Shoba's Pain

Another item of "Point of View" Where I address the implied characters view. After reading "A Temporary Matter" by Jhumpa Lahiri I felt that one character that influenced a lot in the story deserved to be heard from. You need to read the story to fully appreciate this addition. Story can be found at
http://www.nytimes.com/books/first/l/lahiri-maladies.html?

Shoba’s Pain

How she hated to come home these days, Shoba thought. She suggested lighting candles to cope with the power outage and couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t already done so.

This house made her feel so tired. She thought, “It’s so depressive here I’ve got to get out of here,” looking at her husband she continued in her thoughts, “he didn’t go out today either…he has worn those same drawstring pants for three days. I wish I knew how to motivate him…why can’t he move on… I have.” Letting her hair down she announced she was taking a shower; the real truth was she was escaping the room. Sometimes she couldn’t stand to be in the same room with Shukumar. She felt like she was supposed to do something for him, but she didn’t know what he expected.

As Shoba showered, she evaluated the current situation. They could not go on as they were, something has to change. She continued to think, “I don’t know what happened to us, but this is no way to live. I never realized Shukumar could be so selfish. He acts like he carried the baby inside himself and gave it life. He acts like he hurts alone, never even told me he was sorry. Sorry for not being there. Sorry that the hospital was so detached. Sorry that there was no baby.”

Shoba ran the water as hot as it would go hoping to relax the muscles in her shoulders but also to help conceal the traces of her tears; now a familiar part of her shower. She started thinking about the apartment she had looked at before she had gone to the gym tonight. It was the fourth apartment she had looked at. She thought she liked this one and the price was reasonable. “I would need to make curtains though. I think the windows are about the same size as in this house. I could use the lace I bought for them. I think it’s still on the back porch where I left them not like Shukumar would do anything with them.”

Shoba stepped out of the shower, wrapped her hair up in a towel, and put on her robe. After she had put moisturizer on her face, hands, arms, and legs she went into the bedroom to retrieve her clothes. She passed the unmade bed and thought about how they used to make love with such hunger, and now Shukumar hardly ever touches me except if he accidentally brushes me when we pass in the hall or something. He doesn’t get up with me any more either.

I can’t go on living like this. I’m dying a little bit more every time I step into this house” Shoba began down the steps and took a deep breath. “Now I have to pretend. I don’t want to pretend to be okay. While he slips further into his own despair and further from me.”

Later that evening, after they had eaten they were sitting on the back porch. Shoba was feeling frustrated; yet hopeful. The little game she had initiated at dinner had at least started an exchange of words. She kept thinking about Shukumar’s story about how he forgot to tip the waiter. “Six months ago I would have thought that was sweet… but now, I don’t know.” She fought back the tears as she realized she was beginning to feel bitterness toward her husband.

Just then the Bradford’s came by. They stopped just long enough for a short interchange and went on their way, but what Shoba noticed was as they were leaving Mrs. Bradford interlocked her fingers with her husbands. She thought about how there was a time she had believed that would be her and Shukumar in 20 years. The secret she had shared with Shukumar now haunted her. She wanted that back. The desire to be his number one girl.

When the lights came back on they went back inside and just like every other night for the last six months they went their separate ways. Shukumar went upstairs to his study where she knew he pretended to study and Shoba went to the Living Room to work. Only tonight she didn’t get any work done. Shoba had gotten into a habit of pretending too. When the time was appropriate Shoba put her work away.

She made her way up the carpeted steps where every night she hesitated at the top of stairs. Tonight she contemplated, just like every other night, would she ask him to come to bed, would tonight be the night she asks him to stop studying and just hold her? Again tonight she would pretend not to notice the novel under the notepad or the same sentences displayed on the computer screen that were there the night before.

As she walked into the room her thoughts were almost overwhelming, “why did he have to choose this room? He cleared this room out and converted it so fast it almost appears he was relieved there is no baby. I wish he would at least look at me, tell me it’s okay, that he knows we can get through this. Well, perhaps it’s too late for us.” She walked across the room, and putting her hands on his shoulders she placed her chin on the top of his head and looked at the monitor.

She stood there waiting for him to say something, anything. She looked for some sort of gesture from him; instead she felt his shoulders stiffen beneath her hands. “He must really hate my touch,” she thought, “he knows it was my fault the baby died."

She was suddenly overwhelmed by the oppressiveness of the whole situation. “Don’t work too hard” she said as she finally reached a decision and headed off for bed. “I’m signing that lease tomorrow” she said decisively to herself once she had retreated to their room.