tion id="u87d4a6aa-7052-5f8f-8845-127953224e0f">
JHUMPA LAHIRI
Interpreter of Maladies
Stories
Fourth Estate
An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge St London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk This edition published by Flamingo 2000
First published in Great Britain in 1999 by Flamingo
First published in the USA in 1999 by Houghton Mifflin Company
Copyright © Jhumpa Lahiri 1999
Jhumpa Lahiri asserts the moral right to be
identified as the author of this work
These stories are works of fiction. The names, characters and incidents
portrayed in them are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Some of the stories in this collection have appeared elsewhere, in a slightly different form: ‘A Temporary Matter’ in the New Yorker; ‘When Mr Pirzada Came to Dine’ in the Louisville Review; ‘Interpreter of Maladies’ in the Agni Review; ‘A Real Durwan’ in the Harvard Review; ‘Mrs Sen’s’ in Salamander; “This Blessed House’ in Epoch; and ‘The Treatment of Bibi Haldar’ in Story Quarterly.
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Source ISBN 9780006551799
Ebook edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN 9780007381647
Version 2018-11-05
For my parents and for my sister
Contents
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,