With a new Introduction Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for fiction, this stunning debut collection unerring charts the emotional journeys of characters seeking love beyond the barriers of nations and generations. In stories that travel from India to America and back again, Lahiri speaks with universal eloquence to everyone who has ever felt like a foreigner.
|Publisher:||Findaway World Llc|
|Product dimensions:||4.87(w) x 7.79(h) x 1.14(d)|
About the Author
Jhumpa Lahiri is the author of four works of fiction: Interpreter of Maladies, The Namesake, Unaccustomed Earth, and The Lowland; and a work of nonfiction, In Other Words. She has received numerous awards, including the Pulitzer Prize; the PEN/Hemingway Award; the PEN/Malamud Award; the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award; the Premio Gregor von Rezzori; the DSC Prize for South Asian Literature; a 2014 National Humanities Medal, awarded by President Barack Obama; and the Premio Internazionale Viareggio-Versilia, for In altre parole.
Hometown:New York, New York
Date of Birth:1967
Place of Birth:London, England
Education:B.A., Barnard College; M.A., Ph.D., Boston University
Read an Excerpt
A Temporary Matter
The notice informed them that it was a temporary matter: for five days their electricity would be cut off for one hour, beginning at eight P.M. A line had gone down in the last snowstorm, and the repairmen were going to take advantage of the milder evenings to set it right. The work would affect only the houses on the quiet tree-lined street, within walking distance of a row of brick-faced stores and a trolley stop, where Shoba and Shukumar had lived for three years.
"It's good of them to warn us," Shoba conceded after reading the notice aloud, more for her own benefit than Shukumar's. She let the strap of her leather satchel, plump with files, slip from her shoulders, and left it in the hallway as she walked into the kitchen. She wore a navy blue poplin raincoat over gray sweatpants and white sneakers, looking, at thirty-three, like the type of woman she'd once claimed she would never resemble.
She'd come from the gym. Her cranberry lipstick was visible only on the outer reaches of her mouth, and her eyeliner had left charcoal patches beneath her lower lashes. She used to look this way sometimes, Shukumar thought, on mornings after a party or a night at a bar, when she'd been too lazy to wash her face, too eager to collapse into his arms. She dropped a sheaf of mail on the table without a glance. Her eyes were still fixed on the notice in her other hand. "But they should do this sort of thing during the day."
"When I'm here, you mean," Shukumar said. He put a glass lid on a pot of lamb, adjusting it so only the slightest bit of steam could escape. Since January he'd been working at home, trying to complete the final chapters of his dissertation on agrarian revolts in India. "When do the repairs start?"
"It says March nineteenth. Is today the nineteenth?" Shoba walked over to the framed corkboard that hung on the wall by the fridge, bare except for a calendar of William Morris wallpaper patterns. She looked at it as if for the first time, studying the wallpaper pattern carefully on the top half before allowing her eyes to fall to the numbered grid on the bottom. A friend had sent the calendar in the mail as a Christmas gift, even though Shoba and Shukumar hadn't celebrated Christmas that year.
"Today then," Shoba announced. "You have a dentist appointment next Friday, by the way."
He ran his tongue over the tops of his teeth; he'd forgotten to brush them that morning. It wasn't the first time. He hadn't left the house at all that day, or the day before. The more Shoba stayed out, the more she began putting in extra hours at work and taking on additional projects, the more he wanted to stay in, not even leaving to get the mail, or to buy fruit or wine at the stores by the trolley stop.
Six months ago, in September, Shukumar was at an academic conference in Baltimore when Shoba went into labor, three weeks before her due date. He hadn't wanted to go to the conference, but she had insisted; it was important to make contacts, and he would be entering the job market next year. She told him that she had his number at the hotel, and a copy of his schedule and flight numbers, and she had arranged with her friend Gillian for a ride to the hospital in the event of an emergency. When the cab pulled away that morning for the airport, Shoba stood waving good-bye in her robe, with one arm resting on the mound of her belly as if it were a perfectly natural part of her body.
Each time he thought of that moment, the last moment he saw Shoba pregnant, it was the cab he remembered most, a station wagon, painted red with blue lettering. It was cavernous compared to their own car. Although Shukumar was six feet tall, with hands too big ever to rest comfortably in the pockets of his jeans, he felt dwarfed in the back seat. As the cab sped down Beacon Street, he imagined a day when he and Shoba might need to buy a station wagon of their own, to cart their children back and forth from music lessons and dentist appointments. He imagined himself gripping the wheel, as Shoba turned around to hand the children juice boxes. Once, these images of parenthood had troubled Shukumar, adding to his anxiety that he was still a student at thirty-five. But that early autumn morning, the trees still heavy with bronze leaves, he welcomed the image for the first time.
A member of the staff had found him somehow among the identical convention rooms and handed him a stiff square of stationery. It was only a telephone number, but Shukumar knew it was the hospital. When he returned to Boston it was over. The baby had been born dead. Shoba was lying on a bed, asleep, in a private room so small there was barely enough space to stand beside her, in a wing of the hospital they hadn't been to on the tour for expectant parents. Her placenta had weakened and she'd had a cesarean, though not quickly enough. The doctor explained that these things happen. He smiled in the kindest way it was possible to smile at people known only professionally. Shoba would be back on her feet in a few weeks. There was nothing to indicate that she would not be able to have children in the future.
These days Shoba was always gone by the time Shukumar woke up. He would open his eyes and see the long black hairs she shed on her pillow and think of her, dressed, sipping her third cup of coffee already, in her office downtown, where she searched for typographical errors in textbooks and marked them, in a code she had once explained to him, with an assortment of colored pencils. She would do the same for his dissertation, she promised, when it was ready. He envied her the specificity of her task, so unlike the elusive nature of his. He was a mediocre student who had a facility for absorbing details without curiosity. Until September he had been diligent if not dedicated, summarizing chapters, outlining arguments on pads of yellow lined paper. But now he would lie in their bed until he grew bored, gazing at his side of the closet which Shoba always left partly open, at the row of the tweed jackets and corduroy trousers he would not have to choose from to teach his classes that semester. After the baby died it was too late to withdraw from his teaching duties. But his adviser had arranged things so that he had the spring semester to himself. Shukumar was in his sixth year of graduate school. "That and the summer should give you a good push," his adviser had said. "You should be able to wrap things up by next September."
But nothing was pushing Shukumar. Instead he thought of how he and Shoba had become experts at avoiding each other in their three-bedroom house, spending as much time on separate floors as possible. He thought of how he no longer looked forward to weekends, when she sat for hours on the sofa with her colored pencils and her files, so that he feared that putting on a record in his own house might be rude. He thought of how long it had been since she looked into his eyes and smiled, or whispered his name on those rare occasions they still reached for each other's bodies before sleeping.
In the beginning he had believed that it would pass, that he and Shoba would get through it all somehow. She was only thirty-three. She was strong, on her feet again. But it wasn't a consolation. It was often nearly lunchtime when Shukumar would finally pull himself out of bed and head downstairs to the coffeepot, pouring out the extra bit Shoba left for him, along with an empty mug, on the countertop.
Shukumar gathered onion skins in his hands and let them drop into the garbage pail, on top of the ribbons of fat he'd trimmed from the lamb. He ran the water in the sink, soaking the knife and the cutting board, and rubbed a lemon half along his fingertips to get rid of the garlic smell, a trick he'd learned from Shoba. It was seven-thirty. Through the window he saw the sky, like soft black pitch. Uneven banks of snow still lined the sidewalks, though it was warm enough for people to walk about without hats or gloves. Nearly three feet had fallen in the last storm, so that for a week people had to walk single file, in narrow trenches. For a week that was Shukumar's excuse for not leaving the house. But now the trenches were widening, and water drained steadily into grates in the pavement.
"The lamb won't be done by eight," Shukumar said. "We may have to eat in the dark."
"We can light candles," Shoba suggested. She unclipped her hair, coiled neatly at her nape during the days, and pried the sneakers from her feet without untying them. "I'm going to shower before the lights go," she said, heading for the staircase. "I'll be down."
Shukumar moved her satchel and her sneakers to the side of the fridge. She wasn't this way before. She used to put her coat on a hanger, her sneakers in the closet, and she paid bills as soon as they came. But now she treated the house as if it were a hotel. The fact that the yellow chintz armchair in the living room clashed with the blue-and-maroon Turkish carpet no longer bothered her. On the enclosed porch at the back of the house, a crisp white bag still sat on the wicker chaise, filled with lace she had once planned to turn into curtains.
While Shoba showered, Shukumar went into the downstairs bathroom and found a new toothbrush in its box beneath the sink. The cheap, stiff bristles hurt his gums, and he spit some blood into the basin. The spare brush was one of many stored in a metal basket. Shoba had bought them once when they were on sale, in the event that a visitor decided, at the last minute, to spend the night.
It was typical of her. She was the type to prepare for surprises, good and bad. If she found a skirt or a purse she liked she bought two. She kept the bonuses from her job in a separate bank account in her name. It hadn't bothered him. His own mother had fallen to pieces when his father died, abandoning the house he grew up in and moving back to Calcutta, leaving Shukumar to settle it all. He liked that Shoba was different. It astonished him, her capacity to think ahead. When she used to do the shopping, the pantry was always stocked with extra bottles of olive and corn oil, depending on whether they were cooking Italian or Indian. There were endless boxes of pasta in all shapes and colors, zippered sacks of basmati rice, whole sides of lambs and goats from the Muslim butchers at Haymarket, chopped up and frozen in endless plastic bags. Every other Saturday they wound through the maze of stalls Shukumar eventually knew by heart. He watched in disbelief as she bought more food, trailing behind her with canvas bags as she pushed through the crowd, arguing under the morning sun with boys too young to shave but already missing teeth, who twisted up brown paper bags of artichokes, plums, gingerroot, and yams, and dropped them on their scales, and tossed them to Shoba one by one. She didn't mind being jostled, even when she was pregnant. She was tall, and broad-shouldered, with hips that her obstetrician assured her were made for childbearing. During the drive back home, as the car curved along the Charles, they invariably marveled at how much food they'd bought.
It never went to waste. When friends dropped by, Shoba would throw together meals that appeared to have taken half a day to prepare, from things she had frozen and bottled, not cheap things in tins but peppers she had marinated herself with rosemary, and chutneys that she cooked on Sundays, stirring boiling pots of tomatoes and prunes. Her labeled mason jars lined the shelves of the kitchen, in endless sealed pyramids, enough, they'd agreed, to last for their grandchildren to taste. They'd eaten it all by now. Shukumar had been going through their supplies steadily, preparing meals for the two of them, measuring out cupfuls of rice, defrosting bags of meat day after day. He combed through her cookbooks every afternoon, following her penciled instructions to use two teaspoons of ground coriander seeds instead of one, or red lentils instead of yellow. Each of the recipes was dated, telling the first time they had eaten the dish together. April 2, cauliflower with fennel. January 14, chicken with almonds and sultanas. He had no memory of eating those meals, and yet there they were, recorded in her neat proofreader's hand. Shukumar enjoyed cooking now. It was the one thing that made him feel productive. If it weren't for him, he knew, Shoba would eat a bowl of cereal for her dinner.
Tonight, with no lights, they would have to eat together. For months now they'd served themselves from the stove, and he'd taken his plate into his study, letting the meal grow cold on his desk before shoving it into his mouth without pause, while Shoba took her plate to the living room and watched game shows, or proofread files with her arsenal of colored pencils at hand.
At some point in the evening she visited him. When he heard her approach he would put away his novel and begin typing sentences. She would rest her hands on his shoulders and stare with him into the blue glow of the computer screen. "Don't work too hard," she would say after a minute or two, and head off to bed. It was the one time in the day she sought him out, and yet he'd come to dread it. He knew it was something she forced herself to do. She would look around the walls of the room, which they had decorated together last summer with a border of marching ducks and rabbits playing trumpets and drums. By the end of August there was a cherry crib under the window, a white changing table with mint-green knobs, and a rocking chair with checkered cushions. Shukumar had disassembled it all before bringing Shoba back from the hospital, scraping off the rabbits and ducks with a spatula. For some reason the room did not haunt him the way it haunted Shoba. In January, when he stopped working at his carrel in the library, he set up his desk there deliberately, partly because the room soothed him, and partly because it was a place Shoba avoided.
Shukumar returned to the kitchen and began to open drawers. He tried to locate a candle among the scissors, the eggbeaters and whisks, the mortar and pestle she'd bought in a bazaar in Calcutta, and used to pound garlic cloves and cardamom pods, back when she used to cook. He found a flashlight, but no batteries, and a half-empty box of birthday candles. Shoba had thrown him a surprise birthday party last May. One hundred and twenty people had crammed into the house all the friends and the friends of friends they now systematically avoided. Bottles of vinho verde had nested in a bed of ice in the bathtub. Shoba was in her fifth month, drinking ginger ale from a martini glass. She had made a vanilla cream cake with custard and spun sugar. All night she kept Shukumar's long fingers linked with hers as they walked among the guests at the party.
Since September their only guest had been Shoba's mother. She came from Arizona and stayed with them for two months after Shoba returned from the hospital. She cooked dinner every night, drove herself to the supermarket, washed their clothes, put them away. She was a religious woman. She set up a small shrine, a framed picture of a lavender-faced goddess and a plate of marigold petals, on the bedside table in the guest room, and prayed twice a day for healthy grandchildren in the future. She was polite to Shukumar without being friendly. She folded his sweaters with an expertise she had learned from her job in a department store. She replaced a missing button on his winter coat and knit him a beige and brown scarf, presenting it to him without the least bit of ceremony, as if he had only dropped it and hadn't noticed. She never talked to him about Shoba; once, when he mentioned the baby's death, she looked up from her knitting, and said, "But you weren't even there."
It struck him as odd that there were no real candles in the house. That Shoba hadn't prepared for such an ordinary emergency. He looked now for something to put the birthday candles in and settled on the soil of a potted ivy that normally sat on the windowsill over the sink. Even though the plant was inches from the tap, the soil was so dry that he had to water it first before the candles would stand straight. He pushed aside the things on the kitchen table, the piles of mail, the unread library books. He remembered their first meals there, when they were so thrilled to be married, to be living together in the same house at last, that they would just reach for each other foolishly, more eager to make love than to eat. He put down two embroidered place mats, a wedding gift from an uncle in Lucknow, and set out the plates and wineglasses they usually saved for guests. He put the ivy in the middle, the white-edged, star-shaped leaves girded by ten little candles. He switched on the digital clock radio and tuned it to a jazz station.
"What's all this?" Shoba said when she came downstairs. Her hair was wrapped in a thick white towel. She undid the towel and draped it over a chair, allowing her hair, damp and dark, to fall across her back. As she walked absently toward the stove she took out a few tangles with her fingers. She wore a clean pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt, an old flannel robe. Her stomach was flat again, her waist narrow before the flare of her hips, the belt of the robe tied in a floppy knot.
It was nearly eight. Shukumar put the rice on the table and the lentils from the night before into the microwave oven, punching the numbers on the timer.
"You made rogan josh," Shoba observed, looking through the glass lid at the bright paprika stew.
Shukumar took out a piece of lamb, pinching it quickly between his fingers so as not to scald himself. He prodded a larger piece with a serving spoon to make sure the meat slipped easily from the bone. "It's ready," he announced.
The microwave had just beeped when the lights went out, and the music disappeared.
"Perfect timing," Shoba said.
"All I could find were birthday candles." He lit up the ivy, keeping the rest of the candles and a book of matches by his plate.
"It doesn't matter," she said, running a finger along the stem of her wineglass. "It looks lovely."
In the dimness, he knew how she sat, a bit forward in her chair, ankles crossed against the lowest rung, left elbow on the table. During his search for the candles, Shukumar had found a bottle of wine in a crate he had thought was empty. He clamped the bottle between his knees while he turned in the corkscrew. He worried about spilling, and so he picked up the glasses and held them close to his lap while he filled them. They served themselves, stirring the rice with their forks, squinting as they extracted bay leaves and cloves from the stew. Every few minutes Shukumar lit a few more birthday candles and drove them into the soil of the pot.
"It's like India," Shoba said, watching him tend his makeshift candelabra. "Sometimes the current disappears for hours at a stretch. I once had to attend an entire rice ceremony in the dark. The baby just cried and cried. It must have been so hot."
Their baby had never cried, Shukumar considered. Their baby would never have a rice ceremony, even though Shoba had already made the guest list, and decided on which of her three brothers she was going to ask to feed the child its first taste of solid food, at six months if it was a boy, seven if it was a girl.
"Are you hot?" he asked her. He pushed the blazing ivy pot to the other end of the table, closer to the piles of books and mail, making it even more difficult for them to see each other. He was suddenly irritated that he couldn't go upstairs and sit in front of the computer.
"No. It's delicious," she said, tapping her plate with her fork. "It really is."
He refilled the wine in her glass. She thanked him.
They weren't like this before. Now he had to struggle to say something that interested her, something that made her look up from her plate, or from her proofreading files. Eventually he gave up trying to amuse her. He learned not to mind the silences.
"I remember during power failures at my grandmother's house, we all had to say something," Shoba continued. He could barely see her face, but from her tone he knew her eyes were narrowed, as if trying to focus on a distant object. It was a habit of hers.
"I don't know. A little poem. A joke. A fact about the world. For some reason my relatives always wanted me to tell them the names of my friends in America. I don't know why the information was so interesting to them. The last time I saw my aunt she asked after four girls I went to elementary school with in Tucson. I barely remember them now."
Shukumar hadn't spent as much time in India as Shoba had. His parents, who settled in New Hampshire, used to go back without him. The first time he'd gone as an infant he'd nearly died of amoebic dysentery. His father, a nervous type, was afraid to take him again, in case something were to happen, and left him with his aunt and uncle in Concord. As a teenager he preferred sailing camp or scooping ice cream during the summers to going to Calcutta. It wasn't until after his father died, in his last year of college, that the country began to interest him, and he studied its history from course books as if it were any other subject. He wished now that he had his own childhood story of India.
"Let's do that," she said suddenly.
"Say something to each other in the dark."
"Like what? I don't know any jokes."
"No, no jokes." She thought for a minute. "How about telling each other something we've never told before."
"I used to play this game in high school," Shukumar recalled. "When I got drunk."
"You're thinking of truth or dare. This is different. Okay, I'll start." She took a sip of wine. "The first time I was alone in your apartment, I looked in your address book to see if you'd written me in. I think we'd known each other two weeks."
"Where was I?"
"You went to answer the telephone in the other room. It was your mother, and I figured it would be a long call. I wanted to know if you'd promoted me from the margins of your newspaper."
"No. But I didn't give up on you. Now it's your turn."
He couldn't think of anything, but Shoba was waiting for him to speak. She hadn't appeared so determined in months. What was there left to say to her? He thought back to their first meeting, four years earlier at a lecture hall in Cambridge, where a group of Bengali poets were giving a recital. They'd ended up side by side, on folding wooden chairs. Shukumar was soon bored; he was unable to decipher the literary diction, and couldn't join the rest of the audience as they sighed and nodded solemnly after certain phrases. Peering at the newspaper folded in his lap, he studied the temperatures of cities around the world. Ninety-one degrees in Singapore yesterday, fifty-one in Stockholm. When he turned his head to the left, he saw a woman next to him making a grocery list on the back of a folder, and was startled to find that she was beautiful.
"Okay" he said, remembering. "The first time we went out to dinner, to the Portuguese place, I forgot to tip the waiter. I went back the next morning, found out his name, left money with the manager."
"You went all the way back to Somerville just to tip a waiter?"
"I took a cab."
"Why did you forget to tip the waiter?"
The birthday candles had burned out, but he pictured her face clearly in the dark, the wide tilting eyes, the full grape-toned lips, the fall at age two from her high chair still visible as a comma on her chin. Each day, Shukumar noticed, her beauty, which had once overwhelmed him, seemed to fade. The cosmetics that had seemed superfluous were necessary now, not to improve her but to define her somehow.
"By the end of the meal I had a funny feeling that I might marry you," he said, admitting it to himself as well as to her for the first time. "It must have distracted me."
The next night Shoba came home earlier than usual. There was lamb left over from the evening before, and Shukumar heated it up so that they were able to eat by seven. He'd gone out that day, through the melting snow, and bought a packet of taper candles from the corner store, and batteries to fit the flashlight. He had the candles ready on the countertop, standing in brass holders shaped like lotuses, but they ate under the glow of the copper-shaded ceiling lamp that hung over the table.
When they had finished eating, Shukumar was surprised to see that Shoba was stacking her plate on top of his, and then carrying them over to the sink. He had assumed she would retreat to the living room, behind her barricade of files.
"Don't worry about the dishes," he said, taking them from her hands.
"It seems silly not to," she replied, pouring a drop of detergent onto a sponge. "It's nearly eight o'clock."
His heart quickened. All day Shukumar had looked forward to the lights going out. He thought about what Shoba had said the night before, about looking in his address book. It felt good to remember her as she was then, how bold yet nervous she'd been when they first met, how hopeful. They stood side by side at the sink, their reflections fitting together in the frame of the window. It made him shy, the way he felt the first time they stood together in a mirror. He couldn't recall the last time they'd been photographed. They had stopped attending parties, went nowhere together. The film in his camera still contained pictures of Shoba, in the yard, when she was pregnant.
After finishing the dishes, they leaned against the counter, drying their hands on either end of a towel. At eight o'clock the house went black. Shukumar lit the wicks of the candles, impressed by their long, steady flames.
"Let's sit outside," Shoba said. "I think it's warm still."
They each took a candle and sat down on the steps. It seemed strange to be sitting outside with patches of snow still on the ground. But everyone was out of their houses tonight, the air fresh enough to make people restless. Screen doors opened and closed. A small parade of neighbors passed by with flashlights.
"We're going to the bookstore to browse," a silver-haired man called out. He was walking with his wife, a thin woman in a windbreaker, and holding a dog on a leash. They were the Bradfords, and they had tucked a sympathy card into Shoba and Shukumar's mailbox back in September. "I hear they've got their power."
"They'd better," Shukumar said. "Or you'll be browsing in the dark."
The woman laughed, slipping her arm through the crook of her husband's elbow. "Want to join us?"
"No thanks," Shoba and Shukumar called out together. It surprised Shukumar that his words matched hers.
He wondered what Shoba would tell him in the dark. The worst possibilities had already run through his head. That she'd had an affair. That she didn't respect him for being thirty-five and still a student. That she blamed him for being in Baltimore the way her mother did. But he knew those things weren't true. She'd been faithful, as had he. She believed in him. It was she who had insisted he go to Baltimore. What didn't they know about each other? He knew she curled her fingers tightly when she slept, that her body twitched during bad dreams. He knew it was honeydew she favored over cantaloupe. He knew that when they returned from the hospital the first thing she did when she walked into the house was pick out objects of theirs and toss them into a pile in the hallway: books from the shelves, plants from the windowsills, paintings from walls, photos from tables, pots and pans that hung from the hooks over the stove. Shukumar had stepped out of her way, watching as she moved methodically from room to room. When she was satisfied, she stood there staring at the pile she'd made, her lips drawn back in such distaste that Shukumar had thought she would spit. Then she'd started to cry.
He began to feel cold as he sat there on the steps. He felt that he needed her to talk first, in order to reciprocate.
"That time when your mother came to visit us," she said finally. "When I said one night that I had to stay late at work, I went out with Gillian and had a martini."
He looked at her profile, the slender nose, the slightly masculine set of her jaw. He remembered that night well; eating with his mother, tired from teaching two classes back to back, wishing Shoba were there to say more of the right things because he came up with only the wrong ones. It had been twelve years since his father had died, and his mother had come to spend two weeks with him and Shoba, so they could honor his father's memory together. Each night his mother cooked something his father had liked, but she was too upset to eat the dishes herself, and her eyes would well up as Shoba stroked her hand. "It's so touching," Shoba had said to him at the time. Now he pictured Shoba with Gillian, in a bar with striped velvet sofas, the one they used to go to after the movies, making sure she got her extra olive, asking Gillian for a cigarette. He imagined her complaining, and Gillian sympathizing about visits from in-laws. It was Gillian who had driven Shoba to the hospital.
"Your turn," she said, stopping his thoughts.
At the end of their street Shukumar heard sounds of a drill and the electricians shouting over it. He looked at the darkened facades of the houses lining the street. Candles glowed in the windows of one. In spite of the warmth, smoke rose from the chimney.
"I cheated on my Oriental Civilization exam in college," he said. "It was my last semester, my last set of exams. My father had died a few months before. I could see the blue book of the guy next to me. He was an American guy, a maniac. He knew Urdu and Sanskrit. I couldn't remember if the verse we had to identify was an example of a ghazal or not. I looked at his answer and copied it down."
It had happened over fifteen years ago. He felt relief now, having told her.
She turned to him, looking not at his face, but at his shoes old moccasins he wore as if they were slippers, the leather at the back permanently flattened. He wondered if it bothered her, what he'd said. She took his hand and pressed it. "You didn't have to tell me why you did it," she said, moving closer to him.
They sat together until nine o'clock, when the lights came on. They heard some people across the street clapping from their porch, and televisions being turned on. The Bradfords walked back down the street, eating ice-cream cones and waving. Shoba and Shukumar waved back. Then they stood up, his hand still in hers, and went inside.
Somehow, without saying anything, it had turned into this. Into an exchange of confessions the little ways they'd hurt or disappointed each other, and themselves. The following day Shukumar thought for hours about what to say to her. He was torn between admitting that he once ripped out a photo of a woman in one of the fashion magazines she used to subscribe to and carried it in his books for a week, or saying that he really hadn't lost the sweater-vest she bought him for their third wedding anniversary but had exchanged it for cash at Filene's, and that he had gotten drunk alone in the middle of the day at a hotel bar. For their first anniversary, Shoba had cooked a ten-course dinner just for him. The vest depressed him. "My wife gave me a sweater-vest for our anniversary," he complained to the bartender, his head heavy with cognac. "What do you expect?" the bartender had replied. "You're married."
As for the picture of the woman, he didn't know why he'd ripped it out. She wasn't as pretty as Shoba. She wore a white sequined dress, and had a sullen face and lean, mannish legs. Her bare arms were raised, her fists around her head, as if she were about to punch herself in the ears. It was an advertisement for stockings. Shoba had been pregnant at the time, her stomach suddenly immense, to the point where Shukumar no longer wanted to touch her. The first time he saw the picture he was lying in bed next to her, watching her as she read. When he noticed the magazine in the recycling pile he found the woman and tore out the page as carefully as he could. For about a week he allowed himself a glimpse each day. He felt an intense desire for the woman, but it was a desire that turned to disgust after a minute or two. It was the closest he'd come to infidelity.
He told Shoba about the sweater on the third night, the picture on the fourth. She said nothing as he spoke, expressed no protest or reproach. She simply listened, and then she took his hand, pressing it as she had before. On the third night, she told him that once after a lecture they'd attended, she let him speak to the chairman of his department without telling him that he had a dab of pâté on his chin. She'd been irritated with him for some reason, and so she'd let him go on and on, about securing his fellowship for the following semester, without putting a finger to her own chin as a signal. The fourth night, she said that she never liked the one poem he'd ever published in his life, in a literary magazine in Utah. He'd written the poem after meeting Shoba. She added that she found the poem sentimental.
Something happened when the house was dark. They were able to talk to each other again. The third night after supper they'd sat together on the sofa, and once it was dark he began kissing her awkwardly on her forehead and her face, and though it was dark he closed his eyes, and knew that she did, too. The fourth night they walked carefully upstairs, to bed, feeling together for the final step with their feet before the landing, and making love with a desperation they had forgotten. She wept without sound, and whispered his name, and traced his eyebrows with her finger in the dark. As he made love to her he wondered what he would say to her the next night, and what she would say, the thought of it exciting him. "Hold me," he said, "hold me in your arms," By the time the lights came back on downstairs, they'd fallen asleep.
The morning of the fifth night Shukumar found another notice from the electric company in the mailbox. The line had been repaired ahead of schedule, it said. He was disappointed. He had planned on making shrimp malai for Shoba, but when he arrived at the store he didn't feel like cooking anymore. It wasn't the same, he thought, knowing that the lights wouldn't go out. In the store the shrimp looked gray and thin. The coconut milk tin was dusty and overpriced. Still, he bought them, along with a beeswax candle and two bottles of wine.
She came home at seven-thirty. "I suppose this is the end of our game," he said when he saw her reading the notice.
She looked at him. "You can still light candles if you want." She hadn't been to the gym tonight. She wore a suit beneath the raincoat. Her makeup had been retouched recently.
When she went upstairs to change, Shukumar poured himself some wine and put on a record, a Thelonius Monk album he knew she liked.
When she came downstairs they ate together. She didn't thank him or compliment him. They simply ate in a darkened room, in the glow of a beeswax candle. They had survived a difficult time. They finished off the shrimp. They finished off the first bottle of wine and moved on to the second. They sat together until the candle had nearly burned away. She shifted in her chair, and Shukumar thought that she was about to say something. But instead she blew out the candle, stood up, turned on the light switch, and sat down again.
"Shouldn't we keep the lights off?" Shukumar asked. She set her plate aside and clasped her hands on the table. "I want you to see my face when I tell you this," she said gently.
His heart began to pound. The day she told him she was pregnant, she had used the very same words, saying them in the same gentle way, turning off the basketball game he'd been watching on television. He hadn't been prepared then. Now he was.
Only he didn't want her to be pregnant again. He didn't want to have to pretend to be happy.
"I've been looking for an apartment and I've found one," she said, narrowing her eyes on something, it seemed, behind his left shoulder. It was nobody's fault, she continued. They'd been through enough. She needed some time alone. She had money saved up for a security deposit. The apartment was on Beacon Hill, so she could walk to work. She had signed the lease that night before coming home.
She wouldn't look at him, but he stared at her. It was obvious that she'd rehearsed the lines. All this time she'd been looking for an apartment, testing the water pressure, asking a Realtor if heat and hot water were included in the rent. It sickened Shukumar, knowing that she had spent these past evenings preparing for a life without him. He was relieved and yet he was sickened. This was what she'd been trying to tell him for the past four evenings. This was the point of her game.
Now it was his turn to speak. There was something he'd sworn he would never tell her, and for six months he had done his best to block it from his mind. Before the ultrasound she had asked the doctor not to tell her the sex of their child, and Shukumar had agreed. She had wanted it to be a surprise.
Later, those few times they talked about what had happened, she said at least they'd been spared that knowledge. In a way she almost took pride in her decision, for it enabled her to seek refuge in a mystery. He knew that she assumed it was a mystery for him, too. He'd arrived too late from Baltimore when it was all over and she was lying on the hospital bed. But he hadn't. He'd arrived early enough to see their baby, and to hold him before they cremated him. At first he had recoiled at the suggestion, but the doctor said holding the baby might help him with the process of grieving. Shoba was asleep. The baby had been cleaned off, his bulbous lids shut tight to the world.
"Our baby was a boy," he said. "His skin was more red than brown. He had black hair on his head. He weighed almost five pounds. His fingers were curled shut, just like yours in the night."
Shoba looked at him now, her face contorted with sorrow. He had cheated on a college exam, ripped a picture of a woman out of a magazine. He had returned a sweater and got drunk in the middle of the day instead. These were the things he had told her. He had held his son, who had known life only within her, against his chest in a darkened room in an unknown wing of the hospital. He had held him until a nurse knocked and took him away, and he promised himself that day that he would never tell Shoba, because he still loved her then, and it was the one thing in her life that she had wanted to be a surprise.
Shukumar stood up and stacked his plate on top of hers. He carried the plates to the sink, but instead of running the tap he looked out the window. Outside the evening was still warm, and the Bradfords were walking arm in arm. As he watched the couple the room went dark, and he spun around. Shoba had turned the lights off. She came back to the table and sat down, and after a moment Shukumar joined her. They wept together, for the things they now knew.
Table of Contents
A Temporary Matter When Mr. Pirzada Came To Dine Interpreter Of Maladies A Real Durwan Sexy Mrs. Sen's This Blessed House The Treatment Of Bibi Haldar The Third and Final Continent
What People are Saying About This
"[Lahiri] announces herself as a wonderfully distinctive new voice. Indeed, Ms. Lahiri's prose is so eloquent and assured that the reader easily forgets the 'Interpreter of Maladies' is a young writer's first book...Ms. Lahiri chronicles her characters' lives with both objectivity and compassion while charting the emotional temperature of their lives with tactile precision. She is a writer of uncommon elegance and poise, and with 'Interpreter of Maldies' she has made a precocious debut." The New York Times
"Lahiri's touch in these nine tales is delicate, but her observations remain damningly accurate, and her bittersweet stories are unhampered by nostalgia..." Publishers Weekly
"Lahiri's touch is delicate yet assured, leaving no room for flubbed notes or forced epiphanies." The Los Angeles Times
"Dazzling writing, an easy-to-carry paperback format and a budget-respecting price tag of $12: Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies possesses these three qualities, making it my book of choice this summer every time someone asks for a recommendation...Simply put, Lahiri displays a remarkable maturity and ability to imagine other lives...[E]ach story offers something special. Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies will reward readers." USA Today
"[S]torytelling of surpassing kindness and skill." The San Francisco Chronicle
"India is an inescapable presence in this strong first collection's nine polished and resonant tales, most of which have appeared in The New Yorker and other publications." Kirkus Reviews
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
I picked up Interpreter of Maladies after having fallen in love with Lahiri's writing style in The Namesake . I normally am not a fan of the short story, as it usually lacks the depth that comes with getting to know characters over the course of a longer novel. However, I must say Lahiri manages to capture her readers' feelings and captivates their senses through her short stories in very much the same way she does in The Namesake. Her short stories may give those of us who aren't fans of this style of writing a new appreciation of the art that of luring & engaging readers over the course of only a few pages. This marvelous collection of short stories makes you forget this is Lahiri's very first work!
I enjoyed reading this wonderfully put-together book. Each family's story captivated a unique perspective on Indian immigrants. In addition, Lahiri's writing style beautifully weaves all these characters into a common journey of self identity and preservation of culture.
I read this book for a book club and it instantly became one of my favorites! While the tone may be a tad bit depressing at times, the book overall shines as a true picture of humanity. As a historian, I will admit I have not studied Indian culture and this book has inspired me to do just that. It beautifully depicts Indian culture in America and India. Each of the short stories depicts vastly different situations and are written from the perspective of young and old, male and female. Sometimes we see the lives of these Indian cultures from those living them, other times from outside observers. No matter who is telling us the story, we always get a unique and touching picture into the character's lives.
One of the themes Lahiri deals in most prolifically is the search for identity, as defined by the self, by others, by location and by circumstance. In Lahiri's stories, everything -- including gender, homeland, geography, occupation, and role within the community -- can act in determining and qualifying identity. Lahiri brings up interesting questions as to what can and cannot act as agents in the determination of identity, and many of her characters struggle against or conform to outside influences that have effects on self-definition and outside definition. The following questions delve into Lahiri's study of what affects identity in Interpreter of Maladies.she reveals characters inner world by a fascinating yet deceptively in simple style.i enjoyed this book thouroulyand i am greatly fascinated by her writing.
After reading the Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri, I have noticed that the novel expresses its character, plot, and setting in an ingenious and creative way. Lahiri has created a novel that expresses different feelings and plots, making the book informative and visionary in people¿s head. The book, Interpreter of Maladies, has gotten raving reviews and won the 2000 Pulitzer Prize. The novel consists of nine short stories and tumultuous relationships making the plot grow in thickness and contemplation.
I enjoyed this book so much, that I am now reading her second book of short stories, Unaccumstomed Earth. The characters in Interpreter of Maladies are developed to a degree often not possible in the short story genre. The collection brings to life the immigrant experience of Bengalis of all generations as they interact with the American culture and people. Each story is unique in the way that is explores the cultural and interpersonal relationships. While the Bengalis are the focus of the stories, we also see themes that are universal.
Jhumpa Lahari's Interpreter of Maladies is a very well writen book, filled with extrememly interesting characters and plot settings, and text connections for any reader. Throughout this book, I have enjoyed becoming deeply interested in the Indian Culture. In each chpter a new set of characters is set off on a different adventure in one of he four following places: United States, Pakistan, India, and London. Each character brings forth a part of their own culture and through chapters, ou can see it.
It was quite enjoyable to read a book with so much humanity. Some stories are absolutely beautiful, especially the '3rd and Final Continent' was my favorite. I recommend this book to anyone.
This is an excellent book of short stories by Jhumpa Lahiri. I like the imagery created in each of the stories and the flow of the words. The setting in ¿When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine¿ reminds me of several college students attending school in America. Their situations were always a little different. The short story of the same name as the book, ¿Interpreter of Maladies¿ is most interesting. Mr. Kapasi was quite a fellow with his imagination and plotting. Likewise, Mrs. Das had her flair for secrecy and passionate desires. ¿This Blessed House¿ shows the continual controversy between individuals of different religious beliefs and how they are able to live under the same roof. The entire book is a real treat to read. I have enjoyed all the stories. Additionally, I have listened to the digital audio book and it¿s also wonderful. I would recommend this book to my friends.
Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri is a very fascinating book by the many different relationships that we get to be involved. Each relationship is different and not only between a man and woman, but also the relationships that are built by complete strangers. It is remarkable to see how all of these characters seek love beyond the barriers of nationality and cultures. I think this book is a great read based on the short stories and your chance to get a feel of how other cultures live on their quest to find love. I thought this book had some useful information for engaged or newly married couples on how love can change over time. I think that Lahiri wrote this book, not for the reader to be happy, but for us to learn a sense of compassion and understanding for the Indian Culture. Our lives as Americans are so fully of one view, that this book helps us open our eyes more to the less talked about issues that face not only the Indian culture, but ours as well such as marital infidelity, search of an identity in a place where we feel we dont belong, and the out comes of social pressure to be something that we are not. Interpreter of Maladies is a book where we are Lahiri wants us to be involved as much as possible. Her writing style is so easy to follow and her stories are so beautifully written that you can¿t help but to laugh, cry, or even yell and parts of the story as you feel so connected to each character that she presents. I think Lahri achieved her purpose in writing this book, by showing us the reader how racial problems and marital strife can be a challenge, yet a blessing when coming to America. Lahiri¿s writing is so beautiful, that we can¿t help but get lost in this book. We see how each relationship is different and how each relationship can over come the trials that are presented in two different cultures. There are many barriers that are set about, but we can see how the Indian culture will fight to make things work, instead of running and giving up. The quest for love is a hard one, but with work, struggle and over powering it, love can last a lifetime. This book is a great read and if you are looking for something to change your mind on a variety of issues, this book will do it. Your emotions will run with you the whole way.
This was my least favorite of Lahiri's books. That being said, it was because to the length of the individual stories, not the context.
mix of India and America, of traditional and modern, love, jealousy, grief, loneliness and dreams. Ms Lahiri successfully cut across cultural boundaries through characters that imprint themselves in the minds of readers of al backgrounds. It is understandable why Ms. Lahiri won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, the O. Henry Award and the Pen/Hemingway Award in her first published work. She possesses a huge vocabulary and unique writing style.
Interpreter of Maladies, by Jhumpa Lahiri is a quiet collection of short stories that are connected by a common ethnicity. Each story takes a small glance into the lives of the various and well developed characters. It is apparent early on that Lahiri¿s intention for the book was not for it to be a cultural lesson on India. Instead, Lahiri succeeds, in using Indian culture as a border for her stories, and an outline for the universality of the trials and burdens everyone faces. All of this is accomplished without making much noise; there is a subtlety to Lahiri¿s writing, and the book benefits greatly to this style. One of the Lahiri¿s greatest strengths as shown through this book is the way she conveys difficult emotions with her writing. The tone and mood of the short stories are generally of a more melancholy and complex feeling. Feelings like indifference in the short story ¿The Third and Final Continent,¿ or the regret seen in the title story are just a couple examples. The overall depressing feeling can at times be a bit monotonous, but this isn¿t enough to hinder the book at all. The honesty of the writing makes these melancholy feelings seem legitimate and not artificial. Because this book is a collection of short stories it is inevitable that there will be favorites and least favorites. When I came across a short story that I didn¿t like as well it was usually because I couldn¿t figure out the direction of the story or what its purpose was. This didn¿t happen often, and much of the reason is probably due to my inability to relate to the story¿s character. Most of the time the stories were very engaging. Of all eight of the short stories my favorite would probably be ¿This Blessed House.¿ It¿s entirely possible that I would have a different favorite story if a read through the book a second time, but during my first read this story stuck out. The story revolves around a young Indian couple who upon moving into a new home discover the house to be full of old Christian trinkets. The husband is upset by the ridiculous religious artifacts, but his wife is intrigued and humored by them. The result is a battle of wills over these little items. I loved this story so much because of the way Lahiri portrayed the wife ¿ it was this character that added the humor and really drove the story. Having not read any of Lahiri¿s other works, it is hard to compare Interpreter of Maladies to others books. It is easier to compare this book to specific feeling or experience than anything else ¿ like watching a candle slowly burn itself out. As strange as that might sound, it really is how the book feels, and I think that is what Lahiri intended. In a very calm and subtle way these eight stories portray quiet feelings of sadness and joy that are both complex and familiar to everyone. Thoughtful book ¿ highly recommended.
We are often wowed by tales of war, tragic love, or deceitful revenge, but some stories invoke that same amazement through more ordinary situations. Exhibiting the emotional essence of humanity in all its frailty, perseverance, and beauty, these stories leave a lasting impression that echoes within our hearts. Such is the case in Jhumpa Lahiriâ¿¿s 'Interpreter of Maladies,' which captures the struggle for love and a peoplesâ¿¿ search for identity in a way that touches readers regardless of background. The short stories in Lahiriâ¿¿s book chronicle the happiness and hardship of Indian immigrants through situations and emotions that need no translation, focusing on emotional similarities while holding true to the beauty of cultural diversity. Despite many different changes in voice, time period, and location, the reality of the situations is flawless. Lahiri switches from first to third person, male to female, and old to young. In each case the characters come across so real that the reader feels as if theyâ¿¿re reading about someone theyâ¿¿ve known for years. The scenes and characters jump to life within the pages of 'Interpreter of Maladies,' giving an almost voyeuristic insight into the scenarios. Lahiriâ¿¿s excellent rhythm and perfect believability never once leave that, â¿¿Câ¿¿mon, that would never happen,â¿ impression, even to the most skeptical of readers. So in terms of technique, it is easy to see why this book won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, but the reasons go far beyond technique. The content of a story like 'When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine' really challenges the reader in several ways. The first is the obvious conflict between clinging to oneâ¿¿s culture and assimilating to the ways of the land. Lilia, the ten year-old daughter of first generation Indian immigrants, is the perfect literary tool to demonstrate the tensions of cultural absorption. She is corrected for calling her fatherâ¿¿s pre-division Pakistani friend, Mr. Pirzada, â¿¿the Indian manâ¿ (Lahiri, 25). She is confused by her fathers need to point out the difference in a man who, â¿¿spoke the same language, laughed at the same jokes, [and] looked more or less the sameâ¿ (25). In these few lines, Lahiri uses the innocence of a ten year-old girl to mock the seemingly never-ending conflict between Muslim and Hindu, but at the same time, she is showing how their similarities draw them together on the foreign soil of America. 'When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine' also challenges the naÃ¯ve isolationism that exists in the minds of many Americans. Despite her motherâ¿¿s pointing out to her husband that, â¿¿We live here now, [Lilia] was born here,â¿ he is confused at his daughterâ¿¿s lack of a more global education, questioning, â¿¿what does she learn about the world?â¿ (26-27). Then later, after Lilia goes out trick-or-treating with her American friend, Dora, she is surprised to find that, â¿¿the television,â¿ covering the Pakistani Civil War, â¿¿wasnâ¿¿t on at Doraâ¿¿s house at allâ¿â¿¿during the conflict that kept her family glued to the TV screen, Doraâ¿¿s father is, â¿¿lying on the couch, reading a magazine, with a glass of wine on the tableâ¿ (39). Wisely choosing the puzzled observations of an innocent youth to soften the blow and avoid any inkling or preachiness, Lahiri creates an eye-opening assessment of American global naivety. At the same time though, she uses horrific descriptions of war and poverty in and around India throughout the story as an indirect homage to the same country she is critiquing. One of the best examples in 'Maladies' of creating a fictional situation we can all relate to emotionally, and also this writerâ¿¿s favorite story from the book, is 'This Blessed House.' The hilarity of this piece is also a good indication of Lahiriâ¿¿s range as an author. We have all, at one time or another, gotten uptight over the seemingly embarrassing behavior of a loved oneâ¿¿given credence to the views of acquaintances without re
Although many of the marriages are shown in relation to Indian culture, universal hardships and situations arise and allow for better relation to the stories. Lahiri develops an aura of commonality throughout the book whether dealing with marriage, family, work, or life in general. Characters are seen adapting to American culture with difficulty yet retain poise and dedication. Many of the stories are built with intention of depressing the reader in order for one to reach a true realization of the human experience in different parts of the world. Lahiri does not write to create happiness, but to create understanding and compassion. The book was beautifully written, with strings of sentences put together like priceless artwork. The result was complete involvement of my emotions and personal thoughts into the stories. I winced, laughed and nearly cried at many points during the book. Lahiri excels at creating a setting that 'outsiders' such as I can easily relate to and mentally become a part of. The result is a better understanding of the mores, values and norms existing within Indian culture. Her stories are analogies to events and subjects in life that any individual could experience yet have a balanced infusion of her own culture. Lahiri also dares to explore less openely discussed subjects such as marital infidelity, development of identity, corruption of tradition and societal pressure. In 'The Interpreter of Maladies' marital infidelity is the highlighted topic as the two main characters, Mr.Kapasi and the wonderful Mrs.Das represent the unspoken problem that arises in many relationships, but remains quieted due to the societal pressures each of us face to project an image of flawlessness in love and marriage. The story shows Lahiri's view of repression as disgusting and selfish.
I came upon this book while browsing the New Author titles a few weeks ago. This is a wonderful collection of short stories that will make you believe in the magic and power of everyday moments. This book helped me to appreciate the smaller things in life.
I had this on a list of books that I had stumbled upon while browsing online but hadn't bought right away or looked at the list of books until November when my dad asked what I wanted for Christmas. I just picked this book off the list and recieved it for Christmas. It wasn't what I was expecting. I'm totally blown away at the writing! An excellent read.
I'm not a fan of short stories, so when I come across a selection which is actually good, it comes as a pleasant surprise. Ms. Lahiri's beautiful writing draws you in immediately. A great read.
Each and every short story in this collection is beautifully written and so touching... Lahiri truly knows the depths of the human heart and writes her stories ever-so perfectly. I consider this book a must-read, and even a repeated reading for all!
A beautiful, charming book, definitely worth every award it has recieved, and every cent spend. Deeply recomended to teens and adults alike. As i'm an asian, (though not indian) i am familiar with few tradituons and events, but this gives you a deeper insight into the beautiful Indian life....everywhere!
Lahiri's prose is polished, simple, beautiful - and very Indian. The culture shock of the transplanted foreigner has rarely been portrayed this poignantly - especially by a new writer in her first book. The protagonists of the nine stories range from a young Indian girl at the time of Partition (1947, when part of India split from the mother country and became Pakistan) to a pair of disillusioned academics with a failing marriage on their hands, to the rather naive, graying tour-guide/interpreter in the title story. The stories are varied, and set in many places, many times, but in the end each piece falls into place and the portrait of India that Lahiri paints is a vibrant, three-dimensional one. Lahiri writes about that which is beautiful as much as that which is shameful; she examines our ways and our culture with a quiet sensitivity and native understanding. It's a beautiful work, truly beautiful.
She captures one's imagination with her vivid details and plots. Each word is like melting chocolate- with each passage creating a more rich tale than one can imagine.
I do believe that Lahiri is one of my favorite writers. She makes it all seem so simple- the beauty that her words convey is just breathtaking.
With her unique gift of perception, Jhumpa Lahiri has captured the human condition from various angles. Even in the most familiar settings and circumstances, a tactile sense of conflict exists within each character. Her writing is clean and precise, but with a rhythm so natural it breathes emotion and atmosphere while the reader forgets they are reading. A very human storyteller.
INTERPRETER OF MALADIES is a stunningly simple, eloquent, and humane collection of stories. Each one is unique, and ends somewhat openly, allowing for the story to continue as it would in real life. Lahiri's attention to detail and her eye for minute intricacies are phenomenal and enchanting. Cheers to Lahiri!