Moth Smoke

Mumtaz is the wife of Daru’s best friend, Ozi Shah, though she has kept her maiden name. This simple fact reveals much about her character: She is not fully comfortable as a wife or, especially, as a mother to young Muazzam. Her guilt over her inability to assume these roles haunts her and leads, at least in part, to the affair with Daru. It also fuels her desire to forge her own identity, which she does by pursuing a career as an investigative journalist, writing under the pen name Zulfikar Manto. “Zulfikar” can be translated as “sword,” while “Manto” is the surname of one of Pakistan’s most notorious writers of the 20th century, the subject of six separate obscenity trials. Mumtaz finds in her alter ego a freedom and strength that she is not allowed in her marriage.

It is notable that she narrates two chapters in her own first-person voice, explaining her version of events. She is allowed the agency to speak and the ability to shape her own narrative. It is even more significant that the reader discovers, near the end of the book, that the chapters ostensibly narrated by Daru may, in fact, be the product of an article written by Zulfikar Manto—that is, Mumtaz herself. In assuming the role of Manto, Mumtaz implicitly rejects her real identity: “A double life has to begin somewhere. There has to be a first lie, a first deception. And mine began when I decided to start working as an investigative journalist called Zulfikar Manto” (157). From there, the decision to have an affair with Daru follows easily. Mumtaz wants to free herself from Ozi; she confesses, “I wanted to create a life that he knew nothing about” (157). Further, she wants to abdicate her responsibilities as a mother—a role that she is aware from the beginning does not suit her. Ultimately, she leaves both husband and child behind in order to more fully embrace her own identity, the one that she alone created. Still, Mumtaz comes across as a sympathetic character, someone who cares deeply for both Ozi and Daru in different ways but who seeks her own identity, one not delineated by her relationships to men.

A perfect foil for Daru and his aggrieved sense of injustice, Ozi Shah operates with an exaggerated sense of entitlement. The reader understands his character mostly through the lens of Daru’s perceptions: He teases Ozi for his increasing baldness; he alerts the reader to the corruption that underpins the Shah family’s wealth; and he notes, often with nostalgia, the shared history of the two boys. There are hints that Ozi’s father was engaged in an affair with Daru’s mother and that Ozi’s father assisted Daru in order to curry favor with his mother: “The last time I saw him,” Daru remembers, “was at her funeral. He was crying. Ozi’s mother was sick and couldn’t come” (74). It is due to Khurram Shah that Daru gets his job at the bank, even though he is not necessarily grateful for it, and Daru realizes that Ozi is resentful of the attention Daru receives from his father. Ozi tells their school friends that the new clothes Daru wears “were meant for [Ozi] but were too small, so his father gave them to [Daru]” (74). In turn, Daru harbors a deep-seated jealousy of Ozi’s wealth and social status.

This tension underscores their relationship, even before Daru betrays Ozi by having an affair with his wife, Mumtaz. When Ozi finally gets the chance to narrate his own chapter, it is clear that his resentment of Daru has deepened with the betrayal: “Speaking of hypocrites,” he says, “let me tell you a thing or two about good old Daru” (185). The scorn in his tone is unmistakable, and he chalks up Daru’s failings to an inescapable jealousy: “You see, the problem is, I make people jealous. Which is understandable. I’m wealthy, well connected, successful” (184). His own arrogance—he assumes that he deserves his socioeconomic status and admits, without remorse, that it derives from corruption—undermines his claim that he is “not a bad guy” (184). This becomes especially difficult to believe when he allows Daru to stand trial for a crime that he actually committed.

His bitterness over his father’s attachment to Daru is also palpable: “My father gave Daru his pedigree” (186). Further, he revels in comparing himself to Daru in a favorable light: “So take another look at us, Daru and me. I may clean dirty cash, but I don’t beat defenseless children and I don’t screw my friends’ wives and I stand by my father when push comes to shove” (187). Nevertheless, whether ironically or unwittingly, he casts himself in the role of villain when telling the story of how he and Daru came to be friends—while Daru is “Ro,” short for Hero, Ozi is “Lain,” short for Villain (188). Underneath his bluster, Ozi knows that Daru is accused of a crime that he himself committed. In addition, his wealth and privilege do not ultimately secure him the love of his wife. Ozi gets his revenge on Daru by remaining silent, about the affair and about the tragic accident that results in the death of a boy.