The wounded pamphleteer
Excuse me, sir, but may I be of assistance? Ah, I see my blog has alarmed you. Do not be frightened: I am a lover of literature.
I see that in your hand you hold The Reluctant Fundamentalist. A fine choice, if I may be so bold. Praised by Kiran Desai and Mira Nair, if I am not mistaken.
Please, sit down. You seem worried. There is no need. I have gathered these facts not from idle surveillance, but from an elementary interest in South Asian literature. I would be remiss not to invite a fellow book lover to share in my repast. The soft basmati and tender kebabs of this city are famed throughout the world.
You see, I’ve not only noticed the book, I’ve read it myself. Perhaps you’d be interested in my impressions of this tome? Ah, I see a look of assent flicker across your face while you dig hungrily into your scented almond rice. Very well then, it would be my honor.
Mohsin Hamid’s The Reluctant Fundamentalist is far more ambitious than Hamid’s debut novel, Moth Smoke. Less a novella than an extended allegory, Fundamentalist is a political pamphlet of the sort disseminated during the American Revolution. It’s a novella about realpolitik from an upper middle class Pakistani point of view.
As a book, this tale is full of little cultural insights that make it a fun and involving read. As literature, it’s more an extended, belabored parable than a bona fide story. Plot is shoehorned into the mold of the fable, and character development suffers; the central romance is distant and unbelievable because the symbols subjugate the human. Not only are Erica / America and Underwood Samson / Uncle Sam obvious, the author nudges his audience in the ribs by asking us not to read the story literally.
There’s nothing wrong with layers of symbolism in political novels, but this book suffers from the urgency of Hamid’s political screed. Had this novella birthed a separate and cutting essay in Foreign Policy, the story would have been freed from the burden of speaking for all of Pakistan.
As political analysis, the book is weak, projecting the same mixture of elision and victimology felt in many Muslim countries. It’s true that the U.S. has aided and then ignored Pakistan as its interest in the region waxed and waned. The novella touchingly describes how fearful Lahoris prepared for possible war with India.
However, Changez the protagonist also claims the Indian Parliament attack triggering the showdown was not clearly linked to Pakistan, a dodge unsupported by the evidence. He expresses anger that the U.S. allowed India to mass forces on its Pakistan border. But exactly the opposite happened in real life: the U.S. did in fact lean on India not to do what America was itself doing. American troops remained free to defend the U.S. in Afghanistan, but Indians were hectored not to destroy terrorist camps across the line of control in Kashmir.
The book is strongest when it comes to the Princeton-educated Changez’ unrequited love for Am-Erica, her plunge into paranoia and terror madness. The City on a Hill abandoned its own ideals, subjecting longtime U.S. residents to strip searches and harassment at every turn. The novella actually glosses over this discrimination. Changez’ newfound Pakistani nationalism and racial consciousness is more because he lost the love of New York, a city of possibilities which once reminded him of Lahore, than the indignities of air travel as a Pakistani-American.
The book is written with an Old World courtliness which I haven’t heard since Nabokov’s narrator Humbert Humbert. It’s uncommon in the kind of Brooklyn novel currently in vogue, eager to deconstruct language and replace it with insider name checks. The writing is oddly stilted for a protagonist who attended college in the U.S. But the language works, and the novella throws out these kinds of delights on every other page:
… it is the man with four wheels who is forced to dismount and become part of the crowd… for me moving to New York felt — so unexpectedly — like coming home… Urdu was spoken by taxicab drivers; the presence, only two blocks form my East Village apartment, of a samosa- and channa-serving establishment called the Pak-Punjab Deli [Ed: I believe this is around 10th and 1st]; the coincidence of crossing Fifth Avenue during a parade and hearing, from loudspeakers mounted on the South Asian Gay and Lesbian Association float, a song to which I had danced at my cousin’s wedding.
The Reluctant Fundamentalist is higher-octane than the light, entertaining Moth Smoke. After 9/11, the author discovered things he was burning to say. I quite enjoyed the read, despite having to remove the slipcover and read furtively while flying. There’s nothing like a green-and-white crescent and ‘fundamentalist’ in the title to make your flight pass smoothly over the Deep South.
Jabberwock, Chandrahas and Kitabkhana have more.
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