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I finished rereading Tehmina Durrani's "My Feudal Lord" early this morning. Though I had read this book several years ago, I reread it in order to be able to write a review.

When I started, I remembered my initial feelings when I first read the book. It is not well written at all. The language is tiresome and tedious. But I do not hold that against the writer. She herself describes the book as a means of exposing the hypocrisy of the ruling elite in Pakistan, and particularly the insincere nature of her own husband, Mustafa Khar. Her entire purpose at writing this autobiographical work is more as a way of exposing her husband, rather than any attempt at creating a masterpiece.

Durrani approaches the book as a memoir. It starts from the release of her husband from prison for political purposes. The first chapter is basically introductory. She describes the release, and the sentiments of the masses and her own. From here, the book descends into chaos. Durrani flits from time period to time period, hop scotching through several decades. The jumps do not seem to have any reason. In fact, it becomes confusing trying to decipher her thoughts at times.

The description of her husband is not flattering at all. His abusive nature, his affair with her sister, and the battering she suffers at his hands is quite horrific. To top it all off, the way her family, supposedly very cultured and civilized, ignores her and cuts her off is shocking. What makes me wonder is how this behaviour is condoned and ignored. She talks of how Khar beats her to a pulp, while the baby screams herself hoarse. The next morning, Durrani talks to her mother who does not say anything to the bruised and injured woman.

The chapter lengths are very distressing. Each chapter covers a time span of between two and seven years! Try deciphering pages and pages of narrative that is as interesting as old newspaper pulp, and you see my point. If I left my chapter in the middle, I had no way of remembering what had happened two pages before where I left off.

Still, I tried. I actually finished. What always baffles me about Durrani is how she would always come back and try to reconcile her marriage to a violently abusive man who nearly drowned their daughter in the tub. I fail to comprehend the level of complacence that allows Durrani to go back to a husband who has no qualms in locking her into a room and hitting her with the butt of a rifle. Frankly speaking, if I ever met the man, I would bash his head in. If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is a man who raises his hand against a woman. Call it what you will, the issue makes my blood boil.

Still, I must somewhere congratulate Durrani on writing the book. She began a few months after her divorce, and the experience must have been quite traumatic. What does intrigue me about the book is how misinformed she is in her references to India. She speaks how when she goes to Ajmeri Sharif, the dargah (shrine) of a Sufi saint, her Hindu trailers are not happy at entering the dargah. I guess she doesn't realize that the dargahs of Sufi saints are holy to people of all faiths. And that a larger number of Hindus visit these dargahs than Muslims. Still, to each his/her own beliefs.

All in all, I would suggest that you do not approach this book with aspirations of literature, because it is not. It is a documentary piece, and is written with the motivation of exposing a hypocrite.

However, the writing and narrative is so weird that I wonder whether Durrani may not be schizophrenic. In one paragraph, she talks of how her mother's tyranny drives her to religion, and in the next, she mentions how wonderful her mother was in showing her the way to religion.

The writing is actually very bad. She describes Pakistan's elite as the "dandruff on the scalp of society". Expect similar metaphors and similes. Very often, she translates regular expressions into English. Very weird indeed.

You guys out there must think that I love ripping books apart. But hey, I just think of myself as a discerning reader who just wants to read good books.

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