At the end of that week, Navin arrived to marry me. I was repulsed by the sight of him, not because I had betrayed him but because he still breathed, because he was there for me and had countless more days to live. And yet without his even realizing it, firmly but without force, Navin pulled me away from you, as the final gust of autumn wind pulls the last leaves from the trees. We were married, we were blessed, my hand was placed on top of his, and the ends of our clothing were knotted together. I felt the weight of each ritual, felt the ground once more underfoot.
In Jhumpa Lahiri's "Unaccustomed Earth," the protagonist grapples with complex feelings during her marriage to Navin. Despite knowing she has betrayed him, she finds herself repulsed by his presence, not out of guilt but from an overwhelming awareness that he continues to exist, contrasting sharply with her internal turmoil. His very being seems to anchor her to the present, pulling her away from another connection that once held significance.
As they proceed with their marriage rituals, she feels the weight of tradition and expectation. These rites serve as reminders of her realities and responsibilities, making her confront the ground beneath her feet—a blend of commitment and sorrow. The imagery of autumn leaves falling conveys her struggle between letting go of the past and embracing a future with Navin, encapsulating the bittersweet nature of her relationship.
