"A Temporary Matter" by Jhumpa Lahiri
Вставка
- Опубліковано 8 вер 2024
- Read and recorded live by Kate Black-Spence, as part of the Short Stories Live series.
Donations and gratuity accepted via Venmo (@KateBlackSpence)
More about Kate Black-Spence: www.kateblackspence.com
I'm so glad you're all enjoying these videos! I look forward to being in the room with you all again!
I had to read this story for tomorrow and I just couldn't concentrate enough to read it so I'm really glad I found your video. Thank you!
I get it! I love listening to short stories read aloud so much more than reading them. I read short stories aloud for a book club and that concept is the whole reason I have a job. 😂
There is something magical about your reading of this story. It was as if you were carrying the characters inside you, barring the weight of it all. You have such a lovely story telling voice. It was enchanting and deeply personal. I wept for this story, and it is certainly something I will think about in the dark tonight...
Thank you for your profound reading!
You read this beautifully. Thank you for making this story so enjoyable.
Thank you so much . I have an assignment on this story. I followed the story line by line while u were reading. I felt the story very much with your beautiful voice controlling. Also in final part I cried. Thank u so much again.
Glad you liked it!! It's a stunning story and gets me every time too. Ive got all sorts of stories on my channel if you want to come back for more. ♥️
It was the best story reading l've ever listened to.
Thank you!!! This one is such a beautiful story... I've got a few other readings on my channel if you like listening to short stories.
This is an excellent story and your narration did complete justice to it. My favorite, however, of Jhumpa Lahiri's oeuvre remains her short story, Only Goodness. Absolutely heartwrenching and powerful stuff.
Love the way you read. Beautiful.
I felt the emotions, I had to read this for school but you actually made me enjoy it. Thank You!
Thank you so much , this helped me a lot , I have a test tomorrow and I’m dyslexic, so reading the story would take me forever 😊💖
So glad this is a short story they're teaching in school! I think it's just stunning. Glad I could help!
thank you very much! I need to read this book for school but I didn't have the energy to. So I searched an audiobook version and you reading this book helped ma a lot! Thank you very much! And by the way, your voice is so relaxing and like another person said you read this beautifully!
I had to read this for class and can say with certainty that your reading added so much to the emotional core of this story, amazing work. I can tell you are a pure soul 🥹 Have ur little furry friend wipe your tears away.
Proper diction and such a nice control on each ❤words
Love your reading!
You're voice is so soothing and nice to hear. Thank you.
This is one of my favorite stories. The final is so shoking and painful. I tear up too. "For the things we now know".
Of all of the short stories I've read, this is one of the most haunting. It really stays with you.
@@KateBlackSpence I read it for the first time 2 years ago, and now I will be writing an essay for my English 102 class. I am a Substance Use Disorder Certified Counselor, and want to break down this story into group discussions related to how secrets affect relations (people in recovery tend to keep so many things to themselves, to the point to become strangers to love ones). Still working on this project.
@@pedroaleman4104 WOW! YES! Thats a powerful perspective. Thankful you're doing that work. I hope the project goes well.
Beautiful, Thank You!
I'm glad you liked it!! ♥️
Thank you so much mam❤
you helped me through comp2 thx mate ;)
sad story, thanks!
It is... But it's worth discussion to wonder if the couple has a chance for a new beginning... ♥️
@@KateBlackSpence if you can say one more thing to get someone to stay
So cute yr
The notice informed them that it was a temporary matter: for five days their electricity would be cut off for one hour, beginning at eight P.M. A line had gone down in the last snowstorm, and the repairmen were going to take
advantage of the milder evenings to set it right. The work would affect only the houses on the quiet tree-lined street, within walking distance of a row of brick-faced stores and a trolley stop, where Shoba and Shukumar had lived for three years.
"It's good of them to warn us," Shoba conceded after reading the notice aloud, more for her own benefit than Shukumar's. She let the strap of her leather satchel, plump with files, slip from her shoulders, and left it in the hallway as she walked into the kitchen. She wore a navy blue poplin raincoat over gray sweatpants and white sneakers, looking, at thirty-three, like the type of woman she'd once claimed she would never resemble.
She'd come from the gym. Her cranberry lipstick was visible only on the outer reaches of her mouth, and her eyeliner had left charcoal patches beneath her lower lashes. She used to look this way sometimes, Shukumar thought, on mornings after a party or a night at a bar, when she'd been too lazy to wash her face, too eager to collapse into his arms. She dropped a sheaf of mail on the table without a glance. Her eyes were still fixed on the notice in her other hand. "But they should do this sort of thing during the day."
"When I'm here, you mean," Shukumar said. He put a glass lid on a pot of lamb, adjusting it so only the slightest bit of steam could escape. Since January he'd been working at home, trying to complete the final chapters of his dissertation on agrarian revolts in India. "When do the repairs start?"
"It says March nineteenth. Is today the nineteenth?" Shoba walked over to the framed corkboard that hung on the wall by the fridge, bare except for a calendar of William Morris wallpaper patterns. She looked at it as if for the first time, studying the wallpaper pattern carefully on the top half before allowing her eyes to fall to the numbered grid on the bottom. A friend had sent the calendar in the mail as a Christmas gift, even though Shoba and Shukumar hadn't celebrated Christmas that year.
"Today then," Shoba announced. "You have a dentist appointment next Friday, by the way."
He ran his tongue over the tops of his teeth; he'd forgotten to brush them that morning. It wasn't the first time. He hadn't left the house at all that day, or the day before. The more Shoba stayed out, the more she began putting in extra hours at work and taking on additional projects, the more he wanted to stay in, not even leaving to get the mail, or to buy fruit or wine at the stores by the trolley stop.
Six months ago, in September, Shukumar was at an academic conference in Baltimore when Shoba went into labor, three weeks before her due date. He hadn't wanted to go to the conference, but she had insisted; it was important to make contacts, and he would be entering the job market next year. She told him that she had his number at the hotel, and a copy of his schedule and flight numbers, and she had arranged with her friend Gillian for a ride to the hospital in the event of an emergency. When the cab pulled away that morning for the airport, Shoba stood waving good-bye in her robe, with one arm resting on the mound of her belly as if it were a perfectly natural part of her body.
Each time he thought of that moment, the last moment he saw Shoba pregnant, it was the cab he remembered most, a station wagon, painted red with blue lettering. It was cavernous compared to their own car. Although Shukumar was six feet tall, with hands too big ever to rest comfortably in the pockets of his jeans, he felt dwarfed in the back seat. As the cab sped down Beacon Street, he imagined a day when he and Shoba might need to buy a station wagon of their own, to cart their children back and forth from music lessons and dentist
appointments. He imagined himself gripping the wheel, as Shoba turned around to hand the children juice boxes. Once, these images of parenthood had troubled Shukumar, adding to his anxiety that he was still a student at thirty-five. But that early autumn morning, the trees still heavy with bronze leaves, he welcomed the image for the first time.
🫶
Justify the significance of the title " A temporary Matter Jhumpa lahiri