Interpreter Of Maladies: A Novel

Second Mariner Books edition 2019

Copyright © 1999 by Jhumpa Lahiri

Foreword copyright © 2019 by Domenico Starnone

English translation of foreword copyright © 2019 by Jhumpa Lahiri

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.

marinerbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 9780358213260 (pbk.)

Cover design by Martha Kennedy

Cover illustration: Detail, Landscape, Grey Sky (oil on paper) by Donald Hamilton Fraser (1929–2009). Courtesy of the Warden and Scholars of New College, Oxford. © The Estate of Donald Hamilton Fraser / Bridgeman Images.

Author photograph © Liana Miuccio

eISBN 9780547487069

v6.0921

Some of the stories in this collection have appeared elsewhere, in slightly different form: A Temporary Matter in The New Yorker, When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine in The Louisville Review, Interpreter of Maladies in the Agni Review, A Real Durwan in the Harvard Review, Sexy in The New Yorker, Mrs. Sen’s in Salamander, This Blessed House in Epoch, and The Treatment of Bibi Haldar in Story Quarterly.

For my parents and for my sister

WITH THANKS TO

the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown,

Janet Silver, and Cindy Klein Roche

Foreword

ONLY now, as I prepare to write for the twentieth birthday of this remarkable book, does it occur to me that I already celebrated its first ten years of life without knowing it. I did so when, in the fall of 2009, I bought it for one euro in Rome, picking it out of a dusty heap of used books and reading it right away in the course of an afternoon and a long, intense evening. There is no better way to pay tribute to a book, in my opinion.

Back then I knew nothing about the author. It was the book that seduced me, one that betrayed signs of a fervent life: tattered cover, sentences underlined with exclamation points in the margins. But the deciding factor was the title. I knew that I was buying a book of stories, and stories, as we know, aren’t necessarily born in order to coexist. Each might lead a solitary, independent life. Constraining them within a book can sometimes even feel forced unless something signals to us the fact that their cohabitation makes perfect sense. It immediately struck me that Interpreter of Maladies transmitted that signal, even in Claudia Tarolo’s adroit Italian translation, entirely befitting of the original thanks to the Greco-Latin roots of interpreter and malady.

An interpreter is many things: a mediator between different languages; a well-equipped reader able to fully grasp the complexity of a text and impart its meaning; someone who performs, either faithfully or fancifully, a piece of music or a part in a play. But Jhumpa Lahiri gave her interpreter another, somewhat peculiar matter to interpret: the malaise of men and women. The idea of a person who must find exact, efficacious words for ills appealed to me. I went home satisfied with my new purchase. But I was already convinced, even before I started reading, that I had discovered a splendid definition for someone who, in today’s globalized world, sets out to tell stories. For what is a writer, if not an interpreter of maladies?

All nine stories convey, in a highly multifaceted manner, the lives of Bengalis, their children, and their grandchildren who have turned, in varying degrees, American. In two cases, the region of Bengal dominates to the point of being portrayed with no reference to the United States (A Real Durwan and The Treatment of Bibi Haldar). But the other tales are about immigrants whose roots have thinned, whose children have grown American. And yet these transplants endure, to the point of feeling less at home in Calcutta than in Boston, though both Calcutta and Boston remain all the while inscribed within them. This means that any definition of the self, in search of even provisional coherence, must always factor in a nagging, mournful surfeit.

Today this theme is even more relevant, and the story of how hard it is to hold the fragments of three continents together (The Third and Final Continent is the beautiful story that closes the book) is becoming the prevalent story of our times. Fortunately, the nine stories in this book, each an impassioned depiction of a predicament, lack resolution. In her first work, Jhumpa Lahiri is already an extraordinary storyteller, and her anglo-Bengali characters, with their fragmented identities, lead real lives within impeccable narrative structures. They are children disoriented by the mysteries of adulthood (When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine and Sexy). They are husbands and wives who endure dramatic crises, ambiguous friendships, extramarital affairs, painful attempts at assimilation in an alienating world (the superb Mrs. Sen’s). But above all, what renders these stories so vital twenty years later is the way they are told. Jhumpa Lahiri constructs ample prologues laden with compelling details, interwoven with various possible narrative threads. The reader, turning more vigilant with each sentence, knows full well that at some point a crucial event will take place and looks for warning signs. This new development will overturn both the lives of the characters and the reader’s own feelings. But when the event takes place, it proves to be both as foreseen and as utterly unexpected as the conclusion toward which the story races.

Interpreter of Maladies is proof that a book deserves a joyful birthday celebration, not only because it has stood witness for a long time to a central human condition, but because it has done so with sensibility, intelligence, and an artistry that is extremely refined.

I read the book in Italian, aware that it was a jewel of the English language. And as I read in my language, I never lost sight of the fact that it was in English that the Bengali roots of the characters spread, twisted, and decayed. It was in English that the malaise of someone who adheres to the American way of life yet senses its indifference to differences—so full of itself as to lack the slightest curiosity for the history or the geography of others—became poetry. This is an important point. These stories, if read carefully, abound with the pleasure of expressing oneself deftly in a language the author has utilized since childhood (metaphors and similes are always so surprising). But when read carefully, they also teem with signs of linguistic unease, pointing to the need to spill over and push past the word wife, the word husband, the word national, the word foreign, the word sexy. The Jhumpa Lahiri who, instead of being content with what she has achieved in the literary realm, has begun to expand and complicate her identity and role as an interpreter of contemporary woes, moves according to these signs. This writer has implanted Italian into her anglo-Bengali nature. She has learned it and immersed herself in the literary tradition of a country that has made a significant contribution to the birth of the short story in the West. She has gone on to translate Italian literature and to interpret that tradition in her own way. But not only that: as the result of a meaningful and unexpected deviation, she is now narrating the ills of the world not in English—a mightily powerful language—but in Italian, a beautiful language of limited reach.

This is an emphatic act of cultural politics, one that swims decidedly against the tide. Mr. Kapasi, the memorable character of the masterful title story of the collection, earns a living by translating the symptoms of Gujarati patients for a doctor who doesn’t know the Gujarati language. Jhumpa Lahiri seems to be saying to the powerful people in our world: pay attention to all the Gujaratis on the planet, get to know them, delight in their beauty and history, appreciate how they are different. Maladies, poorly interpreted, can’t be cured.

—Domenico Starnone, New York

Translated from the Italian by Jhumpa Lahiri, Rome Spring 2019

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 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 countless 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 countless plastic bags. Every other Saturday they wound through the maze of stalls Shukumar