I read ‘Rafina’ last year during a four-hour drive back from Lahore to Islamabad, and there was never a moment where I put it down, not even when my husband offered me his share of fries at McDonald’s where we stopped for a break. So, imagine my surprise, when thoroughly satisfied by the novel, I looked up its score on Goodreads and found it to be merely average. Ummm… what? Fellow bibliophiles, did we all read the same book?
I think there’s an inherent problem with sending review copies of certain books to young bookstagrammers that are clearly meant for an older market but more on that some other time. It saddens me because clearly one cannot be appreciate books like ‘Home Fire’ and ‘Rafina’ when you haven’t been exposed to their themes enough.
‘Rafina’ charts the course of the life of a young girl in present day Karachi. Set in the grinding hustle of the City of Lights, Rafina and her family are beset by adversity from the get-go. After her father’s death, Rafina’s mother, Naz, becomes the primary bread-winner, struggling to provide for her two children even as her own health deteriorates. Rafina is painted as the quicker of the two siblings, the one more likely to take an initiative in making her dreams a reality. Kunwar, on the other hand, starts to show the same sullen sense of entitlement most South Asian men will recognize. He clamors for money from his mother and sister while loafing in the streets while both women work back-breaking hours to make ends meet. Rafina quickly succeeds in landing a ‘beauty parlor’ apprenticeship with her aunt Rosie, where she hopes she’ll find a way to become the next ‘Card Girl’, a high fashion model with her face all over the billboards of Karachi.
Rafina and Karachi become intertwined as the story progresses, both showing that same gutsy attitude of every man (and woman) for themselves in the dog-eat-dog world of unemployment and economic uncertainty. Through Rafina’s eyes, Karachi becomes another character in the plot, one who is constantly in the background, fueling Rafina’s hunger for success through the rise and decline of its own many, many composite parts; from the slums of Karachi to the posh residential gated colonies.
Pakistani readers will revel in the comparisons Shandana Minhas draws to a prominent Pakistani beauty guru and her chain of acolytes in the passages about Radiance, the salon where Rafina works, and its owner, Nausheen. A fair question would be; is Nausheen modelled on Nabila? You tell me :) The cut-throat beauty industry is revealed in all its shady glory as we follow Rafina’s rise to stardom after she is ‘discovered’ by the head honchos at Radiance. Given the recent shenanigans of models and starlets on social media, one is left unsurprised at the depravity Rafina encounters, something she is initially repelled by but eventually consumed in.
Shandana Minhas has created a stellar character in Rafina, making her vividly compelling, not simply a cookie-cutter sketch of a spunky up-coming teenager Mary Sue-ing her way through the plot, but one who challenges your preconceived notions of what it means to be young and ambitious in a country like Pakistan.
Many readers took issue with the ending, noting that it seemed to abrupt and came out of nowhere. To them, I say, but you have been given an ending. If you’d really like it spelled out for you, read Sanam Mehr’s ‘The Sensational Life and Death of Qandeel Baloch’. That’s not an ending I hope for Rafina, though: I hope she kicked ass and came out triumphant.
Favorite Lines:
There was another river of life, running parallel to the one she was in; it ran deeper and faster; her eyes had told her that was the one she should be submerged in; her eyes would also tell others the same.