Interpreter Of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri, 1998
The magic trick:
Pulling narrative tension from a faulty shift in judgement from our protagonist
Long overdue, I’m finally knocking out the rest of Lahiri’s Pulitzer-Prize-winning collection, Interpreter Of Maladies, this week. (The collection’s first two stories have previously featured on SSMT, so this week will be the remaining seven stories.)
The title story is a gem. You probably don’t need me to tell you that.
It’s a master class of limited third person narration. We meet the Das family through the eyes of their tour guide/driver Mr. Kapasi. He is professional of course but sees them as fairly pathetic, unhappy, spoiled, and naïve. It’s a comfortable perspective for us to adopt – traditional “upstairs downstairs” stuff.
But that soon changes. Mr. Kapasi, flattered by Mrs. Das, starts to change his point of view. He becomes quite taken with her, in fact, imagining an alternative path his life could take.
What’s interesting is that the reader doesn’t share this new perspective. Obviously, I can only speak for myself definitively, but it’s a pretty direct path lined for us, reading the story:
We accept Mr. Kapasi’s negative view of the tourists. We feel comfortable.
We see him changing his tune, but we know this is a flawed point of view. We maintain our negative view of the tourists. We no longer trust Mr. Kapasi’s view. We are no longer comfortable. In fact, we grow quite nervous that something very bad might come of this flawed point of view of his.
It’s such an interesting, elegant way to generate narrative tension. Truly a masterpiece.
And that’s quite a trick on Lahiri’s part.
The selection:
Mr. Kapasi had never thought of his job in such complimentary terms. To him it was a thankless occupation. He found nothing noble in interpreting people’s maladies, assiduously translating the symptoms of so many swollen bones, countless cramps of bellies and bowels, spots on people’s palms that change color, shape, or size. The doctor, nearly half his age, had an affinity for bell-bottom trousers and made humorless jokes about the Congress party. Together they worked in a stale little infirmary where Mr. Kapasi’s smartly tailored clothes clung to him in the heat, in spite of the blackened blades of a ceiling fan churning over their heads.
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