A Thousand Splendid Suns

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I must say I will sorely, and I really mean, sorely, blistering and oozing puss, miss easy access to well-equipped public libraries if we return to Malaysia. I can cry just thinking of this.

There is a reason why I’m predisposed to writing. I read. I read and I read, and of course, my mother’s genes. I also like to write. In fact I think I write better than I talk. Seriously. That aside though, libraries are my worldly haven. Especially the ones here in the United States. And I think my children feel the same way, though they probably do not realize this yet. Great! ‘Mother’s genes’ passed down all over again.

It has been a while since I’ve read any novels. I have a reason for that, well, a reason I discovered last night, anyway.

Reading novels is addictive. You can’t put it down, especially if the author is a madly competent writer. I used to read while eating, and I’m not very proud of this. People become obese because they watch TV and stuff food in their mouths. For people like me, obesity can come from reading. Well, except that you have to have the skill of keeping the book open and turning the page with one hand while the other one stuffs food in your mouth. And I guess obesity can come from writing too. As I like to say, the expanding lower half. Lucky for me I have other creative outlets that are more health-friendly, like cake decorating, which actually burns a lot of calories because I tend to get tired doing the cleaning up after, that I don’t feel very inclined to eat what I made. Seriously.

Well, I picked up reading novels recently, on an impulse. As I was walking to the check out desk, my greedy scanning gaze zeroed in on it. A Thousand Splendid Suns. I was about to bypass it, as I always do after doing that quick greedy scan for books worth reading, when I stopped and looked at the cover picture. A woman with Muslim attire. I picked it up, and before I knew it, I had checked it out.

I read the first page, and immediately I learned the Arabic word for illegitimate child (I don’t feel comfortable using the slang word for it). I read on. I read on. I couldn’t put it down. The characters are so unlike any characters you read about in the usual American white novels. I was hooked and before I knew it, my childhood habit of eating while reading grew back like a lizard’s tail.

I winced, grimaced, cringed, and covered my gaping mouth when Laila and Mariam were thrown against the wall by the brutal Rasheed, and kicked, punched, horribly battered. I cried, wept, and let out a woeful ‘Ya Allah!” when Mariam did what she did to save Laila and the kids. My heart leapt for joy when Laila saw that familiar limp. And my heart was wrenched along with Laila’s when she read Jalil’s letter to Mariam.

I have never read a novel so captivating, well, or maybe I have but I have forgotten since I haven’t read one in years. Nevertheless, Hosseini really is more than madly competent a writer. I was addicted. I had heard of Kite Runner. I had never read it though. I heard of rafing reviews, yet was never moved to seek it out at the library and read it. But now, I was.

I sought it. I found it. I read it.

And now, I’m googling Afghanistan, Hazara, Pashtun, Tajik.

And on a homeschooling note; I really feel that the most effective way of learning history is via literature.

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