Friday, 3 September 2021

Moth Smoke, Review by Kashif Nasir

 



Book: Moth Smoke
Author: Mohsin Hamid
Genre: crime fiction, thriller, romance
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Characters:
Ozi aka Aurangzaib: a young rich recently married guy who moves from Newyork to settle in Lahore Pakistan
Daru: Ozi’s childhood best friend, a banker who recently got fired from his job
Mumtaz: Ozi’s wife, a Newyork party girl
Badshah: An anarchist, drug peddler, rickshaw driver, robber

Plot:
The plot loosely revolves around the corruption of the main character Daru, he starts out as a respectable banker, then a heroin addict, and a drug peddler. The lives of three main characters Ozi, Mumtaz and Daru overlaps and creates a memorable, disturbing, and startlingly original story.

My thoughts:
Wow, where to start. Would you believe me, if I told you that I finished this novel in two days?
When I first picked up this book, I thought it was a common love triangle story but it turned out to be something completely different and quite remarkable.
Daru the main character is somewhat an anti-hero, actually, he is neither a hero nor an anti-hero, he is stuck somewhere between. He is gray, neither white nor black. The beauty of this story is that there is not a single good character in this novel. All characters are terrible. All characters are selfish and brutal.

I have been seeing this kind of thing in literature for a while, I mean look at ‘Gone girl’, a story of villains, or ’The silent patient’, or ‘The girl on the train’. Stories filled with villains.
Cheating partners, casual sex, drugs.

The time for heroes has passed. It’s time for anti-heroes. The moral corruption of our society has seeped into our literature. There are no good people anymore just people worse than other people. Strange merit to measure goodness?

‘Moth smoke’ paints a picture of Lahore I have never seen before, of high profile parties and expensive branded alcohol. Don’t get me wrong I don’t mind a drink every then and now. But the picture seemed unrealistic to me maybe because I am never been part of such high profile society.
Or maybe Mohsin is seeing Lahore through the eyes of a Newyorker. Is his story an escape to New York's nightlife? But then again the rich have their Newyork right here in Lahore.
The rest of the book is convincing. In fact stories worse than this are happening in our cities. Which makes the book more believable.
Mohsin wrote his story beautifully, it gets better in later chapters; especially POVs of Mumtaz and Ozi are pure class.

Personally, I think Ozi is the worst character because Mumtaz and Daru at least have some remorse or regret for their actions but Ozi has none, he is an entitled bastard. Another thing is that Ozi wrong about his belief that Daru is not a victim of the system. He is wrong. My argument is that Daru is indeed a victim of a flawed system. A system (there are dialogues like this in the book) in which a man is the slave of his birth. Your life is determined by your social status and that’s why Daru is the main character because 99 percent of us can relate to his plight. Daru could have simply been Ozi if he had been born in a different household.

Didn’t it strike a nerve when Daru said although he had top grades his wealthy friends went abroad for studies and he couldn’t?

The Other thing is the Bulllshit argument Ozi tries to make for his father’s corruption, what an AH.

There are some weak points related to the characters' hate for air conditioning. Mohsin tries very hard to convince us. The question is how can Daru blame air conditioning for his mother’s demise when he can blame bullets or air firing? The argument for Mumtaz's hate for air-conditioning is as thin as an eggshell.
The rest of the book is good. A good light un-put-downable thriller.

 

Wednesday, 1 September 2021

Are we Iron ? Are we plastic ?

 


Many of you might have read Eric Blair also known as George Orwell. It has been said that he was a man of big hates. He hated many things, he hated totalitarianism, communism, etc…

 

I have realized that I do hate things… too many things… so today I will just talk about the things I hate…

 

I hate plastic. I can’t stand it. I abhor it. I loathe it.

I don’t know when I first started hating plastic but it has somehow become personal. I have this biochemical reaction whenever I think about plastic, the sensation I feel is similar to touching something wet while washing dishes or seeing some crawling creeping reptile. It’s disgusting.

I hate the nature of plastic. I hate how easily available it is, why can’t it be scarce? Don’t you hate things that are easily accessible? I hate the fact that it has no shape. I hate that it is easily moldable. I hate that it has no moral stance. It has no character. It can be anything you want it to be hence its nothing. I hate that it's nothing.

It should be something.

I mean look at Iron. It can stand very high pressures. It has a character. It takes a lot of effort to change its shape, its stance.

 Even when it rusts. It seems more natural, more humane but plastic lacks any human qualities. It’s pathetic. There is nothing organic about it. It is unnatural

 

Are we Iron? Are we plastic?

 

Slowly the plastic has replaced Iron, even the furniture is plastic now but nobody respects plastic. I abhor the chair I sit on because it is immoral, it is unnatural, it can be easily discarded. It is cheap. It can break anytime. It is not trustworthy but Iron, iron is trustworthy, you know it won’t break, it won’t deceive and it won’t let you down.

 

There is something about plastic that I abhor its touch. Why is plastic, plastic? Why is it so soulless? Why does it exist? I automatically lose interest in a drink if it’s in a plastic bottle.

Maybe you won’t understand why I hate plastic so much… maybe you do… maybe you feel exactly the way I feel.

 

The world is full of plastic; it’s full of individuals who are plastic. They have no character, no shape, no moral stance, no ideas, no original thoughts, they are brain dead, moldable, easily available, they are not even themselves aware that they were cut off this lump, this lump which is plastic, they try to fit in, instead of standing out, they take any place offered to them, they do what anyone wants them to do, they are unconscious and have no thought, they go through life like plastic bottles, they are shaped reshaped in a factory, handed out, used, discarded, brought back recycled reused an endless process without actually ever realizing what’s happening

Why shouldn’t I hate this lump of plastic, why shouldn’t hate this thing which demands to be called humanity. Yet shows no signs of it.

An organism evolving for billions of years busy in a rat race for what,

 Survival? Happiness? dopamine? Is that it?

Why can’t there be a higher calling, a higher purpose?

I believe there is a higher calling. I believe there is a higher purpose.

There is a thing that calls you out. A thing which you can’t help doing. A thing which drives you and gives you satisfaction no other thing can. It can be anything. But it’s your ultimate purpose, your ultimate calling. It’s what makes you unique and human. It’s what makes you not part of the lump. It’s what makes you not plastic. It’s what gives you character and makes you unique. It makes you formidable and gives you heights of fame. It makes you immortal but what won’t make you immortal is being plastic.

So today I want you to go home and burn all the plastic.

It is possible. That throughout our life we might have acquired a protective coating of plastic, a camouflage to fit in.

 

Today I want you to go and sit in the oven and melt all your plastic parts. Burn it all, let its meltdown, and when it’s all gone your naked soul will appear, a will of iron, a stance of iron, a character of iron. A character that doesn’t bend and is not flexible, a character of Iron, your real true self.

 

Oh you who have an inner life

Beyond this dismal day

With war and evil rumors rife

Go blessedly your way

 

Your refuge hold inviolate

On to yourself be true

And save serene from sordid fate

The real you.          

(The poem is copied)      

Friday, 23 July 2021

The Demon A poem by Kashif Nasir

 





The demon in the night
Keeps me up all night
It writes the words I do not know
And says the thing I cannot so

It writes the poems
And makes the art
And when the morning comes
It departs

He is the one who has the urge
To paint the canvas with his words
I think he is lonely too
Where he goes in the day I do not know

I must do, I must do his will
To write the words and stay still
And when he has done his part
He will leave me and depart

And in the morning people will praise
The work I did with demon’s grace
This lonely demon has no soul
It wants my heart, it wants me whole

It just wants to consume my life
So I can just sit there and type
I want to quit I want to go
I have done enough
I know, I know

This demon is really strange
He is sick, he is deranged
He just wants me to write a verse
And then he says he will free me from this curse

The curse is that I must write and write
And writing not
Find no respite

I am tired of this lonely curse
I am tired of this craft of verse