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

behind, taking pictures. The children ran ahead, pointing to figures of naked people, intrigued in Notes
particular by the Nagamithunas, the half-human, half-serpentine couples who were said, Mr. Kapasi
told them, to live in the deepest waters of the sea. Mr. Kapasi was pleased that they liked the temple,
pleased especially that it appealed to Mrs. Das. She stopped every three or four paces, staring silently
at the carved lovers, and the processions of elephants, and the topless female musicians bearing on
two-sided drums. Though Mr. Kapasi had been to the temple countless times, it occurred him, as he,
too, gazed at the topless women, that he had never seen his own wife fully naked. Even when they
had made love she kept the panels of her blouse hooked together, the string of her petticoat knotted
around her waist. He had never admired the backs of his wife’s legs the way he now admired those
of Mrs. Das, walking as if for his benefit alone. He had, of course, seen plenty of bare limbs before,
belonging to the American and European ladies who took his tours. But Mrs. Das was different.
Unlike the other women, who had an interest only in the temple, and kept their noses buried in a
guidebook, or their eyes behind the lens of a camera, Mrs. Das had taken an interest in him.
Mr. Kapasi was anxious to be alone with her, to continue their private conversation, yet he felt nervous
to walk at her side. She was lost behind her sunglasses, ignoring her husband’s requests that she
pose for another picture, walking past her children as if they were strangers. Worried that he might
disturb her, Mr. Kapasi walked ahead, to admire, as he always did, the three life-sized bronze avatars
of Surya, the sun god, each emerging from its own niche on the temple façade to greet the sun at
dawn, noon, and evening. They wore elaborate headdresses, their languid, elongated eyes dosed,
their bare chests draped with carved chains and amulets. Hibiscus petals, offerings from previous
visitors, were strewn at their gray-green feet. The last statue, on the northern wall of the temple, was
Mr. Kapasi’s favorite. This Surya had a tired expression, weary after a hard day of work, sitting
astride a horse with folded legs. Even his horse’s eyes were drowsy. Around his body were smaller
sculptures of women in pairs, their hips thrust to one side.
“Who’s that?” Mrs. Das asked. He was startled to see that she was standing beside him.
“He is the Astachala-Surya,” Mr. Kapasi said. “The setting sun.”
“So in a couple hours the sun will set right here?” she slipped a foot out of one of her square-heeled
shoes, rubbed her toes on the back of her other leg. Mr. Kapasi was not certain exactly what the word
suggested, but he had a feeling it was a favorable response. He hoped that Mrs. Das had understood
Surya’s beauty, his power. Perhaps they would discuss it further in their letters. He would explain
things to her, things about India, and she would explain things to him about America. In its own way
this correspondence would fulfill his dream, of serving as an interpreter between nations. He looked
at her straw bag, delighted that his address lay nestled among its contents. When he pictured her so
many thousands of miles away he plummeted, so much so that he had an overwhelming urge to
wrap his arms around her, to freeze with her, even for an instant, in an embrace witnessed by his
favorite Surya. But Mrs. Das had already started walking. “When do you return to America?” he
asked, trying to sound placid. “In ten days.” He calculated: a week to settle in, a week to develop the
pictures, a few days to compose her letter, two weeks to get to India by air. According to his schedule,
allowing room for delays, he would hear from Mrs. Das in approximately six weeks’ time. The family
was silent as Mr. Kapasi drove them back, a little past four-thirty, to Hotel Sandy Villa. The children
had bought miniature granite versions of the chariot’s wheels at a souvenir stand, and they turned
them round in their hands. Mr. Das continued to read his book. Mrs. Das untangled Tina’s hair with
her brush and divided it into two little ponytails.
Mr. Kapasi was beginning to dread the thought of dropping them off. He was not prepared to begin
his six week wait to hear from Mrs. Das. As he stole glances at her in the rear-view mirror, wrapping
elastic bands around Tina’s hair, he wondered how he might make the tour last a little longer.
Ordinarily he sped back to Puri using a shortcut, eager to return home, scrub his feet and hands with
sandalwood soap, and enjoy the evening newspaper and a cup of tea that his wife would serve him
in silence. The thought of that silence, something to which he’d long been resigned, now oppressed
him. It was then that he suggested visiting the hills at Udayagiri and Khandagiri, where a number of
monastic dwellings were hewn our of the ground, lacing one another across a defile. It was some
miles away, but well worth seeing, Mr. Kapasi told them.

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