Interpreter of Maladies

by Jhumpa Lahiri

IN THE AUTUMN OF 1971 a man used to come to our house, bearing confections in his pocket and hopes of ascertaining the life or death of his family.

In fact, the only thing that appeared three-dimensional about Boori Ma was her voice: brittle with sorrows, as tart as curds, and shrill enough to grate meat from a coconut.

Her soliloquies mawkish, her sentiments maudlin, malaise dripped like a fever from her pores.