(Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)
The trip to Calcutta was four months away. Ashima regretted that they couldn't go earlier, in time for Durga pujo, but it would be years for Ashoke was eligible for a sabbatical, and three weeks in December was all they could manage.
At breakneck speed Ashima knit sweater-vests for her father, her father-in-law, her brother, her three favorite uncles.
One day Ashima went for shopping in downtown Boston, spending hours in the basement of Jordan Marsh as she pushed Gogol in his stroller, spending every last penny ; bought mismatched teaspoons, percale pillowcases, colored candles, soaps on ropes. She also bought a Timex watch for her father-in-law in a drugstore, Bic pens for her cousins, embroidery thread for her mother and her aunts. On the train home she was exhilarated, exhausted, nervous with anticipation of the trip. The train was crowded and she stood struggling to hang on to all the bags and the stroller and the overhead strap, until a young girl offered her a seat. Ashima thanked her, sinking gratefully into the seat, pushing the bags protectively behind her legs. She leaned her head against the window closed her eyes thinking of home. She pictured the black iron bars in the windows of her parent's flat, and Gogol, in his American baby clothes and diapers, playing beneath the ceiling fan, on her parents' four-poster bed.
When she opened her eyes she saw that the train was standing still, the doors open at her stop. She leaped up, her heart racing. "Excuse me, please," she said, pushing the stroller and herself through the tightly packed bodies. "Ma'am," someone said as she struggled past, about to step on to the platform, "your things." The doors of the subway clamp shut as she realized her mistake, and the train rolled slowly away. She stood there watching until the rear car disappeared into the tunnel, until she and Gogol were only people remaining on the platform. She pushed the stroller back down Massachusetts Avenue, weeping freely, knowing that she couldn't possibly afford to go back and buy it all again. For the rest of the afternoon she was furious with herself, humiliated at the prospect of arriving in Calcutta empty-handed apart from the purchases she had made. But when Ashoke came home he called MBTA lost and found, the following day the bags were returned, not a teaspoon missing, this miracle caused Ashima to feel connected to Cambridge in a way she had not previously thought possible, affiliated with its exceptions as well as its rules. She had a story to tell at dinner parties. Friends listened , amazed at her luck. "Only in this country," Maya Nandi said.
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