Let's talk about Bollywood!

My quest into Bollywood classical beauties makes me stumble on great stuff sometimes. Sometimes not: for example, I recently watched Ram aur Shyam and found it a letdown: the famed “best film that cannot be made again” (according to one IMDb user) was not much more than a passable entertainer. Still, pursuing my Waheeda Rehman quest, with Solva Saal (Raj Khosla, 1958), the pleasure level was high, and Waheeda a beautiful marvel. One is right to dig further, even if the first layer has proved disappointing!

The film’s story, is perfectly told by Memsaab (thanks Greta) so please go read, she really does that well! What I want to say about it refers to the main lead pair, and to the cinema metaphor to be found in the movie. Dev Anand, who sometimes struck me (perhaps as he started surfing on his “cool charmer” image?) as rather superficially detached and too self-assured, here I found really pleasant, quite a treat to watch.

His Gregory Peck likeness helps him passed the attention threshold, and once he’s hooked the spectator thus, one smiles as he banters and teases, as he laughs, jokes and forgets himself a little, even showing an ageing double-chin! Truly the detached dandy puts on a good show. His disguises are another way to show his versatility, and I’m sure if I was a woman, I’d fall for his sparkling merry eyes. Some people prefer Shammi Kapoor, but I know I wouldn’t! Anyway Pran Kashyap has a youthful and naïve elegance which at the time belonged to him only.

The movie is sometimes only a pretext to showcase either him or Waheeda Rehman (who plays Laaj, the eloping kanya), but there are two GREAT scenes where he’s in a perfect opposition with her: the taxi scene and the clothes changing scene. In the taxi, he’s a stranger to her, and Laaj, being in a delicate situation where she doesn’t want to reveal who she is, and what she’s doing, is trying her best to hide everything she can: name, address, reason for her presence etc. But this dissimulation only arouses more attention, of course. And her infuriated attitude creates a classic confrontation jewel, that of the fuming beauty and the merry admirer. It’s hilarious and charming.

                                                                                                                                   Above, a repetition of the taxi scene!

Yet it’s only in the second scene, when, after Laaj has tried to drown herself (she’s too ashamed to go back to her father and admit she’s made a mistake to elope with a young man who she now realises has tricked her), and Pran saves her (oh, there’s a useless “wet and torrid” exchange of looks near the parapet, in which we’re supposed to understand that she finds him deadly attractive), it’s only in this scene that they illuminate the screen completely. They reach a washerwoman’s house, who’s ready to give them some dry clothes, and mistaking them for husband and wife, sends them in a common changing room. Very nice scene where a horrified but also exultant Laaj shuts the window on the giggling dhobiwalla’s wife, ready to enjoy an unusual squint:

Inside the “changing rooms”, the fun (and the delight) really start! First, they have to partition the room into two, by pulling curtains between them. Of course this means that they will be “obliged” to hear the other undressing. Then (as expected!) they’re given each other’s clothes, Laaj has men’s, and Pran women’s, and this creates a classic embarrassment which obliges them to touch objects that are going to be worn by the other… And then they realise that this forced intimacy is rather pleasurable, and they play with it. Laaj starts asking questions about her protector and saviour: where did he learn how to sing, is he married, etc. And Dev, relishing the warming-up inherent in these questions, tenderly resists. She grows insistent, uses all her conviction, and she finally opens the curtain to suggest he might relent, and indulge a little in commonality!

Nowhere, not even in Teesri Kasam, have I found Waheeda Rehman as alluring and seductive as in this scene. Her profile is absolute voluptuousness. Her black eyebrows give her expression a strength and a daringly sensual appeal. And the way she plays with her eyelids, her lips, her chin, all this is entrancing. If there was one scene when I was sitting in front of screen like a Tex Avery wolf, tongue unrolled and eyeballs out, it’s here! In Teesri Kasam, there’s perhaps more ecstasy, more dreamy femininity. But here, in this scene (and in one or two other passages), Waheeda was pure physical shock.

So if you add the further shock coming from the other feminine heroine of the movie, Kammo (who plays Meena the temptress and manipulator), you understand the load this film contains.

There is nothing more fulfilling than when a woman, realising she loves a man, becomes beautiful as sheer result of the pleasure she feels, of the efficiency of her power, and of the queen-like renunciation which can be guessed within her. For women reign by so far as they accept to resign their powers!

In Solva saal there is another interesting dimension, the (classic) cinema metaphor, commonly used in all performing arts where a certain “depth” is sought after. Laaj and Pran get involved in a movie shooting at one stage, while looking for their thief, and Raj Khosla has fun including these real actors into the movie’s movie. There’s a Hitchockian element to the operation as the chaser becomes the chased one: Pran the detective is thought to be the thief and we follow his pursuit on top of the theatre sets, circled by a pursuing spotlight. All this adds a playfulness to the story, a double theatrical dimension which comments on the main action. When Pran disguises as a sort of Russian spy in order to trick Meena the trickster and her tricked thief (Jagdev), he’s really staging what Dev is doing for us, making us believe in Pran; and when as a reporter he looks for a good story to give his paper, he’s mimicking the movie director keen on pleasing his audience (us!)

Solva Saalalso plays cleverly on the double dimension of seeing and watching: at the end, Meena the temptress, Meena the maya evokes the power of vision, the role it has in love and attraction, but also its ambiguity: Laaj was first trapped by her Shyam, his good looks, before being trapped again by his false intentions. And so we spectators are trapped into lifting our eyes towards the screen, and giving a reality to what is nothing but a fiction! Traditional themes, to be sure, but nicely introduced, and aptly suggested as passing allusions.

 Some people have wondered why the movie is called Solva saal, sixteenth year: the answer is to be found is the song sung by the washerwomen folk, as Laaj and Pran emerge from their Changing Room, having made the other guess their inclinations. The lyrics go thus: “See my state, my walk has changed, see, I’m 16 years!”. The change clearly refers to what happens to a girl when she becomes a woman, and emancipates herself by love. Something which clearly happens to Laaj, who from the beginning of the film is engaged to be married to an unknown groom (you’ve guessed who it’ll turn out to be!)  And the last song, during the shooting, takes place in the fictitious situation of the "new year" Now why 16 years, or the 16th year? Why not the 20^th? Here, I must admit my ignorance.

Anyway, don’t hesitate to watch Solva saal, it’ll charm and satisfy you!

                                                                                Oh my God, why are you saying all that!

Yaadon ki baaraat (Nadir Hussain, 1973) is a classic tale of revenge, where the good but separated boys who have been witnesses of their parents’ murder will reunite and pursue revenge on the murderers. It’s a not under 15 movie, presumably because of that violence, and I suppose the immorality which is described to be that of the gang of thugs. It features Dharmendra at his most feisty, Zeenat Aman at her her curvy loveliest, and the music score (RD Burman) is simply great: so it should definitely be more than a simple entertainment picture!

Alas, it is very disappointing. The story is not bad, really; there is a good mingling of the pretext scenes with the compulsory revenge strand; but nobody acts – the actors are pitifully bad, even Dharmendra (above), who in spite of being sometimes romantically soulful, was often too stilted.

I was never able to forget that Vijay Arora is playing the 70s teen idol (neither did he, unfortunately) and Zeenat’s little innocent voice is such a sham! The “rock and roll” scenes are pathetic. Well perhaps it’s because the movie tries so hard to reflect what the mood was at the time, and is so dated. I don’t know. For example, the famous “idyllic” scene where we see the 3 boys (among which a young Aamir Khan) embarrassingly surrounding their mum at her birthday, at the beginning the scene which is seen in Swades), reeks of amateurish complacency!  (see at bottom) There isn’t an ounce of psychological realism, not a wink to the audience! The only explanation I can give for the torrents of praise I’ve read here and there (a Facebook page!) are because the movie chimes in with the spectators’ youths.

Perhaps the excess of the stylishness saves the movie, because everybody is really representative of his role: Shakkal, for example, is a “perfect” villain: his blue glasses turn him into a species of super model of the genre! The costumes on the whole are also a success; one cannot but smile at seeing again all that psychedelic colourful eccentricity. I suppose there’s a public for all that!

In spite of all the recipe formulas that stud the film, there is nevertheless a certain charm, a vague appeal, perhaps coming from that cry: “Bhaiya!” at the beginning, when Shankar cannot catch his little brother’s hand and is obliged to leave him on the railway track, while his last carriage enters the dark tunnel of separation. The lingering desire of needing to see that murder avenged, too, and actually seeing it (did anyone in Bollywood teach train-drivers to use their brake?), well, this somehow triggers a sort of “poetic justice”. And then there’s the music: both “Chura liya hai”, and of course the title tune “Yaadon ki baaraat” (Memories on the march) which is so infectious that it’s able to take the whole movie into its swinging verses. As somebody says on IMDb, “General advice: buy the soundtrack, not the DVD!”

What do you prefer? A happy ending where the two lovers unite after having defeated the villains or convinced their parents? Or the sad one where love cannot exist because the tragic and beautiful story doesn’t permit it? DDLJ or Devdas? KKHH or Fanaa? Many people would of course favour a happy ending, because life is a sad enough tale as it is, so why shouldn’t one dream and unwind at the cinema? Isn’t that what movies are for? We all know films aren’t reality, and most of us are idealists who love to be charmed by beautiful stories where love is not only possible, but victorious, and can last… forever. Besides, movies show us beautiful people in beautiful settings, and what we cannot afford for ourselves is there, on the screen, ready for us to suspend our disbelief, and be lulled by an optimistic tale, full of hope and glory, signifying plenty!

There’s nothing better, isn't there, than being tormented during two and a half hours by doubt and anguish, before finally being given the incredibly relieving possibility that love will happen, and the situation satisfies everyone. We get such a feeling of justice too, when this happens: we know that love is the best and most natural thing that can happen to anyone, and so being denied that fullness is unfair and painful. A good director will enable this type of story to unfold: a realistic difficulty stops happiness from pursuing its quiet glory, and the lovers go through the pangs of bereavement and doubt: the best distances are those that could separate them from each other, the psychological ones, or the moral ones. Of course a family obstacle will do fine, because the conflict of interests generally works very well. And so if two loves oppose one another, you have the perfect entertainer!

Dulhan ek raat ki (The one-night bride, by D.D.Kashyap, 1967) isn’t that, alas! We do have the difficulties, we do have the love, but the events are too overwhelming, and the end is tragic, even if Memsaab thinks (or rather hopes) otherwise! Here’s what she writes, at the end of a very honest description of the film:

“Although to my delight the ending was not quite as dark as the book’s, even if I wouldn’t call it happy. Still, there’s enough ambiguity so that I can pretend.”

So first go to her blog for the story (thanks Greta), and then come back.

You’re done? OK, so let’s get down to business: Thomas Hardy’s Tess is a masterpiece of English literature, and D.D. Kashyap deserves praise for having attempted to adapt it. The question is, then, has he done well to keep it a tragedy, or should he have softened it down? Well, he’s done both! We have one the one hand his overall faithfulness to the original story, with remarkable inventiveness to pass from the XIXth century Wessex environment to mid XXth century Uttar Akhand, and at the same time some completely new elements which introduce a charming comedy spirit that doesn’t disturb the main course of events.

Johnny Walker is the main ingredient of that dose of comedy. He’s introduced in a very clever (and rare) way: he see him turning his back the camera, and then suddenly without any preparation, he faces us spectators, whereas we didn’t know before we were in the movie! And he delivers us this funny stance about his taking advantage of bachelors’ residences until they get married, and he has then to find another victim! Later he’s the agent of reconciliation between Nirmala and Ashok, or he tries at least, reminding his friend that the young lady is unjustly abandoned, and Ashok gains in humanity, because we understand his sorrow much more easily than we do Angel’s in the novel. In the film, it doesn’t seem that Ashok leaves his beloved for so very long, but Angel actually leaves Tess to sail to South America, and stays there a number of years! She writes to him, and all her letters are unanswered. Desperate, she goes back to the one man who had insisted would look after her in time of need, Alec, her rapist. But Hardy’s book (and Roman Polanski’s film) make it clear that Alec, even if he’s “a bad sort”, remains human, and is genuinely concerned by Tess in his own way. Angel’s wounded manhood on the other hand destroys her. Ashok doesn’t get that treatment, and as a result, perhaps, Dharmendra’s character comes out as more gentle, but a little weak.

The same thing happens to Rehman’s character, Ranjeet, who impersonates Alec. Well, not quite, thanks to the movie’s photographer. Rehman’s brow and jaws are perfectly shadowed (remember his pose during the piano bit “Kai din se di”?) to bring out his sombre purposes, and if he doesn’t achieve much in terms of acting, it doesn’t disturb the movie too much. What it does is it boosts its simple balance of right and wrong, a thing which (am I right?) Indian audiences would prefer. For example, there’s this moment when, at the end of the movie, he tries to explain to a solitary Nirmala that he’s truly reformed, that he needs her, that he’s not really responsible for what has happened that raat… But he doesn’t look at her! And when he does, it’s with a hard and frightening stare. He just recites his text, in a doggedly way that lacks all passion. If he had wanted to prove at least his care for her, wouldn’t he have tried to soften her, to make her pity him? Instead, she finds in his speech a confirmation of his evil ways, and triumphs. Thomas Hardy knew more about human complexity.

Nutan on the contrary shines through and through (much to the pleasure of the Nutan fan:-)))!!) and not only in the expected forlorn scenes of solitude and dejection. I say expected, because she’s obviously been used by directors in a number of movies where she had to deal with social rejection (see Sujata, Saudagar or Bandini!) In Dulhan ek raat ki, there’s a very moving scene, where she sings Madan Mohan’s “sapno me agar mere”, and one is rapturously watching her painful desire (her foot brushes against the bedstead, a hand strokes the pillow). She’s languidly reclining on the bed, and turns over to reveal her perfect face. The scene is full of wrenching and disturbing yearning; her dark eyes look straight at the camera for a second, and one feels she’s making us sense what’s going on within her breast. In her song, she’s woefully wishing her saajan (her lover) to come in her dreams, so she might sleep: without him, she cannot rest, but should he visit her dreams, she will find comfort and repose. The words are ominous, because we know the ending, and the sleep she’s referring to could anticipate the unfortunate destiny that will befall her. They can also be interpreted in a rather frank sexual way, because of the cruder meaning of “sleeping”. But all this is never shocking: she’s expressing the distress of bereaved love, and everything she says is beautiful and natural.

On the whole her role is a rather grave one, even before the fateful night. Once only is she again the marvel of mirth and happiness which I love so much (see Dilli ka thug, for example): it’s when she arrives at the Nainital “school” where she gets employment as governess. The “headmaster” asks her about her experience, and the mention of children bring on her face the loveliest of expressions:

She then defends their naughtiness, saying it’s really liveliness, and that a home isn’t one without it. This scene doesn’t exist in the book; Tess doesn’t find employment after Angel has left her, that’s why she goes to Alec. Perhaps DD Kashyap introduces this scene out of pity for Tess/Nirmala! There is also a very witty and Nutan-indulging invention, which I hadn’t seen done before: during her stay there, she writes to her mother, telling her that everything is Okay, that she doesn’t need to worry any more about her. As is common, we hear her voice when Maa reads, but we get a whooper: Nutan herself, on her bed in her room, speaking the words which her mother is reading back home! Now that’s good, because the scene supposes that she had been meditating the words, and memorised them perhaps, before writing them down, showing us her tender love for her mother. It’s also a way to enjoy her beauty once more, as she experiences that delicate feeling.

Talking of art and beauty, the dramatic night scene where the catastrophe happens deserves a word. Rehman and Nutan are side by side in the car, he’s impassively taking away from home, and the moonlight passes on their faces, overshadowed now and then by darkness. Nutan’s face is rimmed by a spectacular oval of classic beauty, where her black features stand out in striking contrast. She’s tense, and then angry when she realises he’s taking her out of her way, but it’s too late, we see him clutching her arm, she pulls it away, banging it on the window (and losing the bangle which Ashok had asked her to keep to remember him by), and then we see but one picture:

It lasts two seconds, perhaps, or two seconds and a half, and we understand that this distraught face is after; this is much more powerful than what we see in Polanski’s film, where the rape is practically shown. The blank in the narration here (and the dishevelled hair striping her eyes like whips) evokes the gaping hole in her life which this night will leave forever in her, and one is left to ponder about the meaning of all this. In today’s society (at least in the West), women would tend to heal part of such a trauma thanks to a lawsuit and condemnation of the rapist. But are we right to give such an importance to virginity? Or can we avoid giving it all that importance? Thomas Hardy’s Tess clearly denounces such a male-oriented emphasis. Of course we’re talking about rape here, not the loss of virginity. But in fact the story is an exploration of the social and psychological impact of this loss. Tess/Nirmala is raped, but it is shown (socially) to be as bad as if she’d been consenting. As it is, she suffers double, that’s all. But perhaps if virginity hadn’t been so essential in the culture of the time, she would have suffered only from the violence of the rape, and not from the factual loss of her virginity.

Nevertheless the Indian version of the movie seems to insist on the importance of virginity too. Ashok even hints Nirmala could have stopped working at Ranjeet’s place once she had felt his interest for her. Women are attracted to such men he says. I don’t quite know what to think about this! And the movie’s end, Nirmala blames the “powers” above which, as in Greek tragedies, play with simple mortals (cf. Shakespeare’s King Lear, act IV, sc 1) and “kill them for their sport”. But we know that such powers have a human face, the face of ignorance and bigotry, which turn women into the victims of their sex, which jealous men want to possess more than enjoy and protect.

One has to look at the position of men too, and even if today, the value traditionally given to virginity is more limited in secular societies, because of the freedom given to women, such places are an exception in the world, and we cannot affirm, I think, that all societies that cherish virginity are systematically male-dominated ones. There is something to say for the deeply rooted need of a man to be the sole “owner” of his wife, and Ashok’s reaction is therefore understandable, even if he knows that Nirmala is innocent. In Thomas Hardy’s original story, the reaction takes a cruel turn which is excessive, but it seems that Ashok suffers not unjustifiably.

To come back to my question at the beginning, is Dulhan ek raat ki more artistically satisfying because it’s a tragedy (it is a tragedy, cf. the numerous references to kismet, fate), or could one have changed the end and make the lovers unite somehow? Difficult, huh? Aren’t love stories “greater” if they contain some elements of sadness? Of course, if the end is sad, or even tragic, the whole movie is tainted by it. But I know of a movie which has succeeded the tour de force of including the ingredient of sadness and yet avoid making the spectator feel he’s been cheated: it’s Veer-Zaara. Yash Chopra has created a love-story in which the experience of loss and sadness weighs down the general impression, and yet the lovers reunite in the end in spite of all the difficulties, and the relief and wonder at the truth of love is all the stronger because they have been deprived of their youth, which is the magic and memory of love. Yet love happens, it is given to them, and not denied them. And somehow, through love (it’s the meaning of that last song-scene, “Tere liye” in which we see the two old lovers become young again), they regain a youth which is like an eternity!

In Dulhan ek raat ki, on the other hand, as in Devdas and other sad-ending movies, the beauty has to come from somewhere else, and that somewhere is perhaps the certainty that love is stronger than death, that it triumphs over death precisely because it fights against it (and sometimes it rushes towards it) so impetuously. Love has something to do with death, in its absoluteness: that’s the “solution” to tragic romances. And real (classic) romanticism is always connected to death. Today people would call such movies as Tess unromantic, because of the drama contained in it. If it doesn’t enable love to flourish, it isn’t “romantic”. But the true meaning of “romantic” is passionate until death. True love contains an excess, a sense of sacrifice, and a rebellion against the limits of our human condition which is best shown in tragedy. Romantic comedies can be beautiful and satisfying, but artistically, romantic dramas can explore this dimension better.

One last remark concerning the incredibly rich and plentiful musical score: I sometimes felt that the film contained more music than talking! The songs aren’t all standard length, too, which creates a very pleasant and free relationship to the genre. It’s as if the film-maker had mastered the necessity of giving songs to his spectators, and knew how best to surprise them by offering them “classic” pieces (yet always beautifully blended in the storyline) and then unexpected extras that spring out of his inspiration when we don’t expect them.

     The reluctant fundamentalist is a strange and powerful little book. It’s clearly got some autobiographical elements in it, and because of that has manage to net some darting fishes of life that jump and flash and look up from their prison wondering what will happen to them. But the fisherman, Mohsin Hamid, has a heart, and won’t kill them; on the opposite, he’s willing to let them go back to their immense liquid world after he’s used their magic. So the reader watches this magic operate, and marvels at the freshness of the scenes, the clarity of the feelings, the truth of the colours. So gentle is this fisherman – or perhaps one should say, this fish breeder, because the little wild fishes he has caught grow and develop as we read – that his creatures perform what he wants them to do: they recognize his respect, they let themselves be tamed by him.

     They even love their net! What is the net? Mohsin Hamid’s first person monologue, sustained continuously from first to last page, whereas he’s supposed to be in a conversation with his interlocutor. That’s it, he’s engaged in a 200 page-long conversation with an unknown American visitor, to whom he’s telling the story of his life, and never makes this other person intervene. It’s sometimes artificial, because he’s not always very good at reformulating the other person’s remarks or reactions, so as to make them originate from his own logorrhoea; instead they sometimes turn out to be clumsy repetitions, and one wonders why he hasn’t wanted us to hear the other person’s voice! Well, that’s the book’s main trick. Who is Changez’s interlocutor? The question gathers momentum during the conversation; we feel the urge to hear him, to know his identity, his name, his purpose: we will be denied this relief.  

    On the other hand we know lots about Changez, the young Pakistani Princeton graduate who, now back in Lahore, tells his guest about his time in America, how he has brilliantly succeeded in his studies, was singled out among smart rivals and gets hired by one of the most prestigious New York finance companies. Changez, says his all-powerful mentor Jim, is a shark, he never ceases to swim, he’s constantly on the alert, and possesses tremendous powers of concentration and dedication. At 22, after a stupendous University record, he’s landed in the fiercely competitive waters of corporate New York, and he’s beaten all the natives, all the WASPs. They look at him with a mixture of disdain and envy, but he’s such a winner that his difference is disregarded in cosmopolitan New York. He feels at home there, in fact.

    The café conversation with the unnamed American also rolls on about Changez’s girlfriend, a lovely young Princeton graduate (I’d almost like to write “Princess”), with whom he goes to Greece that summer after they’ve all got their diplomas. She’s called Erica, and she’s a stunner, always surrounded by a crowd of admirers. But our young hero manages somehow to attract her attention, because he’s quieter, and she’s got a secret tragedy in her life that needs an attention which ordinary boyish physical adulation doesn’t or can’t give her. But she feels drawn to our young exile; his shyness, his gentleness win her slowly over. Back in New York, he learns she’s grieving the loss of her childhood boyfriend, who died from cancer. This death has shaken her so much that she’s under medication, and cannot commit; she needs friendship, not love.

     When we open “The reluctant fundamentalist” we are told of the importance of the narrator’s beard. He tries to ward off his listener’s alarm – says he – at seeing his beard. It must be some beard! We are in Lahore, Pakistan: so he’s a Muslim. In short, he’s our fundamentalist. But why reluctant? Does this reassure us? He says he “loves America”: not very reassuring. Yet, little by little, we do feel reassured. We are reassured by his story, by his character. One as much as the other, because confessing such a lengthy story shows a trust and a natural generosity which cannot but make us trust him in return. Changez may be a chatterbox, but he’s a believer in the power of words as a promoter of peace and confidence among peoples. Is his interlocutor’s silence a sign that this belief isn’t shared? What is sure, at any rate, is that because of his confession, we understand better what it is to be a “fundamentalist”. Changez is anything but what we would normally call a fundamentalist: a bigoted, short-sighted, intolerant ranter who cannot understand that humanity is plural and should remain thus. Fundamentalists never change: but he’s called “Changez”.

     But in fact this “fundamentalist” has learnt fundamentalism in America, where his company’s creed was to “concentrate on the pursuit of fundamentals”. These fundamentals are the firm’s overriding demand for efficiency and professionalism. So Mohsin Hamid makes it quite clear that we aren’t necessarily looking in the right direction when we turn our minds East, thinking of fundamentalism. A certain form of blind belief is involved in devoting all your energy in making sure American firms are the best and the most profitable of the planet. These white bright things are utterly convinced they are the best, they’re convinced they’re on a mission, that of intelligence and superiority, and that nothing less than total dedication is necessary if they want to justify their top-level recruitment. And all that is done in the name of a hidden God, the God of profitability and sound Finance.

     September 11, 2001 is the turning point in Changez’s narrative. Everything changes for him as from that date. First it makes his envied position as a shark in the high-flying NYC firm look more like a dartboard: being a Pakistani in post 9-11 New York wasn’t exactly a way to promote open multiculturalism. He starts getting bad looks, then threats and even if he’s protected by his bosses, it’s hard to fight against those “fundamentals”. Then things deteriorate with Erica. For her, the national disaster reactivates her own drama: death is again very close, and her depression worsens. They try to protect their budding love, but the forces within her are too strong, she drifts away from him, and is placed in an institution. Changez’s family at home in Pakistan tell him about the risks of war against the old arch-enemy, India, and he’s shocked to realize that the US are pulling the strings in the back. This is too much for him: here he is, working his ass off for a country that’s planning to bomb his country’s neighbours, and perhaps his very family! He slowly understands some fundamentals are wrongly positioned.

     But it isn’t that simple. Because everything he’d fought for so far had become his pride, his happiness, and his sense of achievement. He’d been living that goddamn American dream, that’s what. And when America gives, it isn’t with half a heart. He’s become an American, almost. America has been made thanks to guys like him. That’s where its strength comes from. That’s why it’s the world most powerful nation. He has believed in the Dream that all men… etc. America’s life-secret is that the river of kindness and hope has continued to mix its waters to the gigantic materialistic and individualistic estuary. One sign of this: while they’re talking at the café table, a beggar comes up, and our narrator approves the stranger’s principles not to give money to paupers in the street:

“Very wise: one ought not to encourage beggars, and yes, you are right, it is far better to donate to charities that address the causes of poverty than to him, a creature who is merely a symptom. What am I doing? I am handing him a few rupees – misguidedly, of course, and out of habit. There, he offers us his prayers for our well-being; now he is on his way.” (p. 45)

     Changez is “reluctantly” doing two opposite things at the same time: rationally encouraging the detachment from visible misery in order to keep his eyes on the wider picture which is that of the long-term solution, and emotionally pitying the real person who needs food, now, so he and his family can eat. This contradictory attitude symbolises his “fundamental” humanity. Because the contradiction is only apparent. The real contradiction is when one gives to be rid of the problem, or when one doesn’t give in order to escape the burn of poverty in a fellow human being, and when one justifies this by building rational excuses. Guys like Changez are the real Americans, those who believe in doing what’s right, those who have pledged their lives for freedom and who have died on the Normandy beaches. But not the rifle-toting, whiter than white, frightened isolationists who vote with their Chevrolet 4WD.

     In the fight against America inc., Changez wins the battle: he quits his golden job and returns to the nation where he really belongs, and thus regains a purpose which he had lost somewhere on the line when leaving for the States. He loses (Am)Erica, true, but then she was lost anyway. For me, Erica represents the weak spot in Changez’s strength of character. Not that he’s responsible for that weakness. But she’s the one thing he hasn’t been able to succeed in: she has eluded him, whereas he has succeeded everywhere else, including his indictment of neoliberal USA. Perhaps this failure helps picturing Changez as a less formidable figure; and his suffering and sacrifice brings him closer to us?

Mohsin Hamid