Truth be told, I don’t know where to begin. It is not often that a novella written by a Pakistani author takes me over to the author’s imagination. Reading the introduction of Sara in Sehr S. Emaad’s debut Our Small Lives, I felt familiar with the protagonist’s life and could almost picture her, alive and breathing. The first chapter made me curious, and the curiosity kept building until I finished the book a couple of hours later.

The novel is rooted in Lahore, Pakistan, and spreads to the city of Cambridge in the United States, between the years 1993-2010. Emaad writes with emotion and, in doing so, amicably captures the cultural, religious and social realities of the Pakistani middle-class through and around Sara’s story.

Sara is the 20-something, eldest daughter of a middle-class Ahmadi family. Because the Ahmadiyya community is declared non-Muslim by the country’s leaders, Sara faces discrimination in her school and begins to question her identity. Her character is pretty much rooted in her identity of being a female child of middle-class Ahmadi parents, and the societal dos and don’ts she learns along the way.

As the author narrates Sara’s story, she shares how Sara must feel most of the time: “She had spent her life showing reverence and obedience to her father and had married the person he had chosen for her without any resistance. What has she gotten in return? The blessing, of course, but that was all … This was her life now at age 22.”

The novel gives readers many insights into the gender discrimination existing in Pakistani society, which translates into our social and cultural understanding and approach towards men and women, and their perceived roles in society. For Sara, there’s also the added religious pressure and threat attached to her life in Pakistan.

The analytical mind will also feel compelled to sketch parallels between 20th century Pakistan, and that of the 21st century. Shockingly — or not — not much seems different. Women in Pakistan are still subjected to the same gender roles and considered objects of the family’s honour and men take the throne.

A debut novella focuses on the rigid gender roles Pakistani society dictates, told through the emotional story of a woman from a religious minority

One can understand Sara’s frustration wrapped in her confusion. Not being seen as an individual person either by her family or by her husband; the unflattering rituals of being “evaluated” as a potential daughter-in-law; expected only to serve others in the role of an obedient daughter and then as the perfect wife — it is as if Sara’s life matters not for its own sake, but for the associations it has with everyone around her. Belonging to the Ahmadi community only makes her realities more intense.

The author narrates the story emotionally, but without any sobbing. There’s no heartbreaking tragedy, no complex vocabulary. Descriptions are minimal and there’s plenty of room for emotions, thoughts and, yes, also for some giggles. The plot is simple, at times almost flat, but feelings are prominent and not limited to Sara.

When it comes to characterisation, the author seems to have done away with the traditional practice of narrative depiction. Instead, she adopts a rather contemporary approach. She gives names, backgrounds and insights into her characters’ personalities, no matter how big or small their role. It’s refreshing to read and works rather charmingly as it lets us engage with the characters as though they were real, live beings.

There’s also a large relatability factor in each character. In Sara, I witnessed the Pakistani girl whose self-identity is robbed before she can even build any sense of it. She’s born into, and has spent 20 years of her life with, an admittedly loving family, but is suffocated under the expectations of being a woman in a patriarchal society. Added to her shoulders is the burden of belonging to a threatened minority and living abroad with only her husband, who is not present even when he is around.

When Afsan — Sara’s husband — comes into the picture, I could understand how men are raised to believe they are self-righteous beings who are above criticism, as providing for their families is the greatest of their benevolences. Afsan’s mother Amtul is another crucial character; she represents the societal burden of bearing a male child in order to receive validation. Amtul “grew up resenting all females around her. She longed for her stepmother’s love, but the woman was very hard to please and set standards that Amtul could never live up to. She was unable to form strong female friendships, and hoped that her first born and subsequent children were male.”

Kunal, a key character who shows up later in the book, exhibits growth and self-awareness. His presence in Sara’s life allows her to breathe, and to think of a life outside of the cultural walls in which she’s born and bred.

It is unsettling to witness the fictional stories of Sara, her own mother and Asfan’s mother. Three women, born and bred in the same society and having lived very similar lives, yet each so different from the other, and each drowning in the sea of society. At the same time, sitting with my thoughts after I finished the book, I wondered how many women would be brave enough to identify and unlearn the cultural patterns of dependency they’ve been fed more than food itself. I thought about this for many women, including myself. I suppose this is also what makes the story real, emotional and relatable.

In highlighting our realities, the author raises many questions: the perceived roles of men and women; how it is only through a man that a woman’s existence is deemed relevant; why are sons so valued; how education for women is understood — or not; how we, as a society, disconnect from and treat minorities; and the conservative mindset that is validated with the stamp of a foreign educational degree.

Emaad comes through as a graceful narrator who knows how much to say in words, and how much to leave to the imagination. She has a sense of humour and her use of desi English is engaging. However, more accurate translations of cultural and religious vocabulary would have made the experience of understanding the Pakistani landscape much richer — she describes biryani as “rice with meat” and purdah as “hiding face from the male members in the family and society.” Desis would know what these words represent, but I do wonder what picture they would paint for foreign readers.

I also wish Emaad had taken a different approach to completing Sara’s story. It feels too soon, too simple, rather abrupt. Kunal’s entrance gave hopes for an ending that could have been truer and more aligned to the growth of Sara’s character, detached from the men in her life. I turned the pages, eager for that moment when Sara is fully present, full of life, empowered, but the author had other plans, which let me down.

I came away feeling that Our Small Lives was almost a story of empowerment and independence, but it stopped just short of being so. Still, the last bit of Sara’s story leaves readers on a bittersweet note; a happy ending indeed, if you must.

The reviewer is an ex-development professional, writer and psychotherapist in training

Our Small Lives
By Sehr S. Emaad
Daastan, Wah Cantt
ISBN: 978-9696965022
115pp.

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, August 22nd, 2021