The Namesake

The Namesake is the story of first-generation Bengali immigrants growing up in New England in the 80's and 90's. The main character Gogol Ganguli struggles to establish an identity true to himself, blending his family's rich Indian culture with a more hollow American modernism -- the subtle tension between two generations, two countries, obligation and choice, guilt and freedom.

I heard that The Namesake has recently been turned into a film, with limited releases in the U.S. It's hard for me to imagine this being done successfully. It's not that the story isn't vivid. I guess it's the fact that Lahiri's brilliance is in capturing the simplicity of the everyday, in gracefully giving attention to the small fall-through-the-cracks stuff in life that normally doesn't make for a blockbuster. The authenticity of the characters and their normal lives makes the story just what it is - real life. No explosions. No fairy-tale love affairs. No bad guys. No heroes. Just people stumbling over life and compromising to their surroundings.

Intricately simple prose.
Pure and refreshing.

Jhumpa Lahiri is a story-teller.
The "big deal, life's unfair" tidbits you'd overhear at the water cooler become savory dramas. Maybe it's because she captures human thought so well. Maybe it's because we know the pain of the characters too well.

Her dazzling sensory details first brushed up against me a couple years back with her collection of short stories, The Interpreter of Maladies. I recommend both books, especially to those interested in developing their writing styles.

Last Night

The hands hug themselves around the 1 on the clock. Barefoot, I step out onto the damp wooden boards of our balcony, into the night, into the thunderstorm. Wrapped in a knitted chocolate blanket I fold myself between the rough brick wall and the smooth chillness of the sliding glass door.

I love our third floor balcony because it’s hidden in the fullness of a huge tree, tall and stately, rooted below. The branches that stretch out like fingers, unashamedly naked and crocked in the winter holding palm-fuls of snow just out of our reach, now snake through a thick fuzz of greenery. As those glossy black branches sway in the steady puffs of the storm, the thick, shell-shaped leaves move like wool sweaters strung on a clothes line, slow and deep.

Below, the orangey-yellow hue of a street lamp, reminiscent of the sickly glow of gymnasium lighting, fans out onto the pavement of Gregory Street. Even though my eyelids dance like marionettes puppeted by sleepiness, I'm determined to watch where raindrops smack the flooded street below like a stadium of flashing cameras; the sturdy slap-slaps of the pregnant drops make me think that they would feel like a thousand little needle pricks against my skin.

I let the blanket tumble off my shoulder, feeling the crispness of the brooding air, commanding the tiny hairs on my arm to stand at attention. I don't make the effort to cover it back up.

The sky cracks and booms, shaking the knotted wood underneath me. For a quick second I am rocked by the vibrations of the thunder before it rumbles off in the distance, chasing itself on the wind.

The lightening. It's as if some of the raindrops plummet so hard and fast that they bounce off the ground and leap with even greater intensity back into the sky to explode like fireworks – illuminating the entirety of the sky, only to be just as quickly blown out. It reminds me of when I go to flick on a light but don't hit the switch hard enough and it falls back down. A brief connection, a spark of light, and then the connection is broken again.

The rain slows to a patter.
SmacksmackTink. SmacksmackTink.

Water is always moving – dropping, gliding, evaporating. I'm inspired by water because it seems to understand change; accepts continually starting over. It knows that it has a bigger purpose, that it’s part of a bigger purpose, than who it is in that moment.

A raindrop hits my foot.
I decide to go inside so the fading storm’s rhythm still has time to lull me to sleep.

on my mind

Forgive me, I know I've posted this before
..... but who doesn't need to be reminded?

"People will forget what you said,

people will forget what you did, but

people will never forget how you made them feel."
- Maya Angelou

What a force to aspire to, what a force to forgive yourself of.