I finished Jumpha Lahiri’s collection of short stories, Unaccustomed Earth, this past week. I love that woman’s writing. She has a way of communicating the deepest unspoken truths about relationships that moves me. After reading each one of her perfectly crafted short stories I find I have to stop and think about it for a few days. I find myself thinking about them in the shower, or while driving, or talking with friends.
When I first found Lahiri (I’ve read The Namesake and Interpreter of Maladies) I was astounded to see how relevant she was to my life and experiences. I had the misperception that her work would transport me to someone else’s Bengali or Bengali-American life and experiences– instead, on page after page I found myself relating to her characters as if I had written the stories or she was writing about my family. The cultural differences are fascinating, but actually fade away as the truths of the stories reveal themselves.
I can’t say enough about Lahiri’s work nor can I recommend this book of stories any more highly. How privleged I was to read both Strout’s Olive Kittridge and Lahiri’s Unaccustomed Earth in the same month. Wow!