You have been back in your London home for several months now, after a year in different hospitals, following your collapse, broken neck and paralysis. How much movement do you have now? And how do you manage with daily life? Hanif Kureishi: My movement remains limited, but I’m gradually regaining some control. Daily life is a series of adaptations and negotiations with my new reality. I rely heavily on assistance for basic tasks, which is both humbling and frustrating. Despite the physical challenges, my mind remains active. I’m always working on something new. I’m currently writing a second volume of Shattered, called Still Shattered, which I am doing in collaboration with Carlo, my son. Shattered began as online diary/dispatches, The Kureishi Chronicles, dictated from your hospital bed, though you couldn’t sit up or hold a pen. What impelled you? HK: Writing, or rather dictating, became my lifeline in those early days of paralysis. It was an instinctive response to an impossible situation. I couldn’t move, but I could still think and speak. My family — Isabella, Carlo, Sachin and Kier — became my hands, transcribing my thoughts. This act of creation kept me tethered to the world when everything else had been stripped away. What was the online response to The Kureishi Chronicles? HK: The online response to The Kureishi Chronicles was overwhelming and varied. Many readers connected deeply with the honesty. Some found inspiration, while others shared their own stories of struggle in the comments section. The internet’s reach brought messages from unexpected corners. It was a reminder of the power of words to bridge distances and experiences. When you decided to turn The Kureishi Chronicles into Shattered, a book, once you were home, how did they seem to you, viewed with hindsight? HK: Revisiting the chronicles for Shattered was an intense experience. With some distance, I saw not just my physical journey, but an emotional and psychological one. New memories surfaced, filling gaps in the narrative. The immediacy of the original writings was striking, but it needed to be stitched together into a proper narrative. The process of compiling the book became an act of reflection. Writing, as a form of self expression, has been central to your life. But sometimes, the details of hospital procedures, or the memories they evoke, are intensely personal. Was it difficult speaking these out loud? HK: The act of speaking aloud what I would normally commit privately to paper created a different kind of intimacy with the writing process. It forced a directness that perhaps benefited the work. The vulnerability of the situation demanded honesty — there was no room for pretence. Boredom in the hospital forced a new kind of introspection. Memories surfaced with startling clarity. How did all this change your perceptions of everything around you and, indeed, yourself? HK: This experience has undoubtedly transformed my relationships. Isabella’s unwavering support has deepened our bond immeasurably. My sons have shown strength and compassion I hadn’t fully appreciated before. Friends, both old and new, have been crucial to my mental well-being. The camaraderie with fellow patients offered a unique kind of solace. These connections have reinforced the importance of community and interdependence in ways I hadn’t previously considered. In Shattered, you mention that reading and writing became a liberation from the prejudices of race and colour you experienced while growing up in Britain. Similarly, writing has helped you cope with the trauma of being paralysed and an uncertain future. Can you comment on this? HK: Writing has always been my means of processing the world, and this situation is no different. Recounting my experiences with racial prejudice and my early years felt particularly poignant from my hospital bed. The act of writing, even through dictation, provided a sense of control when my body offered none. It’s been a way to assert my identity beyond my physical limitations. In confronting trauma through words, I’ve found a path to resilience and a way to maintain my sense of self. You were in hospital for a year: six months in Rome and six months in London. What stands out most in your mind? HK: My time in Italian and British hospitals was a study in contrasts and similarities. Relationships with staff ranged from deeply caring to frustratingly bureaucratic. The language barrier in Italy added an extra layer of complexity. The technology I encountered was often impressive, sometimes baffling, but always a reminder of how far medical science has come. Physiotherapy stands out as both gruelling and essential — a daily battle that marked the slow progress of recovery. By the time you were back home, in Shepherd’s Bush, with a house reconstructed to cater to your needs, you were a changed person. What did you discover about yourself, your family and your city, London, viewed from a wheelchair? HK: Returning home to a modified house in Shepherd’s Bush was surreal. The familiar had become strange, and I had to relearn my own space. This new perspective extended to London itself — the city I thought I knew revealed new facets when viewed from a wheelchair. Accessibility issues I’d never considered became glaringly obvious. The process of adaptation has been a family affair, changing our dynamics and revealing strengths in each of us. Collaboration has become our new normal, a constant negotiation of needs and abilities. Now that Shattered is out, a stage adaptation of the Buddha of Suburbia has just opened in the West End and there has been a revival of the stage version of My Beautiful Laundrette. What next? HK: With Shattered on the horizon and my earlier works finding new life on stage, I’m reminded of the cyclical nature of creativity. The West End opening of Buddha of Suburbia and the revival of My Beautiful Laundrette feel like a convergence of past and present. As for what’s next, I’m continuing to write and explore. This experience has opened new avenues of thought and expression.