Nilanjana Sudeshna or ‘Jhumpa’ Lahiri is a Bengali American author of novels, short stories and essays. She writes in English and, more recently, in Italian. Lahiri was born in London to Indian immigrant parents and moved to the United States with her family when she was three years old. Her work is largely autobiographical and frequently draws on her personal experience of migration as well as that of her parents, friends, acquaintances, and others in the Bengali communities she knows. Lahiri examines her characters’ struggles, anxieties, and biases to chronicle the nuances and details of immigrant psychology and behaviour.

Whereabouts was first written in Italian, Lahiri’s second book in the language. She translated it herself. The novel follows a female narrator as she moves around an unnamed Italian city — likely Rome — over a period of several months. We gather that she has come to live here of her own accord and what struck me is her sense of being a passenger — rather than a stranger — traversing its foreign culture and language.

Given that I am always coming and going, my thoughts can’t manage to settle down here. (p.9)

Because when all is said and done the setting doesn’t matter: the space, the walls, the light. It makes no difference whether I’m under a clear blue sky or caught in the rain or swimming in the transparent sea in summer. […] I’ve never stayed still, I’ve always been moving, that’s all I’ve ever been doing. Always waiting either to get somewhere or to come back. Or to escape. I keep packing and unpacking the small suitcase at my feet. (p.153)

Her awareness (and no doubt possibility) of moving and living here in choice as well as of the essentially temporary nature of our stay in any given place seemingly alleviates some of the anxiety around living somewhere we consider other.
She moves through the city with apparent ease but frequently refers to her solitude, with which she seems to hold an uneasy relationship. She admires other women’s independence and from what others say of her, she too is perceived as independent. Referring to the daughter of one of her friends, she says:

She drinks a glass of pomegranate juice. It looks like a glass of blood, though I don’t tell her that. She says she’s hungry and asks for a Cornett. She splits it in half, then divides one of the pieces. She takes a small bite, then arranges the rest of the pieces on her napkin. People turn to look at her as we’re sitting in the piazza, but she doesn’t pay them heed. She’s fluent in the language her parents struggle to speak. She doesn’t look like a tourist or a foreigner, she’s the type that fits in anywhere. […] She’s already brave enough to stand up to authority and she’s determined to make a life for herself here. I am fond of this girl; her grit inspires me. At the same time, I think about myself back then and feel depressed. […] I didn’t know love at her age. (p.17)

The young woman in question, addresses the narrator, saying:

“But I can’t stand my stepmother, she has no life, no voice of her won. My mom was basically the same, that’s why my dad left her. That dynamic doesn’t work anymore. I want to be a strong woman independent, like you.” (p.18)

Whilst reading Whereabouts, I pondered the link between independence and solitude. Was solitude a distinct experience of stranger-ness? Could we be in solitude and solidary with others at the same time? Was solitude the consequence of or the price for independence? And what do they both feel like in the body — is independence necessarily comfortable? Always? Or is it being alert, anxious even sometimes?

Waiting to see a doctor, the narrator comments:

No-one keeps this woman company: no caregiver, no friend, no husband. And I bet she knows that in twenty years, when I happen to be in a waiting room like this one for some reason or other, I won’t have anyone sitting beside me, either. (p.19)

Acting authentically or claiming her freedom is not portrayed as something natural but seems to require constant effort — in part to counter the tendency to objectify women  — and to maintain a constant awareness of one’s own needs and desires.

At the theatre:

A man takes a picture of his wife, as if she were the queen. I try to step out of the way, but we’re crammed together, it’s too late. I’m caught in the charade, I play a part in it, albeit as an extra. (p.59)

On vocation:

I take advantage of a long weekend in the fall and leave the city to clear my head, to enjoy the waning warmth in a nearby town and escape the daily routine. I arrive in a split, peaceful spot. The arrangements are to my liking: the quiet hotel, the tasty breakfast, the pool that’s empty until noon. The only problem is that here, too, I feel pressure to do what everyone else does. […]  But I am not up for any of that, I’d rather sleep, take it in the fresh air, swim a few laps before the kids start jumping in. (p.83)

By the sea:

Though we are crowded together, I feel separate from the group, excluded from their enduring, unquestioned bonds. (p.93)

Physical pleasure, notably that of resting, is presented as emancipatory. It struck me here as the ultimate act of independence and, therefore, a responsibility to onself also. I wondered whether this state of resting was not like a radio frequency of sorts, always, or almost always, available for us to tune into.

Today an elegant woman about my age walks into the room. She looks like a foreigner. I bet she’s in the city by chance, maybe tagging along behind her husband, who’s here for work and busy all day. […] She’s not moved by the beauty of this room. She takes advantage of it to restore her energy. She closes her eyes and stretches out on the bench without paying any attention to me. She lies down on her back, her eyes closed. That’s how she manages to fully inhabit and possess this room, crossing a certain threshold I’ve aways respected. (p.31)