I always liked Indian authors. Somehow I couldn't imagine croissant and marmalade, thanksgiving, apple pies, crystal blue green waters and white snow men with carrot noses. For me it was paranthas (not breads mind you!) liberally dabbed with butter, gujia's on holi, hoards of relatives on family functions and wading through muddy water folding my jeans after torrential showers every now and then. 'Piazza's' were often skimmed over and by the end of the line I realised it was a place and not a delicacy. I couldn't imagine what it'd be like not having Sharma aunty and her annoying kids creating a perpetual racket. I'm sure you're wondering why I'm talking about it…because this book by Jhumpa Lahiri is exactly about all this- emotions, decisions, choices, dilemmas, values and relationships( lost, forgotten, treasured or cherished.) which are all woven together in the most poignant and stirring tales about people who are straddling between Calcutta and united states. Yet the stories, the characters, their journeys and their feelings have such a queer similarity to all our lives that it is impossible to remain objective and estranged.
I first heard of Jhumpa Lahiri when my friend offered to 'educate' me for my mass communication entrances imparting his new found knowledge everyday. Telling me about renowned Indian personalities right from sports to fashion to bollywood (though I was smarter at this one!) stretching right across literature. He was quizzing me one night on my already scantly knowledge of English literature and asked me to name the authors' for the books he named. "Unaccustomed earth" he said, his voice assuming fresh confidence and I knew this time I'd lost. I surrendered realising that my wild guess would only make me a butt of all his jokes for at least a week. Pat came the reply "Jhumpa Lahiri…it's a compilation of short stories". "Short stories", the word rang in my ears and at once, my curiosity was kindled. The next day I pestered my dad to drive me down to Wordsworth so that I could lay my hands on it. Ever since I held this black and white book in my hands, I almost slept with it while it lay next to my pillow each night. I read it practically everywhere- when I was chucked out of class, during my long drives in the car while my friend drove me home even at Sunday morning breakfast. Its gripping to the point that it overwhelms you sometimes. Through these 333 pages I felt everything- elated, crestfallen, cheerful, desolate, compassionate, contemptuous, guilty and blessed. It was truly a kaleidoscope of emotions and its effect was so profound on me that within five minutes of finishing the book, I picked up my cell phone and called up my boyfriend to tell him how much he means to me. I was touched and touched so deeply. If there was happiness, it was here and at this very moment, I thought.
The spectrum of people and experiences is vast but she has managed to scrape through and unveil the most basic and intrinsic nature of man. To an extent that it feels like the characters are holding up mirrors close to their chests for us to gaze into. Where there are juvenile crushes, there is mature love. With a traditional Bengali mother with vermilion and red bordered saris there is her western counterpart appreciating modern architecture and Johnnie Walker. A lonely, aged father who tours the world thrives alongside another who chooses to re-marry a girl half his age. Gleeful nights and warm smiles co -exist with tears and dismal memories. Where there is the promise of companionship, there is inevitability of death. Enormous accomplishments and thumping failures, relationships that wither under one roof and inseparable ties formed over thousand of miles, unspoken commitments and startling betrayals are all bound together. |