TW: “Sorry for the Inconvenience” contains mentions of emotional abuse, sexual assault, manipulation, chronic illness, hospitalizations, death, self-harm, depression, and suicide.
In “Sorry for the Inconvenience,” Farah Naz Rishi writes a story that many of us know well. The story of “what will they say,” “you need to focus on school,” “when are you getting married,” the need to follow the “doctor, lawyer, engineer” career paths, and parents who immigrated to the States with merely pennies and still managed to achieve the quintessential American dream. It is our story as much as it is Rishi’s.
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But Rishi’s debut memoir is devastating, romantic, contemplative, comforting, and cinematic, all at once. She jumps between memories from her childhood and adulthood as swiftly as a train of thought might lead you from the present to a conversation you had 10 years ago. And, perhaps most importantly, Rishi begins the novel by sharing an Author’s Note with the reader:
“Do you ever think about how you’ve never actually seen yourself? That the closest you’ll ever get is seeing your reflection in a mirror? Yet we know how often mirrors mislead and distort our understanding of ourselves,” she begins. “Any mistake in this memoir is the result of faulty depth perception, a failure to notice the details or my own shaky human memory.”
It’s an important caveat to remember while reading “Sorry for the Inconvenience.” As readers we are tempted to trust Rishi wholly as our narrator, especially as so many of us may see ourselves in her. We want to take her word for it, every time life throws at her unimaginable curveballs, losses, and near-impossible choices. It almost seems cruel to question the narrative because who could make that up? Rishi has done her best to reflect her perception of her life in these pages — it’s clear in everything from the careful word choice about the people in her life to the way she critiques former versions of herself throughout the book — but her perception may not be perfect and neither is ours. By critiquing her self-perception, Rishi encourages readers to critique theirs.
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Some readers may think the incident that resolves the book’s climax is trivial, anti-climactic, or inconsequential. Truthfully, it is just a random little coincidence and those who have not had the experience (no spoilers) may find it hard to believe. But those with first-hand experience know that the smallest things often have the greatest impact on us. Life is full of coincidences — and sometimes that coincidence is a miracle.
In addition to a story of fallible human memory and fate, the crux of Rishi’s memoir is the human experience, complete with mortality, flaws, joy, and random acts of kindness. She is as attentive to those surrounding her story as she is to herself, showing the readers, through her own eyes, who these figures are and what may have led them to become who they are. There’s some psychoanalysis sprinkled in, which adds to Rishi’s relatability. After all, who hasn’t tried to diagnose their parents (and themselves) using vague descriptions of mental health conditions on WebMD?
The engaging narrative and quick pacing instill readers with a desire to see these people in Rishi’s story grow and thrive, making it a breeze to read through right until the end. It was difficult to predict where the story would take us (because who would predict that outcome for anyone) and where it would end, precisely because readers know that Rishi’s story is currently in motion.
Despite the potential for the memoir to end on a cliche, Rishi evades wrapping it up in a neat little bow. Not that the story doesn’t have a “happy” ending (though I would describe it as more contented and wistful), but it left me feeling hopeful and a little melancholic.
Rishi concludes her Author’s Note writing:
“I would also ask that the reader take this memoir as no way representative of the entirety of the Pakistani American Muslim experience, nor should any of my personal experiences be taken as a reflection of Islam itself. I am simply one of many.”
As “one of many” Rishi demonstrates that anyone could accomplish the things she did. She opens the floor to other marginalized folks to tell their stories, recognizing that her experiences are not more important, definitive, or valid than any other Pakistani American Muslim. By telling her story, she shows us that we, too, can do the same.
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More than anything, “Sorry for the Inconvenience,” feels like a conversation between friends. There is something so familiar and reassuring about hearing that some desi experiences are truly universal. But, as good friends often do, Rishi’s story impacts how we see ourselves, our loved ones, and the world around us.
