On short stories - Interpreter of Maladies - Jhumpa Lahiri

I have never really been a fan of short stories. Even as a child one story at bedtime was never quite enough, which of course always led to a round of unsatisfied pleas for just one more story, just one more to send me off to sleep. My issue has always been that short stories can be rather bitty and snippety, a rather brief and superficial dip into someone else’s life before you are rather abruptly thrown back out before the story has even taken off. With more questions than answers, and very little in the way of character or plot development I tend to be left feeling either unsatisfied or to be very honest, just bored. However, I am gradually being persuaded that this is only the case when short stories are poorly written. As I get older and life gets busier  I am certainly starting to appreciate the value of a well-written short story. When I need a literary fix but have only half an hour on a bus journey, or in fact can only stay awake for this long at bedtime, I’m increasingly seeing short stories as a worthy alternative to an entire book, complete with the satisfaction of a full story in a short time. 

This is of course when short stories are written well. One such successful venture I have recently come across is Jhumpa Lahiri’s ‘Interpreter of maladies’. This debut series is based on the theme of Indian exiles, of individuals who must balance tradition and heritage with the new in their lives. These work particularly well because there is no big aim to the stories, no quest or grandiose plot, but rather we receive unobtrusive snapshots of the ordinary.

‘When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine’ for instance, is a story within the series that depicts the life of an Indian family living in America, as told by ten-year-old Lilia. Mr Pirzada has been awarded a grant to study for a year in America while his wife and seven daughters remain at home in Dacca, East Pakistan. He regularly joins Lilia and her parents for dinner at their home, where they watch the news together as tensions unfold in Mr Pirzada’s hometown amid the 1971 Bangladesh Genocide. Lilia perceives Mr Pirzada to be Indian as well; he looks the same, dresses the same, laughs at the same jokes and eats the same food. Her father explains that this is not the case, that partition in 1947 means Mr Pirzada is now considered Bangladeshi. Ultimately nothing of huge consequence happens but Lahiri subtly deals with the complex issue of identity, of the juxtaposition of two different cultures, and of a little girl becoming more socially aware. It is the way in which the ordinary in life is taken and considered which stands as the foundation of these short stories and is behind why they work. They are snapshots into plausible lives, into the familiar, and are therefore inherently intriguing.

Written well I must concede that short stories are in fact an art form, a challenge to capture, engage and satisfy the reader in a small window of time for storytelling. Any recommendations will be very well received!