Home>Possessed>My infatuation (oops!!, wrong number) with Jhumpa Lahiri

Jhumpa Lahiri is a New York-based Indian-American writer who made a splash on the literary world with her debut work, a collection of nine short stories titled Interpreter of maladies which won the prestigious Pulitzer Prize for fiction. Lahiri, 33, was born in London and raised in Rhode Island. She has traveled several times to India, where both her parents were born and raised. She graduated with a B.A. in English literature from Barnard College. As a child she wrote extensive 'novels' in notebooks, sometimes in collaboration with friends. She wrote for her school newspaper, but had stopped writing fiction by the time she went to college. She applied to various graduate English programs but was rejected from all of them. While waiting to apply again, she took a job as a research assistant at a non-profit institution in Cambridge. Lahiri eventually did enter Boston University, and received an M.A. in English, an M.A. in Creative Writing, and an M.A. in Comparative Literature and the Arts, and a Ph.D. in Renaissance Studies. She currently lives in New York City.

Interpreter of Maladies - Jhumpa Lahiri, a review

I was surprised to read that Jhumpa had a tough time getting into English programs, or maybe... the cynical part of me, did not feel all that surprised. When I decided to write out a review for this book, the first thought that overwhelmed me was that some stories deserved complete reviews in themselves. Does that give you some sense of presentiment of what I feel about the book. 

Each of the nine tales in the book 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 and The Third and Final Continent is a novel in itself. By that I don't mean to distinguish wholly on the size (that is a novel is longer than a story), instead I want to stress on the visual appeal of it. To put it simply, each story conveys as much as a novel does in terms of narrative efficiency. 

One thread that runs throughout the book (and is almost autobiographical ) at times, each story at least has a few characters that are either directly drawn from Bengal, or are in some ways related to Bengal. I found that aspect to be similar to what I have read of Lahiri's past, uprooted from their roots, the characters themselves are like some sort of cultural refugees in search of some thread (any thread) that shall wind them back to their homeland. Of course the dilemma of nether land has been brought out by so many writers, it is almost clichéd, but I must admit, in Jhumpa's case, the characters are not groping for their homeland, all of them just seem to conveniently miss it, and thats where it ends. Come to think of it, I think thats precisely the sentiment of most Indian aliens, a sort of infatuated longing for the land which they left in the first place to pursue dreams. The paradoxical and confused nature of Indian aliens is brought out glaringly in all the characters. 

"A Temporary Matter" is possibly the best story of the whole book. At the time I finished reading it, I actually shut the book, and closed my eyes for some time to let it sink it. The story is so real and so violent that at times it jaars, too close to comfort, must say. It revolves around the subtle decomposition of the ties between a couple based in Boston. The unseen villian is a stillborn child which the wife delivered in her first pregnancy. 

A prop of electricity cut offs is used to build up some correction between the couple, over the space of the story. Increasingly abrupt, towards the fourth day of the electricity cut off, the couple even makes love just as in the past. 

The reason for the antagonism is never explicitly stated but it is clearly the stillborn child, which might even just be a motif for the bridge that now divides the couple. The case is complicated because the husband was away at some conference when all of the stillborn-thing happened. He does not need to admit it, but holds himself guilty of that past, and the wife does not need to accuse him, but she possibly holds him responsible for some crime, which is unsaid, un-understood, and too intertwined to be stated explicitly by either of them (or me..the unsaid anger!!). 

As the days of electricity cut off proceeds, the couple seem to be recuperating the relationship very well. The cut off soon ends, but on the said evening, the husband, still cooks and they decide to eat in candle light to keep up the process of correction. So much so, at one point the husband hates the fact that electricity problem is resolves, he is scared that the relationship shall take a downturn soon. After dinner in that artificial blackout, the wife insists that she needs the light to be put on, and as soon that comes on, she announces that she needs to separate, an abrupt deliverance in the narrative. 

Thats when the husband can no longer control his anguish and blurts out that he had touched the dead child himself, and cremated it himself. He even shares with her, that the child was a male. All these details were never known to her, because he had never got himself to talk about it, also because she never had wanted to know the sex of the child before delivery. The story then ends with both of them weeping profusely, "They wept together, for the things they now knew." 

Its towards the end, that it becomes quite apparent, that the stillborn child still exists between them. I found this so spontaneous and real. The abruptness of the narrative, is how real life behaves, and I could not but relish the natural poiganance of the whole tale and not to forget, great title for the story. 

"They wept together, for the things they now knew."
-A Temporary Matter

The whole narrative style is extremely detached with no hulla-bulloo about anything at all. It marveled me when I thought hard, that thats how normal lives are spent. Taken a day at a time, and spent carelessly. 

In the Third and Final Continent, there is this beautiful evocative relationship developed between Mrs. Croft, an old lady and an Indian alien who has to settle down there. The best part of the story is how the protagonist learns to accept the idiosyncrasy of the lady of the house, and over a period of time tend to get so used to it, that without them, he misses normalcy. Isn't that how life is?

If you look carefully into 'The Treatment of Bibi Haldar', you shall realize that there is an stark reality, especially I am now voicing the thoughts of an Indian (me) who relates to these characters within the chaotic fabric of his own society, day in and day out.  It amazed me when I first read, that a lady living in Boston could notice so much of my culture and its every-day ambience. When Bibi does suffer from a epileptic seizure somewhere along the story, someone suggests "Leather" as a weapon for her revival. This aspect is atypical Indian response to such a situation, I don't think (though I am not sure) that people elsewhere use leather as an anti-dote to revive victims of epilepsy.

The title namesake 'Interpreter of Maladies' is a winner all the way. The central theme of the story is this travel guide-cum-tourist vehicle driver who also doubles as a master of several local languages. The latter skill makes him suitable to make some extra dough by working as a language intermediary in a local dispensary. The doctor who cannot understand the local dialect is connected to his patients via our protagonist, who bridges the language barrier. 

The interpreter is almost an exact Indian, caught up in his own strife with life. Kids, (assumedly ) a loveless, luckless marriage bereft of excitement and thrill and of course queer wonder at foreigners, especially those with fair skins (by desi standards), insufficient clothings (desi standards) and tons of cash (again, desi standards).

A mindless (yet extremely natural...or maybe 'real' is the word to describe it) infatuation with a female American-Indian tourist is the build up to the climax. The lady in question is part of an unhappy marriage, an aspect which drives furthermore the protagonist's infatuation. In some weak moment during the trip spanning a few hours, the lady confesses an episode of her life to the protagonist. This is something uncalled for, and she has never done it before, it almost appears to a reader as a extreme (and abrupt) catharsis from the lady. Just like in "The temporary matter", where the stillborn child is the crutch of the unsaid antagonism between people, in this case, the cathartic vomit is the villain. 

"No one but Mr. Kapasi noticed. He watched as it rose, carried higher and higher by the breeze, into the trees where the monkeys now sat, solemnly observing the scene below. Mr. Kapasi observed it too, knowing that this was the picture of the Das family he would preserve forever in his mind."
-"Interpreter of Maladies"

No matter what criticism comes forth for this sort of repetition, I must admit, I did not find it redundant at all. I always believed and continue to believe that a story is something that tries to convey a central idea through a series of incident. In that sense it is quite limited especially when compared to the longer form of prose narrative. What I found so likable about Jhumpa is that there is the fact that most of the stories go beyond the central idea, they almost are like novels written in a compact format. Its not only difficult to practice this, but to pull it off with so much conviction and flair is surely pointing to a master (excuse my political incorrectness) storyteller.

Another striking aspect of the book is the abruptness with which Jhumpa delivers everyday commentaries. It not only hits, it slaps. Its all over the place, starting from "The Temporary Matter" to the very end, and becoming really really prominent in "Sexy".

From where Eliot sat on the sofa he could detect her curious scent of mothballs and cumin, and he could see the perfectly centered part in her braided hair, which was shaded with crushed vermilion and therefore appeared to be blushing. At first Eliot had wondered if she had cut her scalp, or if something had bitten her there. But then one day he saw her standing before the bathroom mirror, solemnly applying, with the head of a thumbtack, a fresh stroke of scarlet powder, which she stored in a small jam jar. A few grains of the powder fell onto the bridge of her nose as she used the thumbtack to stamp a dot above her eyebrows. 
"I must wear the powder every day," she explained when Eliot asked her what it was for, "for the rest of the days that I am married." 

"Like a wedding ring, you mean?" 

"Exactly, Eliot, exactly like a wedding ring. Only with no fear of losing it in the dishwater." 

--"Mrs. Sen's,"

Other than "The Temporary Matter", "Sexy" is possibly my best story from the book. Gives you a goose pimple, as most of us would have gone through some emotions mentioned there at some time in our lives. The everyday reality of the story almost makes it like some existential poetry (I really mean that comment!!).

As I have mentioned elsewhere in this site, that I really don't believe in idolism, since it is in blatant disrespect of life and its core values. Here, at this point I must unabashedly admit, that if ever presented with half a chance, I would just love to meet up with Jhumpa, and this is no idol infatuation. It is just that I would like to meet an alive individual for a change. Does that make any sense at all? (Sounds immature and babyish to me on my second read, but I shall let this para remain for its stark spontaneity)

One last fact, it makes me want to write. Will I ever do that ? The pen is the weaker than the urge to wield it. On that slightly confused and self-effacing note I end this review, with a overwhelming sense of fulfilment on reading the book. It was worth everything it cost me (and trust me, we are not talking economics here)!!

September 23rd 2001, Sunday - Amitabh Iyer