In Jhumpa Lahiri’s novel, The Lowland Geography is Destiny. Her title alludes to a mucky stretch of area between two lakes in a Calcutta neighborhood where two nearby siblings grow up. In storm season, the swamp surges and the lakes join together; in summer, the floodwater vanishes. You don’t require your decoder ring to evaluate that the two lakes symbolize the two siblings — on occasion separate; at different times indivisible. Anyhow there’s still all the more significance sneaking in this rich scene. Lahiri’s storyteller happens to let us know: “Certain creatures laid eggs that were able to endure the dry season. Others survived by burying themselves in mud, simulating death, waiting for the return of rain.”
For a large portion of Lahiri’s novel, we’re stuck in the mud with the careful more seasoned sibling whose name is Subhash. Therefore, there’s a nature of stillness to The Lowland that, particularly in its opening segments, just about borderlines on the stagnant — or might, were it not for Lahiri’s continually shocking dialect and plotting. The Lowland is something of a flight for Lahiri, whose other work frequently investigates the battles of Indian outsider families. The Lowland, rather, opens in Calcutta in the 1950s and ’60s, and continues returning there even as the principle story makes headway in time.
As a school understudy in the late ’60s, Subhash‘s more youthful, more risk seeker sibling, Udayan, gets included in the Maoist “Naxalite” political development, set on bettering the living states of India’s poor through fierce uprising. Subhash, conversely, obediently commits himself to particular, as opposed to group, change: He acquires a grant to study science in America and moves to Rhode Island. For several desolate years in a scholar lodging, he figures out how to live without the voices of his gang. Anyway when Udayan is executed by the police in that exceptionally same swamp between the lakes, Subhash races once again to Calcutta. He goes to solace his guardians; in any case, it would appear, he additionally recovers his killed sibling’s pregnant wife, Gauri, from her own particular lessened future as a widowed little girl in-law.
The Lowland is lightly goal-oriented in both its story and its structure. Subhash, his guardians, Gauri and the little girl she in the end bears are all hesitant individuals — at one point, Subhash considers them “a family of solitaries” — so its vital for our storyteller to always listen in on their different musings and hand-off them to us. Case in point, Subhash proposes to Gauri by focusing on the reasonable items of their union: He charms her by saying in America she could seek after her studies in logic. However his implicit words are those of a lovesick artist: “[Subhash] had tried to deny the attraction he felt for Gauri. But it was like the light of the fireflies that swam up to the house at night, random points that surrounded him, that glowed and then receded without a trail.” Hastily enough, the two do wind up wedding and bringing Gauri‘s little girl up in America, yet the memory of Udayan — his savage governmental issues and his horrible demise — has destructive eventual outcomes.
The Lowland is a novel about the carelessness of youth, and in addition the wavering and lament that can make a long life not worth living. Around the end of The Lowland, a figurative rainstorm at long last hits, animating Subhash out of his deep rooted meekness, that mud concealing spot Lahiri portrays in her expressive opening. A piece of the excellence of this novel is that it’s a long way from an inescapable result whether this hard rain will give Subhash new life, or drown him.