Uzma is 33 and was born in Karachi. There she was awarded scholarships to study in the US where she gained a Bachelor's degree in English Literature and a Master's in Crative Writing. After that she remained stateside to teach English language and literature before doing the same in Morocco and then in Lahore where she now lives with her husband.

Her first novel The Story of Noble Rot, was published in India in 2001 to great acclaim, but it wasn't easy to write. 'I wrote it over a period of four years,' she say. 'Unlike many writers, I don't carve out a plot before beginning to write -- I know where my story is going only when I am writing it. This is why the process is very slow. But it's also full of surprises which helps retain my interest.' She finds it boring to tread a straight line, preferring instead to look into the hidden folds rather than the glaring daylight. To her, writing is about exploring unmapped territory.

Whereas that first novel used the mould that grows on grapes as its metaphor, Trespassing, her second novels and the first to be published in the West, takes its imagery from the world of silk production. Dia, whose mother is a successful Pakistani silk farmer, belongs to a new breed of strong, resourceful women and enjoys the freedom it provides. Meanwhile, Danish has come back to Karachi for his father's funeralhe has been living in America, the land of the free but bound by its own rules. When the two meet, they chafe against all the formalities. The simple act of slipping a handful of silkworms fattened on mulberry leaves inside a friend's dupatta ruptures the fragile peace of both their houses while around them new ways drive out old as fresh hatreds are created and old ones revived.

Tariq Ali writes: 'Cocoons are not the only things that explode in this novel. The silken prose emphasizes the conflict between the tender subject and a world where violence of every sort has become institutionalized.'

But this is not a violent book. It is both as strong and as delicate as silk thread and the prose is as lustrous as an ornate dupatta.

Extract

Trespassing

Arrival May 1992

Her fair skin set off a head of dark, curly hair. She held him close, thanking Allah for bringing him home safely. Had the scene occurred under a street light in his college town, passers-by would be faintly embarrassed, if not repulsed. He thought if she said, 'Thank you Jesus for returning him to me,' instead of 'Thank you Allah...' people would smile or snicker but not think her a fanatic.

He set his eyes. Never before had he stood in this house plagued by how others might see him. He tried to clear his head, to instead enjoy Anu's welcoming arms, flabbier now than when he last embraced them, three years ago.

Khurram and his family waved goodbye. The handsome driver's eyes pierced his own, turning a hint green. 'You are my friend now,' Khurram called out. 'Anything more I can do for you, I'm just down the street.'

'Such a nice boy,' said Anu as the car drove away.

Lurking behind her, Daanish now saw, was the shadow of his father's eight sisters. It grew closer, a single mass with sixteen tentacles, pawing and probing like Siamese-octopi. He was being welcomed, just like Khurram had been at the airport, but he did not desire it.

One arm caught his throat. 'You poor, poor child! How your father loved you!'

Another tugged at his hair, fighting with the first, 'How exhausted you must be! Come into the kitchen with me...'

A third whipped his cheek and cried, 'You look sicker than our own! Were you in Amreeka or Afreeka?'

A fourth spun him from the waist, 'You're just like he was at your age!

A fifth yanked his shirt-tail, 'Who did you miss the most?'

A sixth, 'Me!'

Seven, 'His father, ehmak!'

And eight, 'Look how his jealous mother keeps him all to herself!'

It was true. While they jerked and pinched her only child and hurled insults her way, Anu still held him, and now they were all entangled, resulting in a chorus of loud protests from the small bodies in the arms of each aunt, small bodies with wails and suckers of their own. He fell headfirst into their lair.

'Ay haay,' shoved Anu. 'Let the boy sit down at least.'

She gripped what little she could find of Daanish's arm, disentangled it from the others, and with determined possessiveness, led him into the kitchen. The others followed like a school of squid. 'Sit down, bete.'

Scowling at his aunts in black and the babies in their arms, Daanish pulled up a chair next to Anu. She emptied several plastic food containers into metal pots then lit the burners on the stove. His aunts continued making observations, their children still shrieked, but at least no one touched him.

'I'm not really hungry Anu, just tired,' he protested weakly.

'You haven't even told me how you are.' She never shared. Just fussed.

'What is there to tell? Allah has returned my son to me safely, even if he chose to take my husband.'

Her back was to him but he knew she was crying. Softly tears never interfered with her work but steadily.

How differently his father would have received him. In place of his mother's flurry, a thick veil of smoke would infuse the air as he sucked one Dunhill after another. He'd ask what it was like in there. Daanish would only select details that would tickle him: the ghostly reflection of an opossum on clear summer nights: pink-haired waitresses with pierced noses (the doctor would guffaw at this perversion of his most favoured female accessory, the nose-pin); having a wisdom tooth extracted to lite music:

'Every time you go away, you take a piece of me with you'; children delightfully camouflaged for Halloween. Anu never absorbed such curiosities.