Stories of Ourselves 37 Read the following extract from The Third and Final Continent (by Jhumpa Lahiri), and then answer the question that follows it: At the end of our first week, on Friday, I suggested going out. Mala set down her knitting and disappeared into the bathroom. When she emerged I regretted the suggestion; she had put on a clean silk sari and extra bracelets, and coiled her hair with a flattering side part on top of her head. She was prepared as if for a party, or at the very least for the cinema, but I had no such destination in mind. The evening air was balmy. We walked several blocks down Massachusetts Avenue, looking into the windows of restaurants and shops. Then, without thinking, I led her down the quiet street where for so many nights I had walked alone. 'This is where I lived before you came, I said, stopping at Mrs Croft's chain-link fence. 'In such a big house?' 'I had a small room upstairs. At the back.' 'Who else lives there?' 'A very old woman.' 5 10 15 'With her family?' 'Alone' 'But who takes care of her?' I opened the gate. ‘For the most part she takes care of herself.' I wondered if Mrs Croft would remember me; I wondered if she had a new boarder to sit with her on the bench each evening. When I pressed the bell I expected the same long wait as that day of our first meeting, when I did not have a key. But this time the door was opened almost immediately, by Helen. Mrs Croft was not sitting on the bench. The bench was gone. 'Hello there,' Helen said, smiling with her bright pink lips at Mala. 'Mother's in the parlor. Will you be visiting awhile?' 'As you wish, madame.' 'Then I think I'll run to the store, if you don't mind. She had a little accident. We can't leave her alone these days, not even for a minute.' I locked the door after Helen and walked into the parlor. Mrs Croft was lying flat on her back, her head on a peach-colored cushion, a thin white quilt spread over her body. Her hands were folded together on top of her chest. When she saw me she pointed at the sofa, and told me to sit down. I took my place as directed, but Mala wandered over to the piano and sat on the bench, which was now positioned where it belonged. 'I broke my hip!' Mrs Croft announced, as if no time had passed. 'Oh dear, madame.' 'I fell off the bench!' 'I am so sorry, madame.' 'It was the middle of the night! Do you know what I did, boy?' I shook my head. 'I called the police!' She stared up at the ceiling and grinned sedately, exposing a crowded row of long gray teeth. Not one was missing. 'What do you say to that, boy?' As stunned as I was, I knew what I had to say. With no hesitation at all, I cried out, 'Splendid!' Mala laughed then. Her voice was full of kindness, her eyes bright with amusement. I had never heard her laugh before, and it was loud enough so that Mrs Croft had heard, too. She turned to Mala and glared. 'Who is she, boy?' 'She is my wife, madame.' 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 Mrs Croft pressed her head at an angle against the cushion to get a better look. 'Can you play the piano?' 'No, madame,' Mala replied. 'Then stand up!' Mala rose to her feet, adjusting the end of her sari over her head and holding it to her chest, and, for the first time since her arrival, I felt sympathy. I remembered my first days in London, learning how to take the Tube to Russell Square, riding an escalator for the first time, being unable to understand that when the man cried 'piper' it meant 'paper', being unable to decipher, for a whole year, that the conductor said 'mind the gap' as the train pulled away from each station. Like me, Mala had traveled far from home, not knowing where she was going, or what she would find, for no reason other than to be my wife. As strange as it seemed, I knew in my heart that one day her death would affect me, and stranger still, that mine would affect her. I wanted somehow to explain this to Mrs Croft, who was still scrutinising Mala from top to toe with what seemed to be placid disdain. I wondered if Mrs Croft had ever seen a woman in a sari, with a dot painted on her forehead and bracelets stacked on her wrists. I wondered what she would object to. I wondered if she could see the red dye still vivid on Mala's feet, all but obscured by the bottom edge of her sari. At last Mrs Croft declared, with the equal measures of disbelief and delight I knew well: 'She is a perfect lady!' Now it was I who laughed. I did so quietly, and Mrs Croft did not hear me. But Mala had heard, and, for the first time, we looked at each other and smiled. 55 60 65 70 75 How does Lahiri make this such a moving moment in the story?