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

“No, thank you.” She put a fistful in her mouth, sank into the seat a little, and looked away from Notes
Mr. Kapasi out the window on her side of the car. “We married when we were still in college. We
were in high school when he proposed. We went to the same college, of course. Back then we day, not
for a minute. Our parents were best friends who lived in the same town. My entire life I saw him
every week-end, either at our house or theirs. We were sent upstairs to play together while our
parents joked about our marriage. Imagine! They never caught us at anything, though in a way I
think it was all more or less a setup. The things we did those Friday and Saturday nights, while our
parents sat downstairs drinking tea… I could tell you stories, Mr. Kapasi.”
As a result of spending all her time in college with Raj, she continued, she did not make many close
friends. There was no one to confide in about him at the end of a difficult day, or to share a passing
thought or a worry. Her parents now lived on the other side of the world, but she had never been
very close to them anyway. After marrying so young she was overwhelmed by it all, having a child
so quickly, and nursing, and warming up bottles of milk and testing their temperature against her
wrist while Raj was at work, dressed in sweaters and corduroy pants, teaching his students about
rocks and dinosaurs. Raj never looked cross or harried, or plump as she had become after the first
baby.

Always tired, she declined invitations from her one or two college girlfriends, to have lunch or shop
in Manhattan. Eventually the friends stopped calling her, so that she was left at home all day with the
baby, surrounded by toys that made her trip when she walked or wince when she sat, always cross
and tired. Only occasionally did they go out after Ronny was born, and even more rarely did they
entertain. Raj didn’t mind; he looked forward to coming home from teaching and watching television
and bouncing Ronny on his knee. She had been outraged when Raj told her that a Punjabi friend,
someone whom she had once met but did not remember, would be staying with them for a week for
some job interviews in the New Brunswick area. Bobby was conceived in the afternoon, on a sofa
littered with rubber teething toys, after the friend learned that London pharmaceutical company had
hired him, while Ronny cried to be freed from his playpen. She made no protest when the friend
touched the small of her back as she was about to make a pot of coffee, then pulled her against his
crisp navy suit. He made love to her swiftly, in silence, with an expertise she had never known,
without the meaningful expressions and smiles Raj always insisted on afterward. The next day Raj
drove the friend to JFK. He was married now, to a Punjabi girl, and they lived in London still, and
every year they exchanged Christmas cards with Raj and Mina, each couple tucking photos of their
families into the envelopes. He did not know that he was Bobby’s father.
He never would. “I beg your pardon. Mrs. Das, but why have you told me this information?” Mr.
Kapasi asked when she had finally finished speaking, and had turned to face him once again.
“For God’s sake, stop calling me Mrs. Das. I’m twenty-eight. You probably have children my age.”
“Not quite.” It disturbed Mr. Kapasi to learn that she thought of him as a parent. The feeling he had
had toward her, that had made him check his reflection in the rearview mirror as they drove,
evaporated a little. “I told you because of your talents.” She put the packet of puffed rice back into her
bag without folding over the top.
“I don’t understand.” Mr. Kapasi said.
“Don’t you see? For eight years I haven’t been able to express this to anybody, not to friends, certainly
not to Raj. He doesn’t even suspect it. He thinks I’m still in love with him. Well, don’t you have
anything to say?” “About what?”
“About what I’ve just told you. About my secret, and about how terrible it makes me feel. I feel
terrible looking at my children, and at Raj, always terrible. I have terrible urges, Mr. Kapasi, to throw
things away.

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