Reading a story by Jhumpa Lahiri’s is like watching a slow moving stream. Events move ever so slowly, even pausing and lingering in a swirl and evoking curiosity about the direction they are headed in. There are no overtly cataclysmic and watershed moments, no tipping points that explain the past and reveal the future. In other words the stories mirror life itself, mostly linear and zigzagging and uneventful but quietly shaping us all the time, gathering possibilities and potentials at every step.
The stories, all set in the backdrop of the life of Indian immigrants in the West, are about longing, aspirations, love and deep seated emotions that are rarely, if ever, allowed to leap out of our skin. They are also about death and how it posthumously defines and shape others around us.
The prose is lyrical and alert to details, perceptively diving into each character and then out to rest on every detail that might add depth to the tale. No words are wasted and yet none are denied expression. The eight stories are a pleasure to read.
Post Script: Inside the back-cover I found the portrait of Ms Lahiri. Her gorgeousness brought back the silent remark I had made to Him when I first saw Yahoo! CEO and President Marissa Mayer’s picture: “Are you not going overboard in loading it in favour of some?” I had asked.
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