Jhumpa Lahiri

That's the thing about books. They let you travel without moving your feet. Jhumpa Lahiri, The Namesake

I've been thinking of Jhumpa Lahiri lately. A lot. And for reasons beyond my understanding. She's not my favourite, I don't know yet what it's like to be comforted by her words and her stories because I've read too few yet. A book of hers that the world swears by failed to move me and for some reason I think that's okay. Because considering how easy it is for books and authors to charm me, had Jhumpa's words done the same, I probably would have added her to my favourite authors pile and although I won't have forgotten her, I would have made her one of the many. Now she's in the 'I wish I had loved but did not but still would like to very much' pile of authors - a virtual pile, no doubt, but there she is.

When I first read that book, I was still very immature a reader, not that I'm too better now, but still, I was learning, I was testing waters, I was trying to understand where I stand in the world of so many books and so many authors and so many stories. I kept on reading the book, not disappointed but not swept off my feet either, and the book ended on a note I wasn't particularly happy with. Even when I was not very impressed with how the story was progressing, I kept on reading because of the writing. It's strange that the writing made up for the story for me, I doesn't usually happen. But what's even more strange is that I still remember it! I remember the words, the progression of the story, the heartbreak and the struggles of that young immigrant couple who were nothing if not modest. I usually do not remember stories that well, especially if they failed to impress me. I wonder what it is about this story that still makes me feel this way. I wonder why I still stop scrolling whenever I see a post where Irrfan is Ashok in the movie adaptation and I spend a few seconds reading it, then some more remembering those lines from the book and I move on, not forgetting it but remembering it all the better. I wonder why that is. I wish like so many of you, I could call her writing my comfort place but I can't, not that I don't want to but because I think it'll diminish some of what I feel for her. I don't like to admit this but every now and then I pick up The Interpreter of Maladies and read a few pages of it. I've finally managed to finish two stories over the course of the past ten months and honestly? They filled me with warmth and something very, very close to understanding although the characters, their lives, their choices were as different from mine as they could be, I still feel it and I'd rather not think too much about it lest I lose it.