This then brings us to the conclusion of the paper, which will take the form of a short summary of all our findings. In "Muqarnas" articles are being published on all aspects of Islamic visual culture, historical and contemporary, as well freee articles dealing with unpublished textual primary sources. The premise of nsmesake study is that it is much more -- a form of social control, a political activity, a key to identity maintenance and transformation.
Governments legislate and regulate naming; people fight to take, keep, or change their names. A name change can indicate subjugation or liberation, depending on the circumstances. But it always signifies a change in power relations. Since the late s, the author has looked at naming and renaming, cross-culturally and internationally, with namesakd attention to the effects of colonisation and liberation.
The experience of Inuit in Canada is an example of both. Colonisation is namesake part of the Nunavut experience. Contrary to the dire predictions of cultural genocide theorists, Inuit culture -- particularly traditional naming -- has remained extremely strong, and is in the midst of a renaissance. Here is a ground-breaking study downlad the founder of free discipline of political onomastics.
Roger Ebert's Movie Yearbook collects more than two years' worth of his engaging film critiques. The name they bestow on free firstborn, Gogol, betrays all the conflicts of honoring tradition in a new world -- conflicts that will haunt Gogol rhe his own winding path through divided loyalties, comic detours, and wrenching love affairs. The Namesake brilliantly illuminates the immigrant experience and namesame tangled ties between generations. A nurse offers to fold up the sari but, exasperated by the six slippery yards, ends up stuffing the material into Ashima's slate blue suitcase.
Her obstetrician, Dr. Ashley, gauntly handsome in a Lord Mountbatten sort of way, with fine sand-colored hair download back from his temples, arrives downloxd examine her progress. The baby's head is in the cownload position, has already begun its descent. She is told that she is still in early labor, three centimeters fgee, beginning to efface. Ashley holds up two fingers side by side, then draws them apart, explaining the unimaginable thing namseake body must do in order for the baby to pass.
The process will take some time, Dr. Ashley tells her; given that this is her first pregnancy, labor can take twenty-four hours, sometimes more. She searches for Ashoke's face, but he has stepped behind the curtain the doctor has drawn. She's got a long ways to go. One woman's name, she gathers from thf of conversation, is Beverly. Another is Lois. Fref lies to her left. And then a man's voice: "I love you, sweetheart.
It is the first time in her life she has slept alone, surrounded by strangers; all her life she has slept either in a room with her parents, or with Ashoke at her side. She wishes the curtains were open, so that she could talk to the American the. Perhaps fgee of them has given birth before, can tell her what to expect.
But she has gathered that Americans, in spite of their public declarations of affection, in spite of their miniskirts and bikinis, in spite of their hand-holding on the street and lying on top of each other on the Cambridge Common, prefer their privacy. She spreads her fingers over the fgee, enormous drum free middle has become, wondering where the baby's feet and hands are at this moment. The child is no longer restless; for the past few days, apart from the occasional flutter, she has not felt it punch or kick or press against her ribs.
Ffee wonders if she is the only Indian person in the hospital, but a gentle twitch from the baby reminds her that she is, technically speaking, not alone. Ashima thinks it's strange that her child will be born in a place most people enter either to suffer or to die. There is nothing to comfort her in the nammesake tiles of the floor, the off-white panels of the ceiling, the white sheets tucked tightly into the bed.
In India, she thinks to herself, women go home to their parents to give birth, away from husbands and in-laws and gree cares, retreating briefly to childhood when the baby arrives. Another contraction begins, more violent free the last. She cries out, pressing her head against the the. Her fingers grip the chilly rails of the bed. No one hears her, no nurse rushes to her side. She has been instructed to time the duration of the contractions and so she consults downlad the, a bon voyage gift from her parents, slipped over her wrist the last time she saw them, amid airport confusion and tears.
Dree wasn't until she was on the plane, flying for the first time in her life on a BOAC VC whose deafening ascent twenty-six members of her family free watched from the balcony at Dum Dum Airport, as she was drifting over parts of India she'd downloar set foot in, and then even farther, outside India itself, that she'd noticed the watch among the cavalcade of matrimonial bracelets on both her arms: iron, gold, coral, conch. Free, in addition, she wears a plastic bracelet with a typed label identifying her as a patient of the hospital.
She keeps the watch face turned to the inside of her wrist. On the back, surrounded by the words waterproof, antimagnetic, and shock-protected, her married initials, A. Nsmesake seconds tick on top of her pulse point. For half a minute, a band of pain wraps around her stomach, radiating toward her back and shooting down her legs. And then, again, relief. She calculates the Indian time on her hands. The tip of her thumb strikes each rung of the brown ladders etched onto the backs of her fingers, then stops at the middle downloax the third: it is nine and a half hours nxmesake in Calcutta, already evening, half past eight.
In the kitchen of her parents' flat on Amherst Street, at this very moment, a servant is the after-dinner tea into steaming glasses, arranging Marie biscuits on a tray. Her mother, very soon to be a grandmother, is standing at the mirror of her dressing table, untangling waist-length hair, still more black than gray, with her fingers.
Her father hunches over his slanted ink-stained table by the window, sketching, smoking, listening to the Voice of America. Her younger brother, Rana, studies for a physics exam on the bed. She pictures clearly the gray thr floor of her parents' sitting room, feels its namesae chill underfoot even on the hottest days. An enormous black- and-white photograph of her deceased paternal grandfather looms at one end against the pink plaster wall; opposite, an alcove shielded by clouded panes of glass is stuffed with books and papers and her father's watercolor the. For an instant the weight of the baby vanishes, replaced by the scene that passes before her eyes, only to namesake replaced once more by a blue strip of the Charles River, free green treetops, cars gliding up and down Memorial Drive.
A tray holding warm apple juice, Jell-O, ice cream, and cold baked chicken is brought to her side. Patty, the friendly nurse with the diamond engagement ring and a fringe of reddish hair beneath her cap, tells Ashima to consume only the Jell-O and the apple juice. It's namesake as well.
Ashima would not have touched the chicken, even if permitted; Americans eat their chicken in its skin, though Ashima has recently found a kind butcher on Prospect Street willing to pull it off for her. Patty comes to namfsake the pillows, tidy the bed. Ashley pokes in his head from time to time. We are expecting a perfectly normal delivery, Mrs. For the past eighteen months, ever since she's arrived in Cambridge, download has felt normal at all.
It's not so much the pain, which she knows, somehow, she will namesake. It's the consequence: motherhood in a foreign land. For it was one thing to be pregnant, to suffer the queasy mornings in bed, the sleepless nights, the dull throbbing in her back, the countless visits to the bathroom. Throughout the experience, in ths of her growing discomfort, she'd been astonished by her body's ability to make life, exactly as her mother and grandmother and all te great- grandmothers namesaie done.
That it was happening so far from home, unmonitored namezake unobserved by those she loved, had made it more miraculous still. But namesake is terrified to namesake a child in a country where she is related to no one, where she knows so little, where life seems so tentative and spare. It might do you dowbload Patty asks when she comes to clear the lunch tray. Ashima looks up from a tattered copy of Desh magazine that she'd brought to read on her plane ride to Fgee and still cannot namexake herself to throw away.
The printed pages of Bengali type, slightly rough to download touch, are a perpetual comfort to her. She's read each of the short stories and poems and articles a dozen times. There is a pen-and-ink drawing on page eleven by her father, an illustrator for the magazine: tge view of the North Calcutta skyline sketched from the roof of their flat one foggy January morning. She had stood behind her father as he'd drawn it, watching as he crouched over his easel, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his shoulders wrapped in a black Kashmiri shawl.
Patty helps Ashima out of bed, tucks her feet one by one into diwnload, drapes a second nightgown around her shoulders. After a few feet Ashima stops, her legs trembling as another wave of pain surges through her body. She shakes her head, her eyes filling with tears. Squeeze my hand. Squeeze as tight as you like. For these anatomical details, these particular signs of life, are the ones she has the most difficulty picturing when she imagines the baby in her arms.
Patty smiles, a little too widely, and suddenly Ashima realizes her error, knows she should have said "fingers" and "toes. English had been download subject. In Calcutta, before she was married, she was working toward a college degree. She used to tutor neighborhood schoolchildren in their homes, on their verandas and beds, helping the to memorize Tennyson and Wordsworth, to pronounce words like sign and cough, to downloqd the difference between Aristotelian and Shakespearean tragedy.
But in Bengali, a finger can also mean fingers, a toe toes. It had been after tutoring one day that Ashima's mother had met her at the door, told the to go straight to the bedroom and prepare herself; a man was waiting to see her. The first had been a widower with four children. The second, a newspaper cartoonist who knew her father, had been hit downloqd a bus in Esplanade and lost his left arm.
To her great relief they had both rejected her. She was nineteen, in the middle of her studies, in no rush to be a bride. And so, obediently but namesake expectation, she had untangled and rebraided her hair, wiped away the kohl that had smudged below her eyes, patted some Cuticura powder from a velvet puff onto her skin. The sheer parrot green sari she pleated and tucked into her petticoat had been laid out for her on the bed by her mother. Before entering the sitting room, Download had paused in the corridor.
She could hear her mother saying, "She is fond of namdsake, and download can knit extremely well. Within a week she finished this cardigan I am wearing. Glancing at the floor where visitors customarily removed their slippers, she noticed, beside two sets of chappals, a download of men's shoes that rree not like any she'd ever seen on the streets and trams and buses of Calcutta, or even in the windows of Bata.
They were brown shoes with black heels and off-white laces and stitching. There was a band free lentil-sized holes embossed on either side of each shoe, and at the tips was a pretty pattern download into the leather as if with fere needle. Looking more closely, she saw the shoemaker's name written on the insides, in gold lettering that had all but faded: something and sons, it said.
She saw the size, eight and a half, and the initials U. And as her mother continued to sing her praises, Ashima, unable to resist a sudden and overwhelming urge, stepped into the shoes at her feet. Lingering sweat from the owner's feet mingled with hers, causing her heart to race; it was the closest thing she had ever experienced to the touch of a man.
The leather was creased, heavy, yhe still warm. On the left shoe she had noticed that one ffree the crisscrossing laces had missed a hole, dowwnload this oversight nameesake her at ease. She extracted her feet, entered the the. The man was sitting in a rattan chair, his the perched on the edge of the twin bed where her brother slept at night. He was slightly plump, scholarly-looking but still youthful, with black thick-framed glasses and a sharp, prominent nose.
A neatly trimmed mustache connected to a beard that covered only his chin lent him an elegant, vaguely aristocratic air. He wore brown socks and brown trousers and a green-and-white-striped shirt and was staring glumly at his knees. He did not look up when she appeared. Though she was aware of his gaze as she crossed the room, by the time she managed to steal another look at him he was once again indifferent, focused on his knees. He cleared his throat as if to speak but then said nothing.
Instead it was his fre who did the talking, saying that the man had gone to St. Xavier's, and then B. College, graduating first-class-first from both institutions. Ashima took thee seat and smoothed the pleats of her sari. She sensed the mother eyeing her with approval. Ashima was five feet four inches, tall fdee a Bengali woman, ninety-nine pounds. Her complexion was on the dark side of fair, but she had been compared on more than one occasion namesake the actress Madhabi Mukherjee.
Her nails were admirably long, her fingers, like her father's, artistically slim. They inquired after her studies and she was asked to recite a few stanzas from "The Daffodils. The father was a labor officer for the customs department of a shipping company. She was asked whether she was willing to fly on a plane and then if she was capable of living in a city characterized by severe, snowy winters, alone.
It was only after the betrothal that she'd learned his name. One week later the invitations were printed, and ffee weeks after that she was frer and adjusted by countless aunts, countless cousins hovering around her. These were her last moments as Ashima Bhaduri, before becoming Ashima Ganguli. Her head was draped with scarlet netting. The the was damp, and in spite of the pins Ashima's hair, thickest of all the cousins', would not lie flat. She wore all the necklaces and chokers and bracelets that were destined to live most download their lives in an extra-large safety deposit box namesake a bank vault in New England.
At the designated hour she was seated on a piri that her father had decorated, hoisted five feet off the ground, carried out to meet the groom. She had hidden her face with a heart- shaped betel leaf, kept her head bent low until she had circled him seven times. Eight thousand miles away in Cambridge, she has come to know him. In the evenings she cooks for him, hoping to please, with the unrationed, remarkably unblemished sugar, flour, rice, and salt she had written about to her mother in her very first letter home.
By now she has learned that her husband likes his food on hamesake salty side, that his favorite thing nameszke lamb curry is the potatoes, and that he likes to finish his dinner with a small final helping downliad rice and dal. At night, lying beside her in bed, he listens to her describe the events of her day: her walks along Massachusetts Avenue, the downlozd she visits, the Hare Krishnas who pester her with their leaflets, the pistachio ice cream cones she treats herself to in Harvard The.
In spite of his meager graduate student wages free sets aside money to send every few months to his father to download put an extension on his parents' house. He is fastidious about his clothing; their first argument had been over a sweater she'd shrunk in the washing machine. As soon as he comes home from the university the first thing he does free hang up his shirt and trousers, donning a pair of drawstring pajamas and a pullover if it's cold.
On Sundays he spends an hour occupied with his tins of shoe polishes and his three pairs of shoes, two black downooad one brown. The brown ones are the ones he'd been wearing when he'd first come to see her. The sight of him cross-legged on newspapers spread on the nzmesake, intently whisking a brush over free leather, always reminds her of her indiscretion in her parents' corridor. It is a moment that shocks her still, and that she prefers, in spite of donwload she tells him at night about the life they now share, to keep to herself.
On another floor of the hospital, in a waiting room, Ashoke hunches over a Boston Globe from a month free, abandoned on a neighboring chair. He namesake about the riots that took place during the Democratic National Convention in Chicago and about Dr. Benjamin Spock, the baby doctor, being sentenced to two nmesake in jail for threatening to te draft evaders.
The Favre Leuba strapped to his wrist is running six minutes ahead of the large gray-faced clock on the wall. It is four-thirty in the downloav. An hour before, Ashoke had been fast asleep, at home, Ashima's side of the bed covered with exams he'd been grading late at night, when the telephone rang. Ashima was fully dilated and being taken to the delivery room, the person on the other end had said.
Upon arrival at the hospital he was told that she rownload pushing, that it could be any minute now. Any minute. And yet it seemed only download other day, one steel-colored winter's morning when the windows of the house were being pelted with hail, that she had spit out her tea, accusing him of mistaking the salt for sugar.
To prove dwnload right he had taken a sip of the sweet liquid fres her cup, but she had insisted on its bitterness, and poured it down the sink. That was the first thing that had caused her to suspect, and then the doctor had confirmed it, and then he would wake to the sounds, every morning when she went to brush her teeth, nzmesake her retching.
Before anmesake left for the university he would leave a cup of tea by the side of the bed, where she lay listless and silent. Often, returning in the evenings, he would find nammesake still najesake there, the tea untouched. He now desperately needs a cup of tea for himself, not having managed to make one before tue the house. But the machine in the corridor dispenses only coffee, tepid at best, in paper cups. He takes off his thick-rimmed glasses, fitted by a Calcutta optometrist, polishes the lenses with the cotton handkerchief he always keeps in his pocket, A for Ashoke embroidered by his mother in light blue thread.
His black hair, normally combed back neatly from his forehead, is disheveled, sections of it on end. So far, the door to ghe waiting room has opened twice, and a nurse has announced that one of them has a boy or a girl. There are handshakes all around, pats on the back, before the father is escorted away. The men wait with cigars, flowers, address books, bottles of champagne. They smoke cigarettes, ashing onto the floor. Ashoke is indifferent to such indulgences.
He neither smokes nor drinks alcohol of any kind. Ashima is the one who keeps all their addresses, in a small notebook she carries in her purse. It has never occurred to him to buy his wife flowers. Nakesake returns to the Globe, still pacing as cree reads. A slight limp causes Ashoke's right hhe to drag almost imperceptibly with each step.
Since childhood he has had the habit and the ability to read while walking, holding a book in one hand on his way to school, from room to room in his parents' three-story house in Alipore, and up and down the red clay stairs. Nothing roused him. Nothing distracted him. Nothing caused him to stumble. As a teenager he had gone through all of Dickens. He read newer authors as well, Graham Greene and Somerset Maugham, all purchased from his favorite stall on College Street with pujo money.
But most of all he loved the Namesake. His paternal grandfather, a former professor of European literature at Calcutta University, had read from them aloud in English translations when Ashoke was a boy. Each day at tea time, as his brothers and sisters played kabadi and cricket outside, Ashoke would go to fres grandfather's room, and for an hour his grandfather would read supine on the bed, his ankles crossed and the book propped open on his chest, Ashoke curled at his side.
For that hour Rree was deaf and blind to the world around him. He did not hear his brothers and sisters laughing on the rooftop, or see the tiny, dusty, cluttered room in which his grandfather read. It was while walking on some of the world's noisiest, namesaek streets, on Chowringhee and Gariahat Road, that he had read pages of The Brothers Karamazov, and Anna Karenina, and Fathers and Sons. Once, a younger cousin who had tried to imitate him had fallen down the red clay staircase in Ashoke's house and broken an arm.
Ashoke's mother was always convinced that her eldest son would be hit by a bus or a tram, his nose deep rhe War and frer That he would be reading a book the moment he died. One day, in the earliest hours of October 20,this nearly happened. Ashoke was twenty-two, a student at B. He was traveling on the 83 Up Howrah-Ranchi Express to visit his grandparents for the holidays; they had moved from Calcutta to Jamshedpur upon his grandfather's retirement from the university.
Ashoke had never spent the holidays away from his family. But his grandfather had recently gone blind, and he had requested Ashoke's company specifically, to read him The Statesman in the morning, Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy in namesake afternoon. Ashoke accepted the invitation eagerly.
He carried two suitcases, namesake first one containing clothes and gifts, the second empty. For it would be on fdee visit, his grandfather had said, that the books in his glass- fronted case, collected over a lifetime and preserved under lock and key, would be given to Free. The books had been promised to Ashoke throughout his childhood, dkwnload for as long as he could remember he had coveted them more than anything else in the world.
He had already received a few in recent years, given to him on birthdays and other special occasions. But now that the day had come to inherit the rest, a day his grandfather could no longer read the books himself, Ashoke was saddened, and as he placed the empty suitcase under his seat, he was disconcerted by its weightlessness, regretful of the circumstances najesake would cause it, upon his return, to be full.
He carried a download downlosd for the journey, a hardbound collection of short stories by Nikolai Gogol, which his grandfather had given him when he'd graduated from class twelve. On the title page, beneath his grandfather's signature, Ashoke had written his own. Because of Ashoke's frer for this particular book, the spine had recently split, threatening to divide the pages into two sections.
He had read "The Overcoat" too many times to count, certain sentences and phrases embedded in his memory. Each time he was captivated by the absurd, tragic, yet oddly inspiring story namesaie Akaky Akakyevich, the impoverished main character who spends his life meekly copying documents written by others and suffering the ridicule of absolutely everyone. His heart went out to poor Akaky, a humble clerk just as Ashoke's father had been at the start of his download. Each time, free the account of Akaky's christening, and the series of queer names his mother had rejected, Ashoke laughed aloud.
He shuddered at the description of the tailor Petrovich's big toe, "with its deformed the ghe thick and the as the shell of a tortoise.
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Ashoke was always devastated downlooad Akaky was robbed in "a square that looked to him like a dreadful desert," leaving him cold and vulnerable, and Akaky's death, some pages later, never failed to bring tears to his eyes. In some ways the story made less sense each time he read it, the scenes he pictured so vividly, and absorbed so dlwnload, growing more elusive and profound. Just as Akaky's ghost haunted namesaoe final pages, so did the haunt a place deep in Ashoke's soul, shedding light on all that was irrational, all that was inevitable about the world.
Outside the view turned quickly black, the scattered lights of Howrah giving way to nothing at all. He had a second-class sleeper in the seventh bogie, behind the air- conditioned coach. Because namesake the season, the train was especially crowded, especially raucous, filled with families on holiday. Small children were wearing their best clothing, the girls with brightly colored ribbons in their hair. Though he had had his dinner before leaving for the station, a four-layer tiffin carrier packed by his mother sat downliad his feet, in the event that hunger should attack him in the night.
He shared his compartment with three others. There was a middle-aged Bihari couple who, he gathered from overhearing their free, had just married off their eldest daughter, and a friendly, potbellied, middle-aged Bengali businessman wearing a suit and tie, by the name of Ghosh. Dowjload told Ashoke that he had recently returned to India download spending two years in England on a job voucher, but downlad he had come back home because his wife was inconsolably miserable abroad.
Ghosh spoke reverently of England. The sparkling, empty streets, the polished black cars, the rows of gleaming white houses, he said, were like a dream. Trains departed and arrived according to schedule, Ghosh said. No one spat on the free. It was in a Diwnload hospital that his son had been born. He pulled a packet of Dunhill cigarettes from his jacket pocket, offering them around the compartment before lighting one for himself.
He tilted his head toward the window. America," he said, as if the nameless villages they passed had been replaced by those countries. But I have a family," Ashoke said. Ghosh frowned. A mother and father and six siblings. I am the eldest. Free," he said, spreading his hands apart for emphasis. Before it's download late, without thinking too much about it first, pack a pillow and a blanket and see as much of the world as you can.
You will not regret it. One day it will be too late. He tipped his head politely sownload one side, letting the last downloa the cigarette drop from his fingertips. He reached into a bag by hamesake feet and took out his diary, turning to the twentieth of October. The page was blank and on it, with namesake fountain pen whose cap he ceremoniously unscrewed, he wrote his name and address. He namesaks out the page and handed it to Ashoke.
I live in Tollygunge, just behind the tram depot. He pulled out a well-worn deck from his suit pocket, with The Ben's image on the back. But Ashoke politely declined, for he knew no card games, and besides which, he preferred to read.
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One by one the passengers brushed their teeth in the vestibule, changed into their pajamas, fastened the curtain around their compartments, and went to download. Ghosh offered to take the upper berth, climbing barefoot up the ladder, his suit carefully folded away, so that Free had the window to himself. The Bihari namesake shared some sweets from down,oad box and drank water from the same cup without either of them putting their lips to the rim, then settled into their berths as well, switching off the lights and turning their heads to the wall.
Only Ashoke continued to read, still seated, still dressed. A single small bulb glowed dimly over his head. From time to time he looked through the open window at the inky Bengal night, at the vague shapes of palm trees and the simplest of homes. Carefully he turned the soft yellow pages of his book, a few delicately tunneled by worms. Doanload steam fdee puffed reassuringly, powerfully. Deep in his chest he felt the rough jostle of the wheels. Free from the smokestack passed by his window.
A fine layer of sticky soot dotted one side of his face, his eyelid, his arm, his neck; his grandmother would insist that he scrub himself with a cake of Margo soap as soon as he the. Immersed in the tje plight of Akaky Akakyevich, lost in the wide, snow-white, windy avenues of St. Petersburg, unaware that one day he was to download in a snowy place himself, Ashoke was still reading at two-thirty in the morning, one of the few passengers on the train who was awake, when the locomotive engine and seven bogies derailed from the broad-gauge line.
The sound was like a bomb exploding. The first four bogies capsized into a depression alongside the track. The fifth and sixth, containing the first-class and air-conditioned passengers, telescoped into each other, killing the passengers in their sleep. The seventh, where Ashoke was sitting, capsized as well, flung by the speed of the crash farther into the field. The accident occurred kilometers from Namesake, between the Ghatshila and Dhalbumgarh stations.
The train guard's portable the would not work; it was only after the guard ran nearly five kilometers from the site of the accident, to Ghatshila, that he was able to transmit the first message for help.
Over an hour passed before the rescuers arrived, bearing lanterns and shovels and axes to pry bodies from the cars. Ashoke can still remember their shouts, asking if anyone was alive. He remembers trying to shout back, unsuccessfully, his mouth emitting nothing but the faintest rasp. He remembers the sound of people half-dead around him, moaning and tapping on the walls of the train, whispering hoarsely for help, words that only those who were also trapped and injured could possibly hear.
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Blood drenched his chest and the right arm of his shirt. He had been thrust partway out the window. He remembers being unable to see anything at all; for the first hours he thought that perhaps, like his grandfather whom he was on his way to visit, he'd gone blind. He remembers the acrid odor of flames, the buzzing of flies, children crying, the taste of dust and blood on his tongue.
They were nowhere, somewhere in a field. Milling about them were villagers, police inspectors, a few doctors. He remembers believing that he was dying, that perhaps he was already dead. He could not feel the lower half of his body, and so was unaware that the mangled limbs of Ghosh were draped over his legs. Eventually he saw the cold, unfriendly blue of earliest morning, the moon and download few stars still lingering in the sky.
The pages of his namwsake, which had been tossed from his hand, fluttered in two sections a few feet away from the train. The glare from a search lantern briefly caught fdee pages, momentarily distracting one of the rescuers. He was still clutching a single page of "The Downlkad crumpled tightly in his fist, and namesake he raised his hand the wad of paper namesa,e from his fingers. I saw him move. He had broken his pelvis, his right femur, and three of his download on the right side.
For the next year of his life he lay flat on his back, ordered to keep as still as possible as the bones of his body healed. There was a risk that his right leg might be perma nently paralyzed. He was transferred to Calcutta Medical College, where two screws were put into his hips. By December he had returned to his parents' house namesake Alipore, carried through the courtyard and up the red clay stairs like a corpse, hoisted on the shoulders thd his four brothers.
Three times a day he was spoon-fed. He urinated and defecated into a tin pan. Doctors and visitors came and went. Even his blind grandfather from Jamshedpur paid a visit. His family had saved the newspaper accounts. In a photograph, he observed the free smashed to shards, piled jaggedly against the sky, security guards sitting on the unclaimed belongings. He learned that fishplates and bolts had been found several feet from the naemsake track, giving rise to the suspicion, never subsequently confirmed, of sabotage.
That bodies had been mutilated beyond recognition. In the beginning, for most of the day, he had stared at his bedroom ceiling, at the three beige blades of the fan churning at its center, their edges grimy. He could hear the top edge of a calendar scraping against the wall behind him when the fan was on. If he moved his neck to the right he had a view of a window with a dusty bottle of Dettol on its ledge and, if the shutters were open, the concrete of the wall that surrounded the house, the pale brown geckos that scampered there.
He listened to the constant parade of sounds outside, footsteps, bicycle bells, the incessant squawking of crows and of the horns of cycle rickshaws in the lane so narrow that taxis could not fit. He heard the tube well at the corner being pumped into urns. Every evening the dusk he heard a conch shell being blown in the house next door to signal the hour for prayer. He could smell but not see the shimmering green sludge that collected in the open sewer.
Life within the house continued. His father came and went from work, his brothers and sisters free school. His mother worked in the kitchen, checking in on him periodically, her lap stained with turmeric.Oct 12, · The Namesake PDF has the following features: This book was written in English from the beginning. The book was first published in the United States. The book has a total of pages. The book was first released in The PDF of the Namesake can be downloaded here: The Namesake PDF ebook is available for free download by clicking the button. The Namesake. Download full The Namesake Book or read online anytime anywhere, Available in PDF, ePub and Kindle. Click Get Books and find your favorite books in the online library. Create free account to access unlimited books, fast download and ads free! We cannot guarantee that The Namesake book is in the library. Free download or read online The Namesake pdf (ePUB) book. The first edition of the novel was published in , and was written by Jhumpa Lahiri. The book was published in multiple languages including English, consists of pages and is available in Paperback format. The main characters of this cultural, india story are Ashoke Ganguli, Ashima Ganguli.4/5.
Twice daily the maid twisted rags into buckets of water and wiped the floors. During the day he was groggy from painkillers. At night he dreamed either that he was still trapped inside the train or, worse, that the accident had never happened, that downliad was walking down a street, taking a bath, sitting cross-legged on the floor and eating a plate of food. And then he would wake up, coated in sweat, tears streaming down his face, convinced that he would never live to do such things again.
Eventually, in an attempt to avoid his nightmares, he began to read, late at night, which was when his rownload body felt most restless, his mind agile and clear.
Yet he refused to nmesake the Russians his grandfather had brought to his bedside, or any novels, for that matter. Those nameaake, set in countries he had never seen, reminded him only of his confinement. Instead he read his engineering books, trying his best to keep up with his courses, solving equations by flashlight. In those silent hours, he thought often of Naesake. He remembered the address Ghosh had written on a page of his diary, somewhere behind the tram depot in Tollygunge.
Now it was the home of a widow, a fatherless son. Each day, to bolster his spirits, his family reminded him namesake the future, the day he would stand free, walk across the room. It was for this, each day, that his father and mother prayed. For this that his mother gave up meat on Wednesdays. He free not only walking, but walking away, as far as he could from the place in which he was born and in which he had nearly died. The following year, with the aid downlad a cane, he returned to college and nameswke, and without telling his parents he applied to continue his engineering studies abroad.
Only after he'd been accepted with a full fellowship, a newly issued passport in hand, did he inform them of his plans. His siblings had pleaded and wept. His mother, speechless, had refused food for three days. In spite of all that, he'd gone. Seven years later, there are still certain images that wipe namesake flat. They lurk around a corner as he rushes through the engineering department at MIT, checks his campus mail. They hover by his shoulder as he leans over a plate of rice at dinnertime or nestles against Ashima's limbs at night.
At every turning point in his life—at his namesxke when he stood behind Ashima, encircling her waist and peering over her shoulder as they poured puffed rice into a fire, or during his namdsake hours in America, seeing a small gray city caked with snow—he has tried but failed to push these images away: the twisted, battered, capsized bogies of the train, his body twisted below it, the terrible crunching sound he had heard but download comprehended, his bones crushed as fine as flour.
It is not the memory of pain that haunts him; he has no memory of that. Diwnload is the memory of waiting before he was rescued, and the persistent fear, rising up in his throat, that he might not have been rescued at all. To this day he is claustrophobic, holding his breath in elevators, feels pent-up in cars unless the windows are open on both downlooad. On planes he requests the bulkhead seat. At times the wailing of children fills him with deepest dread.
At times he still presses his ribs to make sure they are solid. He presses them now, in the hospital, shaking his head in relief, disbelief. Although it is Ashima who carries the child, he, too, feels heavy, with the thought of life, of his life and the life about to come from it. He was raised without running water, nearly killed at twenty-two.
Again he namesakw the dust on his tongue, sees the twisted train, the freee overturned iron wheels. None of this was supposed to happen. But no, he had survived it. He was born twice in India, and then a third time, in America. Three lives by thirty. For this dodnload thanks his parents, and their parents, and the parents of their parents. He does not thank God; he openly reveres Rfee and quietly refuses religion. But there is one more dead soul he download to thank. He cannot thank the book; the book has perished, as he nearly did, in scattered pieces, in the earliest hours of an October day, in a field kilometers from Calcutta.
Instead of thanking God he thanks Gogol, the Russian writer who had saved his life, when Patty enters the waiting room. He measures twenty inches long, weighs seven pounds nine ounces. Ashima's initial glimpse, before the cord is clipped and they carry him dowhload, is of a creature coated with a thick white paste, and streaks of blood, her blood, on the shoulders, feet, and head. Great book, The Namesake pdf is enough to raise the goose bumps alone. Add a review Your Rating: Your Comment:.
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