Jhumpa Lahiri

This book reminded me of why Jhumpa Lahiri will always be one of my top favourite writers, the time when she used to write in English, and when her books were so simple yet each character's back-stories had so much depth. This book starts from India right after independence, in Calcutta, and how the common man got into communism, the birth of the CPI-M party (and others) and the infamous Naxalite movements. Dark parts of history, with so much death and bloodshed, and these three main show more characters, Udayan, Subhash and Gauri's whole lives are upended by it when you think about it.
We follow Subhash and Gauri (later their daughter Bela) in their lives in Rhode Island,US, away from everything yet so close. I think I feel the most sympathetic for Gauri, the way trauma literally makes her keep distance from love and bonding with her daughter. It's so well written by Jhumpa, and so simple yet deep. Loved it! show less

Digital audiobook performed by Sarita Choudhury.

The novel follows the Ganguli family over three decades, beginning when Ashoke and Ashima’s marriage is first arranged in Calcutta. They settle in Cambridge, Massachusetts where Ashoke is studying engineering, have two children, buy a house and live their lives: Indians with American children.

This is the type of literary fiction I adore. Lahiri writes with such eloquence and grace, letting the reader learn about this family much as she show more would do when meeting new acquaintances who become friends over decades. Their story tackles issues of the immigrant experience, the clash of cultures, differences (and conflicts) between generations, and personal identity.

While their parents find a community of other Bengalis with which to associate and celebrate life’s milestones, their children – son Gogol and his younger sister Sonia – are clearly Americans. And yet, Gogol still struggles with identity. First there is his odd name, then there are the lunches his mother packs for him, and the holidays they celebrate (or do not). While his parents cling to the traditions of their upbringing, Gogol wants only to fit in – to have a Christmas tree, and eat peanut butter, hamburgers and French fries. On trips back to India to see family and friends, Gogol feels lost; he does not clearly understand or speak the language, is unfamiliar with the city, cannot fathom why his family stays with relative after relative rather than getting a hotel room or renting an apartment of their own for the duration. In some respects, he is an immigrant in both countries.

Towards the end of the novel Gogol reflects on his and his parents’ lives: He wonders how his parents had done it, leaving their respective families behind, seeing them so seldom, dwelling unconnected, in a perpetual state of expectation, of longing. … He had spent years maintaining distance from his origins; his parents, in bridging that distance as best they could.

And he comes to a sort of conclusion: These events have formed Gogol, shaped him, determined who he is. They were things for which it was impossible to prepare but which one spent a lifetime looking back at, trying to accept, interpret, comprehend. Things that should never have happened, that seemed out of place and wrong, these were what prevailed, what endured, in the end.

Sarita Choudhury does a marvelous job narrating the audiobook. She sets a good pace that still allows the reader to absorb the complexities of the writing. Still, I am glad that I also have a text copy. Lahiri’s writing is the kind that I want to pore over, to read and read again. show less

A solidão é a chave para entender esses contos de Jhumpa Lahiri. O tema é recorrente e numa forma muito mais profunda que a simples solidão de estar só, mas aquela solidão inerente da individualidade. A solidão de nos sabermos únicos e estarmos sós em nós mesmos. Também a solidão de estar longe de sua terra natal, a solidão de ser incompreendido, a solidão da carência de afeto, a solidão da velhice, e de se dar conta de sonhos irrealizados, de desejos frustrados, e da show more existência previsível. Estar só é como uma jornada individual, impossível de ser compartilhada, comunicada ou sentida. Surgem aqui e ali as testemunhas desse cair em si, que mesmo sem entender totalmente o que passa fazem a ponte com o leitor. A escritora não precisa recorrer a finais mirabolantes ou surpreendentes, não quer causar espanto ou fúria, apenas nos deixar uma sensação de delicadeza, saudade, leve tristeza, e uma dorzinha no coração que afaga nossa empatia e abraça nossa própria solidão. show less

I wanted the reading experience to be as authentic as possible, so I stumbled through the Italian. I read it out loud, slowly, carefully sounding out the syllables, but my mouth kept forming the words with English phonetics, French sounds, wanting to keep to the languages I knew. Every time I came across a familiar-looking word - "leggere", "curiosa" - my jaw muscles relaxed. It also helped that English was just across the binding. I glanced at it after every line. It was like the edge of show more the pool, something safe, like the shore of Lahiri's pond.

This struggle to sound out foreign letters left me astounded at Lahiri's perseverance. It must have been a Herculean effort, to completely cut out something that she knew she knew, to embrace something that she knew she would never know completely. And yet, despite of her imperfection, because of her imperfection, I could feel the lightness of her words, the loveliness of her metaphors.

I have read reviews where readers found this book self-indulgent. Perhaps it is. But one could argue that all books are self-indulgent, to satisfy a whim of the author. I found In Other Words wonderfully relatable. Living on the margins myself, I know what it feels like to feel exiled, to feel suspended, and yet I never knew how to express these feelings in words. Lahiri wrote them out for me. For this, I feel grateful. show less