Of Souls and Sinners: Saints and Charlatans by Sarim Baig proves that short stories and I need to go our separate ways
I get that I shouldn’t have to force myself to love something if I don’t, but I find that I’m getting increasingly exasperated (and a little bit alarmed) at the number of books by Pakistani authors that I classify in my head as ‘good idea, bad execution’. In all honesty, I really wanted to like this book, if only because it was published by Mongrel Books, a recently emerging Karachi-based independent press that I wish all the success in the world because more local presses (and we have so few for Pakistani English fiction anyway) equals more local books and authors, which that can only be a good thing. So I went in with the very best of intentions, excited and looking forward to great stuff, and then suffered a disquieting whiplash when I closed the last page.
Anyway.
I should probably talk about the book itself eventually, since this is meant to be a review and not a rambling diary of the five stages of grief that I suffered while reading this title. I’m going to try to point out the parts where my brain lagged for a second on a particularly good sentence or paragraph through the bored-sleepy-when-will-this-end fog in which I was reading this book. These parts were rare enough for me to be surprised when they occurred, but sporadic enough to drag the book from the ‘hate-this’ tottering pile of Pakistani books in my head to the ‘meh’ pile that also, sadly, seems to keep growing day by day.
First, the stories. All inter-connected, with characters from some stories popping up in others in a manner reminiscent of Daniyal Mueenuddin’s In Other Rooms, Other Wonders, another collection of short stories also set in contemporary Punjab which also managed to bore me to tears (honestly, the similarities to Mueenuddin’s collection did this title no favours in my eyes, because I hated In Other Rooms, Other Wonders quite passionately when I first read it). All the characters either live in or lived in or know someone who lives in Suratwala village at one point in their lives, and while I am usually a huge fan of seeing characters who were earlier front and centre randomly lingering on the edges of someone else’s narrative, this time it wasn’t well done enough for it to be interesting.
Honestly, I could just say ‘not done well enough’ and that would be the sum of my whole experience with this book. I liked the idea of it all: the first story talks about this super macho guy whom our protagonist looks up to, and who becomes despondent after hearing about the engagement of a local girl. Everyone thinks this manly man is lovesick because the woman he loves is getting married, but we find out, along with our (very young to have witnessed such stuff) protagonist that (spoilers ahead) it’s the groom whom he was actually in love with. Baig doesn’t go all out and write a sex scene between two men, but a secluded spot and hastily re-arranged clothes are signs enough for the reader to understand, and while I’m always honestly surprised at the audacity of South Asian writers who get away with presenting homosexual relationships in their books, I still wish the whole thing had been handled with more deftness. Homosexuality in South Asia means ostracization at best and death at worst, which means choosing to talk about it is a political act, and placing that story front and centre is also a political act that the publisher choose to willingly engage in. So while I give them points for pure nerve, I unfortunately cannot give the same points for the story itself.
Since the first story, while not the best thing ever written, had not been the worst, I kept reading in the hopes that it would get better. Ironically enough, it wasn’t until I got to the second last story (out of a total of 9) in the collection that I found something worth reading. It was a story called ‘The Lord of Garbage’, the title of which amused my husband to no end because he had been listening to me moan and groan up till that point. When I titled the book in his direction to tap the page and bring his attention to the story’s name, he laughed and said, ‘well, it’s appropriate, at least,’ which was a mean thing to say, because that was actually the best story in this whole collection.
You never know what you’re going to find in the garbage," the old man warned. “Oh, and you can’t unfind it. No way in hell. It’s going to be yours forever. Nobody’s going to come to you and say, 'Here boy, let me take it from you.' No. If they cared for those things, they would never throw them out. What’s more, you can’t get rid of the things you’ve already picked. What I’m saying is this: there’s no garbage for the garbage.’
Written from the point of view of a book who goes around scrounging in waste, with a father whom he secretly runs away to meet, and a gaggle of sisters he eventually finds his way back to, this particular tale showed depth and creativity, a purpose to the writing that felt missing in all the others. While some characters in other places in the collection did manage to retain a modicum of my interest, they would lose it soon afterwards, and quickly enough for it to have been a passing fancy rather than a regular fascination. Which is a shame because sometimes there were flashes of brilliance that, had they been moulded into something better, could have been pure gold.
It is also entirely possible that this is a compilation that is meant to be read in a certain mood, because the author didn’t attempt to give his characters happy endings, in a very ‘life is tough and shitty and it is what it is’ manner that fits into the cynical tone present throughout the stories. In retrospect, reading it during a global pandemic when one is looking for nice, calming stuff to help one survive isn’t a very good plan. As a side note, I’d also like to mention that one could accuse the author of having a vendetta against women as narrators, since they make a grand total appearance of zero in terms of presenting their own stories. The author, however, seems to be aware of this particular accusation since he replies to it in this interview. I’m thus inclined to give him a pass, although it is a very grudging one, since he seems to believe that ‘street folk’ are only men, which is a topic I’m very willing to debate upon quite strenuously.
And before I finish, one more thing which I feel really needs to be said: what a godawful cover. Honestly, what was the thought process behind this? My god, every time I see a bad cover, the part of me that spends hours pouring over cover design options shudders and dies a little inside. Truly, if people out there are judging books by their covers, I don’t want to know what people think of this book.
And on that final, slightly depressing note, I end my relationship with this particular title, of which I had such high hopes which were so cruelly dashed. A lesson to me, then, to view all short story compilations with a wary eye, and a gentle reminder to you, to take everything I say about short stories with a pinch of salt. Maybe you won’t dislike this as much as I did. Maybe, miracles of all miracles, you’ll even love it. And loving a book, no matter how much someone else hates it, is a lovely thing indeed.
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Disclaimer: I got a copy of this book from the author in exchange for an honest review.