At times it is difficult to remember that before 9/11, being a Muslim in the USA was – while perhaps not always seen as perfectly normal – not considered to be threatening, either. In that sense, this book – which depicts the lives of three young Pakistani men living in New York at the time of 9/11 – is a powerful reminder of just how far intercultural relations have deteriorated over the last decade.
Told from the first-person point of view of Chuck, a Karachi native who has come to New York to study and subsequently work in the financial industry, it’s obvious from the get-go that the author has a serious poetical streak, with the story being not so much told as performed into your head, and my vocabulary was expanded by encountering such interesting terms as ‘milquetoast’ (an unassertive and spineless person, in case you are wondering).
Chuck and best pals AC (a drug-dispensing sometime English teacher attempting to write a PhD) and Jimbo (a born-in-the-USA Pakistani DJ better known as DJ Jumbolaya) generally party their way through life, and this is my one criticism of the book – the self-obssessed and consciously calibrated ‘coolness’ of the main characters and their apparent view that near-complete amorality is equivalent to fitting in. It makes one sympathise with Jimbo’s widowed father, the more seriously-minded and heart attack riddled Old Man Khan, and even hedge a vague feeling that the few days Chuck eventually spends in the slammer, being mistreated by American cops who suspect him of being a terrorist, might just straighten him out a little.
On the other hand, presumably people like Chuck and his friends really do exist and their selfish and irresponsible existence collides rather nicely with the ‘big issues’ they end up facing. On the whole, it’s rather more innovative than the tired trope of authorities picking on the innocent bearers of prayer beads.
Home Boy is pretty amusing in parts, too, and will definitely keep you turning pages. It is incredibly well written, with the author showing a brilliant ability to capture the atmosphere of a place, be that Old Man Khan’s living room in New Jersey or the dancefloor of the newest, coolest place to be seen. In fact, it’s almost a pity that Home Boy got pigeonholed into winning a prize for South Asian literature, because it’s in many ways a very American novel.
