Magazines
FICTION: THE EMOTIONAL ECONOMY OF SERVITUDE
This is Where the Serpent Lives
By Daniyal Mueenuddin
Knopf
ISBN: 978-0525655152
368pp.
Here are the opening lines of Pakistani-American Daniyal Mueenuddin’s new novel This Is Where the Serpent Lives:
“Bayazid never knew how he came to be a little boy alone in the streets of Rawalpindi. He had a memory more of forces than of people—a crowd, a hand, a hand no more. Yet the bazaars in those early 1950s were not so crowded as that, and Rawalpindi, a town small enough that a lost little boy should be found.”
Those sentences tell you almost everything about the book’s method. The first line is plain, almost a documentary. A boy alone. A city named. No drama. Then, the second sentence slips inward. Not people, but forces. Not faces, but pressure. A crowd. A hand. Then, the hand is gone. The language enacts what it describes. Memory thins. What remains is sensation rather than story.
The third sentence is where the knife turns. The adult voice intrudes, quietly correcting the child’s recollection. The bazaar was not that crowded. Rawalpindi was small enough that a lost child should have been found. The implication is unbearable in its restraint. If he was not found, perhaps he was not lost. Perhaps he was abandoned.
From this first paragraph, Mueenuddin is telling us that power in this world will not announce itself loudly. It will work through absence, through what fails to happen. The boy is not struck, not chased, not spectacularly harmed. He is simply not retrieved. And the rest of the book will follow the consequences of that small, devastating fact.
Daniyal Mueenuddin’s much-anticipated first novel does not retreat from the terrain that made his reputation; it expands it. It offers a patient and layered examination of how power is inherited and enforced across decades in Pakistan
Mueenuddin’s first novel arrives already shadowed by the acclaim that greeted his story collection In Other Rooms, Other Wonders. It does not retreat from the terrain that made his reputation. It expands it. What he offers is not a single dramatic arc but a social anatomy, a patient examination of how power is inherited and enforced across decades in Pakistan. The result is neither melodrama nor polemic, but a grave, clear-eyed study of how people live inside systems that modernise without ever truly changing.
The book announces its ambitions at once. It opens with a list of principal characters, complete with birthdates, educations and careers. Some studied abroad. Others emerge from the bazaars and fields of Punjab. At the book’s moral centre stands Yazid, also called Bayazid, first encountered as a small boy alone in a Rawalpindi bazaar in the mid-1950s. He is barefoot, holding a pair of cheap plastic shoes, and does not remember how he came to be abandoned.
Taken in by a tea-stall owner, he grows up among regulars who teach him to read and to watch people carefully. Yazid is bright, sociable, physically imposing, and a natural intermediary between classes. Over time, he becomes a driver and fixer for powerful families, respected but never secure, indispensable yet never equal.
Around Yazid, Mueenuddin builds the novel in four interlinked movements, each advancing in time and shifting perspective. The first traces Yazid’s apprenticeship in a world where hierarchy is absorbed almost instinctively. The second centres on Rustom, a young landowner educated in America who returns in the 1980s to revive an estate his father neglected. Rustom arrives with ideas shaped by his years abroad. He believes in reform and legality. Yet, the countryside he re-enters is governed by older logics.
The third movement turns inwards, into the marriage of Hisham Atar and his wife, Shahnaz. They are members of the elite, owners of farms and factories, equally at home in Lahore and London. Their courtship began in America, where Shahnaz was first involved with Hisham’s gentler brother. She chose Hisham instead, opting for Pakistan and the closer proximity to power that choice entailed. Mueenuddin renders their relationship without sentimentality.
The novel’s final and longest section follows Saqib, a servant’s son raised on the Atars’ estate and mentored by Yazid. Bright and ambitious, Saqib is taken into the household as a kind of project. He learns quickly, anticipating needs, absorbing the manners of power. When he is given responsibility for a section of farmland, he experiments with modern agriculture.
The venture is profitable. But Saqib wants more than success within the system. He wants independence. His attempt to step beyond the role assigned to him drives the novel toward its bleakest reckoning. The outcome feels structurally inevitable. The system tolerates small ambition. It does not forgive miscalculation.
What binds these narratives is not plot but a shared moral climate. Mueenuddin’s Pakistan is a place where modernisation coexists with feudal logic, where old hierarchies are not dismantled but retooled.
Mueenuddin’s style reinforces this vision. His prose is spare, exact, rarely ornamental. A drink of water tastes as if it “had electricity in it.” A face is sketched in a few strokes that carry both physical and moral weight. Critics have compared him to Chekhov, and the likeness is instructive. Like Chekhov, he is attentive to how people are shaped by circumstance and custom, by small accidents that alter a life without announcing themselves as turning points. A phone call not made, a device newly owned, a glance misread can redirect a fate. Yet, the novel is not merely sociological. Its power lies in the intimacy of its scenes.
Mueenuddin understands the emotional economy of servitude, how affection, resentment, gratitude and calculation coexist in relationships that are never equal. The guarded marriage of Hisham and Shahnaz carries weight without tipping into melodrama. Even moments of dry humour deepen rather than soften the portrait.
This Is Where the Serpent Lives is more expansive and more assured than the stories that first established Mueenuddin’s reputation. If there is a reservation to be voiced, it may be that Mueenuddin’s control is almost too complete. The novel is composed with such steadiness that one occasionally wonders what his voice might sound like if it allowed itself more disorder, more risk.
Yet, that very discipline is also the source of its authority. The book refuses easy villains and easy consolations. It does not sentimentalise suffering, nor does it flatter the reader with moral comfort.
In the end, This Is Where the Serpent Lives offers something rarer than topical relevance. It provides a layered portrait of a society in motion. It asks how people make choices inside systems that reward compromise and punish deviation. Quietly and patiently, it makes visible the structures that shape lives, then steps back, leaving the reader to reckon with what has been seen.
The reviewer is a retired diplomat living in Washington DC. For more information, visit his website: www.javedamir.com
Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, February 1st, 2026
Magazines
SMOKERS’ CORNER: MIRACLES AND MATERIALITY
A recent video showing a Quran that survived the devastating fire at Karachi’s Gul Plaza has reignited a centuries-old conversation. Throughout history, accounts of Bibles, Qurans or Buddhist sutras emerging unscathed from catastrophic floods and fires have been celebrated as Divine interventions. While these events offer profound spiritual solace, a closer look reveals a fascinating intersection of material physics and psychological bias.
From a physical standpoint, Dougal Drysdale, Professor Emeritus at the University of Edinburgh, suggests that a hardbound book’s survival is often due to the ‘Closed Book Effect.’ When shut, a book functions as a dense, oxygen-starved block of cellulose. Because fire requires a steady flow of oxygen to consume fuel, the tightly packed pages resist ignition by preventing airflow from reaching the interior.
In the event of a flood, the surface tension of water against tightly pressed pages creates a natural barrier. This prevents deep seepage for a significant period, often leaving the heart of the book perfectly dry.
American psychologist Thomas Gilovich explains that when a sacred text survives a disaster, it often becomes more than just a book. It is elevated to a sacred relic. This transformation, according to Gilovich, can significantly redefine a community’s cultural path. In the aftermath of the 2011 Joplin tornado in Missouri, US, survivors and news outlets frequently highlighted the ‘miraculous’ discovery of intact Bibles among the rubble of flattened homes.
The survival of holy texts in the aftermath of natural catastrophes is often termed ‘Divine protection’, revealing the cultural and spiritual narratives people love to attach to such instances
While hardbound dictionaries and cookbooks likely survived in the same ruins due to their similar physical construction, these secular items were ignored by the media as mere debris. The surviving Bibles were immediately elevated from functional reading material to sacred relics, often being framed and displayed as symbols of Divine protection.
By focusing on these specific books, the media triggered a cognitive bias that led people to view the event through a supernatural lens rather than recognising the simple physical durability of bound paper.
British scholar Susan Whitfield, in her 2004 work The Silk Road: Trade, Travel, War and Faith, details the discovery of the Mogao Caves in China. In that instance, the sealing of the Buddhist text the Diamond Sutra (868 CE) within a dry, walled-up chamber created a “natural vault” that protected the world’s oldest-dated printed book from the degrading effects of humidity and oxygen for nearly a millennium. The perception of such objects often shifts from the literary to the ‘miraculous’.
During World War I, pocket Bibles carried by soldiers occasionally stopped shrapnel due to the high density of their compressed paper. This led many soldiers to treat the Bibles as protective talismans.
The Codex Amiatinus, frequently referred to as the ‘Grandfather’ of Latin Bibles, has survived for over 1,300 years due to its immense physical durability. According to Drysdale, this enormous volume, created around 700 CE in Northumbria, England, weighs over 34 kilogrammes and was crafted from the skins of more than 500 calves.
The use of high-quality parchment makes the Bible significantly more resistant to fire and decay, as organic animal skins lack the highly flammable, oxygen-trapping fibres found in wood-pulp paper. This Bible remained virtually untouched for a millennium, preserved by the stable environment of an Italian abbey that served as a ‘natural vault.’
In West Africa, the Desert Manuscripts of Timbuktu offer a compelling example of texts surviving environmental factors, a story often framed as miraculous. When Islamist militants set fire to the Ahmed Baba Institute in 2013, there was widespread global concern over the potential loss of thousands of ancient Islamic manuscripts. However, according to the researcher Mauro Nobili, the extreme aridity of the Sahara desert was critical in aiding their preservation for centuries.
The persistently low humidity prevented mould growth and kept the delicate ink stable, allowing for their long-term survival, which many viewed as a modern miracle. However, the more vulnerable manuscripts were secretly shifted to safer locations before the militants set fire to the Ahmed Baba Institute.
During the Viking raid on Lindisfarne — a tidal island off the northeast coast of England — in 793 CE, a legend emerged concerning a sacred book, Lindisfarne Gospels, which was said to have been dropped into the sea by fleeing priests. Three days later, it washed up perfectly dry. While this specific account is often considered apocryphal, the physical survival of such ancient texts is frequently due to their durable leather and metal bindings, which act as a protective shell for the internal vellum.
Gilovich would point to stories such as this ‘dry’ recovery of a Bible as prime examples of how the media and oral tradition prioritise miraculous narratives over the mundane reality of material science, thereby reinforcing spiritual beliefs.
According to the prominent professor of psychological sciences J. Park, communities frequently transform these survival stories into powerful symbols of “Divine protection” as a means of processing the profound trauma of disasters. This phenomenon ultimately highlights a dynamic intersection, where material science meets deep human sentiment.
While the inherent fire-resistant properties of vellum offer logical, scientific explanations for the physical survival of many books, the human psychological element remains paramount. The inherent human need to find order, meaning and hope within chaos is what elevates these surviving sacred objects from mere material items to vital spiritual anchors for a community’s recovery and continuity.
The endurance of these texts represents a profound intersection between material science and human psychology. It is not merely the density of vellum, the chemical stability of ancient inks or the aridity of a desert that ensures survival. Rather, it is the way these physical realities interact with our inherent drive to find order in the wake of destruction.
Gilovich’s research posits that when a community witnesses the survival of a sacred text, they are not simply observing a quirk of physics. They are engaging in what Park describes as “meaning-making”, using the survived sacred object to process trauma and reclaim a sense of ‘Divine protection.’ Whether through the preservation of the Diamond Sutra in caves, or a Bible or a Quran found amidst the ruins of a modern disaster, these serve as a bridge between the tangible and the transcendent. Their survival is a testament to the fact that, while fire and time may consume the material, the cultural and spiritual narratives we attach to them remain indestructible.
Yet, it is equally important that we recognise the physical realities of their endurance, acknowledging that the science of material durability does not diminish the ‘miracle’, but rather provides a rational foundation for understanding how the written word survives the very elements meant to destroy it.
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
Magazines
GARDENING: SWISS ONLY IN NAME
Different varieties of leafy green vegetables (locally known as saag) are commonly grown in the Subcontinent due to the favourable growing conditions here. These green vegetables are prepared in traditional meals that contain the signature South Asian touch. However, Swiss chard remains relatively unknown to many.
Swiss chard is one of the easiest-to-grow leafy green vegetables. Unlike other leafy green vegetables, Swiss chard has beautiful bright green-coloured leaves with white, yellow or maroon midribs and stem. No wonder that a few sub-varieties of the Swiss chard are referred to as rainbow chard!
It is also known as spinach beet and leaf beet, while other names reflect the colour of its stems. For instance, the ones with white midribs are referred to as silver beet and those with red or maroon stems are known as rhubarb chard. Its striking colour combinations make it attractive enough as an ornamental plant.
Scientifically known as Beta vulgaris L. var. cicla, Swiss chard belongs to the Amaranthaceae family, which was formerly known as the Chenopodiaceae family. While it is also considered a beet, its root is inedible. Due to its close resemblance to spinach and beet root, it is not recommended to grow Swiss chard near either of them. Pests and diseases affecting beet root and spinach will likely attack Swiss chard as well.
While many other types of saag dominate South Asian kitchens, Swiss chard — of Mediterranean origin — remains largely unknown here…
Contrary to its name, Swiss chard does not originate from Switzerland. The origin of the ‘Swiss’ prefix remains contentious. One theory is that it is widely grown in Switzerland. In fact, Swiss chard primarily originates from the Mediterranean region. However, it is extensively used in Swiss cuisine.
Another theory is that the botanist who first classified this vegetable was Swiss and used the prefix to create a distinction from other leafy vegetables. The most common theory is that the European seed merchants added Swiss to distinguish it from the closely related French chard. If that were not enough to confuse you all, the word ‘chard’ is of Latin origin, meaning thistle — a common gardening term referring to a flowering plant which has prickly bracts.
Swiss chard seeds are easily confused with those of spinach, due to their stark resemblance. The seeds of Swiss chard are faded brown to dark brown in colour. They have a dry, rough texture and are irregular in shape. The seeds are hard and are surprisingly light for their size. Like spinach, one seed of Swiss chard can result in three to four seedlings. For this reason, it is known as a seed ball, containing potentially three to four seeds.
Being hardy, Swiss chard has minimal requirements. One of the best aspects about sowing Swiss chard seeds is that they can be grown in almost any available space. You can grow it on a strip of land, small pots and even around other plants in the same pot. However, when sowing Swiss chard seeds for a full crop, certain aspects should be taken into account.
In climates similar to Karachi, the seeds can be sown from mid-October onwards or when the temperature falls to 20 degrees Celsius. The potting mix should be pre-moistened and clear of pebbles and stones. Seeds should be placed half an inch below the surface and covered with a layer of compost. The soil should remain moist, not wet.
Depending on the desired yield, any pot size can be used, since the roots are small. Pots should then be placed in a cool shade with indirect sunlight. If the Swiss chard plant is being grown in an open field or in raised beds, it should be shielded from direct sunlight exposure, to minimise evaporation.
Some gardeners prefer to soak the seeds in water for four to six hours to ensure better and quick germination. In favourable conditions, Swiss chard seeds are likely to sprout within one week to 10 days.
Please send your queries and emails to doctree101@hotmail.com. The writer is a physician and a host for the YouTube channel ‘DocTree Gardening’ promoting organic kitchen gardening
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
Magazines
ADVICE: AUNTIE AGNI
Dear Auntie,
Hope you are well. I am seeking your advice regarding a situation that has been bothering me for a long time. I’m a university student and I met this girl. She seemed very interested in me at that time and so was I in her. We had great chemistry, something I’ve never felt in my life. But I never confessed my feelings to her because of certain things I heard about her. Later, I found out she was dating someone. I internalised my love for her for quite a long time, almost a year, until I couldn’t hold it in, and confessed everything to her, even though I knew she was in a relationship.
The nature of my work requires me to face her and, whenever we work together, that chemistry-like muscle memory hits like a truck and I fall head over heels for her all over again. Even though getting her is nothing but a distant dream, I still can’t get over her and long for her all the time. It’s like a stalemate. I would really appreciate your advice on this.
Longing and Yearning
‘I Am Obsessed With a Woman I Can’t Have’
Dear Longing and Yearning,
This is a classic case of excellent chemistry but bad timing. Auntie has seen this film before and the hero always thinks that this one love is ‘different’. Maybe it is different for you. But the situation is very, very old.
Let’s start with the fact that you don’t want to face… that this is not love. This is emotional attachment, mixed with a heavy dose of imagination. And it is a powerful mix, made more powerful because the person in question is unavailable.
Every time you see her, your brain tells you “Ah yes, the unfinished business.” But notice something important… the girl chose someone else. This was not because you are not good enough, but because her life moved in a different direction. That is her choice, and chasing emotionally after someone who has chosen another path slowly kills your self-respect.
The chemistry you talk about is a result of you training your mind for a year to revolve around her. Of course, your brain runs back there. Our minds do what seems familiar and comfortable. Right now, you are feeding the feeling every time you replay moments and analyse your interactions with her. You are emotionally investing in a door that is firmly shut and you are wondering why you feel stuck outside. Of course, you are stuck!
It is time to start acting professionally with her. And it is time to stop any emotional conversations with her and avoid needless eye-contact. When your mind starts romanticising anything about her, interrupt it with reality, by reminding yourself that she is in a relationship and that you deserve someone who is available.
The person who is meant for you will not require this much suffering just to exist in your life. Mutual love is supposed to feel stable.
You are not losing her. You are grieving a life that you imagined. The grief will pass when you stop feeding it. You are simply holding on to an illusion because it once felt beautiful. Just let it be beautiful. And let it go.
Disclaimer: If you or someone you know is in crisis and/or feeling suicidal, please go to your nearest emergency room and seek medical help immediately.
Auntie will not reply privately to any query. Please send concise queries to: auntieagni@gmail.com
Published in Dawn, EOS, February 1st, 2026
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