The Pakistani-American lawyer-turned-author Daniyal Mueenuddin’s This is Where the Serpent Lives is three stories and one novel packed into a unique medley of fiction writing. While the stories are separate, they feed into each other diagonally. They meander, return to a centre, then move on strongly in their respective directions. It takes a little adjustment for a reader to try and read them separately and together, at once. At times, one feels that the sum is not as good as its parts. Still, the parts are entirely worth a read; evidently, Mueenuddin can write with flair and gorgeous evocation.

“The Golden Boy” stands out for its characterisation of Bayazid or Yazid, an orphan finding his feet on the streets of Rawalpindi. With the frenzy of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s rise to power in the background, the writing brings alive a Pakistan in turmoil. Mohammed Hanif deploys a similar backdrop in Rebel English Academy, but the two writers interpret the sociopolitical milieu quite differently.

Mueenuddin has an eye for personality and human interaction. He peaks when he explores subtle relationships and infatuations. Yazid’s fixation with Yasmin, Saqib’s with Gazala, and the frisson between Nessim and Shahnaz are delectable. “The Clean Release” brings to the fore the chemistry (and friction) between two brothers, Hashim and Nessim. Their standoff in Kaghan Valley, North-West Frontier Province, is sheer theatre.

I often read the acknowledgements in a book before getting down to the book itself, finding this helpful to understand the author’s mind. Serpent has none, and I missed them for this insight.

The feudal face of Pakistan

By way of revealing the scorn that similarly placed working people can often have for one another, Mueenuddin writes of how Mai Viro—a house help at the Awan home—responds to Yazid:

“They had only one inside servant, Mai Viro, an ancient crone with a bead of sweat perpetually on her upper lip, who washed and carried and ruled the household from the kitchen and might in her sleep have pedalled a generator to provide electricity, if that had been required. Ill-tempered, grumbling against Zain’s mother, worshipping the father, she took a poisonous disliking to Yazid, bedamned that the family’s status should be fouled by this jumped-up tea stall boy treated as an equal. She would come into the room, squatting along and flicking a filthy black rag reeking with disinfectant along the floor, and flick a couple of times at Yazid too for good measure, before retreating into the corner to hear the Urdu broadcast, mumbling irritably.”

Social inequities surface, vertically too, exposing the feudal face of Pakistan. Writing of Colonel Atar, the author says: “The father had a habit of plucking in village maidens to his bedroom, of cuffing about his servants and the villagers too. He acted as the old feudals did, thought it his prerogative....” And again: “When Colonel Atar came to the farm the managers would line up and offer him garlands of rose petals and the guards would even squeeze off a rifle shot or two in the air, Colonel Sahib walking briskly past the assembly with a nod but secretly pleased—as they well knew.”

These bits combine two of the major force multipliers in Pakistani society—the military and the feudal—with Colonel Atar embodying both. This is where my peeve is: the Colonel deserved more pages, perhaps a bigger role in the larger goings-on around him. He remains a caricature of sorts.

The elite are omnipresent in the stories. Sample this: “Flying into Karachi on the PIA jumbo jet, Hisham and Nessim folded back into the privilege of their childhood, ushered through the VIP lounge at the airport, then a night at a cousin’s house in Clifton with a congratulatory party laid on, barely catching their flight next morning to Lahore.”

Keen observation

Inevitably, these protagonists are products of Aitchison College, which has produced the cream of Pakistan’s political and social class. However, the book does more than hold up a mirror to Pakistan’s elitism and class structures. It also nudges you towards the caste equations in society, something we do not always associate with Islam. Caste is often camouflaged as occupational hierarchy, as happens in India. Lines such as “We are not warriors, we are baniyas” or “You’re an Arain. You belong to the most successful and most powerful caste in this district and probably all of Punjab” illuminate the point. The stranglehold of the biradari, as it is called.

In a paragraph, Mueenuddin contrasts the plight of a desperate, poor woman—seated at the feet of the “Madame”, begging for the freedom of her incarcerated husband—with the privileges of her wealthy masters, à la Bong Joon Ho’s Parasite:

“The child had still not stirred, and then it did, smacking its lips, turning its head, gliding back into consciousness, that grain of sleeping pill metabolised away. And something like victory flooded the scene, the blue shimmering pool, the underwater lights in the pool kept on all night just in case Shahnaz wished to swim, water-proof lights imported from the West, and the woman at her feet, Saqib alone that night in a cell somewhere ruing his infidelity.”

The same flavour is apparent here too:

“They took the leads from the hand-cranked generator and clipped them to metal plates encircling his ankles. Saqib watched all this with disbelief more than panic. He thought of his sweet flesh, no sweeter to be found than what stuck to his own back. Could they possibly be doing this to him, to little Saqib, this body that Gazala had shown him how to love, this father, this mother’s son?”

Some sentences like “In Pakistan, every problem is a lock, and to that lock there is a single key” would have sounded more authentic had they been in Punjabi.

Much of the action in the latter part of the book is centred in the estate called Ranmal Mohra, where the family home is named Kèrala. The writing reaches a poignant crescendo during a baithak where Saqib is confronted by his employers on suspicions of theft. He must face this inquisition in the presence of his father, who is kicked and humiliated despite having served the family for decades. That the old man takes the punishment without protest is both profoundly moving and infuriating.

The author has himself spent considerable time tending to his father’s mango farm in rural Punjab. He is able, therefore, to write in a voice that bears the stamp of experience, observation, and empathy.

Aditya Sondhi is a senior advocate based in Delhi.

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