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Original Essays | April 11, 2014

Paul Laudiero: IMG Shit Rough Draft



I was sitting in a British and Irish romantic drama class my last semester in college when the idea for Shit Rough Drafts hit me. I was working... Continue »
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3 Local Warehouse Literature- A to Z

Unaccustomed Earth

by

Unaccustomed Earth Cover

ISBN13: 9780307265739
ISBN10: 0307265730
Condition: Standard
Dustjacket: Standard
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Excerpt

Unaccustomed Earth

After her mothers death, Rumas father retired from the pharmaceutical company where he had worked for many decades and began traveling in Europe, a continent hed never seen. In the past year he had visited France, Holland, and most recently Italy. They were package tours, traveling in the company of strangers, riding by bus through the countryside, each meal and museum and hotel prearranged. He was gone for two, three, sometimes four weeks at a time. When he was away Ruma did not hear from him. Each time, she kept the printout of his flight information behind a magnet on the door of the refrigerator, and on the days he was scheduled to fly she watched the news, to make sure there hadnt been a plane crash anywhere in the world.

Occasionally a postcard would arrive in Seattle, where Ruma and Adam and their son Akash lived. The postcards showed the facades of churches, stone fountains, crowded piazzas, terra-cotta rooftops mellowed by late afternoon sun. Nearly fifteen years had passed since Rumas only European adventure, a month-long EuroRail holiday shed taken with two girlfriends after college, with money saved up from her salary as a para- legal. Shed slept in shabby pensions, practicing a frugality that was foreign to her at this stage of her life, buying nothing but variations of the same postcards her father sent now. Her father wrote succinct, impersonal accounts of the things he had seen and done: “Yesterday the Uffizi Gallery. Today a walk to the other side of the Arno. A trip to Siena scheduled tomorrow.” Occasionally there was a sentence about the weather. But there was never a sense of her fathers presence in those places. Ruma was reminded of the telegrams her parents used to send to their relatives long ago, after visiting Calcutta and safely arriving back in Pennsylvania.

The postcards were the first pieces of mail Ruma had received from her father. In her thirty-eight years hed never had any reason to write to her. It was a one-sided correspondence; his trips were brief enough so that there was no time for Ruma to write back, and besides, he was not in a position to receive mail on his end. Her fathers penmanship was small, precise, slightly feminine; her mothers had been a jumble of capital and lowercase, as though shed learned to make only one version of each letter. The cards were addressed to Ruma; her father never included Adams name, or mentioned Akash. It was only in his closing that he acknowledged any personal connection between them. “Be happy, love Baba,” he signed them, as if the attainment of happiness were as simple as that.

In August her father would be going away again, to Prague. But first he was coming to spend a week with Ruma and see the house she and Adam had bought on the Eastside of Seattle. Theyd moved from Brooklyn in the spring, for Adams job. It was her father who suggested the visit, calling Ruma as she was making dinner in her new kitchen, surprising her. After her mothers death it was Ruma who assumed the duty of speaking to her father every evening, asking how his day had gone. The calls were less frequent now, normally once a week on Sunday afternoons. “Youre always welcome here, Baba,” shed told her father on the phone. “You know you dont have to ask.” Her mother would not have asked. “Were coming to see you in July,” she would have informed Ruma, the plane tickets already in hand. There had been a time in her life when such presumptuousness would have angered Ruma. She missed it now.

Adam would be away that week, on another business trip. He worked for a hedge fund and since the move had yet to spend two consecutive weeks at home. Tagging along with him wasnt an option. He never went anywhere interesting—usually towns in the Northwest or Canada where there was nothing special for her and Akash to do. In a few months, Adam assured her, the trips would diminish. He hated stranding Ruma with Akash so often, he said, especially now that she was pregnant again. He encouraged her to hire a babysitter, even a live-in if that would be helpful. But Ruma knew no one in Seattle, and the prospect of finding someone to care for her child in a strange place seemed more daunting than looking after him on her own. It was just a matter of getting through the summer—in September, Akash would start at a preschool. Besides, Ruma wasnt working and couldnt justify paying for something she now had the freedom to do.

In New York, after Akash was born, shed negotiated a part-time schedule at her law firm, spending Thursdays and Fridays at home in Park Slope, and this had seemed like the perfect balance. The firm had been tolerant at first, but it had not been so easy, dealing with her mothers death just as an important case was about to go to trial. She had died on the operating table, of heart failure; anesthesia for routine gallstone surgery had triggered anaphylactic shock.

After the two weeks Ruma received for bereavement, she couldnt face going back. Overseeing her clients futures, preparing their wills and refinancing their mortgages, felt ridiculous to her, and all she wanted was to stay home with Akash, not just Thursdays and Fridays but every day. And then, miraculously, Adams new job came through, with a salary generous enough for her to give notice. It was the house that was her work now: leafing through the piles of catalogues that came in the mail, marking them with Post-its, ordering sheets covered with dragons for Akashs room.

“Perfect,” Adam said, when Ruma told him about her fathers visit. “Hell be able to help you out while Im gone.” But Ruma disagreed. It was her mother who would have been the helpful one, taking over the kitchen, singing songs to Akash and teaching him Bengali nursery rhymes, throwing loads of laundry into the machine. Ruma had never spent a week alone with her father. When her parents visited her in Brooklyn, after Akash was born, her father claimed an armchair in the living room, quietly combing through the Times, occasionally tucking a finger under the babys chin but behaving as if he were waiting for the time to pass.

Her father lived alone now, made his own meals. She could not picture his surroundings when they spoke on the phone. Hed moved into a one-bedroom condominium in a part of Pennsylvania Ruma did not know well. He had pared down his possessions and sold the house where Ruma and her younger brother Romi had spent their childhood, informing them only after he and the buyer went into contract. It hadnt made a difference to Romi, whod been living in New Zealand for the past two years, working on the crew of a German documentary filmmaker. Ruma knew that the house, with the rooms her mother had decorated and the bed in which she liked to sit up doing crossword puzzles and the stove on which shed cooked, was too big for her father now. Still, the news had been shocking, wiping out her mothers presence just as the surgeon had.

She knew her father did not need taking care of, and yet this very fact caused her to feel guilty; in India, there would have been no question of his not moving in with her. Her father had never mentioned the possibility, and after her mothers death it hadnt been feasible; their old apartment was too small. But in Seattle there were rooms to spare, rooms that stood empty and without purpose.

Ruma feared that her father would become a responsibility, an added demand, continuously present in a way she was no longer used to. It would mean an end to the family shed created on her own: herself and Adam and Akash, and the second child that would come in January, conceived just before the move. She couldnt imagine tending to her father as her mother had, serving the meals her mother used to prepare. Still, not offering him a place in her home made her feel worse. It was a dilemma Adam didnt understand. Whenever she brought up the issue, he pointed out the obvious, that she already had a small child to care for, another on the way. He reminded her that her father was in good health for his age, content where he was. But he didnt object to the idea of her father living with them. His willingness was meant kindly, generously, an example of why she loved Adam, and yet it worried her. Did it not make a difference to him? She knew he was trying to help, but at the same time she sensed that his patience was wearing thin. By allowing her to leave her job, splurging on a beautiful house, agreeing to having a second baby, Adam was doing everything in his power to make Ruma happy. But nothing was making her happy; recently, in the course of conversation, hed pointed that out, too.

How freeing it was, these days, to travel alone, with only a single suitcase to check. He had never visited the Pacific Northwest, never appreciated the staggering breadth of his adopted land. He had flown across America only once before, the time his wife booked tickets to Calcutta on Royal Thai Airlines, via Los Angeles, rather than traveling east as they normally did. That journey was endless, four seats, he still remembered, among the smokers at the very back of the plane. None of them had the energy to visit any sights in Bangkok during their layover, sleeping instead in the hotel provided by the airline. His wife, who had been most excited to see the Floating Market, slept even through dinner, for he remembered a meal in the hotel with only Romi and Ruma, in a solarium overlooking a garden, tasting the spiciest food hed ever had in his life as mosquitoes swarmed angrily behind his childrens faces. No matter how they went, those trips to India were always epic, and he still recalled the anxiety they provoked in him, having to pack so much luggage and getting it all to the airport, keeping documents in order and ferrying his family safely so many thousands of miles. But his wife had lived for these journeys, and until both his parents died, a part of him lived for them, too. And so theyd gone in spite of the expense, in spite of the sadness and shame he felt each time he returned to Calcutta, in spite of the fact that the older his children grew, the less they wanted to go.

What Our Readers Are Saying

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kgg, January 1, 2011 (view all comments by kgg)
My husband and I have a busy family life with two young children, and this book was worth losing sleep over as I stayed up late to finish a story each night!
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(1 of 3 readers found this comment helpful)
Gracie, September 11, 2010 (view all comments by Gracie)
Jhumpa Lahiri's short stores never disappoint. They're character-driven gems that completely draw you in. I spent the past few days taking this book everywhere with me, reading on the subway, and it was always hard to put away.

The stories in the book span the globe, and no matter where the characters are, no matter where they're from or where they're going, whether they're children or adults, each one is vividly drawn and fully realized, easy to identify with and understand. They face life's challenges—whether moving to another continent, losing family, or trying to hold relationships today—as best they can, and it's a privilege to go on that journey with them.
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Scott Kaller, January 15, 2010 (view all comments by Scott Kaller)
An emotionally moving piece of a book. Its not often that short stories can pack so much thought and feeling into their condensed plot. I was completely hooked on each story and thoroughly devoted to its detailed characters. Lahiri has a keen way of crafting a complete world in very few words. She has brought the short story more attention and helped reshape my idea of what a short story can be. Each one is beautifully detailed and concise. And when each story ends, I can't help but reflect on them and how elegantly simple the stories are, yet they are overflowing with passion and detail.
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Product Details

ISBN:
9780307265739
Author:
Lahiri, Jhumpa
Publisher:
Knopf
Author:
Lahiri, Jhumpa
Subject:
United states
Subject:
Bengali (South Asian people)
Subject:
Short Stories (single author)
Subject:
Bengali Americans
Subject:
Bengali (South Asian people) - United States
Subject:
Stories (single author)
Subject:
Literature-A to Z
Copyright:
Publication Date:
20080401
Binding:
Hardback
Grade Level:
General/trade
Language:
English
Pages:
352
Dimensions:
8.35x6.17x1.25 in. 1.19 lbs.

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Unaccustomed Earth Used Hardcover
0 stars - 0 reviews
$3.95 In Stock
Product details 352 pages Alfred A. Knopf - English 9780307265739 Reviews:
"Staff Pick" by ,

Unaccustomed Earth is in many ways a deeply and authentically sad book. I would not advise reading the stories too quickly; they will each haunt you for days afterward (and, unusually in a collection like this, they are all equally strong). But Lahiri's prose is worth it; her work is masterful, confident, and timeless, and this gorgeously written collection of stories is her strongest fiction yet.

"Review A Day" by , "Jhumpa Lahiri is, and is not, an old-fashioned writer. She is too natural to be anyone's imitator. Yet the kind of relationship she invites readers into can feel familiar from some of the books we were drawn into long ago, when we were first learning about the good company reading can provide." (Read the entire New York Review of Books review)
"Review" by , "The author's ability to flesh out completely even minor characters...will keep readers invested in the work until its heartbreaking conclusion."
"Review" by , "An eye for detail, ear for dialogue and command of family dynamics distinguish this uncommonly rich collection."
"Review" by , "Each of Lahiri's stories is a powerful tale that pulls us in, mesmerizes us while we're there, and releases us with the knowledge that we've just experienced a small masterpiece. This is truly dazzling fiction at its best."
"Review" by , "The stories...are both memorable and unpredictable. And while they reflect another culture, they also edge into our lives resulting in a universal experience filled with emotional connections that cross borders."
"Review" by , "A Chekhovian sense of loss blows through these new stories: a reminder of Ms. Lahiri's appreciation of the wages of time and mortality and her understanding too of the missed connections that plague her husbands and wives, parents and children, lovers and friends."
"Review" by , "[A] powerful collection of short stories....As in all her fiction, Lahiri's prose here is deceptively simple, its mechanics invisible, as she enters into her characters' innermost journeys."
"Review" by , "[E]ight beautifully crafted stories that reaffirm [Lahiri's] status as one of this country's most accomplished and graceful young writers."
"Review" by , "These stories are often doleful and elegiac, but Unaccustomed Earth is cause for celebration: It showcases a considerable talent in full bloom."
"Synopsis" by , Pulitzer Prize-winning author Lahiri delivers eight dazzling stories that take readers from Cambridge and Seattle to India and Thailand as they explore the secrets at the heart of family life.
"Synopsis" by , US
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