Reluctant Fundamentalist - 07 edition

1. EXCUSE ME, SIR, but may I be of assistance? Ah, I see I have alarmed you. Do not be frightened by my beard: I am a lover of America. I noticed that you were looking for something; more than looking, in fact you seemed to be on a mission, and since I am both a native of this city and a speaker of your language, I thought I might offer you my services. How did I know you were American? No, not by the color of your skin; we have a range of complexions in this country, and yours occurs often among the people of our northwest frontier. Nor was it your dress that gave you away; a European tourist could as easily have purchased in Des Moines your suit, with its single vent, and your button-down shirt. True, your hair, short-cropped, and your expansive chestthe chest, I would say, of a man who bench-presses regularly, and maxes out well above two-twenty-fiveare typical of a certain type of American; but then again, sportsmen and soldiers of all nationalities tend to look alike. Instead, it was your bearing that allowed me to identify you, and I do not mean that as an insult, for I see your face has hardened, but merely as an observation. Come, tell me, what were you looking for? Surely, at this time of day, only one thing could have brought you to the district of Old Anarkalinamed, as you may be aware, after a courtesan immured for loving a princeand that is the quest for the perfect cup of tea. Have I guessed correctly? Then allow me, sir, to suggest my favorite among these many establishments. Yes, this is the one. Its metal chairs are no better upholstered, its wooden tables are equally rough, and it is, like the others, open to the sky. But the quality of its tea, I assure you, is unparalleled. You prefer that seat, with your back so close to the wall? Very well, although you will benefit less from the intermittent breeze, which, when it does blow, makes these warm afternoons more pleasant. And will you not remove your jacket? So formal! Now that is not typical of Americans, at least not in my experience. And my experience is substantial: I spent four and a half years in your country. Where? I worked in New York, and before that attended college in New Jersey. Yes, you are right: it was Princeton! Quite a guess, I must say. What did I think of Princeton? Well, the answer to that question requires a story. When I first arrived, I looked around me at the Gothic buildingsyounger, I later learned, than many of the mosques of this city, but made through acid treatment and ingenious stonemasonry to look olderand thought, This is a dream come true. Princeton inspired in me the feeling that my life was a film in which I was the star and everything was possible. I have access to this beautiful campus, I thought, to professors who are titans in their fields and fellow students who are philosopher-kings in the making. I was, I must admit, overly generous in my initial assumptions about the standard of the student body. They were almost all intelligent, and many were brilliant, but whereas I was one of only two Pakistanis in my entering classtwo from a population of over a hundred million souls, mind youthe Americans faced much less daunting odds in the selection process. A thousand of your compatriots were enrolled, five hundred times as many, even though your country's population was only twice that of mine. As a result, the non-Americans among us tended on average to do better than the Americans, and in my case I reached my senior year without having received a single B. Looking back now, I see the power of that system, pragmatic and effective, like so much else in America. We international students were sourced from around the globe, sifted not only by well-honed standardized tests but by painstakingly customized evaluationsinterviews, essays, recommendation

Praise for ''Moth Smoke'': '' [A] brisk, absorbing novel . . . Hamid steers us from start to finish with assurance and care.'' -- Jhumpa Lahiri, ''The New York Times Book Review'' '' Thoroughly enjoyable and tautly constructed. . . . Moth Smoke is a steamy . . . and often darkly amusing book about sex, drugs, and class warfare in postcolonial Asia.'' -- The Village Voice '' It' s Hamid' s achievement that we remain charmed . . . throughout; the fast-paced, intelligent narration pulls us, despite ourselves, into his spiraling wake.'' -- ''The New Yorker'' ''From the Hardcover edition.''