I was surprised how much I liked Jhumpa Lahiri's The Namesake. I think it was a Kathy book that at first sounded boring. Then when I was getting a box of stuff to go to the library, I took another look and decided I'd been wrong. So I was right; I was wrong.
The Namesake is a two-generation saga about an Indian family that has come to the United States. It's the story of the parents who make the trip and adjust, and of their children, born in America and therefore even more American than the adjusted parents.
Overall, I wasn't all that crazy about Lahiri's writing style, it being far too descriptive for my taste. But then, halfway through the book, she started writing sentences and thoughts that grabbed me.
1) Ashami, the mother, is addressing Christmas (OK, seasonal greeting) cards and counts up the number of houses in which she has lived. Turns out to be five, and she thinks, "A lifetime in a fist." (page 167) I liked the simple clarity and, a few paragraphs later, that it led so softly into a major and heartbreaking plot twist.
2) Much, much later Ashami puts on a bathrobe and remembers it was a present selected and bought by one of her children so her husband could sign the gift card. "She does not fault him for this. Such omissions of devotion, of affection, she knows now do not matter in the end." (page 279) My hunch is she's right.
Have to admit that the picky critic showed up once. Late in the book, Gogol, the son, is thinking about his early relationship with Moushumi, the woman he marries. He remembers their spending an afternoon in a bar, designing the house in which they would one day live. "It was before they'd slept together, and he remembers how they'd both grown embarrassed when deciding where the bedroom would go." (page 241) I don't think so. They meet at a bar after Gogol's mother talks him into calling Moushumi—they attended Indian get-togethers as children. They get along over a drink, so they have dinner. He invites her to lunch the next week, during which she offers to cook dinner for him the following Saturday. He arrives, and they hop into bed. The hopping into bed bothers me not at all. But an author losing track of her timeline? That's another story.
In spite of the glitch, I liked the book. Lahiri has won a Pulitzer for a book of short stories. It's on my list.
