Nafisa Haji | Photo via Twitter
Nafisa uses the narrative technique of a story within a story to tell the readers about Deena’s family, her troubled relationship with her influential in-laws and of her love for her childhood neighbour, Umer. Her liberation comes at a heavy price: her son is taken away by her in-laws and she has to migrate to America to forge a new life along with Umer.
In the poignant portrayal of Jo’s and Deena’s characters, Nafisa depicts women straddling the contrasts between their inner and outer worlds. This exposes them to various forms of exclusion — that is, divides created by sectarian identities, power relations and social hierarchies as well as violent conflicts.
Along with the feminine consciousness that Nafisa so beautifully depicts, she also very sensitively brings forth the subject of ‘exiles from the feminine’ (as in the case of Sadiq). In the postscript to the book, she explains why such an exile is important to explore:
“The conversation with my brother made me sad. It made me feel guilty about my access to a treasure of collective memories and sense of self that he and my male cousins were denied. It gave me a perspective of the balance of power between male and female that is far more complex than the one that typically defines women as victims. I saw, for the first time that gender imbalance can be as painful for men as it is oppressive to women … [When] male and female are out of balance in any context, personal or public, everyone suffers. This was something … that I tried to explore in the character and story of Sadiq, who is traumatically severed from his mother and her world of song and stories — left adrift, alone, out of balance and dangerous to anyone in his path. In the same way he is cut off from the existence of his daughter, his biologically feminine legacy to the world. Sadiq is a man twice exiled from the feminine.”
Nafisa’s depiction of the pain and repercussions of being exiled from the feminine confirms Jung’s assertion that our personal and collective wounds have their origin in the absence of the feminine consciousness.
Yasmeen, on the other hand, concerns itself solely to the idea of feminine consciousness. Brilliant and courageous for a debut novel, it tells an intricate tale of a daughter’s quest for her absent mother.
Beautiful and charming, Yasmeen suddenly disappears, leaving behind her heartbroken husband, James, and their emotionally troubled daughter, Irenie, who becomes obsessed with her mother’s absence. All her efforts in maintaining the illusion that Yasmeen is still present in the house do not help her relationship with her father who is a professor of the classics at an American university. Their interaction is marked by silence and monosyllables and barely involves any conversation.
Irenie then finds letters Yasmeen wrote to one Ahmed — who she was in love with in Pakistan before marrying James and leaving for the United States. Forced to unpack the enigma of her mother’s life, the young girl leaves her home in Crawford to live with Yasmeen’s family in Islamabad where she meets Ahmed’s son, Firdaus.
He used to deliver Yasmeen’s letters to his father, away from his own mother’s jealous eyes. After his father’s death, he sent those letters to James. Firdaus also reveals the riddle of Yasmeen’s disappearance: she died in an accident along with Ahmed.
Yasmeen had rushed back to Pakistan from the United States to meet Ahmed in a hospital in Islamabad where he was lying terminally ill. The meeting miraculously brought him back to life and Yasmeen drove him out of the hospital in a car before they met a fatal accident on the road. Irenie’s discovery of her mother’s secret life constitutes an intimate family drama, complete with its obsession with family ties, especially the mother-daughter relationship, in a cross-cultural context.
The story is told through a feminine point of view. Irenie’s quest for truth and closure glows with an archetypal intensity that takes one into the depths of a daughter’s longing for her mother. It also offers readers a feminine understanding of a woman’s love for a man she cannot marry — a passion that she carries into a future life with another man. Whether that is a precursor to another forbidden relationship – between Irenie and Firdaus – is a possibility the book hints at, again, from a feminine angle.
Mohammed Hanif’s second novel, Our Lady of Alice Bhatti, not only taps into the religious and ethnic marginalisation of its protagonist, Alice Bhatti, but also attempts to understand her character in the framework of feminine marginalisation. The two frameworks of marginalisation together define the contours of her life as a female Christian nurse at Karachi’s Sacred Heart Hospital.
Alice is the daughter of a sweeper, Joseph Bhatti, who ensures that she receives a good education. But growing religious intolerance in Karachi and the predatory nature of her social surroundings are not her only, or at least the biggest, concern. Her greatest problem is her striking beauty and the consequent sexual harassment she faces from the doctors, patients and their relatives — among others.
The character of a Muslim weightlifter, Teddy Butt, plays a foil to all that Alice is: he has a masculine and imperceptive outlook in contrast to her compassion and humane consciousness. The two meet in a psychiatric ward where Alice is attacked by the patients and is ‘heroically’ rescued by Butt.
Soon afterwards they fall in love and get married. Through their marriage, Hanif portrays the conflict underlying gender relations and conjugal politics that bring out the best and the worst in the two characters: Teddy is unbearably possessive and starts doubting the fidelity of his beautiful wife. He acts in the typical masculine way of snubbing and controlling the other while deliberately not looking at the facts. In Hanif’s words:
The feminine consciousness is all but absent in most of Mohsin Hamid’swork.
“His heart sinks at the thought that from now on not only is he responsible for his own sleep, he is responsible for hers as well. He watches her face closely. She is back in some dream, smiling. He thinks that this married life is not fair. He is responsible for her sleep but has no control over her dreams.”
It is clear that he does not acknowledge honesty in Alice’s personality. In fact, he casts her existence in his own psychological modelling, which is unreliable and toxic: unknown to his wife, he has been leading a secret double life of a police informant and agent provocateur.
Hanif brings the riot-ridden, turbulent Karachi to life through Teddy’s character and juxtaposes his callous criminality to Alice’s courage and willingness to not give up on her humanity even in the most inhuman of times.
When victims of deadly shootings are brought to the Sacred Heart Hospital, she pays great attention to their care in spite of inadequate equipment at her disposal, her insensitive colleagues and her troubled personal life.
It, therefore, comes as no surprise when, in the novel’s most symbolic moment, she manages to save the life of a newborn baby left for dead. The child’s incredible recovery is attributed to her supernatural powers and people start to relate the whole incident to the Christian legend of Madonna and the child.
Towards the end of the novel, Alice is killed by her enraged and jealous husband but it is important to note that the story does not end in tragedy but with the symbolic rebirth of the rescued child and the consciousness of feminine legacy (shown through legends of female sainthood surrounding Alice’s death).
Critic and editor Muneeza Shamsie, in her remarkable new book Hybrid Tapestries: The Development of Pakistani Literature in English (published in 2017), has interpreted Hanif’s novel as a story of “hapless people overtaken by the events beyond their control”.
But Our Lady of Alice Bhatti is also about consciousness that only women come to possess after having gone through various forms of oppression and marginalisation as part of their everyday existence. As in Alice’s case, she not only protects and nurtures the underdog, but also refuses to become cynical and bitter in the toxic and predatory environment around her. She does not change anything but hangs on to what she has in order to heal the world around her.
She not just manages to avoid cynicism and embitterment caused by masculine authority, but also protests against it by engaging herself with the suffering human beings around her — an engagement that ultimately overshadows her husband’s murderous masculinity. Through the heroic life of an ordinary woman and its heart-wrenching portrayal, Hanif certainly has highlighted the need to acknowledge and imbibe the feminine consciousness in order for us to live peaceful lives.
The feminine consciousness is all but absent in most of Mohsin Hamid’s work. Female characters in three of his novels exist only at the periphery of his narrative world and are overshadowed by the stories of his male protagonists.
It is possible to argue that his subject matter does not demand an in-depth exploration of female characters, even though some of them, such as the pretty girl in How to Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia (published in 2013), have the potential to have allowed that exploration.
But Hamid’s engaging debut Moth Smoke (published in 2000) strikingly sheds light on the possibility of female agency through Mumtaz’s character. From the tiny glimpses of her character that he shows in the novel, we come to know that she is an educated woman who is not happy with her husband. She learns to deal with her unhappy married life by chronicling the lives of prostitutes and others on the social margins under a pen name, Zulfikar Manto.