Page 133 - DENG201_ENGLISH_II

Unit 8: Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Maladies: Detailed Study

While Mr. Das adjusted his telephoto lens, Mrs. Das reached into her straw bag and pulled out a Notes
bottle of colorless nail polish, which she proceeded to stroke on her index finger.
The little girl stuck out a hand. “Mine too. Mommy, do mine too.”
“Leave me alone.” Mrs. Das said, blowing on her nail and turning her body slightly. “You’re making
me mess up.”
“All set,” Mr. Das said, replacing the lens cap.
The car rattled considerably as it raced along the dusty road, causing them all to pop up from their
seats every now and then, but Mrs. Das continued lo polish her nails. Mr. Kapasi eased up on the
accelerator, hoping to produce a smoother ride. When he reached for the gearshift the boy in front
accommodated him by swinging his hairless knees out of the way. Mr. Kapasi noted that this boy
was slightly paler than the other children.
“Daddy, why is the driver sitting on the wrong side in this car, too?” the boy asked.
“They all do it here, dummy,” Ronnie said.
“Don’t call your brother a dummy,” Mr. Das said. He turned to Mr. Kapasi. “In America, you know…
it confuses them.”
“Oh yes, I am well aware,” Mr. Kapasi said. As delicately as he could, he shifted gears again
accelerating as he approached a hill in the road. “I see it on Dallas, the steering wheels are on the left-
hand side.”
“What’s Dallas?” Tina asked, banging her now naked doll on the seat behind Mr. Kapasi.
“It went off the air,” Mr. Das explained. “It’s a television show.”
They were all like siblings. Mr. Kapasi thought as they passed a row of date trees. Mr. and Mrs. Das
behaved like an older brother and sister, not parents. It seemed that they were in charge of the children
only for the day; it was hard to believe they were regularly responsible for anything other than
themselves. Mr. Das tapped on his lens cap, and his tour book, dragging his thumbnail occasionally
across die pages so that they made a scraping sound. Mrs. Das continued to polish her nails. She had
still not removed her sunglasses. Every now and then Tina renewed her plea that she wanted her
nails done, too, and so at one point Mrs. Das flicked a drop of polish on the little girl’s finger before
depositing bottle back to her straw bag.
“Isn’t this an air-conditioned car?” she asked, still blowing on her hand. The window on Tina’s side
was broken and could not be rolled down.
“Quit complaining,” Mr. Das said. “It’s not so hot.” “I told you to get a car with air-conditioning,”
Mrs. Das continued. “Why do you do this, Raj, just to save a few stupid rupees. What are you saving
us, fifty cents?” Their accents sounded just like the ones Mr. Kapasi heard on American television
programs, though not like the ones on Dallas.
“Doesn’t it get tiresome, Mr. Kapasi, showing people the same thing every day?” Mr. Das asked,
rolling down his own window all the way. “Hey, do you mind stopping the car. I just want to get a
shot of this guy.” Mr. Kapasi pulled over to the side of the road as Mr. Das took a picture of a barefoot
man, his head wrapped in a dirty turban, seated on top of a cart of grain sacks pulled by a pair of
bullocks. Both the man and the bullocks were emaciated. In the back seat Mrs. Das gazed out another
window, at the sky, where nearly transparent clouds passed quickly in front of one another.
“I look forward to it, actually,” Mr. Kapasi said as they continued on their way. “The Sun Temple is
one of my favorite places. In that way it is a reward for me. I give tours on Fridays and Saturdays
only. I have another job during the week.”
“Oh? Where?” Mr. Das asked.
“I work in a doctor’s office.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“I am not a doctor. I work with one. As an interpreter.”
“What does a doctor need an interpreter for?”

LOVELY PROFESSIONAL UNIVERSITY 127