(Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)
Of late Gogol found Moushumi enjoying the company of Astrid and Donald, and also recently began to notice that she was gloomy aftermath, as if seeing them served only to remind her that their own lives would never match up. The last time the'd gone home after one of Astrid and Donald's dinner parties, she'd picked up a fight with him as soon as they had walked in the door , complaining about the noise on Third Avenue, and about some of the fittings in their house. He told himself that it was the stress - she'd been studying for her orals, holed up in her carrel at the library until nine O'clock most nights. He remembered how it was studying for his licensing exam, which he failed twice before passing. He remembered the sustained isolation it had demanded, speaking to no one for days at a time, and so he didn't say anything. Tonight he had held out hope that she would use her orals as a reason to decline the invitation to Astrid and Donald's. But by now he had learned that there was never a question of saying no when it comes to them.
Gogol understood that it was through Astrid and Donald that Moushumi had met her farmer fiance, Graham, Donald had gone to prep school with him, and it was he who introduced Moushumi to Graham when he'd moved to Paris, by giving her number. Gogol didn't like to think about the fact that Moushumi's connection to Graham persists through Astrid and Donald, that through them Moushumi had learned that Graham lived in Toronto now, was married and a father of twins. Back when Moushumi and Graham were together they had made a foursome with Donald and Astrid, renting cottages together in Vermont, time-shared in the Hamptons. They tried to incorporate Gogol into similar plans ; this summer, for example, they were thinking of renting a house on the coast of Brittany. Though Astrid and Donald had welcomed Gogol heartily into their lives, sometimes he'd the feeling that they still think she was with Graham. Once Astrid even called him Graham by mistake. No one had noticed except Gogol.
Gogol ended up in the kitchen, where Donald was beginning to prepare spaghetti alle vongole. He was handsome, with patrician features and swept-back, slightly greasy, light brown hair.
"Hey there," Gogol said. "Need any help ?"
"Nikhil. Welcome." Donald handed over the parsley. "be my guest. When are you guys moving to this neighborhood ?" he asked
Gogol shrugged. He'd no interest in moving to Brooklyn, not in such proximity to Donald and Astrid, anyway. "I haven't really considered it. I prefer Manhattan. Moushumi does too."
Donald shook his head. "You are wrong. Moushumi adores Brooklyn. We practically had to kick her out after the whole Graham thing."
The mention of the name pricked him, deflated him as it always did.
"She stayed here with you ?"
"Right down the hall. She was here for a couple of months. She was a real mess. I've never seen anyone so devastated."
He nodded. This was something else she'd never told him. He wondered why. He hated the house suddenly, aware that it was here, with Donald and Astrid, that she spent her darkest hour. That it was here she'd mourned for another man.
"But you are much better for her," Donald concluded
Gogol looked up, surprised.
"Don't get me wrong, Graham was a great guy. But they were too alike somehow, too intense together."
Gogol didn't find this observation particularly reassuring.
Gogol was sent off with a stack of plates, a bunch of forks and knives. On his way he poked his head into the room down the hall where Moushumi had stayed.It was empty now, a drop cloth on the floor, a tangle of wires poking out of the center of the ceiling. He imagined her here in a bed in the corner, sullen, emaciated, a cloud of smoke over her head.
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