Jhumpa Lahiri on how words will help us cope, heal and connect through this pandemic

Living in the midst of a pandemic has been a strange, new and disconcerting reality for all of us. When our team of editors, writers and creatives at Vogue India connected over our now regular early morning Zoom call, we realised we couldn’t find the words or visuals to express ourselves—a rarity for most of us whose livelihoods depend on words and visuals. So we decided to ask our most celebrated and beloved writer to help us articulate this moment we find ourselves in. Someone who has put into words the complexities of belonging, home and family, and who has, in her novels and books, captured the finer nuances of the human condition.

American-Indian author Jhumpa Lahiri wrote (and later recited) the following lines for the cover of our special, digital-only May 2020 issue themed #FamilyIsEverything, while seated at her dining room table in New Jersey, between housework and meetings and online classes at Princeton University (where she is currently a professor and the director of their creative writing programme), capturing hope and a way forward:

“Rather than interpret this malady, resist it.

Stay home, connect through conversations.

Let words become pathways to new spaces.

Let them prevail over our isolation.

Let them be the air we breathe.”

Over an hour-long phone conversation, Lahiri takes me through the trials and joys of this time—through the evolving ideas of home, the significance of family, and the need to believe that this will make us stronger. Excerpts from the interview:

Your cover message is a lovely reminder of the power of words. What inspired these lines?

I wanted to focus on language, on communication and words. The ways in which we can appreciate language and our access to it, and how it’s helping us survive. It’s also a moment to consider the methods we have of communicating right now—remove touch, and almost all are dependent on words. I wanted to focus on something that sustains us, that keeps us emotionally healthy and connected. And then, for me personally, as a writer and a reader, it's always been a space of solace.

What are the dangers of interpreting this malady?

I think the danger is that we look for reasons: “Why did this happen?” “Who can we blame?” “This wasn’t my problem until somebody brought it here.” We try to understand what or who is behind this pandemic, but there’s a danger to finger-pointing. President Trump saying he’s going to ban all immigration because of this virus that came from somewhere else. Or that this happened because of these policies or because that government didn’t act on time. That’s a form of interpretation, isn’t it? But at this stage, any form of interpretation would only lead to misunderstanding. It’s also taking energy away from the real problem. We need to find solutions right now, which means going deep into our reserves with patience, generosity and compassion for ourselves and others. We don’t have the big picture of what this is right now.

You have written relentlessly on the ideas of home and the politics of identity. At a time when those of us who are privileged to have homes are confined indoors—where is home for you now?

I don’t have one fixed home. I never have. I’ve grown up with a complicated relationship with the idea of ‘home’, but in a good way. The home I was growing up in as a child wasn't fully ‘home’ for my parents [Lahiri’s parents emigrated from India; first to the UK, where she was born, and then to the US, where she grew up] even though it was a house, with a roof and rooms and furniture and things. But the idea of ‘home’ goes beyond that. And that was clear to me from a very young age.

In my adult life, through my choices, I have to experience different homes over the years. The one source of private anguish for me is that I can’t be in my home in Rome, the one I would like to be in, right now. It’s where I feel strongest and most protected. But I’m in my other home instead, in Princeton, where I teach. I just have to appreciate it for the privilege of having a home. It’s a small and rather nice problem to have.

Do you think the lockdowns and curfews have changed how we define the space we call home?

I think that it already has changed what we think of as ‘home’, because our homes have now taken on all of these other roles. As a writer I’m used to writing from home, but now we work from home. My whole life as a university professor is now here, my home used to be my refuge from all of that. It was also a place to which many of us are used to opening our doors and hosting friends and entertaining and sharing with people.

But they are no longer that, for now. Now we possess our space for our well-being. We have these clear boundaries of who gets to walk through the door or not. And all of that is disorienting, strange and sad. What happens to those who live in unhappy households and are in abusive or dangerous situations? Or to those who cannot work from home, who cannot earn their livelihoods right now? When I go a little stir-crazy thinking that home feels like a bit of a trap, I think of all those people for whom home is quite literally a trap.

It has also made us re-examine our ideas about family, who we’re with or we’re not.

My son, who was in Rome, has been back for about a month. We realised that this problem was not going to just go away and that it was going to get more complicated. So we had him come to us here in Princeton. With all the uncertainty, you want to be around family and go through it together. I’m lucky to be with mine. I’m also realising that I’m much more spoiled than I thought: I have family all over the globe and became used to sitting on a plane and getting to see them in a day or less. I mean, you don’t even consider distance anymore if you have the economic means to travel.

But this is the time you want to surround yourself with the people who will support and sustain you through this period; it’s hard to go through this alone. One of the hardest things about this time are the people who are losing family and loved ones to this disease. Sometimes, they cannot accompany them during their illness or even attend their funerals. It’s beyond tragic.

It has been a mentally exhausting time, even for those of us safe at home. Where are you at right now?

You know, you go through the day wondering: What am I going to make for dinner? Do I need to buy groceries? Is it going to rain today or will we get a bit of sun? Can I go out for a walk? And then there’s other concerns, like my son who is graduating from high school this year. But is he going to graduate? Will that be acknowledged and celebrated? Will he go to college in the fall? I think we are sort of vacillating wildly. There are light-hearted worries and then there are the bigger, more complex questions.

But there have to be moments in a day where we stop the thoughts, you know? Meditate, go for a run, sink into a Netflix binge or disappear in a book. But I do feel more inspired these days to tell my family members that I love them; to show my affection for them and hug the people that I can hug and laugh with, while we can. It’s like the power is out and life is running on a generator right now. I'm functioning, but it's not the way it should be, and it's exhausting and depleting.

What is the role of literature and art and the creative process in the midst of a pandemic?

For me, it's really central. It keeps me moving and focused, sane and inspired. The teaching is very draining because everything's online. We’re talking a lot about language in class these days. We talked about silence today, the inability to express what we do as writers when words fail us. These questions resonate now more than ever. And so much literature and art is about this—the limits of language and the fears and anxieties of our life and time.

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