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Dr. Gary Scudder discusses how he uses A Temporary Matter in COR 270.

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Reader's Guide for Interpreter of Maladies published by Houghton Mifflin Company

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Houghton Mifflin's Reader's Guide for Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri

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Aerogram: an airmail letter

Allopath: a practitioner of conventional medicine

Almari: an article of furniture similar to a wardrobe

Areca: a kind of palm tree yielding nuts that are eaten rolled up in the leaves of the betel plant with a small amount of mineral lime

Assansol: the second largest city in West Bengal. Also spelled Asansol.

Attar: fragrant oil obtained from roses or other flowers

Auscultation: listening to the heart or other organs to determine their state of health

Avatar: in Hinduism, the bodily manifestation of a god

Ayurvedic: a practitioner of traditional Indian medicine

Bechareh: an epithet used to designate a pitiable person

Beleghata: an area of Calcutta (Kolkata)

Bengal: a region in Asia mainly comprising the nation of Bangladesh and the Indian state of West Bengal

Bengali: the second most commonly spoken language in India, and the main language spoken in Bangladesh. Also, a member of the ethnic community of Bengal.

Burdwan: a city in the state of West Bengal, in eastern India. Alternatively known as Bardhaman.

Calcutta: the capital of the state of West Bengal, in eastern India. The name was officially changed to Kolkata in 2001.

Carom: a kind of game played on a plywood board

Chandrabhaga River: a river in western India, also known as the Bhima

Durwan: a porter or door-keeper

Emergency, The: an 18-month period between 1975 and 1977 when Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was granted the power to rule by decree

Ganga: the eastern Gangas were a dynasty that ruled a large portion of central eastern India from 1028 to 1434.

Gem therapist: a practitioner who treats illnesses using precious and semi-precious stones

Gramin Bank: an experimental organization started in Bangladesh that provides the poor with small loans without requiring collateral. Also known as the Grameen Bank.

Grundig reel-to-reel: a kind of tape recorder

Gujarati: the language native to the state of Gujarat in western India. Also, an inhabitant of Gujarat.

Hanuman: a species of monkey named for the Hindu god Hanuman. It is regarded as sacred.

Howrah Station: one of the major train stations serving the cities of Howrah and Calcutta

Hyderabad: the capital of the state of Andhra Pradesh, in western India. Also, a district in Andhra Pradesh.

Jackfruit: a kind of enormous, sweet-fleshed fruit widely grown in parts of Asia

Jain: a follower of Jainism, a religion originating in South Asia about the sixth century B.C.E.

Jaipur: the capital of the state of Rajasthan, in western India

Kashmiri: pertaining to Kashmir, the northernmost region of the Indian subcontinent. Also spelled Cashmere.

Khandagiri: with Udayagiri, the site of sandstone caves excavated around the first and second centuries B.C.E. as dwellings for monks. Located in Orissa.

Kishore Kumar: a noted Bengali singer and actor

Konarak: a small town in the state of Orissa. It is the site of the Sun temple built by King Narasimhadeva I (AD 1236-1264) of the Ganga dynasty.

Lord's: a cricket ground in London

LSE: the London School of Economics and Political Science

Mukhesh: a popular Indian singer known as "the man with the golden voice." Usually spelled Mukesh.

Orissa: a state on the east coast of India

Orissi: the language spoken in Orissa. More commonly known as Oriya.

Paisa: in India and Pakistan, a monetary unit equal to one-hundredth of a rupee

Pakora: a kind of snack or appetizer dipped in seasoned batter and deep-fried

Palanquin: a kind of portable, enclosed chair

Papadum: a kind of flatbread

Partition: the creation of the two sovereign states of India and Pakistan in 1947, when the areas of South Asia formerly under British colonial authority were granted independence. The Partition was intended as a means of ending racial and ethnic violence. In the aftermath, millions became refugees, as Hindus in Pakistan fled to India, and Muslims in India fled to Pakistan.

Punjabi: a native of Punjab, the region of eastern Pakistan and northwestern India that includes the Pakistani province of Punjab and the Indian state of Punjab. Also, the language of this region.

Puri: a city in the Indian state of Orissa

Quahog: a kind of clam from the Atlantic coast

Raga: a pattern of notes of the Indian musical scale, which is played, then improvised upon. A raga may be associated with a particular mood, emotion, season or time of day.

Rice ceremony: a ritual celebrating the first time a baby is given solid food

Rogan josh: a kind of lamb curry

Rupee: the monetary unit of India and Pakistan

Salwar-kameez: a kind of traditional attire worn by men and women in India, Pakistan and some other countries of South Asia. Salwar are loose trousers and the kameez is a long shirt.

Samosa: a snack usually consisting of a fried triangular pastry shell with a savory potato, onion and pea stuffing

Shillong: the capital of the state of Meghalaya, in northeastern India

Simla: a city in the state of Himachal Pradesh, in northern India

Sixth-preference green card: an identification card for a permanent resident of the United States who does not have U.S. citizenship and is considered "capable of performing specified skilled or unskilled labor, not of a temporary or seasonal nature, for which a shortage of employable persons exists." (U.S. Immigration Act of 1965)

Tagore: Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941), a Bengali poet, philosopher, visual artist, playwright, composer and novelist

Tollygunge: an area in south Calcutta

Udayagiri: with Khandagiri, the site of sandstone caves excavated around the first and second centuries B.C.E. as dwellings for monks. Located in Orissa.

Vedic: pertaining to the Vedas, the oldest sacred books of Hinduism

Vermilion: a bright red pigment obtained from mercuric sulfide or other materials

Vinho verde: a kind of Portuguese wine

Zamindar: a land-owner

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Glossary of Terms from Interpreter of Maladies

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Aerogram: an airmail letter Allopath: a practitioner of conventional medicine Almari: an article of furniture similar to a wardrobe Areca: a kind of palm tree yielding nuts that are eaten rolled up in the leaves of the betel plant with a small amount of mineral lime Assansol: the second largest city in West Bengal.

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Published on 24 Jan 2014

This week, The NDTV Dialogues comes from a very special venue, the Tollygunge Club in Kolkata, which is a setting of some of the most powerful scenes in our guest, author Jhumpa Lahiri book, The Lowland. The Winner of Pulitzer Prize, 2000, Ms Lahiri talks about being the outsider, how writing is a lonely process and how Kolkata has grown out and grown up.
Watch full video: www.ndtv.com/video/player/the-ndtv-dialogues/the-ndtv-dialogues-with-author-jhumpa-lahiri/306660

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The NDTV Dialogues with author Jhumpa Lahiri

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This week, The NDTV Dialogues comes from a very special venue, the Tollygunge Club in Kolkata, which is a setting of some of the most powerful scenes in our guest, author Jhumpa Lahiri book, The Lowland. The Winner of Pulitzer Prize, 2000, Ms Lahiri talks about being the outsider, how writing is a lonely process and how Kolkata has grown out and grown up.

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26. Jhumpa Lahiri | Sept 29, 2013 | Isabel Bader Theatre
  

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26. Jhumpa Lahiri | Sept 29, 2013 | Isabel Bader Theatre
  

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Published on 22 Oct 2013

The Pulitzer Prize winning author of Interpreter of Maladies on her new novel, The Lowland. With Toronto Public Library's Tina Srebotnjak.  Recorded at the Isabel Bader Theatre. Visit torontopubliclibrary.ca.

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Jhumpa Lahiri | Sept 29, 2013 | Isabel Bader Theatre

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The Pulitzer Prize winning author of Interpreter of Maladies on her new novel, The Lowland. With Toronto Public Library's Tina Srebotnjak. Recorded at the Isabel Bader Theatre. Visit torontopubliclibrary.ca.

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25. Jhumpa Lahiri On Writing, Her Family And The Immigrant Experience
  

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25. Jhumpa Lahiri On Writing, Her Family And The Immigrant Experience
  

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28.Published on 2 Oct 2013

When does an immigrant not feel like one anymore? Jhumpa Lahiri, best-selling author of "The Namesake" and "Unaccustomed Earth," often writes about the immigrant experience in her novels. "I imagine that one is always conscious of the place left behind," she said. Raised in Rhode Island to Indian parents, Lahiri. On The Diane Rehm Show

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Jhumpa Lahiri On Writing, Her Family And The Immigrant Experience

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24. Jhumpa Lahiri discusses her Man Booker shortlisted novel THE LOWLAND

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24. Jhumpa Lahiri discusses her Man Booker shortlisted novel THE LOWLAND

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Published on 13 Sep 2013

Read an extract: http://bit.ly/16ui2xR

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Jhumpa Lahiri discusses her Man Booker shortlisted novel THE LOWLAND

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Read an extract: http://bit.ly/16ui2xR Buy the book: http://www.bloomsbury.com/the-lowland-9781408828113/ From Subhash's earliest memories, at every point, his brother was there. In the suburban streets of Calcutta where they wandered before dusk and in the hyacinth-strewn ponds where they played for hours on end, Udayan was always in his older brother's sight.

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2008: Author Jhumpa Lahiri discusses her book  Unaccustomed Earth.

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Author Jhumpa Lahiri discusses her book Unaccustomed Earth. SUBSCRIBE to get the latest from Charlie Rose: http://bit.ly/CharlieRoseSUBSCRIBE Connect with Charlie Rose Online: Visit the Charlie Rose WEBSITE: http://bit.ly/CharlieRoseDotCom Like Charlie Rose on FACEBOOK: http://bit.ly/CharlieRoseFacebook Follow Charlie Rose on TWITTER: http://bit.ly/CharlieRoseTwitter Follow Charlie Rose on INSTAGRAM: http://bit.ly/CharlieRoseInstagram About Charlie Rose: Emmy award winning journalist Charlie Rose has been praised as "one of America's premier interviewers."

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22. Jeffrey Eugenides, Nicole Krauss, and Jhumpa Lahiri on writing - The New Yorker Festival

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22. Jeffrey Eugenides, Nicole Krauss, and Jhumpa Lahiri on writing - The New Yorker Festival

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From the 2011 New Yorker Festival: Deborah Treisman, The New Yorker's fiction editor, moderates a discussion with the novelists Jeffrey Eugenides, Nicole Krauss, and Jhumpa Lahiri about what it means to be a writer's writer.

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Jeffrey Eugenides, Nicole Krauss, and Jhumpa Lahiri on writing - The New Yorker Festival

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From the 2011 New Yorker Festival: Deborah Treisman, The New Yorker's fiction editor, moderates a discussion with the novelists Jeffrey Eugenides, Nicole Krauss, and Jhumpa Lahiri about what it means to be a writer's writer. Still haven't subscribed to The New Yorker on YouTube?

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At her home in Brooklyn, Jhumpa Lahiri chats about writing, and about working on her book "The Lowland."

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20. Jhumpa Lahiri - UB Distinguished Speakers Series (3/11)
  

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20. Jhumpa Lahiri - UB Distinguished Speakers Series (3/11)
  

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The University at Buffalo (UB) welcomed Pulitzer Prize winning author, Jhumpa Lahiri, to campus as part of its Distinguished Speakers Series on March 2, 2011.

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National Medals of the Arts and Humanities Awards

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Jhumpa Lahiri - UB Distinguished Speakers Series (3/11)

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The University at Buffalo (UB) welcomed Pulitzer Prize winning author, Jhumpa Lahiri, to campus as part of its Distinguished Speakers Series on March 2, 2011. Jhumpa Lahiri received the Pulitzer Prize in 2000 for Interpreter of Maladies, a collection that explores issues of love and identity among immigrants and cultural transplants.

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The Treatment of Bibi Haldar
Summary
Vocabulary
Martyrs
(n.) - "a person who willingly suffers death rather than renounce his or her religion"
Amulets
(n.) - "a small object worn to ward off evil, harm, or illness or to bring good fortune; protecting charm"
Allopaths
(n.) - "a person who practices or favors allopathy"
Homeopaths

(n.) - "a person who practices or favors homeopathy (the method of treating disease by drugs, given in minute doses, that would produce in a healthy person symptoms similar to those of the disease)"
Ayurvedics
(n.) - "pertaining to traditional Hindu science of medicine"
Bemoaned
(n.) - "to express distress or grief over; lament"
Almari

(n.) - "a room or closet where clothes are kept"
Vermilion
(n.) - "a brilliant scarlet red"
Turmeric

(n.) - "the aromatic rhizome of an Asian plant, Curcuma domestica (or C. longa), of the ginger family"
Symbols
Importance of Title
The Treatment of Bibi Haldar
has two major meanings. Meaning number one is how she's being treated medically. After every attack, she is rushed to another clinic where another doctor is unable to find a clear diagnoses nor a remedy to all of her troubles. She is taken to all different types of doctors but the results are always the same; unhelpful and disheartening. The second meaning is how her family treats her. Unfortunately, her cousin and his wife find her to be a burden. They blame her for the sickness of their daughter, and they're also against helping Bibi in finding a husband. In the end, karma give Mr. and Mrs. Haldar exactly what they deserve.

Characters
Bibi Haldar is a 29-year-old woman who suffers from an incurable illness and as a result has spent most of her life very sheltered. She has no other family so she lives with her cousin, Haldar and his wife. Her cousin sees her as a burden, because she unknowingly requires attention at all times. When Haldar's wife becomes pregnant they worry that Bibi could somehow infect their baby. A doctor suggests that she get married to help with her illness, and towards the end of the story she some how becomes pregnant and her baby cures her. Haldar and his wife let Bibi live with them and also allow her to work in their store. However they provide no more than the minimum for Bibi's survival. Their treatment of Bibi is well known through out the community and they eventually leave town because of this. The community, while not exactly named, is also a character in this story. They provide the narration and also most of the care for Bibi that the Haldars do not provide. They even help Bibi take care of her new baby after she is left all alone.
By: Emma Graham
Meredith Heroux
Nicholas Wright
Alma Qing
Setting
Important Quotes
The American Dream
Discussion Questions
Betrothal

(n.) - "the act or state of being betrothed; engagement"
Salwar-kameez
- (n.) "traditional Indian women's wear"
Rancor
(n.) - "bitter, rankling resentment or ill will; hatred; malice"
Desolation
(n.) - "devastation; ruin"
Jaundice
(n.) - "a state of feeling in which views are prejudiced or judgment is distorted, as by envy or resentment"
Forceps
(n.) - "an instrument, as pincers or tongs, for seizing and holding objects, as in surgical operations"
Indignation
(n.) - "strong displeasure at something considered unjust, offensive, insulting, or base; righteous anger"
Semolina
(n.) - "a granular, milled product of durum wheat, consisting almost entirely of endosperm particles, used chiefly in the making of pasta"
"In short, Bibi's life was an encounter with one fruitless antidote after another" (159) .
" I will never be cured, never married" (161) .
"Why not marry her off, then? It will get her off your hands, at least" (164) .
"Apart from my condition, I am perfectly healthy" (166) .
" We consoled her; when she was convinced a man was giving her the eye, we humored her and agreed. But she was not our responsibility, and in our private moments we were thankful for that" (167) .
"She was, to the best of our knowledge, cured" (172) .

The Treatment of Bibi Haldar
has evidence of the American dream in Bibi's passion for moving on to bigger and better things. She's sleeping on a cot, but has dreams of having a house, a husband and children to care for.
In the end she achieves her goal by having a son and business to care for and raise. Her friends in her town think in the end, having something and someone to call her own ends up curing Bibi in a unique way.
What might Bibi Haldar be suffering from and why might this be so "hard" to diagnose?
How would you feel if your only family thought of you as a burden because you had a medical condition?
Do you think someone can be cured by falling in love?
The setting of this book is in India.
Most of the scenes are set in the home of Mr. and Mrs. Haldar and the shop the couple owns. Towards the end of the book, the scenes described take place in Bibi's makeshift room.
Bibi Haldar is a 29 year old woman who lives with her cousin and his wife. She's suffering from an illness doctors have dubbed "incurable". The illness has left her relying on not so supportive family members, who mistreat her and give her the least amount of support possible. After Bibi has the worst 'fit' she's had, she's rushed to the clinic. The doctors prescribe marriage as a cure for Bibi's strange sickness. Bibi is over the moon, but her family secretly talks of how no man will ever fall in love with her; she's more of a burden than wife material. The only thing the couple does for her, is put an ad in the newspaper for an "unstable woman looking for a husband". Soon Mrs. Haldar finds out she's pregnant and bans Bibi from the house thinking Bibi will infect their baby. She's left living in the stairwell on a roll away cot. Soon after, a baby girl is born and actually becomes sick with a fever. They blame Bibi even though she never came in physical contact with the baby. The Haldars kick Bibi out of the house completly. The townspeople are repulsed by the families actions, and boycott their business (beauty products). Due to the fact no one is no longer shopping at their store, the family flees the town not even telling Bibi of their move. Bibi retreats to her room for months without being seen. Her friends assume she's upset about her family abandoning her, but become worries when they realize she's been throwing up int he bushs by her house. Thinking she's become sicker, the go to check on her and discover that Bibi is four months pregnant. Bibi has no memory of what happened or who the baby's father is. At first, they're worried for Bibi and try to track down the man that did this to her. They soon realize that since her son's birth, Bibi hasn't been having attacks and has seemed to have recovered from her mysterious illness.

Storeroom
Its a place where Bibi feels comfortable becuase she is alone and able to work.
The problem is this is a place of happiness and distress.
Pregnancy
She seems unworthy of mothering a child.
But love.......

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American Dream Discussion Questions Betrothal

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Emma Graham Meredith Heroux Nicholas Wright Alma

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Treatment of Bibi Haldar Summary Vocabulary Martyrs

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The Treatment of Bibi Haldar SummaryVocabularyMartyrs (n.) - "a person who willingly suffers death rather than renounce his or her religion"Amulets (n.) - "a small object worn to ward off evil, harm, or illness or to bring good fortune; protecting charm"Allopaths (n.) - "a person who practices or favors allopathy"Homeopaths (n.)

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Today I'll be discussing Interpreter of Maladies, which is a novel composed of 9 short stories, written by Jhumpa Lahiri. Specifically, I will talk about The Third and Final Continent, which is the ninth and final short story in the book.

Which elements of style, content, and/or language in this passage are typical of the author, Jhumpa Lahiri?
What are the effects of the motifs or symbols used in this work? Specifically, how do the motifs or symbols used in the text affect the overall meaning of the story?
The flag on the moon is a big symbol in The Third and Final Continent, especially to Mrs. Croft. She is so impressed with the fact that there is an American flag on the moon that she forces the narrator to shout "Splendid!" whenever it is mentioned. Later on in the story, the narrator compares the American flag on the moon to the large leaps he has made in assimilating to America. The seemingly ordinary things he has done are enough to make him proud, and he feels that others should be proud of the things they have done.
Mrs. Croft is also a symbol as well as a character in the story. She reminds the narrator of the responsibilities he has as a young man. When Mala joins the narrator in America, she brings him letters from his family as well as two sweaters she has knitted for him. These symbolize the fact that although it is difficult, Mala is trying to get to know her husband and become accustomed to the fact that they barely know each other, yet must create a new life together here in America.
These symbols affect the meaning of the story because the reader must zoom in on them, and look deeper at the symbols.
How is the message/theme of assimilation reflected in this story?

The theme of assimilation is the biggest one in not only The Third and Final Continent but throughout the entire book Interpreter of Maladies. The narrator and his wife are the main characters, and they are both from Calcutta, India. First the narrator must assimilate to living in America, then he has to assimilate to being married. Then, his wife has to integrate the new American culture into her life at the same time as getting used to being married. They both have a lot to overcome and lots to learn about each other's habits, feelings, and actions. In this story, assimilation is one of the few things that is directly stated, not just hinted around.
"In this manner the six weeks of that summer passed. I came home each evening, after my hours at the library, and spent a few minutes on the piano bench with Mrs. Croft. I gave her a bit of my company, and assured her that I had checked the lock, and told her that the flag on the moon was splendid. Some evenings I sat beside her long after she had drifted off to sleep, still in awe on how many years she had spent on this earth. At times I tried to picture the world she had been born into, in 1866 - a world, I imagined, filled with women in long black skirts, and chaste conversations in the parlor. Now, when I looked at her hands with their swollen knuckles folded together in her lap, I imagined them smooth and slim, striking the piano keys. At times I came downstairs before going to sleep, to make sure she was sitting upright o the bench, or was safe in her bedroom. On Fridays I made sure to put rent in her hands. There was nothing I could do for her beyond these simple gestures. I was not her son, and apart from those eight dollars, I owed her nothing" (206).
What is the primary significance of this particular short story? Specifically, why has the author chosen to include this story as one of significance in her collection?

The Third and Final Continent has significant contributions to Interpreter of Maladies because it includes the key theme of assimilation. I believe that Lahiri has chosen to include this story because it highlights assimilation. This story brings a lot to the table, between the narrator getting comfortable living in Mrs. Croft's house, assimilating to America and his new responsibilities as a husband, and finally, growing old and looking back on his life. This story really shows the fact that it is difficult to assimilate for some, while to others it isn't as challenging.
The Third and Final Continent by Jhumpa Lahiri
In nearly all of her stories, Jhumpa Lahiri looks deeply into the lives of her characters, but not in an straightforward way. She leaves the reader to interpret the way the characters are feeling by describing their actions and some thoughts. Jhumpa Lahiri describes the characters in an indirect way, generally implying what she means. When she is introducing the characters, she lets the reader dig deeper to find who the character really is.
Jhumpa Lahiri uses simple words to encourage the readers to look deeper into the meaning of the story and the meaning of the characters actions.
Jhumpa Lahiri also uses characteristics that she saw in herself and her own family as they assimilated to America. They all assimilated differently, as is reflected through the opposite ways that Mala and her husband assimilate. Mala has her husband to guide her and teach her, while he had to fend for himself when he got to America.
the flag on the moon
Mrs. Croft
the things Mala brings her husband from India
Contribution to story- assimilation
(key factor): assimilation
significance - it brings a new view to the stories
style- indirect statements
language- simple language
background of the author - Indian
assimilation through different characters
"During the flight I read The Student Guide to North America, a paperback volume that I'd bought before leaving London, for seven shillings six pence on Tottenham Court Road, for although I was no longer a student I was on a budget all the same. I learned that Americans drove on the right side of the road, not the left, and that they called a lift an elevator and an engaged phone busy. "The pace of life in North America is different from Britain as you will soon discover," the guidebook informed me. "Everybody feels he must get to the top. Don't expect an English cup of tea." As the plane began its descent over Boston Harbor, the pilot announced the weather and time, and that President Nixon had declared a national holiday: two American men had landed on the moon. Several passengers cheered. "God bless America!" one of them hollered. Across the aisle, I saw a woman praying" (190).
"In the morning I reported to my job at the Dewey Library, a beige fortlike building by Memorial Drive. I also opened a bank account, rented a post office box, and bought a plastic bowl and a spoon in Woolworth's, a store whose name I recognized from London. I went to Purity Supreme, wandering up and down the aisles, converting ounces to grams and comparing prices to things in England. In the end I bought a small carton of milk and a box of cornflakes. This was my first meal in America. I ate it at my desk" (191).
"The woman bellowed, "A flag on the moon, boy! I heard it on the radio! Isn't that splendid?"
"Yes, madame."
But she was not satisfied with my reply. Instead she commanded. "Say 'splendid'!"
I was both baffled and somewhat insulted by the request. It reminded me of the way I was taught multiplication tables as a child, repeating after the master, sitting cross-legged, without shoes or pencils, on the floor of my one-room Tollygunge school. It also reminded me of my wedding, when I had repeated endless Sanskrit verses after the priest, verses I barely understood, which joined me to my wife. I said nothing.
"Say 'splendid'!" the woman bellowed once again.
"Splendid," I murmured. I had to repeat the word the second time at the top of my lungs, so she could hear. I am soft-spoken by nature and was especially reluctant to raise my voice to an elderly woman whom I had met only moments ago" (196).
This picture of an Indian woman reminds me of what Mala might look like.
"Mala laughed then. Her voice was full of kindness, her eyes bright with amusement. I had never heard her laugh before, and it was loud enough that Mrs. Croft had heard, too. She turned to Mala and glared.
"Who is she, boy?"
"She is my wife, madame." .... I wondered what she would object to. I wondered if she could see the red dye still vivid on Mala's feet, all but obscured by the bottom edge of her sari. At last Mrs. Croft declared, with the equal measures of disbelief and delight I knew well:
"She is a perfect lady!"
Now it was I who laughed. I did so quietly, and Mrs. Croft did not hear me. But Mala had heard, and, for the first time, we looked at each other and smiled" (214).

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The Third and Final Continent by Jhumpa Lahiri

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Today I'll be discussing Interpreter of Maladies, which is a novel composed of 9 short stories, written by Jhumpa Lahiri. Specifically, I will talk about The Third and Final Continent, which is the ninth and final short story in the book.

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Background History
Summary plot
Setting
Characters
Themes
Background History
Setting
Characters
Major:
When Mr. Pirzada came to dine
By Jhumpa Lahiri
What will be covered?
India independence day (15 August 1947)
India-Pakistan partition
East-Pakistan -> Bangladesh
East Pakistan
India
Autumn 1971
In North Boston, USA
Mr. Pirzada from Dacca, East Pakistan (not anymore)
Mr. Pirzada is in USA (sabbatical)
Mr. Pirzada's family in Dacca (three-story house)
Lilia's family from India (Calcutta)
Lilia is born in USA
Boston
Calcutta
Dacca
Lilia
Lilia's parents
Mr. Pirzada
Minor:
Dora
Mrs. Kenyon
Lilia
10 years old
Empathetic
Substitute daughter for Mr. Pirzada
Symbol of love
Learns more about Mr. Pirzada (vice-versa)
Want to know more about India
Narrator of the story
First generation American of Indian descent

Presented By: Aryan and Gary
Lilia's parents
Lilia's father:
Hindu
Thinks about his country (misses)
"Indian" socially (traditional)
Encourages Lilia to learn more about India
Lilia's mother:
Hindu
Proud of her daughter being in USA
Traditional
Kind and compassionate
Mr. Pirzada
Muslim from Dacca, East-Pakistan
Kind, nice and generous
Like a father for Lilia
Professor in a university in Dacca
His wife and seven daughters are in Dacca
He is physically in USA, but spiritually in Dacca
Curious about American customs
His watch:
was set to Dacca time
symbol of colonial past "very English"
His country is changing
We can not stop the time.
Well, unless we could run faster than
300,000,000 m/s!
Themes
Empathy
Friendship
Being Indian in America
Empathy
Friendship
Mr. Pirzada and Lilia's family
Mr. Pirzada and Lilia (specifically)
Lilia and Dora
Being Indian in America
Lilia's family were born in Calcutta. (living in USA)
They retain Indian traditions, culture and food. (p.25)
They also celebrate American festivals. (p.36)
Lilia learns to be empathetic to Mr. Pirzada's family. (p.32, 39)
"She prays that Mr. Pirzada's family was safe and sound." (p.32)
Mr. Pirzada is also empathetic to Lilia. (everyone) (p.37)
Summary plot
It is autumn 1971 in Boston, the narrator is Lilia. She is a ten-year old girl from an Indian background

Lilia was born in Boston, her parent in Calcutta

A man comes to dine at the Lilia's house regularly.
His name is Mr. Pirzada.
He is a university teacher in Dacca. he was granted to come to USA to study foliage of New England
He is now separated from his family, a wife and seven daughters.
Mr. Pirzada and Lilia's parents watch the news on TV and worry about the future there

he is not Indian anymore,
Country divided into Hindus and Muslims. (India and Bangladesh)

Mr. Pirzada is busy and returns to Dacca. He finds his family
Mr. Pirzada's daughters all have a name starting with the letter "A"
Interesting fact:
Lilia participates in Halloween. Lilia tells more about the Halloween to Mr. Pirzada.
He writes a letter, mentioning he survived with his family. Lilia misses him. She understands what it is to miss someone.
India and Pakistan move closer to begin the war
Mr. Pirzada stops coming to their house. He worries about his family in Dacca.
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Background History Summary plotSettingCharactersThemesBackground HistorySettingCharactersMajor: When Mr. Pirzada came to dine By Jhumpa Lahiri What will be covered?India independence day (15 August 1947)India-Pakistan partitionEast-Pakistan -> BangladeshEast PakistanIndiaAutumn 1971In North Boston, USAMr. Pirzada from Dacca, East Pakistan (not anymore)Mr. Pirzada is in USA (sabbatical) Mr. Pirzada's family in Dacca (three-story house)Lilia's family from India (Calcutta)Lilia is born in USABostonCalcuttaDaccaLiliaLilia's parentsMr. PirzadaMinor:DoraMrs.

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"Interpreter of Maladies" is a collection of nine short stories by Jhumpa Lahiri that explores a diverse range of themes through admirable narrative styles and writing techniques. We enter the inner world of her fictitious characters through her powerful imagery and metaphors. The themes range from identity crises in the post-Partition era, communication gaps, immigrant experience and differences in relationships. The interlinked stories are evocative of the dispersion of Indians.

Communication gap is a recurrent theme throughout Lahiri's stories. This difficulty is reflective of hostile relationships, failing marriages and emotional turmoil. It is a void that leads to unalterable complications between spouses. In "Temporary Matter", we encounter Shoba and Shukumar going through a turbulent relationship. The reason for this discord is Shoba's anger and frustration on the loss of her son. Since the death of her son, she has been getting distant from Shukumar and hardly speaks to him. The death of the son becomes a consequence for a communication barrier in marriage. Silence becomes a destructive element as they both become strangers and avoid each other at all costs although they reside under the same roof. It is only the power outage that enables them to reveal their unspoken secrets. Ultimately, in the end, the baby leads to dissolution of their relationship.

Difficulties in communication are also prevalent in "Interpreter of Maladies". We confront Mr. Kapasi, a tour guide and interpreter of symptoms who barely speaks to his wife and drinks his tea in silence during the night. Formerly, he was fluent in many languages and wanted to be an interpreter for diplomats. However, his life did not turn out as he wanted and he now works as an interpreter for doctors, much to the dissatisfaction of his wife because his job reminded her of their son's death. Similar to "Temporary Matter", death of a child in this story too becomes a reason for communication breakdown and dwindling affections.

Mr. and Mrs. Das are also going through a loveless marriage. Their marriage is rampant with hostility and indifference. Both Mrs. Das and Mr. Kapasi are yearning for communication. When Mrs. Das asks Mr. Kapasi for his address to send the family pictures, he starts fantasizing about the possibility for communication and friendship with her which would reveal sorrowful secrets concerning marital problems. They both are very lonely and unhappy and Mr. Kapasi contemplates over the fact that sharing problems is feasible. However, Mrs. Das's unpleasant revelation and the flying away of paper with Mr. Kapasi's address eliminate all possibilities for communication and friendship. When the story comes to a close, everything in Mr. and Mrs. Das's relationship remains unchanged due to Mrs. Das's incapability to communicate her secret to her husband.

Another instance of lack of communication is prevalent in "Mrs. Sen". The story focuses on the emotional tragedy of Mrs. Sen who is depressed, nostalgic and refuses to assimilate in a new country. Unlike Mala in "The Third and Final Continent", she feels frustrated, confined and lonely and makes no efforts in adjusting to Western customs. No exchanges take place between Mr. Sen and her. She is unable to express her turmoil and her husband seems unable to comprehend what she is really going through. Moreover, following the accident, Mr. Das informs Eliot's mother that Mrs. Das is sleeping, even though Eliot hears her weeping. When the story comes to a fold, Eliot informs his mother that he fine, although he is clearly in distress. Even Eliot is unable to convey his sources of anguish to his mother.

Another prevalent theme is that of fragmented perception, which is apparent in "Interpreter of Maladies". Mr. Das always views Indian life through a guide book and lens of his camera that he always carries around. The camera is symbolic of limited perception. To him, like other Westerners, poverty and underdevelopment in India is exotic. He looks at it from a Western perspective. As a tourist, he romanticizes his surroundings. He finds the starving peasant's miserable plight fascinating and takes a snap shot. He sees reality through a camera and is indifferent to the peasant's predicament. He lives in his own world and perceives his environment the way he likes to. He also takes a picture of Bobby when he is surrounded by the dangerous monkeys. This is indicative of his self-centrism, selfishness and insensitivity. He fails to connect emotionally with India, the home of his parents, owing to his exotic and warped view of Indian life. He dismisses the dilemma of Indian life and his marriage. The snapshots of his family are mere fabrications of a harmonious and happy family life. He refuses to acknowledge the complexities of life.

There are other characters besides Mr. Das who do not see the complete picture. Mrs. Das's glasses enable her to see others through a tint and prevent people from really seeing her. Her window is faulty and does not roll down, which thwarts her from seeing the world outside the taxi. In addition, Mr. Kapasi looks at her through the rearview mirror. He, therefore, cannot get a complete picture of her. He does not suspect that Bobby is the offspring of a man other than Mr. Das. He sees them as living in harmony. This segmented perception of characters is a reminder of Aadam and Naseem from Salman Rushdie's "Midnight's Children" - where Aadam loves Naseem in fragments and eventually complications in marriage occur. Furthermore, Mr. Das's denial of reality is similar to the 'optimism disease' in "Midnight's Children" - a situation where people live in denial, ignoring everyday realities, which is contagious and leads to detrimental consequences in the long-term.

Another reminiscent theme apparent throughout Lahiri's stories is Indian diaspora - which refers to the influx of Indians in countries such as America, England and so on. It relates to the dilemma and disconnection that Indians face in the West. According to Ardhendu De, "The dilemma is: it is painful to stay but it is difficult to return. The migrant belongs to both worlds and at the same time to none." Characters are emotionally connected and attached to India. They relate themselves to India. For instance, Mrs. Sen preserves her memory by wearing her saris, cutting vegetables with a special blade and fish - a reminder of home. Mr. Pirzada feels personally disconnected from his family that lives in India. India is the focus of all stories. It is the home country and metaphoric for peace and unity. Characters often experience trying periods of remorse, alienation and isolation in foreign lands. They struggle with identity and preservation of Indian traditions. Fear of rejection, longing for home country and losing their identities were inherent facets of their immigrant experiences. They also struggle with cultural clashes and disconnection from loved ones. To maintain Indian traditions and conventions while accepting Western customs is a process Indians have to learn to accept. Mala successfully integrates into the Western culture and feels comfortable, much to the appreciation of her husband - they both incorporate successfully into American life - which is the ultimate source of their happiness. On the contrary, it is extremely difficult for Mrs. Sen to accept Western ideals. Furthermore, Twinkle is mesmerized by the Christian iconography she discovers in many places of her house, which Sanjeev disapproves. However, being enthralled by Christian objects does not denote that Twinkle has forsaken the culture of her home country. It suggests a triumphant transition in a new country.

Marginalized minority also composes the themes of "A Real Durwan" and "The treatment of Bibi Haldar". Boori Ma is a fragile old woman who works as a caretaker. She claims to have been dislocated following the Partition. On the other hand, Bibi Haldar takes care of inventories. In a sorry state of affairs, both work for extended hours in horrendous conditions and are paid low wages by the exploitative upper classes. This situation is a reflection of how people usually treated members of lower castes who were vulnerable to unfair treatment. It shows resentment towards minorities. Bibi Haldar suffers from an unidentified ailment. She is sprinkled with holy water, advised to lose and gain weight, stand on her head and to eat eggs in milk. Yet none of these prove to be remedies to her sickness. She is denied access to appropriate healthcare because the residents of the locality where she lived perceived women as worthless creatures. The town people come to the conclusion that she is in dire need of a man. This is reflective of South-Asian mentality of a male chauvinistic society that women need men to complete them and be looked after. According to a society with unbridled male domination, domestic chores such as cleaning, cooking and caring for a man are aspects that make up a woman. However, in the end, it is Bibi Haldar who proves everyone wrong and looks after her child without any helping hand of a male.

Last but not the least, relationships and marriages are intensely convoluted in the stories. We are presented with conflicted characters. Sanjeev and Twinkle, despite having a love marriage, fail to live up to each other's expectations and are strangers to each other. Their interests, secrets and desires vary. Sanjeev is therefore skeptical regarding his love for Twinkle. The death of a son takes a toll on Shukumar and Shoba's marriage and gradually causes them to become psychologically secluded from each other and leads to their disintegration. The story "Third and Final Continent" is the only positive example of a blissful result of a marriage, where spouses prove that disconnection can be closed through sharing experiences. As the narrator recalls his previous years, he is astounded by the fact that he and his wife were once strangers. Nicholas Gipe also comments, "Love and tradition are always at the heart of the story, and the characters who find happiness are always those who can embrace their present circumstance while at the same time never forget their Indian roots." Finally, the stories "Interpreter of Maladies" and "Sexy" focus on infidelities which show that there are no restrictions to love - it is not bound with strict morals. Moreover, Mr. Kapasi is discontented with his wife and gets momentarily attracted to Mrs. Das, until she makes a confession of her deceitfulness.

Lahiri's writing style is deceptively simple and straight-forward. The simple narrative style enables us to follow her in a smooth pace. She uses neither inflated words nor complex descriptions; nonetheless, the stories have a strong impact and there are profound sentiments involved which evoke our pathos through her ingenious usage of metaphors and imagery. It is this brilliant, figurative writing technique that makes us feel like spectators to on-going events. We can practically feel what the characters are feeling. There is a high amount of suspense which grips us to the core and keeps us engrossed till the end as we become anxious to know what follows next. We can feel the characters' pain and emotional turmoil which is probably what make it an undeniably striking aspect of all stories and make Lahiri such a successful author.

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"Interpreter of Maladies" is a collection of nine short stories by Jhumpa Lahiri that explores a diverse range of themes through admirable narrative styles and writing techniques. We enter the inner world of her fictitious characters through her powerful imagery and metaphors.

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Reminder :)

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a) b) c) d) e) place - geographical location. Where is the action of the story taking place? time - When is the story taking place? (historical period, time of day, year, etc) weather conditions - Is it rainy, sunny, stormy, etc? social conditions - What is the daily life of the characters like?

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This comprehensive lesson plan includes 30 daily lessons, 180 multiple choice questions, 20 essay questions, 20 fun activities, and more - everything you need to teach Interpreter of Maladies!

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By JHUMPA LAHIRI CHAPTER ONE
Interpreter of Maladies
Stories

Houghton Mifflin Company
Read the Review

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.

"Like what?"

"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.

"Do what?"

"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."

"Had I?"

"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.

(C) 1999 Jhumpa Lahiri All rights reserved. ISBN: 0-395-92720-X

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By JHUMPA LAHIRI CHAPTER ONE Interpreter of Maladies Stories Houghton Mifflin Company Read the Review 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.

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Interpreter of Maladies study guide contains a biography of Jhumpa Lahiri, literature essays, quiz questions, major themes, characters, and a full summary and analysis of each of the short stories.

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Free summary and analysis of the events in Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies that won't make you snore. We promise.

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Home → SparkNotes → Short Story Study Guides → Interpreter of Maladies

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Key quotes from the short story 'A Read Durwan' by Jhumpa Lahiri, with accompanying images. Many thanks to Donnah White for creating this slideshow.

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During this week of Thanksgiving - the most American of holidays - NPR is spending time thinking about what it means to become an American. The answers come from three noted authors - Junot Diaz, Jhumpa Lahiri and Joseph O'Neill - who've written about newcomers to the United States.
Nationality, tradition and belonging: The themes of Jhumpa Lahiri's fiction spring from the complexities of the author's own life. Born to Indian parents in London and raised in Rhode Island, the author of Unaccustomed Earth and The Interpreter of Maladies says she's struggled for four decades to feel like she belonged in America.

"For me," Lahiri tells Morning Edition's Steve Inskeep, "there is sort of a half-way feeling [of being American]."

But, she says, her parents never thought of themselves as American, despite the fact that they applied for and received citizenship.

"They've lived here now for more than half of their lives, and they raised a family here and now have grandchildren here. ... It has become their home," says Lahiri. "But at the same time, for my parents, I don't think either of them will ever consciously think, 'I am an American.' "

Lahiri says her parents were always isolated from mainstream American culture. Despite the fact that they spoke English, they were "betrayed by their accents." If the family went to buy a washing machine, the sales clerk would talk to Lahiri, assuming her parents couldn't understand.

"The accent, the fact that my mother wore traditional clothing - that marked them immediately as soon as we went out in the public sphere," says Lahiri.

Growing up, Lahiri's loyalty to her parents conflicted with her desire to fit in: "It didn't matter that I wore clothes from Sears; I was still different. I looked different. My name was different," she says. "I wanted to pull away from the things that marked my parents as being different."

Lahiri says her parents didn't mix with her friends' parents in an easy, comfortable way - not because they didn't want to, but because there was a barrier that they couldn't overcome.

"I think this was a two-way street," she says. "It wasn't just that they were afraid or unwilling - there was a fear, an unwillingness on both sides."

Lahiri says creating characters who also struggle with the immigrant experience has helped her confront the truth of her life.

"A lot of my upbringing was about denying or fretting or evading," she says. But through fiction, Lahiri says she's learned to accept that her parents will always be tied to two different parts of the Earth.

"It has been liberating and brought me some peace to just confront that truth, if not to be able to solve it or answer it," she says.
Book Tour is a Web feature and podcast. Each week, we present leading authors of fiction and nonfiction as they read from and discuss their work.
Jhumpa Lahiri won a Pulitzer Prize for her first effort, the short story collection Interpreter of Maladies. Her second work, the best-selling novel The Namesake, was adapted into a Hollywood movie directed by Mira Nair.

For her third book, Unaccustomed Earth, Lahiri has returned to the short story form. Once again, she expertly plumbs the Bengali-American experience, following immigrants and their offspring while traversing borders and expectations. Upon publication, the book debuted at the top of The New York Times best-seller list.

Dwight Garner, senior editor of The Times' Book Review section, wrote in his blog: "It's hard to remember the last genuinely serious, well-written work of fiction - particularly a book of stories - that leapt straight to No. 1; it's a powerful demonstration of Lahiri's newfound commercial clout."

The collection of eight stories takes its title from a passage from Nathanial Hawthorne's introduction to The Scarlet Letter: "Human nature will not flourish, any more than a potato, if it be planted and replanted, for too long a series of generations, in the same worn-out soil. My children ... shall strike their roots in unaccustomed earth."

In an interview with NPR's All Things Considered, Lahiri said that when she read those words, she stopped. "I just thought about how much they stand for everything that I had been writing about: the experience of being transplanted, and people being transplanted."

Born in London and raised in Rhode Island, the author of Indian descent traveled regularly to Calcutta while growing up. Lahiri has written about the pressure she felt to stay loyal to the old world while being fluent in the new. That tension both fuels and graces her stories.

This reading of Unaccustomed Earth took place in April 2008 at the Sixth & I Historic Synagogue in Washington, D.C.

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Jhumpa Lahiri's Struggle To Feel American

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Nationality, tradition and belonging: The themes of Jhumpa Lahiri's fiction spring from the complexities of the author's own life. Born to Indian parents in London and raised in Rhode Island, Lahiri says she's struggled for four decades to feel like she belongs in America.

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Interpreter of Maladies Me Tim Nolan
English Domain Team Leader
Ave Maria College, Aberfeldie

Sixth year of teaching
"Interpreter of Maladies" is now in its fourth year at the College

timothy.nolan@avemaria.vic.edu.au * short stories
* something different
* contemporary and traditional
themes
* prose is understated, rich with
description and just beautiful Must be studied as a whole text, not stories on their own Studying a text in this Area of Study Students should have a good understanding of the "glasses" with which to view a text.

Consider that an author wants to communicate things to the reader.

How does the author equip the reader to interpret their messages? "Interpreter of Maladies" is great for this! Each of the stories have many of these aspects, and there are distinct links between stories in the collection.

Let's have a look at the text itself. Ways into the text Students should have at least a basic understanding of India and its people

Some focal points for activities: *Diaspora;
*Courtship/marriage conventions (specific to Hindus);
*Hinduism, and the role it has in the lives of the people;
*Gender and women;
*Independence/British influence;
*Food; and
*Poverty/Classes/Caste systems. The stories 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 Up close: Mrs. Sen's The themes Women finding their place in the world
Connection/disconnection
Society and hierarchies
Gender
Truth and ignorance
Religion Viewing texts using the right glasses Characters
Plot
Theme/motif Narrative features Archetypes Misplaced woman
Disconnected husband
Distant mother
Neglected child "Eliot, if I began to scream right now at the top of my lungs, would someone come?" "I have a meeting in twenty minutes... please don't waste time." "...but eventually she went to the deck to smoke a cigarette, leaving Eliot to wrap up the leftovers." "Eliot looked out the kitchen window, at gray waves receding from the shore, and said that he was fine." Facing new worlds The disconnection explored in this story is felt by most, if not all characters.

Both Mrs Sen and Eliot are forced to face foreign worlds. You do not have to be displaced physically to feel disconnection from your home.

The reader realises that Eliot is probably just
as lonely as Mrs Sen. Themes and motifs in this story * Women finding their place
in the world
* Disconnection/connection
* Gender
* Food
* Clothing
* Home The motifs Food
Home and belonging
Clothing
Autumn and cycles
Perspective of a child
Perspective of an observer/spectator "By my estimate Mrs. Sen should have her driver's license by December."

"Mr Sen teaches mathematics at the university."
"...she used a blade that curved like the prow of a Viking ship, sailing to battle in distant seas."

"...she took whole vegetables between her hands and hacked them apart: cauliflower, cabbage, butternut squash. She split things in half, then quarters, speedily producing florets, cubes, slices, and shreds. She could peel a potato in seconds." "She flung open the drawers of the bureau and the door of the closet, filled with saris of every imaginable texture and shade, brocaded with gold and silver and threads."

"For the occasion Mrs. Sen put on a red sari and red lipstick; she freshened the vermilion in her part and rebraided her hair."
"The mention of the word seemed to release something in her... she looked around the room, as if she noticed in the lampshades, in the teapot, in the shadows frozen on the carpet, something the rest of them could not. 'Everything is there.'"

"Though she stood plainly before him, Eliot had the sensation that Mrs. Sen was no longer present in the room with the pear-colored carpet." Perspective of a child Affords the story a certain level of innocence and honesty
Observant and unbiased
Lack of adult reasoning, making the narration candid Language Lahiri uses language to convey to her reader mood and atmosphere.

Make sure students consider the
imagery that is illustrated. "She told Eliot she'd received a letter over the weekend. Her grandfather was dead."

"...manipulated the automatic gear shift as if it were an enormous, leaky pen."

"But when the town approached, and traffic lights loomed on wires in the distance, she went even slower."

His mother nibbled Mrs. Sen's concoctions with eyes cast upward, in search of an opinion. She kept her knees pressed together, the high heels she never removed pressed into the pear-colored carpet."

"But when he sat with Mrs. Sen, under an autumn sun that glowed without warmth through the trees..."

"Eliot looked out the kitchen window, at gray waves receding from the shore, and said that he was fine." Enjoy this text! It's in its last year :(

Feel free to contact me

timothy.nolan@avemaria.vic.edu.au Let's read!
pages 112 -113

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Interpreter of Maladies Me Tim NolanEnglish Domain Team LeaderAve Maria College, Aberfeldie Sixth year of teaching"Interpreter of Maladies" is now in its fourth year at the College timothy.nolan@avemaria.vic.edu.au * short stories* something different* contemporary and traditional themes* prose is understated, rich with description and just beautiful Must be studied as a whole text, not stories on their own Studying a text in this Area of Study Students should have a good understanding of the "glasses" with which to view a text.