THE ADDENDUM is a showcase of my favorite writings. My personal hope is that others will be able to enjoy and appreciate these works, and possibly serve as a hook for other writings by the authors.
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The Third and Final Continent
by Jhumpa Lahiri
I left India in 1964 with a certificate in commerce and the equivalent,
in those days, of ten dollars to my name. For three weeks I sailed
on the S.S. Roma, an Italian cargo vessel, in a cabin next to the
ship's engine, across the Arabian Sea, the Red Sea, the Mediterranean,
and finally to England. I lived in London, in Finsbury Park, in
a house occupied entirely by penniless Bengali bachelors like myself,
at least a dozen and sometimes more, all struggling to educate and
establish ourselves abroad.
I attended lectures at L.S.E. and worked at the university library
to get by. We lived three or four to a room, shared a single, icy
toilet, and took turns cooking pots of egg curry, which we ate with
our hands on a table covered with newspapers. Apart from our jobs
we had few responsibilities. On weekends we lounged barefoot in
drawstring pajamas, drinking tea and smoking Rothmans, or set out
to watch cricket at Lord's. Some weekends the house was crammed
with still more Bengalis, to whom we had introduced ourselves at
the greengrocer, or on the Tube, and we made yet more egg curry,
and played Mukesh on a Grundig reel-to-reel, and soaked our dirty
dishes in the bathtub. Every now and then someone in the house moved
out, to live with a woman whom his family back in Calcutta had determined
he was to wed. In 1969, when I was thirty-six years old, my own
marriage was arranged. Around the same time, I was offered a full-time
job in America, in the processing department of a library at M.I.T.
The salary was generous enough to support a wife, and I was honored
to be hired by a world-famous university, and so I obtained a green
card, and prepared to travel farther still.
By then I had enough money to go by plane. I flew first to Calcutta,
to attend my wedding, and a week later to Boston, to begin my new
job. During the flight I read "The Student Guide to North America,"
for although I was no longer a student, I was on a budget all the
same. I learned that Americans drove on the right side of the road,
not the left, and that they called a lift an elevator and an engaged
phone busy. "The pace of life in North America is different
from Britain, as you will soon discover," the guidebook informed
me. "Everybody feels he must get to the top. Don't expect an
English cup of tea." As the plane began its descent over Boston
Harbor, the pilot announced the weather and the time, and that President
Nixon had declared a national holiday: two American men had landed
on the moon. Several passengers cheered. "God bless America!"
one of them hollered. Across the aisle, I saw a woman praying.
I spent my first night at the Y.M.C.A. in Central Square, Cambridge,
an inexpensive accommodation recommended by my guidebook which was
within walking distance of M.I.T. The room contained a cot, a desk,
and a small wooden cross on one wall. A sign on the door said that
cooking was strictly forbidden. A bare window overlooked Massachusetts
Avenue. Car horns, shrill and prolonged, blared one after another.
Sirens and flashing lights heralded endless emergencies, and a succession
of buses rumbled past, their doors opening and closing with a powerful
hiss, throughout the night. The noise was constantly distracting,
at times suffocating. I felt it deep in my ribs, just as I had felt
the furious drone of the engine on the S.S. Roma. But there was
no ship's deck to escape to, no glittering ocean to thrill my soul,
no breeze to cool my face, no one to talk to. I was too tired to
pace the gloomy corridors of the Y.M.C.A. in my pajamas. Instead
I sat at the desk and stared out the window. In the morning I reported
to my job at the Dewey Library, a beige fortlike building by Memorial
Drive. I also opened a bank account, rented a post-office box, and
bought a plastic bowl and a spoon. I went to a supermarket called
Purity Supreme, wandering up and down the aisles, comparing prices
with those in England. In the end I bought a carton of milk and
a box of cornflakes. This was my first meal in America. Even the
simple chore of buying milk was new to me; in London we'd had bottles
delivered each morning to our door.
In a week I had adjusted, more or less. I ate cornflakes and milk
morning and night, and bought some bananas for variety, slicing
them into the bowl with the edge of my spoon. I left my carton of
milk on the shaded part of the windowsill, as I had seen other residents
at the Y.M.C.A. do. To pass the time in the evenings I read the
Boston Globe downstairs, in a spacious room with stained-glass windows.
I read every article and advertisement, so that I would grow familiar
with things, and when my eyes grew tired I slept. Only I did not
sleep well. Each night I had to keep the window wide open; it was
the only source of air in the stifling room, and the noise was intolerable.
I would lie on the cot with my fingers pressed into my ears, but
when I drifted off to sleep my hands fell away, and the noise of
the traffic would wake me up again. Pigeon feathers drifted onto
the windowsill, and one evening, when I poured milk over my cornflakes,
I saw that it had soured. Nevertheless I resolved to stay at the
Y.M.C.A. for six weeks, until my wife's passport and green card
were ready. Once she arrived I would have to rent a proper apartment,
and from time to time I studied the classified section of the newspaper,
or stopped in at the housing office at M.I.T. during my lunch break
to see what was available. It was in this manner that I discovered
a room for immediate occupancy, in a house on a quiet street, the
listing said, for eight dollars per week. I dialled the number from
a pay telephone, sorting through the coins, with which I was still
unfamiliar, smaller and lighter than shillings, heavier and brighter
"Who is speaking?" a woman demanded. Her voice was bold
"Yes, good afternoon, Madam. I am calling about the room for
"Harvard or Tech?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Are you from Harvard or Tech?"
Gathering that Tech referred to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology,
I replied, "I work at Dewey Library," adding tentatively,
"I only rent rooms to boys from Harvard or Tech!"
I was given an address and an appointment for seven o'clock that
evening. Thirty minutes before the hour I set out, my guidebook
in my pocket, my breath fresh with Listerine. I turned down a street
shaded with trees, perpendicular to Massachusetts Avenue. In spite
of the heat I wore a coat and tie, regarding the event as I would
any other interview; I had never lived in the home of a person who
was not Indian. The house, surrounded by a chain-link fence, was
off-white with dark-brown trim, with a tangle of forsythia bushes
plastered against its front and sides. When I pressed the bell,
the woman with whom I had spoken on the phone hollered from what
seemed to be just the other side of the door, "One minute,
Several minutes later the door was opened by a tiny, extremely old
woman. A mass of snowy hair was arranged like a small sack on top
of her head. As I stepped into the house she sat down on a wooden
bench positioned at the bottom of a narrow carpeted staircase. Once
she was settled on the bench, in a small pool of light, she peered
up at me, giving me her undivided attention. She wore a long black
skirt that spread like a stiff tent to the floor, and a starched
white shirt edged with ruffles at the throat and cuffs. Her hands,
folded together in her lap, had long pallid fingers, with swollen
knuckles and tough yellow nails. Age had battered her features so
that she almost resembled a man, with sharp, shrunken eyes and prominent
creases on either side of her nose. Her lips, chapped and faded,
had nearly disappeared, and her eyebrows were missing altogether.
Nevertheless she looked fierce.
"Lock up!" she commanded. She shouted even though I stood
only a few feet away. "Fasten the chain and firmly press that
button on the knob! This is the first thing you shall do when you
enter, is that clear?"
I locked the door as directed and examined the house. Next to the
bench was a small round table, its legs fully concealed, much like
the woman's, by a skirt of lace. The table held a lamp, a transistor
radio, a leather change purse with a silver clasp, and a telephone.
A thick wooden cane was propped against one side. There was a parlor
to my right, lined with bookcases and filled with shabby claw-footed
furniture. In the corner of the parlor I saw a grand piano with
its top down, piled with papers. The piano's bench was missing;
it seemed to be the one on which the woman was sitting. Somewhere
in the house a clock chimed seven times.
"You're punctual!" the woman proclaimed. "I expect
you shall be so with the rent!"
"I have a letter, Madam." In my jacket pocket was a letter
from M.I.T. confirming my employment, which I had brought along
to prove that I was indeed from Tech.
She stared at the letter, then handed it back to me carefully, gripping
it with her fingers as if it were a plate heaped with food. She
did not wear glasses, and I wondered if she'd read a word of it.
"The last boy was always late! Still owes me eight dollars!
Harvard boys aren't what they used to be! Only Harvard and Tech
in this house! How's Tech, boy?"
"It is very well."
"You checked the lock?"
She unclasped her fingers, slapped the space beside her on the bench
with one hand, and told me to sit down. For a moment she was silent.
Then she intoned, as if she alone possessed this knowledge:
"There is an American flag on the moon!"
"Yes, Madam." Until then I had not thought very much about
the moon shot. It was in the newspaper, of course, article upon
article. The astronauts had landed on the shores of the Sea of Tranquillity,
I had read, travelling farther than anyone in the history of civilization.
For a few hours they explored the moon's surface. They gathered
rocks in their pockets, described their surroundings (a magnificent
desolation, according to one astronaut), spoke by phone to the President,
and planted a flag in lunar soil. The voyage was hailed as man's
most awesome achievement.
The woman bellowed, "A flag on the moon, boy! I heard it on
the radio! Isn't that splendid?"
But she was not satisfied with my reply. Instead she commanded,
I was both baffled and somewhat insulted by the request. It reminded
me of the way I was taught multiplication tables as a child, repeating
after the master, sitting cross-legged on the floor of my one-room
Tollygunge school. It also reminded me of my wedding, when I had
repeated endless Sanskrit verses after the priest, verses I barely
understood, which joined me to my wife. I said nothing.
"Say 'Splendid!'" the woman bellowed once again.
"Splendid," I murmured. I had to repeat the word a second
time at the top of my lungs, so she could hear. I was reluctant
to raise my voice to an elderly woman, but she did not appear to
be offended. If anything the reply pleased her, because her next
"Go see the room!"
I rose from the bench and mounted the narrow staircase. There were
five doors, two on either side of an equally narrow hallway, and
one at the opposite end. Only one door was open. The room contained
a twin bed under a sloping ceiling, a brown oval rug, a basin with
an exposed pipe, and a chest of drawers. One door led to a closet,
another to a toilet and a tub. The window was open; net curtains
stirred in the breeze. I lifted them away and inspected the view:
a small back yard, with a few fruit trees and an empty clothesline.
I was satisfied.
When I returned to the foyer the woman picked up the leather change
purse on the table, opened the clasp, fished about with her fingers,
and produced a key on a thin wire hoop. She informed me that there
was a kitchen at the back of the house, accessible through the parlor.
I was welcome to use the stove as long as I left it as I found it.
Sheets and towels were provided, but keeping them clean was my own
responsibility. The rent was due Friday mornings on the ledge above
the piano keys. "And no lady visitors!"
"I am a married man, Madam." It was the first time I had
announced this fact to anyone.
But she had not heard. "No lady visitors!" she insisted.
She introduced herself as Mrs. Croft.
My wife's name was Mala. The marriage had been arranged by my older
brother and his wife. I regarded the proposition with neither objection
nor enthusiasm. It was a duty expected of me, as it was expected
of every man. She was the daughter of a schoolteacher in Beleghata.
I was told that she could cook, knit, embroider, sketch landscapes,
and recite poems by Tagore, but these talents could not make up
for the fact that she did not possess a fair complexion, and so
a string of men had rejected her to her face. She was twenty-seven,
an age when her parents had begun to fear that she would never marry,
and so they were willing to ship their only child halfway across
the world in order to save her from spinsterhood.
For five nights we shared a bed. Each of those nights, after applying
cold cream and braiding her hair, she turned from me and wept; she
missed her parents. Although I would be leaving the country in a
few days, custom dictated that she was now a part of my household,
and for the next six weeks she was to live with my brother and his
wife, cooking, cleaning, serving tea and sweets to guests. I did
nothing to console her. I lay on my own side of the bed, reading
my guidebook by flashlight. At times I thought of the tiny room
on the other side of the wall which had belonged to my mother. Now
the room was practically empty; the wooden pallet on which she'd
once slept was piled with trunks and old bedding. Nearly six years
ago, before leaving for London, I had watched her die on that bed,
had found her playing with her excrement in her final days. Before
we cremated her I had cleaned each of her fingernails with a hairpin,
and then, because my brother could not bear it, I had assumed the
role of eldest son, and had touched the flame to her temple, to
release her tormented soul to heaven.
The next morning I moved into Mrs. Croft's house. When I unlocked
the door I saw that she was sitting on the piano bench, on the same
side as the previous evening. She wore the same black skirt, the
same starched white blouse, and had her hands folded together the
same way in her lap. She looked so much the same that I wondered
if she'd spent the whole night on the bench. I put my suitcase upstairs
and then headed off to work. That evening when I came home from
the university, she was still there.
"Sit down, boy!" She slapped the space beside her.
I perched on the bench. I had a bag of groceries with me—more
milk, more cornflakes, and more bananas, for my inspection of the
kitchen earlier in the day had revealed no spare pots or pans. There
were only two saucepans in the refrigerator, both containing some
orange broth, and a copper kettle on the stove.
"Good evening, Madam."
She asked me if I had checked the lock. I told her I had.
For a moment she was silent. Then suddenly she declared, with the
equal measures of disbelief and delight as the night before, "There's
an American flag on the moon, boy!"
"A flag on the moon! Isn't that splendid?"
I nodded, dreading what I knew was coming. "Yes, Madam."
This time I paused, looking to either side in case anyone was there
to overhear me, though I knew perfectly well that the house was
empty. I felt like an idiot. But it was a small enough thing to
ask. "Splendid!" I cried out.
Within days it became our routine. In the mornings when I left for
the library Mrs. Croft was either hidden away in her bedroom, on
the other side of the staircase, or sitting on the bench, oblivious
of my presence, listening to the news or classical music on the
radio. But each evening when I returned the same thing happened:
she slapped the bench, ordered me to sit down, declared that there
was a flag on the moon, and declared that it was splendid. I said
it was splendid, too, and then we sat in silence. As awkward as
it was, and as endless as it felt to me then, the nightly encounter
lasted only about ten minutes; inevitably she would drift off to
sleep, her head falling abruptly toward her chest, leaving me free
to retire to my room. By then, of course, there was no flag standing
on the moon. The astronauts, I read in the paper, had seen it fall
before they flew back to Earth. But I did not have the heart to
Friday morning, when my first week's rent was due, I went to the
piano in the parlor to place my money on the ledge. The piano keys
were dull and discolored. When I pressed one, it made no sound at
all. I had put eight dollar bills in an envelope and written Mrs.
Croft's name on the front of it. I was not in the habit of leaving
money unmarked and unattended. From where I stood I could see the
profile of her tent-shaped skirt in the hall. It seemed unnecessary
to make her get up and walk all the way to the piano. I never saw
her walking about, and assumed, from the cane propped against the
round table, that she did so with difficulty. When I approached
the bench she peered up at me and demanded:
"What is your business?"
"The rent, Madam."
"On the ledge above the piano keys!"
"I have it here." I extended the envelope toward her,
but her fingers, folded together in her lap, did not budge. I bowed
slightly and lowered the envelope, so that it hovered just above
her hands. After a moment she accepted it, and nodded her head.
That night when I came home, she did not slap the bench, but out
of habit I sat beside her as usual. She asked me if I had checked
the lock, but she mentioned nothing about the flag on the moon.
Instead she said:
"It was very kind of you!"
"I beg your pardon, Madam?"
"Very kind of you!"
She was still holding the envelope in her hands.
On Sunday there was a knock on my door. An elderly woman introduced
herself: she was Mrs. Croft's daughter, Helen. She walked into the
room and looked at each of the walls as if for signs of change,
glancing at the shirts that hung in the closet, the neckties draped
over the doorknob, the box of cornflakes on the chest of drawers,
the dirty bowl and spoon in the basin. She was short and thickwaisted,
with cropped silver hair and bright pink lipstick. She wore a sleeveless
summer dress, a necklace of white plastic beads, and spectacles
on a chain that hung like a swing against her chest. The backs of
her legs were mapped with dark-blue veins, and her upper arms sagged
like the flesh of a roasted eggplant. She told me she lived in Arlington,
a town farther up Massachusetts Avenue. "I come once a week
to bring Mother groceries. Has she sent you packing yet?"
"It is very well, Madam."
"Some of the boys run screaming. But I think she likes you.
You're the first boarder she's ever referred to as a gentleman.
"She looked at me, noticing my bare feet. (I still felt strange
wearing shoes indoors, and always removed them before entering my
room.) "Are you new to Boston?"
"New to America, Madam."
"From?" She raised her eyebrows.
"I am from Calcutta, India."
"Is that right? We had a Brazilian fellow, about a year ago.
You'll find Cambridge a very international city."
I nodded, and began to wonder how long our conversation would last.
But at that moment we heard Mrs. Croft's electrifying voice rising
up the stairs.
"You are to come downstairs immediately!"
"What is it?" Helen cried back.
I put on my shoes. Helen sighed.
I followed Helen down the staircase. She seemed to be in no hurry,
and complained at one point that she had a bad knee. "Have
you been walking without your cane?" Helen called out. "You
know you're not supposed to walk without that cane." She paused,
resting her hand on the bannister, and looked back at me. "She
For the first time Mrs. Croft seemed vulnerable. I pictured her
on the floor in front of the bench, flat on her back, staring at
the ceiling, her feet pointing in opposite directions. But when
we reached the bottom of the staircase she was sitting there as
usual, her hands folded together in her lap. Two grocery bags were
at her feet. She did not slap the bench, or ask us to sit down.
"What is it, Mother?"
"It is improper for a lady and gentleman who are not married
to one another to hold a private conversation without a chaperone!"
Helen said she was sixty-eight years old, old enough to be my mother,
but Mrs. Croft insisted that Helen and I speak to each other downstairs,
in the parlor. She added that it was also improper for a lady of
Helen's station to reveal her age, and to wear a dress so high above
"For your information, Mother, it's 1969. What would you do
if you actually left the house one day and saw a girl in a miniskirt?"
Mrs. Croft sniffed. "I'd have her arrested."
Helen shook her head and picked up one of the grocery bags. I picked
up the other one, and followed her through the parlor and into the
kitchen. The bags were filled with cans of soup, which Helen opened
up one by one with a few cranks of a can opener. She tossed the
old soup into the sink, rinsed the saucepans under the tap, filled
them with soup from the newly opened cans, and put them back in
the refrigerator." A few years ago she could still open the
cans herself," Helen said. "She hates that I do it for
her now. But the piano killed her hands." She put on her spectacles,
glanced at the cupboards, and spotted my tea bags. "Shall we
have a cup?"
I filled the kettle on the stove. "I beg your pardon, Madam.
"She used to give lessons. For forty years. It was how she
raised us after my father died." Helen put her hands on her
hips, staring at the open refrigerator. She reached into the back,
pulled out a wrapped stick of butter, frowned, and tossed it into
the garbage. "That ought to do it," she said, and put
the unopened cans of soup in the cupboard. I sat at the table and
watched as Helen washed the dirty dishes, tied up the garbage bag,
and poured boiling water into two cups. She handed one to me without
milk, and sat down at the table.
"Excuse me, Madam, but is it enough?"
Helen took a sip of her tea. Her lipstick left a smiling pink stain
on the rim of the cup. "Is what enough?"
"The soup in the pans. Is it enough food for Mrs. Croft?"
"She won't eat anything else. She stopped eating solids after
she turned one hundred. That was, let's see, three years ago."
I was mortified. I had assumed Mrs. Croft was in her eighties, perhaps
as old as ninety. I had never known a person who had lived for over
a century. That this person was a widow who lived alone mortified
me further still. Widowhood had driven my own mother insane. My
father, who worked as a clerk at the General Post Office of Calcutta,
died of encephalitis when I was sixteen. My mother refused to adjust
to life without him; instead she sank deeper into a world of darkness
from which neither I, nor my brother, nor concerned relatives, nor
psychiatric clinics on Rash Behari Avenue could save her. What pained
me most was to see her so unguarded, to hear her burp after meals
or expel gas in front of company without the slightest embarrassment.
After my father's death my brother abandoned his schooling and began
to work in the jute mill he would eventually manage, in order to
keep the household running. And so it was my job to sit by my mother's
feet and study for my exams as she counted and recounted the bracelets
on her arm as if they were the beads of an abacus. We tried to keep
an eye on her. Once she had wandered half naked to the tram depot
before we were able to bring her inside again.
"I am happy to warm Mrs. Croft's soup in the evenings,"
I suggested. "It is no trouble."
Helen looked at her watch, stood up, and poured the rest of her
tea into the sink. "I wouldn't if I were you. That's the sort
of thing that would kill her altogether."
That evening, when Helen had gone and Mrs. Croft and I were alone
again, I began to worry. Now that I knew how very old she was, I
worried that something would happen to her in the middle of the
night, or when I was out during the day. As vigorous as her voice
was, and imperious as she seemed, I knew that even a scratch or
a cough could kill a person that old; each day she lived, I knew,
was something of a miracle. Helen didn't seem concerned. She came
and went, bringing soup for Mrs. Croft, one Sunday after the next.
In this manner the six weeks of that summer passed. I came home
each evening, after my hours at the library, and spent a few minutes
on the piano bench with Mrs. Croft. Some evenings I sat beside her
long after she had drifted off to sleep, still in awe of how many
years she had spent on this earth. At times I tried to picture the
world she had been born into, in 1866—a world, I imagined,
filled with women in long black skirts, and chaste conversations
in the parlor. Now, when I looked at her hands with their swollen
knuckles folded together in her lap, I imagined them smooth and
slim, striking the piano keys. At times I came downstairs before
going to sleep, to make sure she was sitting upright on the bench,
or was safe in her bedroom. On Fridays I put the rent in her hands.
There was nothing I could do for her beyond these simple gestures.
I was not her son, and, apart from those eight dollars, I owed her
At the end of August, Mala's passport and green card were ready.
I received a telegram with her flight information; my brother's
house in Calcutta had no telephone. Around that time I also received
a letter from her, written only a few days after we had parted.
There was no salutation; addressing me by name would have assumed
an intimacy we had not yet discovered. It contained only a few lines.
"I write in English in preparation for the journey. Here I
am very much lonely. I sit very cold there. Is there snow. Yours,
I was not touched by her words. We had spent only a handful of days
in each other's company. And yet we were bound together; for six
weeks she had worn an iron bangle on her wrist, and applied vermillion
powder to the part in her hair, to signify to the world that she
was a bride. In those six weeks I regarded her arrival as I would
the arrival of a coming month, or season—something inevitable,
but meaningless at the time. So little did I know her that, while
details of her face sometimes rose to my memory, I could not conjure
up the whole of it.
A few days after receiving the letter, as I was walking to work
in the morning, I saw an Indian woman on Massachusetts Avenue, wearing
a sari with its free end nearly dragging on the footpath, and pushing
a child in a stroller. An American woman with a small black dog
on a leash was walking to one side of her. Suddenly the dog began
barking. I watched as the Indian woman, startled, stopped in her
path, at which point the dog leaped up and seized the end of the
sari between its teeth. The American woman scolded the dog, appeared
to apologize, and walked quickly away, leaving the Indian woman
to fix her sari, and quiet her crying child. She did not see me
standing there, and eventually she continued on her way. Such a
mishap, I realized that morning, would soon be my concern. It was
my duty to take care of Mala, to welcome her and protect her. I
would have to buy her her first pair of snow boots, her first winter
coat. I would have to tell her which streets to avoid, which way
the traffic came, tell her to wear her sari so that the free end
did not drag on the footpath. A five-mile separation from her parents,
I recalled with some irritation, had caused her to weep.
Unlike Mala, I was used to it all by then: used to cornflakes and
milk, used to Helen's visits, used to sitting on the bench with
Mrs. Croft. The only thing I was not used to was Mala. Nevertheless
I did what I had to do. I went to the housing office at M.I.T. and
found a furnished apartment a few blocks away, with a double bed
and a private kitchen and bath, for forty dollars a week. One last
Friday I handed Mrs. Croft eight dollar bills in an envelope, brought
my suitcase downstairs, and informed her that I was moving. She
put my key into her change purse. The last thing she asked me to
do was hand her the cane propped against the table, so that she
could walk to the door and lock it behind me. "Goodbye, then,"
she said, and retreated back into the house. I did not expect any
display of emotion, but I was disappointed all the same. I was only
a boarder, a man who paid her a bit of money and passed in and out
of her home for six weeks. Compared with a century, it was no time
At the airport I recognized Mala immediately. The free end of her
sari did not drag on the floor, but was draped in a sign of bridal
modesty over her head, just as it had draped my mother until the
day my father died. Her thin brown arms were stacked with gold bracelets,
a small red circle was painted on her forehead, and the edges of
her feet were tinted with a decorative red dye. I did not embrace
her, or kiss her, or take her hand. Instead I asked her, speaking
Bengali for the first time in America, if she was hungry.
She hesitated, then nodded yes.
I told her I had prepared some egg curry at home. "What did
they give you to eat on the plane?"
"I didn't eat."
"All the way from Calcutta?"
"The menu said oxtail soup."
"But surely there were other items."
"The thought of eating an ox's tail made me lose my appetite."
When we arrived home, Mala opened up one of her suitcases, and presented
me with two pullover sweaters, both made with bright-blue wool,
which she had knitted in the course of our separation, one with
a V neck, the other covered with cables. I tried them on; both were
tight under the arms. She had also brought me two new pairs of drawstring
pajamas, a letter from my brother, and a packet of loose Darjeeling
tea. I had no present for her apart from the egg curry. We sat at
a bare table, staring at our plates. We ate with our hands, another
thing I had not yet done in America.
"The house is nice," she said. "Also the egg curry."
With her left hand she held the end of her sari to her chest, so
it would not slip off her head.
"I don't know many recipes."
She nodded, peeling the skin off each of her potatoes before eating
them. At one point the sari slipped to her shoulders. She readjusted
it at once."
There is no need to cover your head," I said. "I don't
mind. It doesn't matter here."
She kept it covered anyway.
I waited to get used to her, to her presence at my side, at my table
and in my bed, but a week later we were still strangers. I still
was not used to coming home to an apartment that smelled of steamed
rice, and finding that the basin in the bathroom was always wiped
clean, our two toothbrushes lying side by side, a cake of Pears
soap residing in the soap dish. I was not used to the fragrance
of the coconut oil she rubbed every other night into her scalp,
or the delicate sound her bracelets made as she moved about the
apartment. In the mornings she was always awake before I was. The
first morning when I came into the kitchen she had heated up the
leftover sand set a plate with a spoonful of salt on its edge, assuming
I would eat rice for breakfast, as most Bengali husbands did. I
told her cereal would do, and the next morning when I came into
the kitchen she had already poured the cornflakes into my bowl.
One morning she walked with me to M.I.T., where I gave her a short
tour of the campus. The next morning before I left for work she
asked me for a few dollars. I parted with them reluctantly, but
I knew that this, too, was now normal. When I came home from work
there was a potato peeler in the kitchen drawer, and a tablecloth
on the table, and chicken curry made with fresh garlic and ginger
on the stove. After dinner I read the newspaper, while Mala sat
at the kitchen table, working on a cardigan for herself with more
of the blue wool, or writing letters home.
On Friday, I suggested going out. Mala set down her knitting and
disappeared into the bathroom. When she emerged I regretted the
suggestion; she had put on a silk sari and extra bracelets, and
coiled her hair with a flattering side part on top of her head.
She was prepared as if for a party, or at the very least for the
cinema, but I had no such destination in mind. The evening was balmy.
We walked several blocks down Massachusetts Avenue, looking into
the windows of restaurants and shops. Then, without thinking, I
led her down the quiet street where for so many nights I had walked
"This is where I lived before you came," I said, stopping
at Mrs. Croft's chain-link fence.
"In such a big house?"
"I had a small room upstairs. At the back."
"Who else lives there?"
"A very old woman."
"With her family?"
"But who takes care of her?"
I opened the gate. "For the most part she takes care of herself."
I wondered if Mrs. Croft would remember me; I wondered if she had
a new boarder to sit with her each evening. When I pressed the bell
I expected the same long wait as that day of our first meeting,
when I did not have a key. But this time the door was opened almost
immediately, by Helen. Mrs. Croft was not sitting on the bench.
The bench was gone.
"Hello there," Helen said, smiling with her bright pink
lips at Mala. "Mother's in the parlor. Will you be visiting
"As you wish, Madam."
"Then I think I'll run to the store, if you don't mind. She
had a little accident. We can't leave her alone these days, not
even for a minute."
I locked the door after Helen and walked into the parlor. Mrs. Croft
was lying flat on her back, her head on a peach-colored cushion,
a thin white quilt spread over her body. Her hands were folded together
on her chest. When she saw me she pointed at the sofa, and told
me to sit down. I took my place as directed, but Mala wandered over
to the piano and sat on the bench, which was now positioned where
"I broke my hip!" Mrs. Croft announced, as if no time
"Oh dear, Madam."
"I fell off the bench!"
"I am so sorry, Madam."
"It was the middle of the night! Do you know what I did, boy?"
I shook my head.
"I called the police!"
She stared up at the ceiling and grinned sedately, exposing a crowded
row of long gray teeth. "What do you say to that, boy?"
As stunned as I was, I knew what I had to say. With no hesitation
at all, I cried out, "Splendid!"
Mala laughed then. Her voice was full of kindness, her eyes bright
with amusement. I had never heard her laugh before, and it was loud
enough so that Mrs. Croft heard, too. She turned to Mala and glared.
"Who is she, boy?"
"She is my wife, Madam."
Mrs. Croft pressed her head at an angle against the cushion to get
a better look. "Can you play the piano?"
"No, Madam," Mala replied.
"Then stand up!"
Mala rose to her feet, adjusting the end of her sari over her head
and holding it to her chest, and, for the first time since her arrival,
I felt sympathy. I remembered my first days in London, learning
how to take the Tube to Russell Square, riding an escalator for
the first time, unable to understand that when the man cried "piper"
it meant"paper," unable to decipher, for a whole year,
that the conductor said "Mind the gap" as the train pulled
away from each station. Like me, Mala had travelled far from home,
not knowing where she was going, or what she would find, for no
reason other than to be my wife. As strange as it seemed, I knew
in my heart that one day her death would affect me, and stranger
still, that mine would affect her. I wanted somehow to explain this
to Mrs. Croft, who was still scrutinizing Mala from top to toe with
what seemed to be placid disdain. I wondered if Mrs. Croft had ever
seen a woman in a sari, with a dot painted on her forehead and bracelets
stacked on her wrists. I wondered what she would object to. I wondered
if she could see the red dye still vivid on Mala's feet, all but
obscured by the bottom edge of her sari. At last Mrs. Croft declared,
with the equal measures of disbelief and delight I knew well:
"She is a perfect lady!"
Now it was I who laughed. I did so quietly, and Mrs. Croft did not
hear me. But Mala had heard, and, for the first time, we looked
at each other and smiled.
I like to think of that moment in Mrs. Croft's parlor as the moment
when the distance between Mala and me began to lessen. Although
we were not yet fully in love, I like to think of the months that
followed as a honeymoon of sorts. Together we explored the city
and met other Bengalis, some of whom are still friends today. We
discovered that a man named Bill sold fresh fish on Prospect Street,
and that a shop in Harvard Square called Cardullo's sold bay leaves
and cloves. In the evenings we walked to the Charles River to watch
sailboats drift across the water, or had ice-cream cones in Harvard
Yard. We bought a camera with which to document our life together,
and I took pictures of her posing in front of the Prudential Building,
so that she could send them to her parents. At night we kissed,
shy at first but quickly bold, and discovered pleasure and solace
in each other's arms. I told her about my voyage on the S.S. Roma,
and about Finsbury Park and the Y.M.C.A., and my evenings on the
bench with Mrs. Croft. When I told her stories about my mother,
she wept. It was Mala who consoled me when, reading the Globe one
evening, I came across Mrs. Croft's obituary. I had not thought
of her in several months—by then those six weeks of the summer
were already a remote interlude in my past—but when I learned
of her death I was stricken, so much so that when Mala looked up
from her knitting she found me staring at the wall, unable to speak.
Mrs. Croft's was the first death I mourned in America, for hers
was the first life I had admired; she had left this world at last,
ancient and alone, never to return.
As for me, I have not strayed much farther. Mala and I live in a
town about twenty miles from Boston, on a tree-lined street much
like Mrs. Croft's, in a house we own, with room for guests, and
a garden that saves us from buying tomatoes in summer. We are American
citizens now, so that we can collect Social Security when it is
time. Though we visit Calcutta every few years, we have decided
to grow old here. I work in a small college library. We have a son
who attends Harvard University. Mala no longer drapes the end of
her sari over her head, or weeps at night for her parents, but occasionally
she weeps for our son. So we drive to Cambridge to visit him, or
bring him home for a weekend, so that he can eat rice with us with
his hands, and speak in Bengali, things we sometimes worry he will
no longer do after we die.
Whenever we make that drive, I always take Massachusetts Avenue,
in spite of the traffic. I barely recognize the buildings now, but
each time I am there I return instantly to those six weeks as if
they were only the other day, and I slow down and point to Mrs.
Croft's street, saying to my son, Here was my first home in America,
where I lived with a woman who was a hundred and three. "Remember?"
Mala says, and smiles, amazed, as I am, that there was ever a time
that we were strangers. My son always expresses his astonishment,
not at Mrs.Croft's age but at how little I paid in rent, a fact
nearly as inconceivable to him as a flag on the moon was to a woman
born in 1866. In my son's eyes I see the ambition that had first
hurled me across the world. In a few years he will graduate and
pave his own way, alone and unprotected. But I remind myself that
he has a father who is still living, a mother who is happy and strong.
Whenever he is discouraged, I tell him that if I can survive on
three continents, then there is no obstacle he cannot conquer. While
the astronauts, heroes forever, spent mere hours on the moon, I
have remained in this new world for nearly thirty years. I know
that my achievement is quite ordinary. I am not the only man to
seek his fortune far from home, and certainly I am not the first.
Still, there are times I am bewildered by each mile I have travelled,
each meal I have eaten, each person I have known, each room in which
I have slept. As ordinary as it all appears, there are times when
it is beyond my imagination.