The Namesake. Jhumpa Lahiri

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СКАЧАТЬ her head against the window and closes her eyes and thinks of home. She pictures the black iron bars in the windows of her parents’ flat, and Gogol, in his American baby clothes and diapers, playing beneath the ceiling fan, on her parents’ four-poster bed. She pictures her father missing a tooth, lost after a recent fall, her mother has written, on the stairs. She tries to imagine how it will feel when her grandmother doesn’t recognize her.

      When she opens her eyes she sees that the train is standing still, the doors open at her stop. She leaps up, her heart racing. “Excuse me, please,” she says, pushing the stroller and herself through the tightly packed bodies. “Ma’am,” someone says as she struggles past, about to step onto the platform, “your things.” The doors of the subway clamp shut as she realizes her mistake, and the train rolls slowly away. She stands there watching until the rear car disappears into the tunnel, until she and Gogol are the only people remaining on the platform. She pushes the stroller back down Massachusetts Avenue, weeping freely, knowing that she can’t possibly afford to go back and buy it all again. For the rest of the afternoon she is furious with herself, humiliated at the prospect of arriving in Calcutta empty-handed apart from the sweaters and the paint-brushes. But when Ashoke comes home he calls the MBTA lost and found; the following day the bags are returned, not a teaspoon missing. Somehow, this small miracle causes Ashima to feel connected to Cambridge in a way she has not previously thought possible, affiliated with its exceptions as well as its rules. She has a story to tell at dinner parties. Friends listen, amazed at her luck. “Only in this country,” Maya Nandi says.

      One night not long after, they are fast asleep when the telephone rings. The sound rouses them instantly, their hearts hammering as if from the same frightening dream. Ashima knows even before Ashoke answers that it’s a call from India. A few months ago, her family had asked in a letter for the phone number in Cambridge, and she had sent it reluctantly in her reply, aware that it would only be a way for bad news to reach her. As Ashoke sits up and takes the receiver, answering in a weary, weakened voice, Ashima prepares herself. She pushes down the crib railing to comfort Gogol, who has begun stirring as a result of the telephone’s rings, and reviews the facts in her head. Her grandmother is in her eighties, bedridden, all but senile, unable to eat or talk. The last few months of her life, according to her parents’ most recent letter, have been painful, for her grandmother, for those who know her. It was no way to live. She pictures her mother saying all this gently into the next-door neighbors’ phone, standing in the neighbors’ sitting room. Ashima prepares herself for the news, to accept the fact that Gogol will never meet his great-grandmother, the giver of his lost name.

      The room is unpleasantly cold. She picks up Gogol and gets back into bed, under the blanket. She presses the baby to her body for strength, puts him to her breast. She thinks of the cream-colored cardigan bought with her grandmother in mind, sitting in a shopping bag in the closet. She hears Ashoke speaking, saying soberly but loudly enough so that she fears he will wake Alan and Judy upstairs, “Yes, all right, I see. Don’t worry, yes, I will.” For a while he is silent, listening. “They want to talk to you,” he says to Ashima, briefly putting a hand to her shoulder. In the dark, he hands her the phone, and after a moment’s hesitation, he gets out of bed.

      She takes the phone in order to hear the news for herself, to console her mother. She can’t help but wonder who will console her the day her own mother dies, if that news will also come to her in this way, in the middle of the night, wresting her from dreams. In spite of her dread she feels a thrill; this will be the first time she’s heard her mother’s voice in nearly three years. The first time, since her departure from Dum Dum Airport, that she will be called Monu. Only it isn’t her mother but her brother, Rana, on the other end. His voice sounds small, threaded into a wire, barely recognizable through the holes of the receiver. Ashima’s first question is what time it is there. She has to repeat the question three times, shouting in order to be heard. Rana tells her it is lunchtime. “Are you still planning to visit in December?” he asks.

      She feels her chest ache, moved after all this time to hear her brother call her Didi, his older sister, a term he alone in the world is entitled to use. At the same time she hears water running in the Cambridge kitchen, her husband opening a cupboard for a glass. “Of course we’re coming,” she says, unsettled when she hears her echo saying it faintly, less convincingly, once again. “How is Dida? Has anything else happened to her?”

      “Still alive,” Rana says. “But still the same.”

      Ashima rests back on her pillow, limp with relief. She would see her grandmother, after all, even if for one last time. She kisses Gogol on the top of his head, presses her cheek to his. “Thank goodness. Put Ma on,” she says, crossing her ankles. “Let me talk to her.”

      “She’s not at home now,” Rana says after a static-filled pause.

      “And Baba?”

      A patch of silence follows before his voice returns. “Not here.”

      “Oh.” She remembers the time difference—her father must be at work already at the Desh offices, her mother at the market, a burlap bag in hand, buying vegetables and fish.

      “How is little Gogol?” Rana asks her. “Does he only speak English?”

      She laughs. “He doesn’t speak much of anything, at the moment.” She begins to tell Rana that she is teaching Gogol to say “Dida” and “Dadu” and “Mamu,” to recognize his grandparents and his uncle from photographs. But another burst of static, longer this time, quiets her in midsentence.

      “Rana? Can you hear me?”

      “I can’t hear you, Didi,” Rana says, his voice growing fainter. “Can’t hear. Let’s speak later.”

      “Yes,” she says, “later. See you soon. Very soon. Write to me.” She puts down the phone, invigorated by the sound of her brother’s voice. An instant later she is confused and somewhat irritated. Why had he gone to the trouble of calling, only to ask an obvious question? Why call while both her parents were out?

      Ashoke returns from the kitchen, a glass of water in his hand. He sets down the water and switches on the small lamp by the side of the bed.

      “I’m awake,” Ashoke says, though his voice is still small from fatigue.

      “Me too.”

      “What about Gogol?”

      “Asleep again.” She gets up and puts him back in the crib, drawing the blanket to his shoulders, then returns to bed, shivering. “I don’t understand it,” she says, shaking her head at the rumpled sheet. “Why did Rana go to the trouble of calling just now? It’s so expensive. It doesn’t make sense.” She turns to look at Ashoke. “What did he say to you, exactly?”

      Ashoke shakes his head from side to side, his profile lowered.

      “He told you something you’re not telling me. Tell me, what did he say?”

      He continues to shake his head, and then he reaches across to her side of the bed and presses her hand so tightly that it is slightly painful. He presses her to the bed, lying on top of her, his face to one side, his body suddenly trembling. He holds her this way for so long that she begins to wonder if he is going to turn off the light and caress her. Instead he tells her what Rana told him a few minutes ago, what Rana couldn’t bear to tell his sister, over the telephone, himself: that her father died yesterday evening, of a heart attack, playing patience on his bed.

      

      They leave for India six days later, six weeks before they’d planned. Alan and Judy, waking the next morning to СКАЧАТЬ