chaandni, “'Sax oors, that’s right, sax ooors ae great music, rock an filmi an weird, weye-oot there happenins an ma rolling voice,'” on “ninety-nine-point-nine meters” sic FM. The voice is that of Zaf - “'that’s zed ay eff'” - DJ of The Junnune (madness) Show, scion of a pair of romantic (but adulterous) runaways from Pakistan.
As the above quote shows, Zaf’s monologues to his microphone are rendered in a very broad Glaswegian indeed. They are presented on the page with an unjustified right margin, a feature distinguishing them from the more normal narrative interspersed with them which relates the events of the night in a slightly more refined Scots dialect. Meanwhile sections devoted to his parents’ life together are in Standard English (except when their back story has caught up to times Zaf can remember.) To render the Glaswegian Scots, Saadi spells most participles (indeed most words ending with “ng”) without the final g – even when they occur inside longer words as in increasinly.
The music he plays (ranging from Asian Dub Foundation through Kula Shaker and Corner Shop to The Beatles, The 13th Floor Elevators, the golden hour and even Jimmy Page and Robert Plant) is integral to Zaf’s conception of himself and for those interested in such things a Play List and Discography of his many and varied tastes are appended after the glossary of Urdu and other terms with which the novel is liberally sprinkled.
Zaf’s stream of consciousness sees him ruminate on life, the universe and everything, with an emphasis on Scotland and Pakistan, “the land of the pure”, often mixing things to great effect, “if Dante Alighieri, in his exile, had had Irn-Bru, he wouldn’t have needed Beatrice. He wouldn’t have needed poetry.”
His thoughts also whirl around both the important women in his adult life, present girlfriend Babs, prone to jaunts to the wilds on her blue Kawasaki motor bike, and previous occupier of that position Zilla. Babs is white and – once – called him her brown god. Like Zaf, Zilla is of Asian descent but has fallen into drugs and prostitution, a circumstance for which it turns out Zaf is partly responsible.
Considerations of race inevitably loom large in Zaf’s thoughts. “The aspiration of all good Asians, finally, wis to be as white as possible. To marry white, to generate white and to strive incessantly for depigmentation.” To be half white or part white gave you, “one foot in the door... You became an honorary person.” He ponders acronyms and abbreviation as aspects of western life, “the whole pompous culture of indecipherability and wilful obscurantism had arisen from the collective mind of the grey men.” He articulates the Asian experience of Glasgow, especially the part which has become known as Wee Faisalabad, mentions the activities of local gang The Kinnin Park Boys, desirous of taking over the station franchise, and his experience of living in the slightly more upmarket area of the Shiels. He has, too, recognised that Calvinist sensibility, knowing that Glasgow had “turned its hard Presbyterian face away from its own children, it averted its thin lips,” and hence reasoning, “So why on earth should it bother to acknowledge a changeling like Zaf?” Neither does society’s attitude to women escape him, especially that of those keen on patriarchy and the primacy of the word. If they fall from an ideal, women are never forgiven, “There wis no such entity as the prodigal daughter,” he notes. Even the possibility of such a fall proscribes them.
Where the narrative breaks away from Zaf and instead tells the story of his father Jamil Ayaan and his mother Rashida, their meeting and falling in love, their affair and her desire for them to be together (only possible if they left Pakistan,) their long journey in a Ford Popular from Lahore to London then Glasgow; a city Jamil had never heard of before, and which he therefore thought would be safe from “prying eyes, ears tongues,” only to find on arrival the sole job he could find was in the sewers, the prose becomes lyrical. Saadi is no mere Shock Jock, he handles straightforward English narrative with as much skill as his demotic flourishes.
There are dream-like sequences where Zaf seems simultaneously to be in the studio at Radio Chaandni and at the same time roaming the city’s streets. This may or may not be because he has drunk some absinthe lying about the studio or perhaps a result of Zaf’s general sense of dissociation. The scenes where Zilla has turned up in the studio have a particularly hallucinatory feel.
Psychoraag is a tremendous achievement, managing to distil both the essence of immigrant experience and of Scottishness and to embody them in one character. It is an admirable piece of work, utterly memorable.
As the above quote shows, Zaf’s monologues to his microphone are rendered in a very broad Glaswegian indeed. They are presented on the page with an unjustified right margin, a feature distinguishing them from the more normal narrative interspersed with them which relates the events of the night in a slightly more refined Scots dialect. Meanwhile sections devoted to his parents’ life together are in Standard English (except when their back story has caught up to times Zaf can remember.) To render the Glaswegian Scots, Saadi spells most participles (indeed most words ending with “ng”) without the final g – even when they occur inside longer words as in increasinly.
The music he plays (ranging from Asian Dub Foundation through Kula Shaker and Corner Shop to The Beatles, The 13th Floor Elevators, the golden hour and even Jimmy Page and Robert Plant) is integral to Zaf’s conception of himself and for those interested in such things a Play List and Discography of his many and varied tastes are appended after the glossary of Urdu and other terms with which the novel is liberally sprinkled.
Zaf’s stream of consciousness sees him ruminate on life, the universe and everything, with an emphasis on Scotland and Pakistan, “the land of the pure”, often mixing things to great effect, “if Dante Alighieri, in his exile, had had Irn-Bru, he wouldn’t have needed Beatrice. He wouldn’t have needed poetry.”
His thoughts also whirl around both the important women in his adult life, present girlfriend Babs, prone to jaunts to the wilds on her blue Kawasaki motor bike, and previous occupier of that position Zilla. Babs is white and – once – called him her brown god. Like Zaf, Zilla is of Asian descent but has fallen into drugs and prostitution, a circumstance for which it turns out Zaf is partly responsible.
Considerations of race inevitably loom large in Zaf’s thoughts. “The aspiration of all good Asians, finally, wis to be as white as possible. To marry white, to generate white and to strive incessantly for depigmentation.” To be half white or part white gave you, “one foot in the door... You became an honorary person.” He ponders acronyms and abbreviation as aspects of western life, “the whole pompous culture of indecipherability and wilful obscurantism had arisen from the collective mind of the grey men.” He articulates the Asian experience of Glasgow, especially the part which has become known as Wee Faisalabad, mentions the activities of local gang The Kinnin Park Boys, desirous of taking over the station franchise, and his experience of living in the slightly more upmarket area of the Shiels. He has, too, recognised that Calvinist sensibility, knowing that Glasgow had “turned its hard Presbyterian face away from its own children, it averted its thin lips,” and hence reasoning, “So why on earth should it bother to acknowledge a changeling like Zaf?” Neither does society’s attitude to women escape him, especially that of those keen on patriarchy and the primacy of the word. If they fall from an ideal, women are never forgiven, “There wis no such entity as the prodigal daughter,” he notes. Even the possibility of such a fall proscribes them.
Where the narrative breaks away from Zaf and instead tells the story of his father Jamil Ayaan and his mother Rashida, their meeting and falling in love, their affair and her desire for them to be together (only possible if they left Pakistan,) their long journey in a Ford Popular from Lahore to London then Glasgow; a city Jamil had never heard of before, and which he therefore thought would be safe from “prying eyes, ears tongues,” only to find on arrival the sole job he could find was in the sewers, the prose becomes lyrical. Saadi is no mere Shock Jock, he handles straightforward English narrative with as much skill as his demotic flourishes.
There are dream-like sequences where Zaf seems simultaneously to be in the studio at Radio Chaandni and at the same time roaming the city’s streets. This may or may not be because he has drunk some absinthe lying about the studio or perhaps a result of Zaf’s general sense of dissociation. The scenes where Zilla has turned up in the studio have a particularly hallucinatory feel.
Psychoraag is a tremendous achievement, managing to distil both the essence of immigrant experience and of Scottishness and to embody them in one character. It is an admirable piece of work, utterly memorable.
Read
September 16, 2015Let me first say, this is not the sort of book you take to the beach to relax. If you pick this up when you’re in that sort of mood, you’ll throw it aside and probably never pick it up again, which would be a shame.
Like Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting, Psychoraag is written in broad Glaswegian dialect, but on top of that, it is peppered with expressions in Urdu, Arabic, Punjabi and even Gaelic. Sometimes, with a book like that, you can glide over the words in another language, picking up the gist as you go along. But not here. Sometimes the author gives you a helping hand – as when he takes an easily recognisable expression and changes just one word [‘she would follow him even unto the gates of jahannam’]. Other times, he plays with the sound of words, juxtaposing an English word with an almost-homonym in Urdu and teasing the reader with their different meaning [‘Quaitch dreams. Jaams. Jams.’]). But most of the time, you will find yourself flicking back and forth to the extensive glossary, just to make sure you are not missing one ounce of the nuance Saadi is conveying.
The book all takes place in the course of one evening. It is the last night of broadcasting for an Asian radio station in Glasgow. For three months, Zaf has been filling the graveyard shift, from midnight to six am, with his Junnune (Madness) Show and this is his last broadcast. Downstairs there is a wrap party going on, but Zaf is alone in his little cubicle. We get to hear his playlist (from the Beatles to Asian Dub Foundation to rare early recordings from Hindi films), what he says to his listeners, and everything that goes through his head.
Zaf’s thoughts range over the changing nature of the South Asian community who are his audience, his parents’ long journey from Pakistan to Glasgow, his sometimes rocky relationship with his girlfriend Babs, and his even rockier relationship with his ex-girlfriend, Zilla, whom he may or may not have started on a path that led to drug-addiction and prostitution.
As the long night wears on, it becomes harder and harder to work out what is really happening and what is the product of Zaf’s exhausted brain. Does Zilla really turn up at the studio? Does she inject him with drugs? And does Zafar the gangster exist, or is he just another aspect of Zaf himself?
An exhausting, fascinating, thought-provoking book. Not for the faint-hearted but for those willing to take on the challenge, definitely worth it.
Like Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting, Psychoraag is written in broad Glaswegian dialect, but on top of that, it is peppered with expressions in Urdu, Arabic, Punjabi and even Gaelic. Sometimes, with a book like that, you can glide over the words in another language, picking up the gist as you go along. But not here. Sometimes the author gives you a helping hand – as when he takes an easily recognisable expression and changes just one word [‘she would follow him even unto the gates of jahannam’]. Other times, he plays with the sound of words, juxtaposing an English word with an almost-homonym in Urdu and teasing the reader with their different meaning [‘Quaitch dreams. Jaams. Jams.’]). But most of the time, you will find yourself flicking back and forth to the extensive glossary, just to make sure you are not missing one ounce of the nuance Saadi is conveying.
The book all takes place in the course of one evening. It is the last night of broadcasting for an Asian radio station in Glasgow. For three months, Zaf has been filling the graveyard shift, from midnight to six am, with his Junnune (Madness) Show and this is his last broadcast. Downstairs there is a wrap party going on, but Zaf is alone in his little cubicle. We get to hear his playlist (from the Beatles to Asian Dub Foundation to rare early recordings from Hindi films), what he says to his listeners, and everything that goes through his head.
Zaf’s thoughts range over the changing nature of the South Asian community who are his audience, his parents’ long journey from Pakistan to Glasgow, his sometimes rocky relationship with his girlfriend Babs, and his even rockier relationship with his ex-girlfriend, Zilla, whom he may or may not have started on a path that led to drug-addiction and prostitution.
As the long night wears on, it becomes harder and harder to work out what is really happening and what is the product of Zaf’s exhausted brain. Does Zilla really turn up at the studio? Does she inject him with drugs? And does Zafar the gangster exist, or is he just another aspect of Zaf himself?
An exhausting, fascinating, thought-provoking book. Not for the faint-hearted but for those willing to take on the challenge, definitely worth it.
April 3, 2011
A novel which, though critically acclaimed in its native Scotland (it made the list of 100 best Scottish novels of all time) remains largely unknown outside specialist literary circles, this is a beautifully written and ambitious tour-de-force telling the story of a radio DJ’s last night on the air. As the narrator counts down his last hours transmitting on the radio show which he hosts we are treated to a riveting account of both his life in Glasgow and that of his mother and father who immigrated here from Pakistan. Touching on themes common to much immigrant writing it nevertheless rises above the pack for the uniqueness of the author’s vision and its magical realism and clever use of music and language (a mixture of English, Scottish slang, and a Urdu-Panjabi hybrid) and the brilliant execution. The novel grips from its opening lines and doesn’t let go until the end. Here is a writer of prodigious talent.
October 4, 2020
The best novel I had ever read. This novel deserves five stars but in a racist world, the rating given is explained. This novel transcends any limits of culture and language to provide a beautiful entomology of the Pakistani Scottish Diaspora. A rich and vibrant depiction of the good, the bad and the swear words in between. This novel is severely underrated as is its author. Please read and leave a good review. Don't let this beautiful piece fall into the gaps of history. This is the ONLY Scottish South Asian novel & the ONLY one which is not limited by internalised racism. It is also the ONLY novel written by a South Asian Scottish author and you can't name me a South Asian UK author who could write as BEAUTIFUL a novel as this without their internalised racism. At the end of the day if you didn't enjoy the culture at least you can appreciate the outstanding track list! Yes, this novel has music running through it. Who would've thought that after the Record, the Tape and the CD, there would be Suhayl Saadi.
July 26, 2011
Hmmm...I don't have anything positive to say about this book. I think it was trying to be/do too many things. It was a trial rather than an entertaining read. I just didn't like it.
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