A few years ago, I first read Jhumpa Lahiri’s beloved novel “The Namesake.” Having found it to be a very endearing exploration of cross-cultural identity, I became curious to read more by her. With this Short Stop series, I will be taking a close look at her debut short story collection “Interpreter of Maladies.” Having won The Pulitzer Prize, I am curious to see if she is able to convey in a matter of pages what made her novel so substantial. Will this be a work that captures the complexities of being of two lands, where you’re in search of a home on two continents? Over the next few entries, I hope to discover what has made her one of the most essential modern writers and discover more of what she has to say about the human experience.
With “The Treatment of Bibi Haldar,” I have reached the penultimate story in this anthology. While I recognize that every story stands on its own and shouldn’t necessarily have a need to compliment, there is a part of me that wants to believe Lahiri is building to something. There should be a great culmination of ideas that is beginning to take center stage. Throughout each of these excellent stories, it feels like interesting twists on the themes of being an Indian immigrant in America and the duality it brings to identity. However, a lot of that is absent in “Bibi Haldar.” In its place is a story that takes place entirely in India with a woman who doesn’t have a spouse to speak of. It’s an anomaly in this group of stories and, upon first glimpse, a fairly underwhelming read. However, I began to question why the author had put it here. Why does it follow so many stories of couples struggling to connect with each other? Maybe, it turns out, that Lahiri is also interested in the duality of internal and external forces.
The story that “Bibi Haldar” most reminded me of “A Real Durwan.” While the protagonists are at different ages and function differently in their narratives, both can be seen as women outcast by society. Sure, Bibi Haldar didn’t need to immigrate because of war. However, she is still cast out for being “different.” In “A Real Durwan,” it was a fear of the lower class seeing the worst of themselves. I can imagine that while it’s not directly commented upon, Bibi’s failures to find a loved one are from similar insecurity. After all, who wants to deal with a not-so-attractive woman who is prone to seizures and unknown illnesses? It sounds like a headache.
While I think that the larger narrative lacks any great surprise, the exploration of Bibi does plenty to paint a more dimensional portrait of women. Whereas “This Blessed House” saw a husband concerned about a wife assimilating to American culture, it was an opportunity provided by her beauty and wit. There’s not a lot to define Bibi as charismatic. She is socially inept, a shut-in who was never taught how to do maternal duties. There is a belief that she’s more a disease than a person with a lot of the early pages discussing how she spent so much time going to doctors suggesting cure-alls that cured nothing. If they could remove whatever was keeping her sick, then maybe she could begin to enjoy life.
There’s no denying that Bibi was always designed as a sympathetic character. For anyone with an ounce of compassion, Bibi’s inability to find a spouse is seen as a tragedy. It’s more than a social status. It’s the confirmation that somebody loves her. She may have friends, but even they take pity on her and never seem to talk with her unless they take Hazmat protocols. Bibi is often forced to do work on the roof, away from everybody, to keep the disease from spreading. There’s no evidence to suggest that she is contagious, but at the same time, there are enough ominous events throughout that make the reader believe she could be. Maybe it’s how a newborn baby becomes sick. Maybe it’s how the one man Bibi dates eventually breaks it off because she becomes too much.
Basically, Lahiri is suggesting that in India, it’s difficult to be a woman. While it would be for anyone of conventional beauty, to be like Bibi proves a greater struggle. Everyone would love to marry “the perfect spouse,” and that’s usually someone who is in good health and not going to be a burden on medical bills. Before the story is three pages old, there’s a good sense that Bibi could be in financial debt. Her codependence on her mother only makes her come across as more hopeless. The question becomes what Bibi will provide for a husband. The author may cleverly be suggesting this as a more universal feminist commentary, suggesting that what Bibi lacks is hard for anyone to learn. They have these customs and clothes that they must grow accustomed to wearing. There’s a lot to presentation that must be handed down for survival. While the reader is never sure if Bibi will live to the final pages, they become hyper-aware of what she’s doing wrong. She isn’t beautiful. She isn’t maternal. She is merely sick.
The good news is that she does live to tell the tale. However, it was around the final pages that I became concerned as a reader. The humorous stories of awkward dating didn’t amount to much of a forward momentum. A lot of it could be perceived as predictable. She goes to the park and socializes, looking for anyone that would have her. It’s cyclical. Every time she returns home without much to show for herself. There’s a sense of self-defeat. If one wants to read into the fact that she’s also entering her 30s, there’s the social expectation to be “settled down” by then and starting the next generation of life. While I like to think that customs have changed in the decades since this story was published, there’s still the reality that women in their 30s have been stereotypically considered “old” and associated with ideas like “infertile.” Nobody wants a 30-year-old. They’re not young and vital. In the years when Bibi should’ve been learning to fraternize with boys, she has wasted them questioning her own mortality. The biological ticking clock is in motion, making one wonder if the twist would be that she’s infertile or settles for an abusive man.
The inconclusive nature of the final pages made me contemplate if Bibi would resort to desperate measures. In western media, there is that stereotype of a man settling for an ugly woman when nobody else would date him. It’s usually one to take pity on, making the man seem pathetic. Bibi thankfully isn’t the butt of any joke like that, but it does reflect her codependence on the larger social structures. She is less in love as she needs a man. She needs to have a family before she becomes a spinster. Her reliance on the patriarchy is undeniable and it’s something that Lahiri enjoys commenting on throughout “Interpreter of Maladies.” Even as Indians question their identities, there are different expectations for men and women. “The Treatment of Bibi Haldar” is arguably the most naked and straightforward take on that idea.
So, what is this great conclusion? Never forget that the opening pages were about trying to cure a mysterious ailment. The reader never discovers the ailment or what the cure actually was. The one thing that does become clear is that once she can be removed from the sickness, she stands to live a happy life. The idea of needing to apply conventional standards is evident throughout the story, though Bibi’s conclusion comes in a roundabout way.
By the final pages, there’s no acquisition of a husband. She is still alone living in a home where her mother has had another child. Following a few spells of prominent sickness, the reality becomes clear. She has had a child. Suddenly the disease that has plagued her the entire story has gone away. Nobody knows how, but they just accept that this is a miracle. Everything is finally going to work out for Bibi.
But wait… there’s so much that doesn’t seem clear. Maybe it’s because the reader isn’t personally in Bibi’s head, but a lot seems missing between the first and last page. Could pregnancy have been the cause of her initial disease? If so, that raises a whole host of questions about what kind of woman Bibi was. She’s suggested to be socially inept and abused by random people. Does that mean she was sexually assaulted? Was she actually loved at any point throughout this story? Maybe the baby came in a desperate act with a man who wanted that social cred. Or, in a long shot, maybe there’s some greater cosmic force at play. So much is left up for interpretation.
Suddenly this happy revelation becomes disconcerting. More importantly, what is Lahiri saying about Bibi by dedicating these pages to her? I think it’s easy to get caught up with the more obvious theme of unconventional women being discarded by society. That is completely evident. However, I think there’s something to suggest that her pregnancy is both a tragedy and a blessing. There’s nothing to suggest that she’s ready to be a mother. Unless her mother lives forever, there may be a chance that she is alone in this journey. However, she has become accepted because she found a way to assimilate through motherhood. Will she be ostracized because it’s presumably out of wedlock? Then again, I think the greater lingering thought is that she’s finally happy, and ready to be embraced by those around her.
For a story that seems direct, enough mystery exists that prove why Lahiri is an expert writer. She knows how to take the reader along on a journey. It may seem innocuous for most of the ride, but then one or two paragraphs will alter the perception of everything that preceded it. I don’t know that this is a fully successful story at conveying ideas, but there’s still enough there that it succeeds at the one goal it had. When asking what value ugly women have to Indian society, she explores what every successful woman has through the few who don’t even acquire those skills. It’s tragic, sometimes humorous, but most of all puzzling. What does it mean to be a woman in society? Like the text itself, the answer is much too complicated for one perspective.
Coming Up Next: “The Third and Final Continent”
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