Some Kind of Wonderful

So I finished In Other Rooms, Other Wonders last night. After splashing around in the tub with Nicky and continuing to do the endless laundry from this week's escapades in stomach bugs and all of the sudden deciding that I'm instituting a paperless kitchen and reorganizing all my rags and napkins ... I swear, sometimes when my husband's away I end up doing the strangest things with my evenings.

Anyway, so I finally got in bed with tea that had long since gone cold (I really don't mind this) and finished Other Wonders. While I wasn't thrilled to be done with it, as was the case with Disgrace, I didn't wish it went on any longer, either. I was sated, and ever so slightly disappointed.

I really wanted to love this book, with its vibrant cover, interesting author, its nod of approval from Salman Rushdie, its comparisons to the stories of Jhumpa Lahiri, an Indian author whom I all but worship. I didn't love it, though. When I read Lahiri's stories I can taste, see, smell Indian culture. I was looking for this same immersion experience from Mueenuddin. I wanted to part with a strong notion of what it means to be Pakistani, of what knits their families together. I wanted scents and smells and tastes and beauty. The title suggests that, after all.

Mueenuddin doesn't celebrate much of his native culture. The convention of family is over and over proven a false construct. The government, the police, full of corruption. Female sexuality is used repeatedly (and disturbingly) as a weapon. Characters are punished, by themselves as well as others, for belief in true love. The feudal order is inescapable. The picture he paints is one of sorrow and gravity. Fondness for his homeland I can only sense his need to tell these stories (and Mueenuddin does need to tell -- he left his life as a successful lawyer in NYC to return to a farm in Pakistan and write about his country).

I was struck when Rafia of "Our Lady of Paris" (probably the most intimidating would-be mother-in-law I've ever encountered) says that she knows America wouldn't feed the best part f her son's soul. When asked if Pakistan would, she cries out "I don't know." Here and elsewhere I sensed a deep ambivalence about what it means to be Pakistani, or, more specifically, to be a modern Pakistani in Pakistan. Many of the characters seem to undergo the immigrant experience (confusions of class, of dress, of language, of place) in their native country amidst their own people. Maybe what I wanted from Mueenuddin's narrative wasn't missing or left out, but unavailable. Mueenuddin couldn't answer those questions, couldn't paint that picture.

Overall, I think he is a superb short story writer, making the difficult task of quick character development seem effortless. I also like the progression from stories of the peasants to westernized elites, reinforcing Pakistan's obsession with class. Even in these stories the characters are bound by their place in society. I will certainly read Mueenuddin's future works, and I'm sure there will be more given the reception Other Wonders has received.

I think I'm ready for something more frivolous. Lucky me, the spine of Then We Came to the End notes that Stephen King calls the book "Hilarious!" Can't ask for much more than that. How often does a book carry praise on its spine, and how often does that praise carry an exclamation point?