Interpreter of Maladies

I awoke five pounds heavier and could only blame myself. I couldn't seem to stop eating, taking in twice my daily calories in one single meal – pakoras and samosas, chana masala, naan, raita, salad and chocolate cake for dessert. It was just all so good and so much of it was homemade.

"I have to stop adding cayenne to the curry," I thought and "I think the cumin and coriander are starting to turn."

It still tasted fine, just not perfect. Though, nobody complained. I'd realized after a run to the store that my paprika had disappeared, so I went back out again. I knew the spices, the measurements, the recipe by heart and so much better than I knew the book: Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri.

I had read it and enjoyed it immensely years ago, but too much had passed between then and now. I did not want to buy another copy of a book I had already read, not in the current economic crisis, which is a blatant lie, but I didn't have the time or inclination to reread it. The book was lovely but sad. So very sad.

So I didn't reread it. I showed up at the house, at book club, with my homemade chana masala fresh from the stove and settled in for a discussion about so much more than the book. Politics dominated the night, with the election just three days away, but we also found time for office politics, transsexuals and office politics with transsexuals. Napkin rings and cookie cutters. Obscene hand gestures for $400, Alex.

Once again, laughter rang through the house as conversation diverged and merged, overlapping and swirling. There were only seven of us. We'd lost a beloved couple to the West Coast early in the year. One man was blocked into his own drive by another car and another man just didn't come. He might not have read the book, but it didn’t matter as we sat and talked, a little about the book, a lot about life.

People seemed to like it well enough; though, it was generally considered depressing. Deep. Real. The characters in Lahiri's stories struggled so much with themselves and the world around them. And so we came back to politics, the world around us that would change in just three days, no matter what happened. Two had already voted and one would work the polls. The rest of us planned to go early on Tuesday; though my vote didn't much count in the overwhelmingly blue District of Columbia. It would be akin to preaching to the choir, a though that ran through my head as I drove home full and happy.

"Sometimes, it's nice. Preaching to the choir."

I had talked to three undecided friends over the course of the day.

"But you are going to vote?" I asked. "I mean, you have to. This election is important."

They didn't know and I felt useless. After dinner, though, after too much food and too much laughter, I felt better about everything. They had that effect on me.


Tag: Books Friends Weekend