Conversation with Samina Najmi
Samina Najmi’s essay collection, Sing Me a Circle: Love, Loss, and a Home in Time,explores the circularity of life, love, and time. Winner of the 2024 Aurora Polaris Prize in Creative Nonfiction, Samina has gifted the world with a remarkable book guaranteed to open your heart and mind to all the meanings we ascribe to family, friends, home, and a life well lived. I first met Samina during my undergraduate years at Fresno State University when I was a student in her South Asian American Women in Literature and Film class, and she has since become a treasured friend. The opportunity to interview her for Under the Sun is a delight and honor.
Cindy Bradley: Samina, I’m so excited to talk with you about your beautiful essay collection, Sing Me a Circle: Love, Loss, and a Home in Time, and to congratulate you once again on winning Trio House’s Aurora Polaris Prize! I’ve had the pleasure of reading the collection’s individual essays throughout the years, and I’m happy that readers all over the world have a chance to read your work.
Samina Najmi: I couldn’t be happier to be in conversation with you, Cindy. Thank you for this invitation.
CB: One of the first things I noticed about Sing Me a Circle is a pattern of 3s: the collection is divided into three sections, with an essay titled “Triptych” and another titled “Trinità,” which we’ll discuss a little later. In “Triptych,” we see a quiet yet intense desperation, a theme that echoes throughout your book, beginning with “Of Fan Belts and Fathers.” The second piece, “Rubina Najmi, Who Fights Her Way In – And Out,” introduces readers to your cousin Rubina, and the loss that forever changed you and your family. In “One Flew Over the Schoolgirls’ Heads,” the third piece of the triptych, you write about a sparrow that flies into your childhood classroom and heads for the rotating ceiling fan: “Decades later, I can hear the desperate flapping of its fragile wings. But I have no memory of its cry.” I’m curious to hear your thoughts on both crafting of the three pieces in “Triptych” and the choice to lead your collection with this haunting essay.
SN: Great question. You know, “Triptych” didn’t begin as a triptych. I wrote each of those brief pieces separately. When I shared two of the three (“Rubina Najmi, Who Fights Her Way In—And Out” and “One Flew Over the Schoolgirls’ Heads”) with my sister, Sadia, she commented that they made a particular impact on her because she had read them together. That remark must have stayed with me because eventually, when I was reading the separate pieces as a reader rather than as a writer, I saw clearly how they belonged together, in both theme and image, as did “Of Fan Belts and Fathers.”
I thought long and hard about which essay to open with. On some level, it didn’t matter; I knew that my recollections and reflections weren’t linear. But “Triptych” stood out to me as a compressed, almost impressionistic way to portray some of the thoughts, people, and places the book engages with. My developmental editor, Theo Nestor, herself a memoirist who has published in Under the Sun, had also suggested I move my key essays, the ones that introduced the book’s major preoccupations, to the top. That’s a subjective call, and I did wonder if the triptych’s intensity might be too much for some readers, but the fact that World Literature Today had published “Triptych” originally, and that it had been well-received, was a sign. Also, “Triptych” had a special place in my heart because it taught me that just because I was writing memoir didn’t mean that I had to confront the hardest things head-on. I could learn from poets and say it obliquely, through images.
CB: Theo Nestor is a wonderful writer and editor, and her instincts are superb! I love what you say about learning from poets, and confronting the hardest things obliquely, “through images.” This lyricism shines through your pages.
We learn that you come from a long line of writers. Both of your grandfathers were poets, and your grandmother and mother were the memoirists in the family. In “The Straight Lines of a Circle” you write: “We are a family anchored on the page, in Urdu, in English, in poetry, and in prose—words we have written for no one but ourselves. To read us is to read of homes that eluded us, and of homes we denied to others.” Your father’s pride in your writing shines through your pages, and I know your mother was one of the earliest readers of your book. Your reverence for your family and writing heritage is palpable and moving. Through your words we learn Ammi was free-spirited, a feminist, founded English Playhouse in your family’s living room as a home school for your sister, and grew it into Meadow Secondary School. Abbu was a quiet, educated, devoted family man, who remained in Pakistan as the rest of his family spread their wings overseas. Can you talk a little about what it means to be the first published author in your family, with a collection so steeped in a rich familial legacy?
SN: Thank you for seeing my family in that light. I wish I could say I recognized this extraordinary inheritance for what it was when I was growing up. But as I write in the essay “Amma,” we all saw my maternal grandmother—the only grandparent I knew, since the others died young—as just writing her “diary,” a genre often treated dismissively, especially as it tends to be associated with women and the domestic sphere. By contrast, poetry has a long tradition in South Asia, so my grandfathers fared better. My paternal grandfather, who decided we’d be Najmis, published several poems in his lifetime. But even his poetry collection came out posthumously, his sons’ labor of love. The same with my maternal grandfather’s poems. While my aunt Talat Shazi is a gifted poet with multiple volumes to her name, my parents are prosers. Both are also translators: As a physics professor, Haroon Najmi (my Abbu) translated physics textbooks from English to Urdu—a tremendous service to students in a country where the sciences are still mostly taught in English. And Suraiya Jabeen (my Ammi) translated social psychologist Daniel Wegner’s White Bears and Other Unwanted Thoughts into Urdu. Translations aside, both Ammi and Abbu also devoted time to personal writing. My father gathered his family’s scattered history dutifully in the last six years of his life, to be published a few weeks after his death. And I’ve grown up seeing Ammi write personal essays, which she, like her mother before her, thought of simply as the diary she needed to write for her own “sorting out.” These she has never published.
In Pakistan, there’s never been a stigma attached to self-publishing, especially for works written in Urdu or other native languages. What’s prized is the preservation of the written word in a culture largely rooted in oral traditions. So yes, by some measures I’m the first in my family to publish a book, but by others, I’m merely continuing a familial tradition.
CB: Isn’t it so true that, lacking perspective, we just don’t see things when we’re younger the way we do when we’re older. Your family legacy is so rich and textured, literary and otherwise, and you continuing your familial tradition in all the ways you do is something to be proud of.
I had the honor of being a student in your “South Asian American Women in Literature and Film” class in 2011, a class you write about in “Teaching as a Pakistani American Muslim Feminist.” This class took place in a tumultuous semester that held Osama bin Laden’s death, and the death of two elderly Sikh men shot and killed while on their daily walk in Sacramento, mere hours away from our campus. To say that this class changed students and professor alike is putting it mildly. I still vividly remember the ways you grappled with the “confronting of personal and collective histories,” teaching our close-knit group about the realities of the Partition, displacement and diaspora, reading authors that included Jhumpa Lahiri and Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, bringing humanity into the conversation and infusing your lectures with personal stories of what your family had endured in the events we learned about. Throughout the semester, our entire class witnessed an awakening: in our consciousness, and in yours.
I’ll never forget the feeling of being in that classroom; we knew that we were a part of something special. You often spoke of how much the class changed you, and how one day, you were going to write about this experience. Not only did you write an essay about our class, but you’ve written an entire book that can now be included in the canon of South Asian women writers. Here we have another beautiful circle, from professor bringing the works of South Asian women writers into our classroom to a South Asian woman writer whose work will be taught in classrooms worldwide. Can you talk a little more about this class, and the effect it’s had on you, now almost 15 years later?
SN: What a lovely circularity you trace, Cindy. That class remains unique in my repertoire of course offerings. Nothing like it before or since. The course proposal was inspired by Pakistani American writer Bapsi Sidhwa’s visit to Fresno State the previous semester, a visit I write about in “Membership Dues.” Remember her novel Cracking India? I had never taught anything so close to the bone before, but you and your small group of peers were exactly the right audience for it–the kind of readers and human beings with whom I could share that vulnerability. As you say, we all grew from it. We also watched Mira Nair’s Mississippi Masala in that class and discussed its critique of anti-Black racism among South Asians. How cool that Nair is very much in the public consciousness right now as mother of NYC mayor-elect Zohran Mamdani, who would have been nineteen at the time! I remember, too, your creative flair, how evident it was even within the confines of a conventional literary analysis essay. I’m so glad you went on to get your MFA in creative nonfiction—I just love your personal essays. I don’t know if you recall, but Carrie Ayala, who was in that class with you, at one point suggested that I should try my hand at creative writing. I told her I didn’t have a creative bone in my body, and you all smiled politely but knowingly. Next thing I know, “Teaching as a Pakistani American Muslim Feminist” comes out of me, with your class within its pages. It became the genesis of Sing Me a Circle.
CB: Oh, Samina. Thank you for your support. I don’t think I’ll ever forget struggling with writing academic papers, and your encouragement for my creative writing. I remember Cracking India so well, and I love that Bapsi Sidhwa inspired this incredible course. Mississippi Masala was a highlight, a film that leaves an imprint, and to think Mira Nair’s son is NYC mayor-elect Zohran Mamdani is another lovely circle. I can imagine the talks we would have had had we had the chance to peek into our political landscape a decade or so later. And I do recall Carrie suggesting you explore creative writing, and how we all nodded along in agreement. And we’re still nodding 🙂
We first read your Pushcart Prize nominated “Trinità” when you entered it a few years ago in Under the Sun’s fall contest. We were captivated by the way you weave together emotion, memories, images and Bocelli’s Con te partirò, and knew we had to offer an acceptance for publication. It’s an exquisite essay, a meditation on your newly formed family of three—you and your teenage daughter, Maya, a college sophomore, and teenage son, Cyrus, a senior in high school—during a trip to Italy and of the realization that “it has always been time to say goodbye.” The essay is a gorgeous meditation on the passage of time, as you ruminate on your changing family dynamic: “But nothing absorbs time as the river Arno does, gathering our todays into its yesterdays, to flow swiftly and silently into someone else’s tomorrows.” As so much in Sing Me a Circle explores time, and time is both fluid and circular, how do you view the insights gained in “Trinità” (time being absorbed) over the scope of time as displayed throughout your collection?
SN: I was honored to have “Trinità” published in Under the Sun. It has the distinction of being the first of my essays to receive a Pushcart nomination. The lines you quote are among my own favorites. I think maybe because we moved such great distances when I was a child and I couldn’t hold on to people or places or things—maybe that’s why I’ve always been acutely aware of the finiteness of things. I remember feeling a great sadness when any classmate was leaving our school, even if I wasn’t particularly close to them. There was something about it being their “last” day that felt terribly final. My mother sometimes says, “Vaqt tha, guzar gaya,” which translates as “There was a time; it’s over now.” Ammi’s phrasing in Urdu is so evocative—two simple statements that are the most fundamental facts of our existence. There’s no arguing with them. When I read “Trinità” now, I find it imbued with that sentiment. I wrote each of the essays in Sing Me a Circle as a response to a specific moment in time. That moment has passed, but in a way, without going anywhere because I hold on to it on the page.
CB: Your mother’s Urdu phrase is so redolent of meaning. It conjures nostalgia and love and loss all in seven simple words. Only the meaning is anything but simple. I can just imagine your mother’s musings and writings and the wisdom they contain.
Let’s talk a bit about craft. As we mentioned earlier, Sing Me a Circle is divided into three sections. Can you talk a little bit about how you chose to construct your collection into three parts, and how you envisioned each section individually and as part of the greater whole?
SN: It seemed like a daunting task, initially. I had so many essays, written over so many years; how to organize them into a coherent whole, especially as they resisted linearity? Ultimately, the three parts are very loosely chronological, with recurring themes and images that I didn’t see as recurring when I was writing those essays individually.
CB: Here at Under the Sun we love to hear manuscript origin stories, and we’d love to hear all about Sing Me A Circle: Love, Loss and a Home in Time’s trajectory from individual essays to a published essay collection.
SN: Well, as you know, “Teaching as a Pakistani American Muslim Feminist” was the first essay I wrote. Then, that same summer (2011), I took a two-week CSU Summer Arts writing workshop, and that changed everything. I poured myself into the study and practice of creative nonfiction, my essays often, like “Teaching,” a synthesis of the personal and the political. As to the trajectory, I wrote these essays over a span of ten years, and most of them saw publication in literary journals. But it took another three years to find a publisher for the book as a whole. I’d been subscribing to the print version of Poets & Writers since 2011; in the spring of 2024, I saw Trio House Press’s call for creative nonfiction manuscripts for their Aurora Polaris contest and circled it in ink. I’m looking at the stack of Poets & Writers issues on my coffee table right now, marveling that my book is among their five debut nonfiction picks of the year. You see why I see circles everywhere!
CB: Circling in ink Trio House’s call for the Aurora Polaris contest was a fortuitous moment indeed! And how marvelous that your book is among Poets & Writers five debut nonfiction books of the year! We also love to hear about writers’ journeys, and I’d love for you to talk about your path from academic professor to creative nonfiction writer. Since you’ve been an active participant in the Summer Arts Program through the years, and are currently enrolled in Fresno State’s MFA program, I would love to hear how both of these programs and any mentors you’ve had influenced you along the way.
SN: Ah, I’m still—always—the literature professor you knew in 2011. All my years of reading closely and critically have had everything to do with my writing, both scholarly and creative. In the classroom and also as advisor to the B.A. in both the Creative Writing and Literature options, I’m increasingly aware of the confluences between the critical and the creative and like to talk about them with students. Yes, CSU Summer Arts was my only experience of creative writing instruction—I took several workshops while they were hosted by Fresno State—until, like you, I enrolled in the MFA program in Creative Writing. I’m enrolled part-time and loving it, working with creative nonfiction writer Steven Church (another Under the Sun contributor!) as my advisor. What a privilege to work with someone who has been reading my essays from the outset and cheering me on. Besides, Fresno State’s MFA is a stellar program in both prose and poetry. At this point in my life, my MFA journey isn’t a career move, but it enables me to keep sight of my writing, thanks to those 11:59 pm assignment deadlines! I come away from workshops exhilarated by what I’ve learned from my professors/colleagues as well as the very talented students in workshop. It’s really quite something to breathe and write in a community of writers. And like all things, it’s a finite moment in time, so I’m savoring its preciousness.
CB: I can say from experience that enrolling in Fresno State’s MFA program is a great decision and a stellar, life-changing experience. You are such a generous member of the literary community, both locally and the literary community at large. I had the privilege of attending your book launch in early October as one of five guest readers you invited to read with you, all former students of yours, and it was an unforgettable event. You have more book events scheduled throughout the fall, and are busy with teaching and taking classes, but I must ask: any new projects on the horizon we can look forward to in the future?
SN: That’s high praise coming from you, whom I see as having contributed so much to the national literary scene with your editorial responsibilities at Under the Sun. At the same time, you encourage local writers to submit their work. I have read some superb essays by Fresno writers that Under the Sun has published in recent years. It’s a win-win for the magazine as well as for Fresno.
Yes, thanks to those MFA assignments, I’m working on a new project! Essays again, with the same personal-political melding, but focused on a narrower canvas: a year and a half when home fire, breast cancer diagnosis, and empty nest coincided with an ongoing pandemic. As we know, the past lives on in the present and shapes our visions of the future, so it will be interesting to see where this project leads.
CB: Thank you, Samina. Witnessing your journey from beloved English professor to published author has been inspiring and so well-deserved. And now, to close our interview, we have a round of quick-fire questions to have fun with.
SN: Loved this conversation, Cindy. Such thoughtful questions from someone who has read the book with heart. My gratitude to you and Under the Sun for this interview.
Okay, I’m ready for the rapid-fire questions!
- Describe your dream day.
Good writing news while Maya and Cyrus are home.
- Chai is…?
. . . the warm, sweet cardamom taste of home.
- What word encapsulates each of these places you’ve called home: Karachi, London, Boston, Fresno?
“Belonging”/“yearning” – two sides of the same feeling about all these homes.
- Current obsession? Could be anything – food, drink, song, book, film, you name it!
Two of them! Pueblo Laguna scholar Paula Gunn Allen’s book The Sacred Hoop, which I’m rediscovering long years after grad school. And Joni Mitchell’s “The Circle Game.” How did I not know of this song until my daughter introduced it to me?
- What do you hope readers take away from Sing Me a Circle: Love, Loss, and a Home in Time?
I hope they see something of themselves in it. And I hope a line or two lingers.
Samina Najmi teaches multiethnic US literature at California State University, Fresno. Her memoir-in-essays, Sing Me a Circle: Love, Loss, and a Home in Time, won the Aurora Polaris Award in Creative Nonfiction and was published by Trio House Press in October 2025. It has received a starred review from Publishers Weekly and is featured among Poets & Writers five creative nonfiction debuts of the year. Daughter of multiple migrations, Samina has lived in Fresno since 2006 and watched with wonder her children, her students, and her citrus grow.
