Had a really hard time putting this one down ... I fell in love with Shoba and Shukumar, and with Twinkle especially.

Jhumpa Lahiri has made of herself an Interpreter of Maladies: in these stories her lovingly crafted characters, precisely chosen details, and intensely real storylines serve to describe and translate the symptoms, fears, and experiences of diaspora. As I put down the book, I felt like she had said to me, "I didn't need you to read a whole novel. I did not write out for you all that had come before, or all that happened after -- I have asked you to read only what is most important -- the moments when everything changes, from everything that might have been, to simply what is. And through that moment, you will know our malady I have made it into stories, and I trust you to understand what I am telling you."

As a non-Indian reader, Jhumpa Lahiri did not treat me as though I were woefully ignorant and in need of a primer, nor did she deem me to be beneath her notice by excluding me through "insider" cultural references. Instead, I was invited to watch, and even to ask questions, as Mrs. Sen shaded the part in her hair with crushed vermilion, "... standing before the bathroom mirror, solemnly applying, with the head of a thumtack, a fresh stroke of scarlet powder, which she stored in a jam jar. ... 'I must wear the powder every day,'" she explained when I asked her what it was for. "for the rest of the days when I am married." Like a wedding ring? "Exactly like a wedding ring, only with no fear of losing it in the dishwater." On every page, in each story, I felt Indian culture and emotional experience wash over and around me, warmly, gently, and with welcome.