Saffron Dreams

By Shaila Abdullah

Saffron Dreams is a tale of love, tragedy, and redemption from the award-winning author of Beyond the Cayenne Wall...
You don't know you're a misfit until you are marked as an outcast.
From the darkest hour of American history emerges a mesmerizing tale of tender love, a life interrupted, and faith recovered. Arissa Illahi, a Muslim artist and writer, discovers in a single moment that no matter how carefully you map your life, it is life itself that chooses your destiny. After her husband's death in the collapse of the World Trade Center, the discovery of his manuscript marks Arissa's reconnection to life. Her unborn son and the unfinished novel fuse in her mind into one life-defining project that becomes, at once, the struggle for her emotional survival and the redemption of her race. Saffron Dreams is a novel about our ever evolving identities and the events and places that shape them. It reminds us that in the midst of tragedy, our dreams can become a lasting legacy.
Praise for Saffron Dreams
"Eloquently written, a must-read for any one interested in exploring the lived experiences of Muslim women in the United States."
--Ali Asani, PhD, Professor of the Practice of Indo-Muslim Languages and Cultures, Harvard University
"Saffron Dreams is an unflinching look at the societal pressures of widowhood, the role that art can play in the healing process, and the impact of media bias and stereotyping on the Muslim American community in the aftermath of the 2001 terrorist attacks."
--Sandhya Nankani, Literary Safari
"Following Arissa's story makes the reader realize how little most of us know and understand the world of Muslims, and how incredibly wrong so many of our perceptions are."
--Olivera Baumgartner-Jackson, Reader Views
"Shaila Abdullah's Saffron Dreams is a fascinating look at how events can quickly change a life forever. The thread of Muslim beliefs in a modern world, and especially how women balance ancient and modern traditions, is a fresh and different viewpoint."
--Sandie Kirkland, Rebecca's Reads
About the Author
Shaila Abdullah is a Pakistani-American author and designer based in Austin, Texas. Her first book, Beyond the Cayenne Wall, is an award-winning collection of stories about Pakistani women struggling to find their individualities despite the barriers imposed by society. For more information, please visit Saffron Dreams is Book #5 of the Reflections of America Series

• Language: English
• Publisher: Modern History Press
• Release date: Mar 1, 2009
• ISBN: 9781615998968

Shaila Abdullah

Noted as "Word Artist" by critics, Shaila Abdullah is a Pakistani-American author based in Austin, Texas. Her award-winning novel Saffron Dreams explores the tragedy of 9/11 from the perspective of a Muslim widow. Abdullah's debut book, Beyond the Cayenne Wall is a collection of stories about Pakistani women struggling to find their individualities despite the barriers imposed by society. The author has received several awards for her work including the Golden Quill Award, Norumbega Jury Prize for Outstanding Fiction, DIY Award, Reader Views Award, Written Art Award, and a grant from Hobson Foundation.

Book preview

ONE

November 2001

New York

I decided to carry out the first task on my list when fall was about to lose its hue.

All around me were walls of fog; it was just as well. This year the trees of the mid-Hudson Valley were reluctant to shed their leaves. A few fallen ones—the glowing golds, the bloodlike reds, the brazen browns, and the somber yellows—crackled under my feet, crisp and lifeless but not without a voice. There is an old saying that it will be a bad winter if the trees decide to hold on to their leaves.

I wanted to take this journey myself. Unseen. Unchallenged. The air outside was thick, buttressed by my decision, sparse in joy but swollen with complexities. It comforted me; tingled the soles of my feet. The feeling of heaviness that had been lingering for days was gone. I would have danced had I not been on a mission. I delighted in how clean my insides felt, like they had just been laundered and wrung dry, soapy smell suspended in the air. Invisible molecules tickled my nostrils and I sneezed at the thought.

I stopped by a toy store, its shutters down, occupants fast asleep. As I pressed my nose against the window, I marveled at the simple joys of childhood. My breath came in short waves and misted the window, creating tiny smoky bubbles of all sizes and shapes. I imagined being a toy horse, galloping on bound legs, destination firmly defined, thrilled with providence in my naiveté.

The subway ride was a quiet time for reflection with very few early commuters. I got off as if floating on air, tightening my hijab or veil around the back of my head. It had to be hysteria, this feeling within me of floating on air. A sharp change in the jet stream will channel numerous storm systems into the Atlantic, the meteorologist had predicted. One was raging within me as I walked westward from Canal to West Street. I felt a restless quest to outrun my fate, grind it beneath my feet.

Pier 34 was abandoned when I reached its southern tip. I faced it with a welcoming smile.

It had the lure of a mother’s breast for me, the air throbbing in suckling anticipation. I leaned my protruding belly against the barrier that divided me from the deep stillness below. Another step and my body could easily plummet into the murky depths. I was afraid to touch my abdomen; I wanted to leave its resident out of this. He should never feel responsible for what I was about to do. My mind was full of the possibilities of what life would have been if the towers hadn’t crashed.

The wounded skyline in the distance had its edges softened by the early morning fog. Even the air approached the buildings carefully, with reverence. So much was lost. A cool breeze was blowing, providing a hint of the approaching winter. For a brief sickening moment, I debated on which should go––the veil or me.

I slid the hijab from around my neck. The wind felt chilly on my bare head. It was a new sensation. You can do anything you set your mind to, Arissa Illahi, a voice from the past whispered to me.

In a few hours, it would be another normal day. Was there such a thing anymore? I appreciated the predawn quietness and looked down at the river with meditated concentration. They said that a new layer of sediment composed of ash and dust had formed a permanent footprint on the river bed after the towers had collapsed. Undisturbed, it had become a constant geological reminder of the tragedy, now etched in history.

The wind tore the veil from my hand, making my task easier. I grasped the cold railing with one hand and swatted at the fleeting piece of my life with the other as the wind picked up speed. It teasingly brought the veil closer to my face. I could have grabbed it. Instead, I let it sail down toward the depths, its grave.

I did not feel a sense of betrayal as I walked away from the pier, letting the wind dance with my hair for the first time. I pulled a few strands out of my eyes and looked back. The sun had just started to peek at the horizon, bleeding its crimson hue. It was a matter of perspective—to an onlooker I had removed my veil, but from where I stood, I had merely shifted it from my head to my heart.

Khuda Hafiz, I breathed.

Who was I bidding farewell to? I wondered: the age-old tradition or the husband I had kept alive in my heart?

TWO

October 2006

Houston

A housekeeper’s nightmare.

An artist’s haven.

There was no other way to describe my turpentine-reeking workroom.

For the longest time, I thought my life was like the canvas of a barmy artist who knew when to begin a project but not when to stop.

I looked at the tubes of color around me. They spoke volumes about my house management skills. They were all over the floor, squished, twisted, folded back, some oozing paint, others with rainbow-colored thumb imprints. I plastered the colors all over the canvas with no subject matter in mind, and gradually frenzy overpowered me. The brush in my hand took on a life of its own, and I bent to its whim. The frantic slish-slosh on canvas was deafening in the quiet room; the errant brush had its own mood. I looked at the hopeful blues on the canvas that with repeated strokes had turned the brilliant orange to sad murky brown. In the end, the hodgepodge of colors that dripped off the canvas all bled into one: scorching black, the only color I wanted to forget.

In all fairness, colors define me. Red reminds me of my marriage, the color of the heady, fragrant mehndi or henna, intricately tattooed on my palms in the ways of tradition; the crimson shimmering wedding dress called sharara I wore the day I married Faizan; yellow, the color of ubtan, a paste I applied religiously to my face twenty days before my wedding in the hopes of getting the coveted bridal glow; and orange, the color of saffron, dusty powder that with the right touch added flair to any dish. It was also the color that Faizan dreamed of having on the cover of his unfinished book, a project he thought would make him a famous writer one day.

But black reminds me of all that is sad and wrong in my life. Ironically, in this country, it validates my state of being a widow. It is also the color of my hijab—the dividing line between my life with Faizan and the one without him. How different lives are from continent to continent. White, the bridal color in the West, is the color a widow is expected to wear in the East, the color the body is shrouded in before being buried in the earth.

The brush fell from my guilty hands, landing on the floor with a tired thud. I stepped back as if struck and looked at the picture in mad fixation. Staring back at me from the canvas, behind the dull last strokes that failed to hide the subject, were entwined towers engulfed in reddish blue smoke. And in the midst of the smoldering slivers was the face of a forlorn and lost child.

My journey spans half a decade, from the biggest loss of my life to where I am now. It is a tale of grief and happiness, of control and losing control, of barriers and openings, of prejudices and acceptance, of holding on and letting go. It is about turning my heart inside out, mending it, and putting it right back in as it is about looking at life from the perspective of someone trapped in time. Finally, it’s about filling shoes bigger than mine—and filling two with only one leg to stand on. This is the leg that over and over again will weaken with the weight it’s expected to carry, falter, but eventually mend and march over the terrains of time.

I got home and put the groceries on the counter. I always have a list of tasks mapped out in perfect order for the evening. Start a Soup. I put a pot of water on the stove to start a vegetable soup for Raian. Change. I rescued a turnip that had rolled off the counter, and then slipped off my shoes, not bothering to untie them. The wide boots had grown used to being put on and taken off that way, their contours neatly shaped for a comfortable fit. I decided to change later. Fix Tea. I threw a teabag in a cup and put it in the microwave. Raian disappeared into the living room, and the different-colored lights emitting from the room confirmed that he had turned on the TV. He didn’t turn up the volume; sound was useless to him. He coughed, and with an easy maternal instinct, I made a mental note to give him some medicine before bed.

There were three messages on the answering machine and I intuitively knew who they were from. I deleted all three in quick succession without hearing them—Ami, Zaki, Ami.

The kitchen felt a little cold as I walked back in to dice some shallots, turnips, and zucchini. I scooped them up and added them to the boiling pot. A crushed clove of garlic went in next, and I took slow sips of my tea as I studied the vegetables squirming inside the pot. Start your dinner. That one didn’t matter much. Since Ma and Baba—my parents-in-law—had left, even Rice-A-Roni worked. I decided on some Chicken Helper. The freezer door pulled open with a sigh, and in the humming of the interior, I forgot why I had opened it in the first place. The rumbling in my stomach alerted me to the basic needs of survival as a small Ziploc bag at the far end of the shelf caught my eye. It contained shish kabobs that Ma had frozen before leaving. Would they still be edible after six months? I decided to take my chances. I tossed the kabobs in the microwave, watching the turntable swirl the plate. I missed my mother-in-law’s elaborate home-cooked meals. In the five years that she and Baba had lived with us, there was a soothing discipline to dinner. Plenty of thought and planning went into what was presented on the table. A full meal consisted of a curry or stew, rice, and piping hot flour chappatis. Sometimes Ma had the fresh yogurt drink, lassi, on the side, or round fritters dipped in a yogurt and chili dip that transported me back home. Onion and cucumber salad garnished with cilantro was a must. Ma’s pickled mangoes were a feast for the senses, and although her stuffed flour chilies with cumin powder burned your mouth, they were a great combination with the lentil curry. And her saffron-flavored rice pudding could shame even the old cook back home.

Saffron. It reminded me of an unfinished project that was much closer to completion than it was a year ago. I left my culinary project bubbling and walked into the den to turn on the computer. I lost the minutes and then the hours as I swam in a sea of words, oblivious to the world around me. The squeal of the smoke detector jolted me into action. I raced past my son, who had neither the sensory cues of smell nor sound to be alarmed by the commotion. He had missed his dinnertime but had not felt the pangs of hunger.

In that moment, I felt terrified for him and for the rest of his life.

The water in the soup had disappeared and the pot was burning with the shriveled turnips and zucchini stuck to its bottom. The shish kabobs in the microwave were hard as rocks. I poured the contents of the pot into the sink and slid the kabobs in the trash can. When I put a fresh pot of water on the stove, I decided to set an egg timer. It was time to check on Raian.

He was sprawled across the floor, the eye patch covering his left eye making him look like a pirate, one of the many gifts of his syndrome. Every day for a few hours, we put a patch over his good eye to exercise his lazy eye. Oblivious to the TV running in the background, he was studying an arc of rainbow colors draped across his arm—a direct result of sunlight filtering through the window. He swatted at it with his other hand and then crawled around in a circle trying to escape from it. I watched his captivating dance in fascination; he immersed himself in the light one instant and tore away from it the next—the dance that life played with him on a daily basis that he had by now orchestrated to perfection. The light was his to tango, not his to hold; illumination, he had learned, wasn’t the victory.

I looked at him with love-stricken eyes. How flawed he was to the rest of the world, but how very perfect to me.

Saffron, crocus veil, the flower with the three red stigmas.

It was 1 a.m., and I had been unsuccessful in shutting my brain off to get some sleep. Some images refused to let me be. They wanted to be released and live on paper. I approached the canvas in that state of mind.

I folded back the sleeve of my olive shirt kameez and laid some strands of saffron on the back of my left hand. Like eager devotees, they molded to its contour. For three thousand years, the purple saffron or zafaran flower, had sprouted in the dry summer across the Himalayan valley, the monsoons nourishing the crop. The plant is said to be named after the mythological Crocus, who after being rebuffed by his beloved was transformed into this flower, weeping blood red tears for ages to come. It was said that Cleopatra used saffron in her baths so that lovemaking would be more pleasurable. I imagined the strands to be a lover’s fingers, and my hand shook a little. I dipped a long brush in some water and sprinkled it on the unruly strands with my free hand. Slowly they started to bleed orange tears that dripped off both sides of my hand. They say if rain arrives after it has flowered, the saffron flower dies suddenly. I watched the colors on my hand and with renewed determination turned to the canvas and started painting. I mixed a few tubes––red, yellow, and a touch of black—and referenced the orange on the back of my hand a few times as I tried to match the color. I painted in layers following the traditional rule of oil painting. Starting lean, I applied fatter coats by adding more medium as I went. The paint is less likely to crack as it dries with that method. I couldn’t let a dream crack, not an important one anyway. I worked diligently and furiously as the hours ticked away. Around four in the morning, I stepped back in satisfaction and studied the orange sky on the canvas—the color of saffron, just how Faizan had wanted it.

I went to the bureau and kissed a folded veil that lay on top, a reminder of my past and a symbol of what I had given up. Faizan had harbored a reverence for the veil—to him it defined a woman. I always felt a twinge of guilt when I looked at that piece of cloth. Shaking that thought, I crashed on the bed, surprisingly exhausted from the night’s work. Dreams are never easy to create; they take a lot out of you. Tomorrow I will paint in the two boys, the stigmas of saffron, I decided. That would be the cover of Soul Searcher.

I felt lightheaded in a fulfilled kind of way, tracing a shape on the other side of the bed. I still slept on one side of it, a curious habit that never left me, considering that I had been the only occupant for the past five years.

Sweet dreams, I whispered to the night air.

The curtains on the window rustled in response. I rolled over onto my side and hugged my pillow. The gentle hands of predawn passed over me, pressing my eyelids shut. I obeyed and let myself be led into the world of dreams.

THREE

May 1989

Karachi

Early evening cast its long shadows as I came out of my room, almost tumbling over Mai Jan. She was mopping the floor on her haunches with an agitated expression, her sari pallu tucked in her waist.

Choti Bibi, watch where you are going! Mai Jan’s voice was a little harsh for her stature, and I glared at her without answering. At fourteen, I didn’t think I needed instruction on how to go about my own house.

For years, I had seen Mai Jan come to our house daily at the first light of dawn to do what we deemed beneath our stature to do—clean up after us, launder our soiled clothes, wash our dirty dishes, and cook for us. The days she didn’t show up, the dishes piled high, and we ran around dirty, unwashed, with stinky knickers, sweaty undershirts, food stains and the day’s grime coloring our shirtfronts, hair unruly and uncombed. Ami pretended not to notice. On such mornings, she sat in her room, painting her toenails, Lata Mangeshkar blaring out of the radio, curtains drawn. Us Basti Ko Jaane Waale, Leta Ja Paigaam Mera. O Traveler, take my message to the village.

We were chased away when we tried to peek in Ami’s room. She almost always had a headache that she was nursing and didn’t want to be bothered. Usually when Azad Baba, our old driver, came back after dropping Abu off to the office, he came inside the kitchen to fix us parathas for breakfast—square, fat pieces of dough powdered heavily with flour so they wouldn’t stick to the pan. He deep-fried them in canola to mouth-watering perfection and then slid the oily, slithering masses straight from the pan onto our plates, the steam partially hiding us from each other’s view. The first mouthful would always burn and numb our tongues. Azad Baba always cautioned us. We never listened.

Where is Ami? I wondered. I was having my period and there were no sanitary pads in the house. As usual she had probably used the last one up and not bothered to restock. I headed to her room in a huff.

I didn’t know about periods when they first started a year ago, not until I woke up one morning and my bed sheet had bright red spots that matched those in my underwear. I ran to Mai Jan sobbing, since Ami was not around. The old maid could not believe that Ami had kept such an important fact of life from me; God knew awkwardness could not have been the reason. In a dark corner of the kitchen, Mai Jan showed me how to loop the old fashioned bulky pad and wear it with woven string that we used to secure our loose trousers. Shaken and traumatized, I took the instructions but could not believe that I had to do that the rest of my life. I was certain my duck-like posterior hid nothing from others. I was certain people whispered behind my back, she’s menstruating, she’s unclean. Later when I washed my soiled linens under running water, I was so disturbed I wanted to injure somebody. But I didn’t. I had read somewhere that you can’t pray when you are having your monthly problems. That wasn’t an issue in our household. No one prayed there except Azad Baba.

Bibi, Mai Jan called out to me as I headed in the direction of Ami’s room. Her voice had an urgency to it. Don’t go in there.

And why not? I said rudely. Why don’t you mind your own business?

Mai Jan wiped her nose with her pallu and sulked, tucking the cloth back around her waist. She was sweating profusely, her hair bunched in a damp, untidy coil on top of her head. The mole at the tip of her nose seemed gigantic today. She was looking at me blankly. I could tell she was fishing for a good reason.

Woh ji, I just cleaned that area. It’s still wet, she offered lamely.

So what? I’ll be careful. I got on my tiptoes and moved forward so as not to leave smudges.

Choti Bibi, no. Her mole mocked me but I refused to be distracted.

Ami’s door was half ajar, and I could hear a conversation within. Oh, Abu is home, too, I thought to myself. Maybe the discussion about pads would need to wait.

I glanced inside, opening my mouth to call out to Ami, and then stopped and swallowed hard. The man sitting on the bed with his back toward me wasn’t Abu. He was leaner and taller, not balding like Abu. A plume of thick white smoke emerged over his shirtless back and like a halo circled his head before disappearing into the whirling ceiling fan above. He turned around and smiled. Eyes glazed and eyebrows furrowed together, he had the satisfied look of a cat that had eaten its catch; it was Uncle Jalal, Abu’s chess buddy.

I heard the angry rustle of Ami’s nightgown as she came toward the door and wordlessly shut it in my face. The draft from it sailed into my heart. I stood frozen, unable to move.

I told you not to go in there,

Reviews for Saffron Dreams

[nobooksnolife_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

There is so much to like about this novel, especially that it is a moving account of grief and personal confusion and growth. I would offer the following points to consider:(1) I believe there is too much story here, yet not enough development of some very large, compelling ideas. For example, I would have found greater satisfaction if there had been deeper exploration of the loss of husband, the relationship with birth mother, main character's personal growth, the fulfillment of the husband's manuscript, and their relocation to Texas. That in itself would be a complex book. The birth of a child with disabilities and the growth of a new, bicultural life, especially the development of the artwork of the main character (with good explanations of the role of art in Islam and in the west), the differences between New York City and Austin, could form a second book. I feel like there is a lot packed into Saffron Dreams which deserves more development.(2)Another point to consider is that there may be too much 'I' in this book. It's a very internal work, but I wished to see the protagonist from a viewpoint other than her own. For example, in the ARC, pages 138-139, we learn more about Arissa's art mostly from herself; it seems to be an afterthought that Juhi was an art instructor, yet her character says little about the art and how it relates to Arissa's world. (Arissa says, 'I sometimes forgot that Juhi was an art instructor. We never conversed about art much.' p. 138) If Juhi were more fully developed, with more of her own voice, it could have enriched the aspect of Arissa's art as part of the story. In fact, if more of the characters had been developed and had their own voices, the entire story could have blossomed beyond a single woman's loss, grief, and recovery of life. I'm in complete awe of Ms. Abdullah's use of English to write her story. She obviously has enormous creative energy and ideas which beg to burst forth, and I hope to see many more books from her.

[literaryfeline · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I had not intended to read this book for A More Diverse Universe, but when I was browsing my shelves the other evening--just because, as I often do--I pulled Saffron Dreams out and decided the timing could not be more perfect, both for A More Diverse Universe, but also because of the recent anniversary of September 11, 2001, a day that needs little explanation at this time in our history.

Saffron Dreams is fiction, but it felt so real as I was reading it. It is the story of Arissa Illahi, a Pakistani woman who was living in New York City at the time the World Trade Center was brought down by terrorists. She was barely awake when her husband left for work that morning. She had no idea she would never see him again.

Arissa and her husband were Muslim, having married in their home country and moving to the U.S. to start a new life. They were expecting their first child. The loss of her husband devastated Arissa, not surprisingly so.

Shaila Abdullah paints a picture with words that is extremely visceral. The grief and anger and loneliness left by the death of Arissa's husband made my heart ache. Arissa wanted to hold onto his memory as tightly as she could. It is through her grief and her reminiscing that we get to see how the couple met, how their marriage was arranged, and how they were living their life once married. They had their ups and downs, but they were so in love.

As if the loss of her husband was not enough of a burden to bear, Arissa learns the child she is carrying has birth defects, the extent of she will not know until the child is born. It frightens her, but she knows it is something she must come to terms with.

Arissa is fortunate not to be alone through all of this, even in those moments she feels most alone. Her family surrounds her, working through their own grief and helping her through hers. I felt the love and respect she felt for her parents-in-law. Arissa and her mother, however, are estranged; yet another conflict in Arissa's life she must struggle with.

Saffron Dreams tells the story of how easily life's course can be changed by unexpected events. It is Arissa's story of how she met with one such horrible event and other challenges that forced her to re-evaluate her life and decide what direction to go next. She has to come to terms with what's happened and what is, It isn't easy for her and she makes mistakes, but she is a strong woman even in her weakest most doubtful moments. I admired this about her.

The author captured the cultural and ethnic tensions well during a time when they were quite high (and to some extent, still are). Arissa's decision to wear a veil in public marked her as the enemy in the eyes of some. The veil was a symbol of faith and tradition for Arissa. It was a part of her. She endured threats and nasty looks from people who unfairly judged her. It angered me to see her treated in such a way.

I was not entirely satisfied with one small aspect of the ending, admittedly. I think though that was more my wish for a happier ending on that front than anything else when the reality of it is that the Abdullah's version is probably more true to life--and deserved. I also felt that the flow of the novel changed a little too abruptly just past the mid-way point of the book. It was a place in which a major change in the characters' lives had occurred, and so to some extent that could be expected. It was as if there was a shift in the narrative voice even though the entire book is written in first person, in Arissa's voice. Those were minor things though.

Overall, I found Saffron Dreams to be an emotionally charged novel, one that will stay with me for a long while. I still remember where I was and what I was doing the morning of September 11, 2001, as I am sure many of you do.

[bookishdame · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

"Saffron Dreams," is about letting go and learning to live despite every challenge life brings. It's about the strength of women and relationships. It's about the experience of women left behind in the 9/ll Twin Towers/World Trade Center terrorist attack. And, it's about the Muslim woman's experience in America. It's also about what immigrants have to leave behind and let go of when they choose to become a part of a new country and people. ...a letting go to gain something else of value.Ms Abdullah has a big order to fill, and she comes shining through like a bird of paradise! I loved this book for so many reasons, it will be difficult to convey them to you, so you'll ultimately just have to read the book for yourself to understand. I had to keep reminding myself that it was a novel and not a memoir...looking back again and again at the gorgeous cover and searching the eyes of the beautiful Pakistani woman for clues of the inner soul of such a writer.The main character, Arissa, is a young woman who was born and raised in Karachi, Pakistan. After having survived a home of material wealth and non-existent maternal love, Arissa becomes wed in a traditional "arranged marriage." Surprisingly, this marriage is to a young man she had previously met on a trip to New York visiting relatives! Fortune seemed to be with them from the beginning. On the flip side of that fortune, however, rests a bad omen flung at them by a seer woman who predicts that the young husband will dance with fire. Arissa and Faizan also have dreams of flames and smoke, but set these things aside and ignore them. Of course, these omens find their fulfillment as Faizan is killed in the 9/11 World Trade Center attack.We learn along the way such interesting information as Muslim life in the everyday workings of the kitchen cookery (recipes are included), the different meanings of the veils the women wear, the landscape and gardens of Pakistan, and the role saffron plays in the life of Arissa. I will never look at or smell Night Blooming Jasmine in quite the same way again. Arissa is an artist, writer, observer of the world, and faithful woman. Her agony is quietly and honestly shared with us.Ms Abdullah knows grief and heartbreak. Her novel tells us truly the pain of loss and the redemptive qualities that keep one living despite them. I was widowed at a young age with young children so I speak from experience, when I say that this book conveys the feelings and experiences I had so profoundly and gently that it was shocking to me. I was moved by Ms Abdullah's gift for giving life to her characters.I learned that women and widows are the same no matter what their religion or culture. I learned that not all Muslims are terrorists. I knew that children can save you, but was delighted to see that Arissa found that gift. That family can hold you up but can't save you. It was good to know that somebody else unknown to you can have the same experiences and live to tell about it. Please do yourself a favor and read this wonderful book. It will help you know how it feels to be a widow of the 9/11 attack.... It is a gorgeous and poetic book with an abundance of truth and beauty for everyone who loves fine literature.

[soniamarie_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is about widowhood. It reminded me somewhat of The Pilot's Wife minus the mystery. It is a book basically that goes on and on about a woman's grief. Whereas, I sympathize with Arissa, I felt the story could have used more details regarding her "malfunctioning" son and the stress of raising such a child by oneself and less of the mourning stuff. Arissa has lost her husband in the Trade Towers collapse. She is five months pregnant. Forty One days later, she finds out that the child she is carrying has a cleft lip, malformed kidneys, bad urinary tract, and much more. (Upon birth, he is also half blind and deaf.)She carries the child to term, struggles as a single mom, faces predijice due to her veil and tosses it in the wind, attempts another relationship, and completes her dead husband's book. My issue is the jumping back and forth. In one paragraph, Arissa is 5 months pregnant and taking vicodin. (Funny, she never once stops and asks herself if her usage of both vicodin and valium while pregnant has caused her child's retardation! Another issue for me.) The next paragraph, her and the husband are making love or having a fight. The third paragraph may go back ten years and be about her mother abandoning her. Didn't work for me, but I can see it hitting Oprah's book list.

[thisismebecca · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

FEELINGS ON THE BOOK: I fell in love with this book on page 3. These are the words that gripped me so: "Who was I bidding farewell to? I wondered: the age-old tradition or the husband I had kept alive in my heart?"This book was full of contradictory responses for me. The topic was a step outside of my comfort zone and yet the characters were completely comforting to me. The story was tender and it was powerful. It tugged at my heart and it packed a punch. It was just an extraordinary story, in my humble opinion.WHAT I LIKED: * Abdullah's writing kept me engaged throughout the book and never let my A.D.D. brain wander around. * It was culturally diverse (which I love) yet it took place in America (where I live). It dealt with an event I had experienced (9/11) yet I had not come out of it as a pregnant widow (as Arissa did.) * I learned while reading this book! You know how I adore that in a book. * I thought Arissa, while broken down and against the odds, was a strong lead female character.WHAT I DIDN'T LIKE AS MUCH: * While I think the title is fresh and attention getting, I didn't really like it for the story. The world is wrapped in saffron dreams- but what does that really even mean? * Yeah, that's pretty much it. It was a great book. The only reason I did not give it 5 stars is I don't think I want to read it again. But it is definitely worth reading and I am glad I got the opportunity!

[sagustocox · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Saffron Dreams by Shaila Abdullah is printed on 30 percent post-consumer waste and Forest Stewardship Council (FSC) certified book paper. It is also one of the best books I've read in 2009. "Summer in Houston tastes like dirt, thick bellowing mounds of dust piling on and on until you can't breathe anymore. Sometimes a squalling wind arrives, pressing its puckered lips to the window panes. Whooooo, it shrieks, whooooosh, and then it cavorts over the pile of dust, depositing it evenly in our miracle-less world. The rain that follows washes it all away, leaving behind an acerbic mustiness that lingers until September brings in the moldiness that I associate with loss, the dull snicker of an autumn past." (Page 178)A somber tone permeates Saffron Dreams from Arissa Illahi's childhood to her present in 2006-2007, weaving in and out through her past and present. Abdullah's narrative technique will hook readers and carry them alongside Arissa on her journey from Pakistan to America as she matures, marries, gives birth, and reconciles her culture and her religion with her new homeland -- a homeland that has grown wary of Muslims following the 2001 terrorist attacks."With every horn or commotion guilt-ridden with sins they did not commit. They walked faster when alone. Some women took down their hijabs, afraid of being targeted, and adopted a conservative but Western style of dressing. Men cut their beards. Many postponed plans to visit the country of their origin any time soon. Those who did travel preferred to remain quiet during their journey and chose not to converse in their native language even among family members." (Page 60)Saffron's bitter taste is present throughout the novel as Arissa is steeped in grief and guilt, but the fragrance of hay often associated with saffron lulls her character with memories. Ami, Arissa's mother, was absent for much of her upbringing and her father allowed her to find love on her own terms. It is this family life that shapes her ideas about love, marriage, and family. Once married to Faizan Illahi, she finds happiness and revels in it, until her life is obliterated in 2001.Abdullah delves deep into a wife's guilt, particularly a wife who has adopted a nation as her home that would rather root her out and label her as the enemy. The dichotomy between religion and culture, mother and daughter, grief and survival are tangible and heart-wrenching. Some of the best elements in the story include parallels between art and writing and those two talents suffuse the narrative with a dreamlike quality.Readers will get lost in Arissa's grief and her confusion about starting anew. They will cheer her on as her determination takes over. Each chapter provides a date stamp to orient readers, but Arissa's narrative shifts easily from past to present on more than one occasion as memories take over. Saffron Dreams is more than just an emotional journey of perseverance amid the most trying circumstances and tragic events, it is an evolution of one Muslim woman into a whole self, strong enough to stand alone and blossom.

[njmom3 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book surprised me. I expected a book about being a Muslim American woman in a post-9/11 world. I expected it to deal with issues of differences and prejudices. The book had some of that, but primarily it was a book about grief and about building a life and seeking happiness through challenges - loss of a spouse, a differently-abled child, a move, and prejudice. The book was about similarities - emotions, love for family, grief, our hopes for our children - that transcend all differences and are the same regardless of sex, race, religion, and any of the surface things that make us different. The book dealt with "differences" by making readers look beyond to see the similarities.I loved it!My one question, however, is the title of the book. I am not sure how it truly related to the story.*** Reviewed for member giveaway***

[bleached_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Wonderful story of a Pakistani woman who loses her husband in the 9/11 attacks in New York City and is left to raise a disabled child in a world that looks down on her. A brilliant insight into the realistic and possible life of one a woman who was isolated and condemned, unfairly associated with terrorists.

[angelscryhavoc · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This book was good but not one of the best I have ever read. It's a tale of a woman who after the loss of her husband on 9-11 discovers herself again and struggles to move on in america due to her religion and race she finds many doors closed to her. Later finding her husbands manuscript she struggles to raise her son and to become more than what the world sees her as which is the skin, religion and creed of her life. It's a touching tale. Something that I'm sure others will find more interesting than I however, it's not often I read books like this and I'm pulled into their story. I say pick it up you may or may not like it the choice however, will always be yours.

[nwadel · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A beautiful story about a Muslim woman from Karachi who loses her husband in the 9/11 attacks.Arissa, married 2 years has lost her beloved husband while working a restaurant at the Trade Center. The author poetically details Arissa's memories of her husband and how she attempts to deal with the grief . As Arissa tries to get on with her life, she faces the accusing stares , like she was part of the cause of the attack, the enemy. After receiving some life changing news she knows she must get past the grief to move on. The book is written so beautifully, at time poetic. I highly recommend it, you won't be disappointed. The food she talks about will also make you drool! "I held the book up to my ear. I willed for it to bring back the laughter it had once given us. I shook it, tugged at it, as if worrying it could give me back some past moments. I rubbed the soft cover, now aged and wrinkled against my cheek, urging the lifeless piece to talk to me....."

[vanedow · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was a truly moving novel in a number of ways, largely because the protagonist, Arissa, wears so many roles throughout the story. She is a resident of New York City reeling in the wake of the 9/11 attacks. She is a new widow struggling to cope with the loss of her husband. She is a mother tending to a special-needs child. She is an immigrant among people who suddenly regard her as an enemy. Perhaps most of all, she is a woman seeking direction in life. Arissa's challenges and triumphs are woven together in a seamless narrative that I found myself relating to, even as it opened new perspectives for me.SAFFRON DREAMS is told from Arissa's perspective, in non-chronological fashion that ties together moments in time that relate in Arissa's mind. We read about her childhood in Pakistan, her courtship with her husband-to-be, and her married life, though these events take place only in memory. Abdullah truly has a gift for giving the flavor of Pakistani culture without making the story incoherent to a North American like myself.Overall, this was an excellent story that I highly recommend to anyone.

[theepicrat · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I really appreciated Shaila's writing. It was lyrical and beautiful, something that I have come to expect from South Asian authors. I loved her analogies and descriptions. To me, that helped bring Arissa to life and I felt her sadness and despair at suddenly being a widow in a world that might hate her for the color of her skin.

[darcyo_12 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In "Saffron Dreams" author Shaila Abdullah gives voice to Arissa Illahi, a Muslim Pakistani-American who loses her husband Faizan in the terror attack on 9/11. Arissa's story begins in Karachi where she is raised by a loving father and an absentee mother. When Arissa's mother moves out, Arissa must fill the void for her younger siblings. In Karachi, Arissa's family is affluent; her father is a doctor. Arranged marriages are a fact of life in Karachi and for Arissa as well. Arissa tells the story of her marriage to Faizan, their life in New York and his tragic death when the couple are expecting their first child. Hers is a mesmerizing story of love, loss, family, healing and recovery. The book opened my eyes to Pakistani and Muslim customs and how immigrants adjust to life in the United States. In the end, Arissa comes to gripes with herself and her future. I was hoping for a better resolution for Arissa and her mother though.I recommend this novel to those who would like to get a Muslim-American's view of the aftermath of 9/11.

[l.marie · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

HOW DO YOU END A STORY THAT’S NOT YOURS?Saffron Dreams is a fiction novel written by Shaila Abdullah, a Pakistani-American author based in Texas. It is an emotional tale of lost love, unexpected twists of fate, and survival. In a span of 41 days, the main character, Arissa Illahi, went from a blissful married life to bleak widowhood, escaping an attack, ostracized by stereotypical people, and the realization of raising an unborn son alone.Arissa lost her husband in the collapse of the Twin Towers on 9/11. After going through the Ground Zero rubble trying to find limbs that will identify her husband, she is forced to realize he is not coming back. He’s gone forever. In going through her husband’s belongings she finds a finished manuscript of 65,000 words. She knows it was his dream to be an author and have his book released. After careful thought, Arissa decides to finish it herself. But how do you end a story that’s not yours?This book isn’t about how wonderful life is. She isn’t looking at the world through rose-colored shades. Instead, she shares her struggles and lets the readers know that life truly is full of surprises. I believe this story will help the lives of people who were directly affected by 9/11. It will let them know its okay to grieve for lost ones and they aren’t alone.This is one of the few books that took me through many emotions while reading it. At moments I was elated, others I was just as confused as the main character. What new challenges would life bring as the days carry on? The author, Shaila Abdullah, writes such a descriptive depiction of Arissa’s emotions that it translates to the reader. I highly recommend this book for people who have suffered from the loss of a loved one.♠ L Marie ♥

[djgirl-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

When reading Saffron Dreams by Shaila Abdullah, I was emotionally moved on several instances. This book is great in many ways. It tells about the ways people have to struggle in life, and the things they have to go through. When reading this book, you will meet a girl named Arissa. When she meets an incredible man and moves from Pakistan to New York with him, things seem pleasant, then the unthinkable happens..Her husband is killed in the tragic and devastating accident of 9/11. Arissa, being a Muslim living in America at that time, faces many struggles. Many people stereotype against her. They associate her with the terrorists who took down the Twin Towers. When it seems like she has hit rock bottom, even more tragedy strikes. She has been told that her unborn son has serious birth defects and has slim chances of ever living a full life. As her life came tumbling down, she struggled through; all the while, defending her race against the harsh slurs of the American world.What makes this book so unique is that, instead of being told by a typical American, it is told by an American immigrant. This makes the book more heart-touching because, everyone always considers how the Americans felt during 9/11, but no one really ever considered how the Muslims have felt. It wasn’t just stereotypical white Americans affected by that tragedy and many times people of other nationalities are forgotten. But, people already have a tendency to stereotype, and when people are going through a really hard time, they do and say things that they may not mean.This book really shows you that everyone has struggles to go through. I doesn’t matter what race or religion you are; you can push through the toughest times in life, and end up okay. Not only does this book tell a great story, but the book is well written and the story has a freat flow. I would suggest this book to anyone who loves to read books with a story that is worthwhile!

[samsattler · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The murders of September 11, 2001 were the shock of a generation, a morning forever etched into the memories of those who watched the events unfold in person or on live television. In a world seemingly gone mad, some celebrated the deaths of 3,000 innocents while others yearned for revenge against those responsible for the senseless murders. Lines seemed to be clearly drawn.Some few people, however, had a foot on both sides of that line and Shaila Abdullah tells the story of one such woman in her novel, “Saffron Dreams.” Arissa Illahi, a Pakistani Muslim pregnant with her first child and living in New York City, has her own world shattered on that tragic morning when her husband is killed as the Twin Towers collapse. Not only is her husband, Faizan, suddenly snatched from her forever, Arissa is left alone to cope with the birth of her child in an environment in which many see her obvious Muslim faith as the only proof they need that her sympathies are with those responsible for what happened that day.Arissa is helped through her initial shock by family members who rush to her side, but noticeably absent is her mother, a woman who had abandoned Arissa’s family years earlier. Her in-laws stay behind when everyone else leaves to make certain that Arissa will be able to cope with her loss and her new life, themselves quietly grieving while they help Arissa through the worst of what she has to face. And cope, Arissa does. Showing remarkable strength, and determined to ensure her husband’s legacy, she prepares for the birth of her son despite the multiple handicaps with which he is expected to enter the world so recently left by his father. At the urging of her mother-in-law, Arissa also eventually agrees to complete the unfinished novel left behind by Faizan as another way of marking his place in the world. Her new world is bounded by her son, her writing and her job, but especially by the unique bond she forms with the son who needs her so much.Because Arissa Illahi is not the typical 9-11 widow, “Saffron Dreams” is much more than a novel about coping with the sudden loss of a loved one. The book deals effectively with racism, religious prejudice, fanaticism and hatred on both sides of the divide, the difficulties and rewards of raising a handicapped child, and the slow healing that finally allows a survivor to get on with the rest of her life. Despite the senselessness of what happened in New York City that morning eight years ago, “Saffron Dreams” is filled with strength and hope for the future. It is a reminder that the world is what we make it, one little piece at a time.Rated at: 4.0

[ccqdesigns · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Saffron Dreams by Shaila AbdullahThis year I decided to read mostly foreign authors and multicultural themed books and this week’s selection was a fiction novel, Saffron Dreams by Shaila Abdullah. This book looks at the treatment and lives of Muslims in America after 9/11. Arissa and Faizan married in Pakistan in a traditional Muslim wedding and were the love of each other’s lives from the beginning. They moved to New York where Faizan worked as a waiter while secretly writing his first novel. After two years of marriage, Arissa finally became pregnant and they were both excited about their first visit to the doctor for an ultrasound. Then, 9/11 happened and Faizan never made it home. “That’s how God made us, in pairs so we complete each other. And then he snatches one away, I thought, and makes us dispensable mortals. Alone we come, and solo our return.” Pg.101Shaila Abdullah gives us a clear picture of what it was like to be Muslim and a widow in America after 9/11 through the story of one courageous woman who faces raising a child alone and the possibility of finishing her husband’s novel. She addresses the balancing of cultural traditions with American realities and her writing flows like a river from the first paragraph to the last sentence. Ms. Abdullah provides an accurate and insightful story of love, loss, fear, anger, and finding the strength to survive. This book is a must read for everyone and can provide understanding for those with little experience with other cultures. Luckily I have had the great pleasure to experience many different cultures, religions, foods and customs and met many wonderful people while traveling and working internationally. I have found many women indicative of the values that Arissa displays in this novel which made this book very personal and identifiable to me. I give this book a big “thumbs up” and can’t wait to read the next novel by Shaila Abdullah.

[laurafabiani · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I was immediately drawn to the beautiful cover of this book. It depicts a veiled Middle Eastern woman with sad eyes shielding her face with her bejewelled arms. How appropriate for this novel about a Pakistani-Muslim woman who loses her husband to the tragic collapse of the World Trade Center.I love novels that are of the multi-cultural genre. And this book is filled with the flavours and traditions of the Middle East. Abdullah’s writing is lyrical and poetic, with a sad tone that permeates this story told from the first person point of view of the main character Arissa Illahi. With flashbacks, we come to learn of her childhood and marriage to Faizan, the husband she knew for barely two years. She is pregnant when he dies and her pain is compounded with the knowledge that her unborn baby will have multiple birth defects.The whole story is Arissa’s struggle with losses—her mother’s lack of love throughout her childhood, her husband’s death and his unfinished novel, her child’s disabilities, the age-old traditions of her former country, and her lost dreams. Through her eyes we see what she endures as a Muslim woman in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks—the prejudices, the hatred, the misunderstandings, and her guilt for not wanting to return to Pakistan when Faizan wished it.Throughout, she voices her frustration and philosophy about death and God. It was clear to me that although she believed in God, she lacked faith in Him and struggled with this, too. Arissa also makes it her project to finish Faizan’s novel, no easy task, even though she is an artist and a writer herself. She keeps her husband alive in her heart and fulfills his dream, making it a lasting legacy.Although this novel received great reviews, I had mixed feelings about it. Overall, it gave me a glimpse into the life of an immigrant Muslim widow in America, mourning her many losses and the decisions she made to cope with them. Sometimes, I had to put the book down and read something else because the sombreness of it was all encompassing. Besides her painful losses, it saddened me that her Muslim faith did not provide comfort or answers regarding death and tragedies. This book also contained mildly explicit sexual scenes and unmarried sex, which I did not expect from a Muslim author.