Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri Page A

and the plate of Nice biscuits, looking at the lake and listening to the vast breeze work its way through the treetops, a grander version of the way Akash used to sigh when he was a baby, full of contentment, in the depths of sleep. The leaves flickered as if with internal light, shivering though the air was not cold. Akash was asleep, exhausted from playing outdoors all day, and the house was filled with silence.
    “If I lived here I would sleep out here in the summers,” her father said presently. “I would put out a cot.”
    “You can, you know.”
    “What?”
    “Sleep out here. We have an air mattress.”
    “I am only talking. I am comfortable where I am.
    “But,” he continued, “if I could, I would build a porch like this for myself.”
    “Why don’t you?”
    “The condo would not allow it. It would have been nice in the old house.”
    When her father mentioned their old house, tears sprang to her eyes. In a way it was helpful to be in a place her mother had never seen. It was one of the last conversations she had had with her mother, telling her about Adam’s new job, which back then was only a remote possibility, as they rode together to the hospital. “Don’t go,” her mother had said from the front seat. “It’s too far away. I’ll never see you again.” Six hours after saying this, her mother was dead. Ruma suddenly wanted to ask her father, as she’d wanted to ask so many times, if he missed her mother, if he’d ever wept for her death. But she’d never asked, and he’d never admitted whether he’d felt or done those things.
    “If you were to have built one, where would you have put it?”
    He considered. “Off the dining room, I suppose. That side of the house was coolest.”
    She tried to think of her parents’ house transformed this way. She imagined a wall in the dining room broken down, imagined speaking to her mother on the telephone, her mother complaining as the workmen hammered and drilled. Then she saw her parents sitting in the shade, in wicker chairs, having tea as she and her father were now. For when she pictured that house in her mind, her mother was always alive in it, impossible not to see. With the birth of Akash, in his sudden, perfect presence, Ruma had felt awe for the first time in her life. He still had the power to stagger her at times—simply the fact that he was breathing, that all his organs were in their proper places, that blood flowed quietly and effectively through his small, sturdy limbs. He was her flesh and blood, her mother had told her in the hospital the day Akash was born. Only the words her mother used were more literal, enriching the tired phrase with meaning: “He is made from your meat and bone.” It had caused Ruma to acknowledge the supernatural in everyday life. But death, too, had the power to awe, she knew this now—that a human being could be alive for years and years, thinking and breathing and eating, full of a million worries and feelings and thoughts, taking up space in the world, and then, in an instant, become absent, invisible.
    “I’m sorry we haven’t seen your new apartment,” she said to her father. “Adam doesn’t have any vacation for a while. But we’ll come after the baby’s born.”
    “There is nothing to see there. Just a TV and a sofa and my things. There is no space for all of you to stay. Not like here.”
    “I’d like to see it anyway,” she said. “We can stay in a hotel.”
    “There is no need, Ruma. No need to travel all that way, just to see an apartment,” her father said. “You are a mother now,” he added. “No need to drag your children.”
    “But that’s what you and Ma did, taking us to India all those times.”
    “We had no alternative. Our parents weren’t willing to travel. But I will come here again to see you,” he said, looking approvingly into the distance and taking a sip of his tea. “I like this place.”
     
     
     
    “My dad’s planting flowers in the backyard,” she