(Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)
The previous weekend was Thanks giving. Gogol's mother and Sonia and Sonia's new boyfriend, Ben, had come, along with Moushumi's parents and brother, and they had all celebrated the holiday together in New York, crowded together in Gogol and Moushumi's apartment. It was the first time he'd not gone either to his parents' or to his in-laws' for a holiday. It felt strange to be hosting, to assume the center of responsibility. They had ordered a fresh turkey in advance from the farmers' market, planned the menu out of Food & Wine, bought folding chairs so that everyone would have a place to sit. Moushumi had gone out and bought a rolling pin, made an apple pie for the first time in her life. For Ben's sake they'd all spoken in English. Ben was half-Jewish, half-Chinese, raised in Newton, close to where Gogol and Sonia grew up. He was an editor at the Globe, He and Sonia met by chance, at a cafe on Newbury Street. Seeing them together, sneaking into the hallway so that they could kiss freely, holding hands discreetly as they sat at the table, Gogol had been oddly envious, and as they all sat eating their turkey and roasted sweet potatoes and cornbread stuffing, and the spiced cranberry chutney his mother had made, he looked at Moushumi and wondered what was wrong. They didn't argue, they still had sex, and yet he wondered. Did he still make her happy ? She accused him of nothing, but more and more he sensed her distance, her dissatisfaction, her distraction. But there had been no time to dwell on this worry. The weekend had been exhausting, getting their various family members to the apartments of nearby friends who were away and had given them keys. The day after Thanksgiving they had all gone to Jackson Heights, to the halal butcher so that both their mothers could stock up on goat meat, and then to brunch. And on Saturday there had been a concert of classical Indian music up at Columbia. Part of him wanted to bring it up with her. "Are you happy you married me ?" he would ask. But the fact that he was even thinking of this question made him afraid.
He finished up the drawing by working through the lunch, and when stepped out of his office building it was colder, the light fading rapidly from the sky. He bought a cup of coffee and a falafel sandwich at the Egyptian restaurant on the corner and walked south as he ate, toward the Flatiron and lower Fifth Avenue, the twin towers of the World Trade Center looming in the distance, sparkling at the island's end. The falafel, wrapped in foil, was warm and messy in his hands. The stores were full, the windows decorated, the sidewalks crammed with shoppers. The thought of Christmas overwhelmed him. The previous year they went to Moushumi's parents' house. This year they would go to Pemberton Road. He no longer looked forward to the holiday ; he wanted only to be on the other side of the season. His impatience made him feel that he was, incontrovertibly, finally, an adult. He wandered absently into a perfume store, a clothing store, a store that sells only bags. He'd no idea what to get Moushumi for Christmas. Normally she dropped hints, showing him catalogues, but he had no clue as to what she was coveting this season, if it was a new pair of gloves or new pajamas she'd like. In the maze of stalls in Union Square that sell candles and shawls and handmade jewelry, nothing inspired him.
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