Based very loosely on the Orpheus and Eurydice tragedy, the book seeks to talk about artists and their muses, but I didn’t go into the story with any expectations given that I have only the vaguest idea about this particular Greek mythology in the first place. Besides, I do think adaptations should always be given some leeway in how they choose to adapt the source material. Some stick close to the original plot while others take only the vaguest theme and extrapolate from that, and while checking whether something is faithful to the original is always a good question to ask, it’s also imperative that we allow the text to exist on its own, to see whether the author has done something new or interesting with an existing piece of art and tried to make it their own.
He has wondered what it might be like to go to see her perform. If through some magic she would know he was there, as if once being in love is a disease that connects them.
In this case, I do believe the author managed to do both: incorporate the themes of artist and muse while also making the text her own, in a story about a rockstar named Aida and her love affair with a man named Ehsan. She even stayed loyal to certain aspects of the style of Greek plays in adding chapters where the fans chimed in with their obsession ruminations about Aida, in a manner reminiscent of a chorus line in the background to the narrative. But what appealed to me personally was less the creative decisions Aida took and more the personal relationships explored in this story.
It is clear to her now that she has never gotten over Ehsan. Everybody told her she would: a million conversations with therapists, with friends who got sick of her, who got sick of her being sick over him. People said it would get better, time heals all wounds and one day, she would wake up and not remember his last name. This never worked. His name is still a punch in the heart.
At its heart the story is about Aida’s relationship with Ehsan and all the ways it affects her life, and while I only particularly remember the ending itself (which would be too much of a spoiler to reveal), I’m a little sad that I don’t remember so much of this book, because from the quotes I’ve saved the writing looks so good.
A person can become a time machine if you leave them alone for long enough, especially when that person is close to you, especially when they are a lover. Their skin can hold everything about you from that time, frozen in their bodies.
In fact, it’s actually pretty interesting how little of the story I truly loved (and now remember fondly), because while I didn’t take notes this time, I did highlight the passages that I liked, and rereading those passages truly makes me wonder how bored I was with the characters, because by all accounts I clearly enjoyed the writing.
They are not here because they find each other beautiful, though she does think Ehsan is very beautiful. The pull between them is heftier than that. If attraction is a piece of string, they are working with ropes of steel.
There’re even a few passages about belonging and being Pakistani and Muslim which ideally should have provided me with a couple paragraphs worth of discussions and analysis and review points, but unfortunately since I have absolutely no context for the quotes I saved and no space in a brain already overstuffed with excel sheets from work and grocery lists for home, we’re sadly going to have to wonder exactly what I planned to say about any of this stuff.
‘You’re Muslim, aren’t you?’ The question darts in so conversationally, you don’t know where it came from. When you look up, she is still smiling.
‘Yes,’ you say, even though you are not sure anymore. Last week, you drank your first beer and the taste of it was rank but you think you might do it again. You’re not entirely sure how things stand between you and God these days. University is unzipping you from the routine of Karachi, the casual way religion stayed bedded into your life.
At the end of the day, I’m not one for rereading books I didn’t much care for, and even barely reread the ones I did love unless I’m in a spectacular slump and am looking for something to dig myself out of my ennui, so it doesn’t look like I’ll be going back to give this book a chance again anytime soon. Which is a sad state of affairs, because maybe it was my particular mood, or the time of the day, or even the angle at which the sunlight was hitting my window that made me not enjoy this as much as I should have. Or who knows, maybe it just wasn’t that good in the first place. All I know is that I’m looking forward to this author’s next book, if only to see whether it was only the writing that was good and the characters left a lot to be desired, or if in a better mood even a reread can be justified.
He can pick apart the lyrics, the way the sound is layered; can taste the difference between her singing in a room and singing on the record, the shift of it. He understands why people love her so deeply: she is the patron saint of a certain kind of tortured youth. He understands why they build altars to her, why they plaster her face on pillar candles, ink her face on their bodies.
***
A quick note for the cover: what even is going on over there?