Something is happening to me. I keep reading one narrative after the other. Whenever I am finishing a book, I have this queasy feeling of emptiness welling within me. “What will I do now?”
I just finished Jhumpa Lahiri’s Namesake. I identified with the male character who was ashamed of his name, so much so that, he goes and changes it – a name which is neither Bengali, nor American – but of all things – Russian! Gogol! It is the story of initial rejection and then finally understanding and reconciliation with family and tradition and one’s own identity.
I especially liked a scene in the book – where after his father’s death Gogol remembers the hike to the seashore that he and his father undertook, all the everyday sentences that you utter, assuming different and deeper meanings, in the light of death. I also think that this is how one would see anything that happened today, after the death of another person. when that person is alive, i don't think one would give any importance to that person. but, after he or she has left, then everythng aquires meaning, and the meaning is as if, it is a slow but steady progess towards death.
