Blasphear
By Sohail Ahmed
Penguin Random House India Pvt Ltd
ISBN: 978-0143466833
320pp.

Sohail Rauf makes his literary debut with a novel that’s as bold as it is layered. A PhD in electrical engineering, Rauf has spent much of his life in the US, but his roots in Pakistan are unmistakably present in every paragraph of this book. His transition from equations to existential crises may surprise some but, in Blasphear, he proves that a deep understanding of systems, human and societal, can make for powerful fiction.

Blasphear (blasphemy and fear) opens with a jolt. A young boy is found hanging from a ceiling fan in a modest home in Shanti Nagar, a lower-middle class neighbourhood in Pakistani Punjab marked by a fragile religious coexistence and the recent memory of blasphemy-related riots. The novel follows Sub-Inspector Waqas Mahmood, an earnest, sharp-witted police officer new to the area, as he is tasked with investigating what initially seems like a suicide.

But this is no open-and-shut case.

Hasan, the deceased, was affiliated — albeit informally — with Deen-i-Kamil, a radical religious group believed to be behind the earlier blasphemy-related unrest in the town: when a Hindu art teacher was lynched on accusations of blasphemy against Islam.

A compelling debut novel explores blasphemy laws and religious intolerance in Pakistan with unflinching honesty but also with empathy

As Waqas navigates a maze of grief-stricken family members, opportunistic religious leaders and stifling police bureaucracy, the narrative expands in scope. We are introduced to Furqan, Hasan’s childhood friend, whose recollections take us back six years into their shared past, as well as Lubna, his elder sister. Their story unfolds through an intimate, nostalgic lens, bringing in new characters, most notably Ram and Mohan, Hindu brothers who become unlikely allies in a setting where interfaith friendship is quietly revolutionary.

The novel swings between two timelines: the present-day investigation led by Waqas, and Furqan’s heartfelt recollection of their school days. These parallel narratives form a haunting mosaic: of adolescence, prejudice, friendship and eventual fracture.

Hasan, once vibrant and curious, gradually falls under the influence of dogma. The shift is subtle and sad. His transformation, triggered by peer pressure, loss of belonging and ideological confusion, becomes central to understanding the nature of his death. As secrets begin to emerge, and Furqan provides crucial clues to Waqas, we begin to suspect that Hasan’s end was anything but simple.

Lubna is portrayed as a spirited woman who is refreshingly defiant of social norms. She joins the boys in kite flying, skilfully manoeuvring her kite despite her dupatta getting in the way. Her witty comebacks and playful attitude add warmth and lightheartedness to the narrative. Lubna’s presence subtly challenges gender expectations in a conservative setting. Though a minor character, she represents the quiet strength of young women in patriarchal societies.

The story culminates in a quiet yet heartbreaking climax, one that isn’t explosive but instead underscores the book’s central theme: how belief systems, religious or otherwise, can be weaponised, consuming the very youth they claim to guide.

Set in a Punjab small town, the novel evokes the daily textures of life: clunky jeeps, roadside tea stalls, school corridors, narrow rooftops and oppressive heat. You can practically hear the blacksmith’s hammer outside the police station.

The relevance of Blasphear to contemporary Pakistan cannot be overstated. In a country where blasphemy accusations can spark riots, lynchings and long imprisonments without due process, the novel mirrors unsettling realities. Just as in the story, real-life cases — from the tragic murder of Mashal Khan to the weaponisation of laws against minorities — reveal how religion is routinely manipulated.

Speaking of the characters, Waqas, as a young, jaded-yet-idealistic police officer, is a refreshing counter to stereotypical portrayals of law enforcement. He’s thoughtful, sarcastic and visibly uncomfortable with the apathy and corruption that surround him. Furqan is sensitive and observant, providing the emotional heart of the story. His friendship with Hasan, and his reflections on identity and childhood, offer a quiet but potent critique of how hate is learned and normalised. Hasan is the most tragic figure. Once open-minded and inquisitive, he becomes a casualty of ideological seduction. His transformation is symbolic of how the seeds of extremism are sown in seemingly ordinary lives.

What I loved the most about this book is that the climax is not a sudden twist but a slow unravelling. Through Waqas’ investigation and Furqan’s revelations, we understand that Hasan’s death is not just a case of personal despair, it’s a by-product of a society unable to protect its most vulnerable from the pull of radicalism. The tragedy is not just in the act, but in the apathy and silence surrounding it.

In this way, the book becomes all the more relevant for South Asian readers, particularly those from Pakistan or India. It is a gut-punch. It explores blasphemy laws, religious intolerance and sectarian tensions with unflinching honesty. The interfaith friendships in the story feel precious and precarious, and the book raises difficult questions without moralising. This isn’t just fiction; it’s a mirror held up to the region’s most persistent and painful wounds.

The relevance of Blasphear to contemporary Pakistan cannot be overstated. In a country where blasphemy accusations can spark riots, lynchings and long imprisonments without due process, the novel mirrors unsettling realities. Just as in the story, real-life cases — from the tragic murder of Mashal Khan to the weaponisation of laws against minorities — reveal how religion is routinely manipulated. People cherry-pick verses from the Quran, invoking Islam only when it serves their personal or political agendas. We’ve made the faith rigid and fearsome when, in essence, Islam is rooted in peace, justice and compassion. As Blasphear powerfully illustrates, it’s not Islam that’s the problem, it’s what we’ve made of it.

Rauf writes in crisp, contemporary prose that neither feels forced nor self-indulgent, allowing the story to breathe naturally, while still carrying emotional heft. He infuses the narrative with Urdu phrases and cultural idioms that feel organic rather than ornamental. The pacing is steady, never rushing through dialogue or exposition, which makes the novel both a slow-burn and a page-turner.

That said, some parts, especially those involving ideological discussions, do risk veering into the educational, sounding a tad preachy. A bit more subtlety could have served these moments better. There are also secondary characters that beg for more depth but are left underdeveloped. Still, these are minor quibbles in an otherwise immersive and well-executed debut.

Anyone interested in South Asian politics, coming-of-age stories, or fiction that blurs the line between social commentary and emotional drama will find Blasphear compelling. It’s especially meaningful for readers who’ve seen firsthand the cost of silence and the perils of unchecked power in the name of faith.

Rauf’s Blasphear is an emotionally intelligent, socially urgent debut. With its strong characters, layered storytelling and evocative setting, it forces readers to confront uncomfortable truths, but it does so with empathy, not judgement. Highly recommended.

The reviewer is a content lead at a communications agency.

She can be reached at sara.amj@hotmail.co.uk

Published in Dawn, Books & Authors, July 20th, 2025