The House of Djinn

The House of Djinn

by Suzanne Fisher Staples
The House of Djinn

The House of Djinn

by Suzanne Fisher Staples

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Overview

Suzanne Fisher Staples returns to modern-day Pakistan to reexamine the juxtaposition of traditional Islamic values with modern ideals of love, in this commanding standalone sequel to Shabanu: Daughter of the Wind and Haveli.

It has been ten years since Shabanu staged her death to secure the safety of her daughter, Mumtaz, from her husband's murderous brother. Mumtaz has been raised by her father's family with the education and security her mother desired for her, but with little understanding and love. Only her American cousin Jameel, her closest confidant and friend, and the beloved family patriarch, Baba, understand the pain of her loneliness. When Baba unexpectedly dies, Jameel's succession as the Amirzai tribal leader and the arrangement of his marriage to Mumtaz are revealed, causing both to question whether fulfilling their duty to the family is worth giving up their dreams for the future.


The House of Djinn is a 2009 Bank Street - Best Children's Book of the Year.


Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781466814387
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Publication date: 04/01/2008
Sold by: Macmillan
Format: eBook
Pages: 224
Lexile: 940L (what's this?)
File size: 211 KB
Age Range: 12 - 17 Years

About the Author

SUZANNE FISHER STAPLES, a former UPI correspondent, is the author of many acclaimed books for young readers, including the Newbery Honor Book Shabanu; Shiva's Fire, a Publishers Weekly Best Book of the Year; and Under the Persimmon Tree, an ALA Best Book for Young Adults and an ALA Notable Book. She lives in Nicholson, Pennsylvania.


Suzanne Fisher Staples

It’s been many years since I left my newspaper job for the somewhat less predictable world of writing books. Still, most mornings I wake up and thank my lucky stars that I no longer have to pull on pantyhose, only to fight traffic on the way to the bureau; that I can walk the dog in the orange grove after lunch and finish the newspaper; that I spend my days making up stories and talking with children, not dealing with irascible news editors, slippery politicians, and oily flacks.
I grew up loving books. My grandmother read to us every day and bribed us with stories to help in her rock garden. There, among the bleeding hearts and irises and peonies, I decided I wanted to be a writer. I’ve always written: journals, letters, school papers, essays, and, when I grew up, news reports.

But I could never imagine writing a novel. Whatever could I write about that would sustain anyone’s interest for two hundred or more pages?

The answer never occurred to me until I went to Pakistan. There was something about the camels, the ancient stories and blue-tiled mosques, and people who build shrines where a beautiful poem was written, that set my heart to singing. And there was something about our ignorance here in the West about Islamic people that made me know a story about this place needed to be told. And so my writing career began with Shabanu and Haveli.

After I left Pakistan, I wondered whether I would ever find anything that fired my soul as the people of the Cholistan Desert had. I returned to America somewhat apprehensive. It’s easy to be sparked by the exotic places of the world. But what about finding inspiration in the familiar?

And then I settled in a small and beautiful corner of Virginia’s Eastern Shore. There on the Chesapeake Bay, the mud and the pines and the grasses and the water and all the things that live in and among them spoke to me like characters in a book. I began to see the exotic everywhere.

While I was living in Asia, I thought of the United States as a place where the phones and the political system work, and people are tolerant of each other. When I came home I found that some things here were worse than all the poverty and sickness and intolerance I’d encountered in Asia. I met two children who lived on the farm next to our property on the Eastern Shore, one black, one white. Their friendship was based on fishing and swimming and exploring the woods and the creeks. As they approached adolescence, their families began to steer them away from each other. From then on, their stories fell into two distinct patterns. The white boy went to a private school. The black boy was later killed during a dispute over drugs. For all the beauty of the Eastern Shore, racism was one of its healthiest institutions. People were so familiar with it they couldn’t see how heartbreaking it was. And that was the genesis of Dangerous Skies.

My husband, Wayne, and I live in the hills of Tennessee, where we love to hike and canoe and watch the eagles soar over valleys that are shrouded in pale blue mist. I know now that the world is wondrous and wide, and I hope I will never cease to be moved by places and people who give rise to ideas for stories. Because stories are the most important thing in the world. They teach us how to live, how to love, and, most important, how to find magic wherever we are.

Suzanne Fisher Staples was born in 1945 and grew up beside a lake in the hilly farmland near Scranton, Pennsylvania. She worked as a news reporter in Asia for twelve years, serving in Hong Kong, India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Bangladesh, Nepal, and Sri Lanka with United Press International. She also worked in Washington, D.C., as an editor at The Washington Post.

Read an Excerpt

From The House of Djinn

Selma led her to the doorway of the beautiful hand-carved marble summer pavilion that stood in the center of the courtyard, and ducked through the entry first. Mumtaz followed, and again her eyes had to adjust. A small figure stood in the middle of the spacious pavilion lit by the sun filtered through the intricate latticework of the screens that formed the walls. Mumtaz took two steps forward.

“My Mumtaz,” said Shabanu and held her arms open. Mumtaz turned her head toward Selma, not quite believing her eyes and ears.

“Is it my mother?” she asked Selma, who nodded, her face opening in an encouraging smile. Mumtaz looked back toward her mother in disbelief, unable to move. For a moment she just stared.

“I’ve waited so long to see you,” said Shabanu, moving toward her daughter. “I couldn’t tell you I was here, and all the while I was living just to see you again.” Mumtaz couldn’t find her voice and her feet felt planted in the stone floor. Shabanu approached her slowly and put her arms around Mumtaz. “I’ve dreamed of holding you every minute since the last time,” Shabanu said.

“I don’t understand!” Mumtaz said, unaware that tears streamed down her face. She stood rigidly and Shabanu continued to hold her. “You’ve been here all this time?” Mumtaz asked. “And you let me believe you were dead?”

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