Of rajagopurams and filter coffee

Some people speak of purpose as if it arrives with fanfare, a sudden knowing. Others describe it as sediment, accumulating grain by grain until one day you notice its weight. I cannot say which is true. I know only that I stood in front of the Srirangam temple gates one December morning and something shifted. Or perhaps nothing shifted at all. Perhaps I simply became aware of what had always been there, the way you notice your breathing only once someone asks you to pay attention to it.

Dawn had broken but the day had not yet begun. The sky held traces of pink, streaks of orange dissolving into blue. The air was cool, almost cold, and I pulled it into my lungs in careful breaths.

The Ranga Ranga Gopuram rose before me, its tiers stacked impossibly high, each level carved with figures I could not distinguish from where I stood. I looked up until my neck ached.

In my hands, a small steel tumbler of filter coffee, the metal hot against my palms. I drank it slowly. The coffee was strong, slightly bitter, with that particular taste I had only ever encountered here, something in the milk, perhaps, or the proportion of chicory. Qualia, the philosophers call it: the subjective, irreducible quality of conscious experience. The what-it-is-like-ness of this specific coffee, this specific morning. I could smell it even before I brought the tumbler to my lips.

The streets were already alive. Vendors arranging marigolds and roses in neat rows. A woman threading jasmine flowers with quick, practiced fingers. The crack of coconuts being split open. Somewhere, a loudspeaker carried the morning prayers, the words blurred by distance and static, yet familiar.

I felt small then. Not diminished, but placed: a single point in a landscape much larger than myself.

And standing there, the gopuram above and the coffee warm in my hands, I understood something I had perhaps always known but never articulated: that meaning accumulates in the unremarkable. In the bitterness of coffee at dawn. In my grandmother's pickles, stored in ceramic jars, each summer yielding its own particular flavor. In the woman with jasmine flowers and the vendor with his coconuts and the prayers carried on faulty speakers.

I do not know if this was purpose revealing itself. Perhaps it was only attention: learning, finally, where to look. The coffee grew lukewarm. I finished it anyway. The gopuram remained, as it had for centuries, as it would long after I left.

Becoming in the Future Tense: Postulated Identities and Intersectional Selves in Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Maladies

Jhumpa Lahiri’s fiction consistently explores the liminal lives of South Asian immigrants, especially women caught between cultures. In Interpreter of Maladies (1999), Lahiri’s female characters often seem unmoored: they enact only portions of identities they were taught, while longing for a completeness that remains out of reach. This sense of perpetual in-betweenness aligns closely with Zygmunt Bauman’s notion that identity is never a fixed state but an ongoing “project” or “postulate” held in the future. Bauman argues that in late modernity “identity…appears only in the future tense” – it is a construct that reflects the inadequacy or incompleteness of the present self. In Lahiri’s work, immigrant women especially embody this future-directed identity: they are portrayed as seeking a self-definition that goes beyond the constraints of family, tradition, and alienation. 

In Lahiri’s stories, the challenges facing Mrs. Das, Mrs. Sen, Boori Ma, Twinkle, Lalita, Shoba, and others derive not from a single source but from overlapping pressures. In examining some of these characters, we see that Lahiri portrays immigrant women’s identities as fluid projects shaped by cultural estrangement and compounded oppressions. Through careful textual analysis of Interpreter of Maladies, this essay argues that Lahiri portrays her immigrant-woman protagonists as inhabiting a permanent “in-between” space, whose selfhood is always under construction rather than ever fully “arrived at.” Drawing on Bauman, it shows that their identities are never fixed essences but future-oriented projects—“postulated” attempts to resolve the felt inadequacy of their present selves.

Bauman’s Theory of Identity and Diaspora

Bauman’s theory of identity provides a critical lens for reading Lahiri’s characters. He observes that modern individuals only notice identity “whenever one is not sure of where one belongs,” so identity becomes “a name given to the escape sought from that uncertainty”. Crucially, he insists that identity is never an achieved essence but “the ontological status of a project and a postulate”. In other words, Bauman sees identity as an aspiration – a marker of present lack. Every identity narrative therefore implies that the current self is somehow insufficient and that one’s true self will only be realized in the future. As Bauman writes, identity “appears only in the future tense…an oblique assertion of the inadequacy or incompleteness” of the present being.

In diasporic contexts, this concept resonates deeply. Scholars note that migrant identities often feel in process, never fully formed. Stuart Hall famously argued that cultural identity is always “in production,” defined by history, culture, and unending narratives of difference. More recently, researchers have emphasized that women’s diasporic experiences, in particular, are never static. Bhandari observes that Lahiri’s Ashima undergoes a prolonged transformation as she negotiates Western values, suggesting her identity continually shifts from submissive wife to more independent agent (Bhandari 36). Others have pointed out that South Asian female immigrants face “a different cultural and social milieu” than men and must renegotiate their self-perceptions under patriarchal and Western influences. In sum, whether by design or implication, Lahiri’s narratives depict identity as something constantly renegotiated – an open-ended journey rather than a stable trait.

Critics specifically call attention to how Lahiri’s female protagonists highlight the gendered dimension of diaspora. For decades, diaspora studies tended to be male-centric, treating immigrants’ identities in general terms. Recent work, however, stresses that the “conditions driving the migration of women” and their adaptation efforts are “distinct, unique, and specific” (Devi 254). Lahiri’s stories make this visible by focusing on women’s inner lives: their homesickness, rituals, family roles, and struggles with isolation. Many of Lahiri’s critics have explored migration and identity broadly, but have given insufficient attention to “gendered implications,” especially the “unique problems that women confront during the process of assimilation” (Devi 254). Similarly, Lahiri’s female characters have been understudied in comparison to male ones. This essay therefore centres on immigrant women and examines how Lahiri represents them as living Bauman’s “future-tense” identity – always oriented toward a different self or place.

Mrs. Das in “Interpreter of Maladies”: Longing and Discontent

In the title story “Interpreter of Maladies,” Lahiri introduces Mr. Kapasi, an Indian tour guide, and his Indian American clients, Mr. and Mrs. Das and their children. While Mr. Kapasi narrates the trip, it is Mrs. Das who steals the scene in a brief but powerful confession. An American-born Bengali, Mrs. Das is outwardly beautiful and young, but she is emotionally exhausted. During a long car ride, she reveals to Mr. Kapasi that her youngest son Bobby is not her husband Raj’s biological child. In doing so, she hopes for relief from the “pain” she has carried for eight years: “I’m tired of feeling so terrible all the time. Eight years… I’ve been in pain eight years,” she says, asking Mr. Kapasi to “say the right thing” or suggest a remedy.

Mrs. Das’s confession is an example of  Bauman’s idea of identity as unsatisfied striving. She explicitly identifies her present self as deficient or anguished, and appeals to another to restore it. In her own words, her role as mother and wife has become unbearable: “I feel terrible looking at my children, and at Raj, always terrible. I have terrible urges…Don’t you think it’s unhealthy?”. This passage reveals that the identity she has assumed (as loving wife/mother) is intensely discordant with her inner state. She is postulating an identity of wholeness that she lacks. The fact that she has concealed this for years shows how desperate she is for an imaginary future in which she no longer feels “terrible.” Just as Bauman notes that identity is conceived to escape present uncertainty, Mrs. Das literally seeks an “escape” from her years of misery by confessing to the guide.

Mr. Kapasi’s reaction further dramatizes her incomplete identity. He is at first flattered that she finds him “romantic” and asks about his job, as if hoping he might apply his professional interpretive skills to her pain. But when she finally divulges her secret, Mr. Kapasi is taken aback. He feels insulted by her request to “interpret” this intimate guilt. His question – “Is it really pain you feel, Mrs. Das, or is it guilt?” – is meant to clarify her feelings but instead causes her to abruptly leave his car in angry silence. Mrs. Das’s body language at the end — “wobbling a little” as she walks off with a trail of puffed rice being devoured by monkeys — is ambivalent and broken. No miracle cure arrives, and she does not achieve closure.

This unresolved climax shows that Mrs. Das’s identity project remains unfulfilled. She sought in Mr. Kapasi’s empathy a way to articulate or alleviate her inner void, but even as she spoke her truth she realized no one else – certainly not Mr. Kapasi – could fix the mess her life had become. In Bauman’s terms, Mrs. Das’s attempt to rewrite her narrative with Mr. Kapasi as an ally ultimately exposes the inadequacy of her current self and the impossibility of fully realizing her aspirational identity in the present. Lahiri portrays her as a woman who “loved neither her husband nor her children,” “who had already fallen out of love with life”. Her new sense of self is implicitly postulated around freedom from her duties (even fantasizing about discarding her “television, the children…everything”). Yet the story ends with Mrs. Das still living in the family car — and in her unsatisfactory life — with nothing changed. Her identity remains future-oriented, defined by what she hopes not to be. In this way, Mrs. Das embodies Bauman’s notion that identity is a projective assertion of present lack. Even as she speaks of “longing” (to throw things away) and “pain,” Lahiri shows that her character cannot inhabit a “whole” identity in the here and now.

Mrs. Sen's: Home-Building and Cultural Marginality

Another striking example is Mrs. Sen in the short story “Mrs. Sen’s”. Mrs. Sen is a recent immigrant from Calcutta living in suburban America; she spends her days babysitting the young boy Eliot while her husband commutes to work. Throughout the story, Lahiri emphasizes Mrs. Sen’s intense homesickness and her attempts to recreate India around her. From using traditional masala in her cooking to speaking Hindi to driving with a terrified determination, she clings to vestiges of her former life.  Mrs. Sen even sets out “a small scale India in Dover (where Sen’s family lives)” just to soothe her nostalgia. She will not buy a fish at the supermarket (disdaining “fish that never saw the ocean” in an American supermarket), preferring to find an Indian grocer because “for Mrs. Sen, fish is not just food; it is a connection to home.” (Lahiri, “Mrs. Sen’s”). All of these actions demonstrate that Mrs. Sen’s self is not rooted in America; she constantly looks backward.

Her cultural marginality can be read through Bauman’s lens as well. Mrs. Sen stands at “the intersection of two or more cultures” – speaking Bengali at home, eating unfamiliar foods abroad, yet never fully feeling American. 

This aligns with the idea that diasporic women occupy a “marginal” position, straddling cultures yet belonging completely to neither (Anthias 619). Mrs. Sen lives daily in this state of in-betweenness. She measures out food in the style of Indian cooking classes, attempts to drive on the wrong side of the road out of habit, and counts distance in “feet” rather than “miles” because it’s what she’s used to. Mrs. Sen anchors herself in the customs of her homeland—meticulous fish preparations, sari-wrapped femininity, and a Calcutta-style décor—as if by endlessly rehearsing these rituals she might become the “complete” Indian woman she once was. Bauman writes that identity is “a critical projection of what is demanded and/or sought upon what is”: Mrs. Sen’s clinging to Indian cooking and dress signals her feelings of inadequacy in the present American milieu and her aspiration toward an imagined, more authentic self. 

Her identity is literally measured by the unit of her homeland. As B.C Indu’s essay on The Namesake remarks of all diasporic characters, “the world of diasporas is a world of in-betweenness…[a] cultural and emotional vacuum”. Mrs. Sen feels that vacuum keenly: she is isolated, anchored to India by memory but physically in America.

Yet her in-betweenness is not comfortable. She often cries or seems depressed – once she explains that she felt suicidal watching an ocean storm on TV, because oceans in India are violent and change quickly (unlike the placid New England sea). All of this demonstrates that Mrs. Sen has not found a present-tense identity that satisfies her. Instead, she constantly reaches backwards and forwards: backward to her old routines, and forward to some future return (her visa is only temporary). In Bauman’s terms, she clearly treats identity as a future project. By making a “small India” in Dover, she is essentially attempting to postulate a sense of home where it no longer exists. Her present condition – lonely and dislocated – is a reflection of the “inadequacy” of her current self that Bauman describes. Mrs. Sen’s terror at the steering wheel is an example of Bauman’s notion of identity as a project, a movement toward a future self that must overcome present limitations. Driving in sprawling suburban America is not merely a practical skill but a social rite of passage: without it, she remains stranded on the margins. When she finally postulates a new identity—“I will drive for fish myself”—she embodies Bauman’s “verb-like” identity in action, leaping toward an autonomous, bicultural self. 

The car accident, though traumatic, functions narratively as the crucible in which Mrs. Sen’s projective identity is tested. Bauman observes that identity only exists in relation to “what is demanded,” and here American life demands mobility and self-reliance. By choosing to drive again despite her fear, Mrs. Sen enacts a future-tense identity of independence. Her journey from fearful housewife to “brave identity reconstructor” (Zhang 289) thus illustrates Bauman’s claim: identity is neither given nor static but continuously made through acts that bridge present inadequacy and future aspirations.

In Interpreter of Maladies, Lahiri shows that Mrs. Sen’s identity is incomplete until she can either rejoin her native culture or fully adapt to the new one. In the meantime, she lives in the future tense of returning “home,” haunted by what she lacks today. Bauman’s idea that identity “behaves like a verb” and “appears only in the future tense” (Bauman 19) helps us see Mrs. Sen’s journey as an active, forward-looking project rather than a fixed state she either already possesses or lacks once and for all.

Conclusion

In Lahiri’s fiction, immigrant women are consistently shown in flux – their identities only partially inscribed on the page, always hinting at an incomplete, future self. From the anguished confession of Mrs. Das in Interpreter of Maladies to the cautious assimilation of Ashima in The Namesake, Lahiri’s female characters embody Bauman’s concept of identity as a postulated, future-tense project. They never quite “arrive”; instead, they live in a state of longing and becoming. Gender inflects this dynamic: scholars note that Lahiri’s women confront unique dislocations, negotiating familial duty and cultural tradition even as they seek individual agency. In practical terms, Lahiri shows these women creating makeshift homes (Mrs. Sen’s “small India”), confessing long-held wounds (Mrs. Das), and cautiously reinventing themselves (Ashima). In every case, the protagonist’s present identity feels inadequate, precisely as Bauman predicts. Each character can be read as living in Bauman’s “future tense of identity,” continually projecting toward a self that might finally feel complete.

Ultimately, Lahiri’s narratives affirm that for immigrant women in the modern world, identity is not a settled state but an ongoing negotiation – a quest for wholeness that is always only partially realized. Lahiri’s immigrants inhabit “a world of in-betweenness”, trapped between cultures and longing for belonging. By foregrounding female immigrants’ stories, Lahiri offers a poignant tableau of Bauman’s theory: identity as a postulate, fueled by the conviction that one’s present self is “inadequate or incomplete”. Her women are thus emblematic of the diasporic condition – ever in search of a future self that might finally make them feel at home.

Works Cited

Bauman, Zygmunt. Questions of Cultural Identity. Edited by Stuart Hall and Paul du Gay, Sage, 1996, pp. 17–36.

Bhandari, Nagendra Bahadur. “Reshaping Identities: Female Agency in Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake.” The Outlook: Journal of English Studies, vol. 15, July 2024, pp. 36–46.

B.C, Indu. “Diasporic Women in Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake.” The Criterion: An International Journal in English, 11 Oct. 2021. 

Devi, Y. V. Sudha. “Negotiating Cultural Borders: Gendered Perspectives on Migration and Assimilation in Jhumpa Lahiri’s Mrs. Sen and The Third and Final Continent.” Literary Oracle, vol. 8, no. II, Dec. 2024, pp. 254–264.

Lahiri, Jhumpa. Interpreter of Maladies. Houghton Mifflin, 1999.

Lahiri, Jhumpa. The Namesake. Harper Collins, 2003.

Zhang, Yue. “The Analysis of Diaspora Women’s Identity in Interpreter of Maladies from the Perspective of Postcolonial Feminism.” Journal of Literature and Art Studies, vol. 12, no. 2, Feb. 2022, pp. 138–142.

Anthias, Floya. “New Hybridities, Old Concepts: The Limits of ‘Culture’.” Ethnic and Racial Studies, vol. 24, no. 4, 2001, pp. 619–641. 

Stitching Liberation: The Feminist Threads in Moll Flanders

When I wrote this essay for my Literary Forms course at Sai University, I was fascinated by a question that most analyses of Moll Flanders overlook: who actually helps Moll survive? Not her husbands (who die, abandon her, or turn out to be her brother). Not the legal system (which sentences her to death). Instead, it's a network of women operating in society's blind spots—midwives, landladies, pawnbrokers, and thieves. This is their story.

Introduction.

Born to a convicted mother in London’s Newgate prison, Moll Flanders enters the world under challenging circumstances. Despite her early struggles, Moll receives education and guidance from a widowed nurse and grows into a beautiful young woman. However, her life takes an unexpected turn as she faces seduction, abandonment, and compelled marriages. She is, by Defoe’s expression, “Twelve Year a Whore, five times a Wife (whereof once to her own Brother), Twelve Year a Thief, Eight Year a Transported Felon in Virginia.”

In her pursuit of financial independence and her dream of becoming a “gentlewoman”, Moll constantly challenges traditional gender roles. She engages in morally questionable activities, appearing as a whore, bigamist, and thief, committing adultery and incest, and yet, manages to maintain readers’ sympathy. 

Related Works.

In exploring the theme of feminism in Moll Flanders, an analysis of existing literature sheds light on Moll’s pursuit for equality in the patriarchal English society of the 17th century, the deconstruction of traditional notions of manhood and the femininity of Moll Flanders. 

This paper attempts to analyze the relationships between Moll and the other female characters in the novel, and answer the following research questions: How do the dynamics of Moll’s interactions with the various female characters contribute to the broader themes of sisterhood and friendship amongst women? What were the ways in which female characters supported each other within the societal constraints of the late seventeenth century? 

It attempts to argue that various strategies are employed by women to carve out spaces of spaces of autonomy in the limiting structure of the society in seventeenth century England. 

From an incredibly young age, societal expectations dictate that Moll would eventually “go to Service,” which meant work as a domestic servant or maid. There are limited opportunities available for women of Moll’s economic stratum. Moll spends her early years under the guardianship of a widowed nurse, who is financially supported by the church to care for orphans until they reach an age deemed suitable for “going into Service '' or sustaining themselves. The nurse is described as “a woman who was indeed Poor, but had been in better circumstances, and who got a little livelihood by taking such as I was suppos’d to be; and keeping them with all Necessaries, till they were at a certain Age, in which it might be suppos’d they might go to service, or get their own Bread.” (Defoe, p. 46). The nurse not only serves as a motherly figure, she imparts to Moll a wide array of skills, ranging from manners to needlework, thereby empowering her. Her influence shapes Moll’s initial understanding of societal expectations and womanhood.

An early conflict that arises in the story is Moll’s misinterpretation of a “gentlewoman.” Moll envisions a life in which she can provide for herself without relying on others. The irony of her example, a prostitute, draws laughter from those around her. The notions of social class (or lack thereof) and nobility do not fascinate her, rather, she is drawn towards the idea of being independent. The women that Moll encounters throughout the course of the novel align with her idea of a “gentlewoman”: individuals that use their intelligence and self-sufficiency to survive. In fact, most of the establishments that Moll frequents, such as the Nurse’s school, the Bath, the Governess’s quarters, and her mother’s plantation, are managed by women. 

Given Moll’s strong aversion towards the idea of “going into Service”, her only legal alternative is marriage. Moll quickly learns that marriage, particularly for women, was merely seen as a business arrangement, a way in which women could achieve upward mobility. Marrying for love was a luxury that she could not entertain. More often than not, Moll marries for necessity rather than affection. 

Moll’s circumstances align with the concept of intersectionality in feminism (Carasthasis). Feminist theory claims that women’s lives are shaped by a number of intersecting systems of oppression. The expectation that she will inevitably enter domestic service shows that her options are not only constrained by her gender but also by her socioeconomic background. 

As Moll grows older, her association with other women is also transactional in nature. They are driven by shared economic interests or the pursuit of social mobility, by Moll’s own admission: “I kept no company that knew who I was, or what became of me, and yet I wanted nothing that money could purchase.” Moll’s relationship with the captain’s wife serves as a critical example: she aids her friend in winning back a suitor, and in return, the captain’s lady supports Moll financially and puts together a scheme to enhance Moll’s social standing, enabling her to choose a wealthy prospective husband. 

When Moll confided in her landlady at the Bath about being pregnant, the latter makes arrangements for a midwife and a nurse, and tells authorities a deceptive tale about Moll being the wife of a wealthy lord in order to secure her better care. By crafting a narrative that aligns with the societal norms of marriage and class, the landlady shields Moll from judgment and protects her in what is a man’s world. 

Throughout her life, Moll is largely emotionally detached from most individuals that she encounters. A notable exception is the lasting bond that she develops with the midwife, whom she refers to as her “Governess.” It is initially transactional in nature, however, as Moll faces personal complications involving the banker and the birth of her child, the midwife’s role eventually evolves into that of a confidante, and later,  into a partnership rooted in criminal activities. The governess’s means of livelihood extends beyond midwifery: she subtly hints at her ability to perform abortions, and at her role as a procuress. “The Life of her Governess,” Defoe says, “seems in a few Years all the eminent degrees of a Gentlewoman, a Whore and a Bawd; a Midwife, and a Midwife-Keeper, as they are call’d, a Pawn-broker, a Child-taker, a Receiver of Thieves, and of Thieves purchase, that is to say, of stolen Goods, and in a Word, her self is a Thief, a breeder up of Thieves, and the like, and yet at last a Penitent.”

Moll’s interactions with the Governess began at a time of great vulnerability, as she grappled with the difficult decision of what to do with her child. The midwife’s practice was host to women in predicaments similar to Moll’s, carrying children out of wedlock. The Governess, with her criminal past and eloquence, paradoxically excels as a midwife. Her ability to preserve her safety from the gallows showcases her ability to navigate a patriarchal society by drawing strength from unconventional skills. The midwife’s practice aligns with Simone Debeauvoir’s notion of  women carving out spaces of freedom for themselves within social constraints. Despite Moll paying the least amongst the midwife’s guests, she is treated with utmost care. Moll often shared her emotional struggles and moral dilemmas with the midwife, who in turn provided valuable counsel. Moll made out that the Governess’s words “put new Life and new Spirit into my very Heart; my blood began to circulate immediately, and I was quite another Body.”

Women are often confined by societal expectations tied to their reproductive capacities, and their destinies are primarily shaped by biology (De Beauvoir). Moll’s experiences reflect this struggle as she grapples with the consequences of her pregnancies and the judgment attached to being an unwed mother. 

The decision of what to do with the child upon its birth posed a challenge. The governess regularly tends to the requirements of "Ladies of Pleasure" and skillfully arranges for the disposal of Moll's newborn, reassuring Moll that the child would be entrusted to a rural family and cared for, in exchange for an annual fee. Moll agreed to this arrangement reluctantly, but without protest. 

Due to her interactions with the Governess, Moll undergoes something of an evolution. She matures in sophistication and worldly understanding, and is amazed as she discovers the elaborate underworld of criminal activities. 

After moving on to yet another marriage, and becoming widowed thereafter, Moll faces financial ruin. She comes to realize that avenues like marriage and childbearing, which she once relied upon for securing wealth, were no longer practical due to her advancement in age. As she searches for alternate means to sustain herself, her desperation leads her back into the Governess’s path. Despite facing financial hardship herself, due to a lawsuit since their last encounter, the Governess, now operating as a pawnbroker, leads a comfortable life. She is described by Moll as a “stirring bustling Woman, and had some Stock left, and she was turn’d Pawn Broker, and liv’d pretty well.” 

The governess recognises Moll’s skills and initiates a criminal partnership that further blurs moral boundaries. Moll attested that the governess “gave me such Directions, and I so well follow’d them, that I grew the greatest Artist of my time.” This collaboration, built on mutual benefit, is solely driven by economic survival, which often took precedence over moral considerations. 

There is a strong correlation between Moll’s gender and subsequent life of crime: as a woman, she does not enjoy the same privileges as men. She does not have access to education or the right to own property. Her choices were limited to “going to Service” or marriage. Moll resorts to thievery only after her marriages fail to secure her the anticipated wealth or social standing. 

According to feminists like De Beauvoir, economic dependency perpetuates womens’ subjugation. Engaging in theft and deception are merely strategies for survival in a system that denies women conventional avenues of empowerment. Moll’s involvement in thievery, sewing and becoming the mistress of a baronet, are solely attempts to gain financial autonomy. Similarly, the Governess’s unconventional roles are an illustration of resistance against structures that perpetuate economic subjugation. 

Amidst their successful episodes of criminal history, Moll eventually faces moral repercussions for her actions. She is caught, convicted and sentenced to death. Facing the prospect of ending her life where it began, Moll’s repentance and conversion in Newgate, delivered with eloquence, influences the minister. The minister arranges for her transport to America, thereby sparing her from the originally assigned death sentence. When Moll departs from England, she describes the Governess to be “a dear Friend, and all the Friends I have in the World.” The parting moment highlights Defoe’s exploration of the meaningful relationships that exist between women outside of conventional structures. 

Conclusion.

Moll Flanders, when viewed through a feminist lens, offers a nuanced exploration of the societal expectations faced by women in seventeenth century England. Moll’s story is a response to societal constraints: the expectation for Moll to go into domestic service, her lack of agency in marital choices, and ultimate resort to thievery point towards the harsh conditions that women in the seventeenth century were put through. 

References.

Defoe, Daniel. Moll Flanders. Penguin, 1989.

De Beauvoir, Simone. The Second Sex. Vintage Books, 1989

Sağlam, Berkem. “Matriarchal Space and Formation of Identity in Moll Flanders.” IDEAS: Journal of English Literary Studies, vol. 3, no. 1, 2023, pp. 18–30.

Kramer, Ryan. "A Look at Daniel Defoe's Moll Flanders: Turn the Page and Celebrate the New Roles of Women in Eighteenth-Century England." Fisher Digital Publications English Senior Seminar Papers, 2012.

Chaber, Lois A. "Matriarchal Mirror: Women and Capital in Moll Flanders." PMLA, vol. 97, no. 2, 1982, pp. 212-226. Modern Language Association, https://www.jstor.org/stable/462188.

Carastathis, Anna. "The Concept of Intersectionality in Feminist Theory." California State University, Los Angeles.

Sohier, Jacques. "Moll Flanders and the Rise of the Complete Gentlewoman-Tradeswoman." Eighteenth-Century Novel 2. (2002): 1-21. MLA International Bibliography. Web. 9 Nov. 2012.

Novak, Maximillian E. "Defoe's 'Indifferent Monitor': The Complexity of Moll Flanders." Eighteenth-Century Studies 3. (1970): 351-365. JSTOR. Web. 14 Nov. 2012.

For a moment, I am home

In the quiet of the morning, before the sun  

spills over rooftops and drips through leaves,  

on Besant Nagar’s sleepy streets,  

dawn breaks to the pulse of Suprabhatham

It begins in stillness, as boiling water

spills gently over coffee grounds,  

a fragrance rises, familiar,

rich and deep.

Appa tips the milk into the waiting tumbler,  

where it meets decoction, 

warm, bittersweet, layered,

frothing to the brim

Steam curls around my fingers, feathered, light,  

and I sip, tasting roots and reverie.  

In this cup, there is something more than morning,  

so much more than milk and sugar; it is quiet grace,

comfort brewed from patience.

Here, though, in Boston, worlds and worlds away,

mornings break cold, unadorned,  

yet somewhere in this cup, this warmth,  

for a moment, I am home,

in Besant Nagar, where winter is a stranger 

and the air is sweet.

An Old Madras Love

My love for Chennai stems from the multitude of experiences I've had in this city. Third main road, where I've lived for a significant fraction of my life. The apartment complex, where we'd chase each other down playing tag or ride our bicycles at breakneck speeds. Pushpa Ice House, where appa would buy me bottles of cold goli soda. Metro, the shoe shop Keerthana and I used to frequent to look at the Siddharth Malhotra cutout. Adyar Stationery, where my parents swear I've spent a small fraction of their wealth. Kamal Stores, where I bought notebooks in bulk, each one filled with math problems by the year's end. Padmanabhaswamy temple on a chilly Margazhi morning, the warm pongal that nearly puts me to sleep, andthe perumaal idol, the only witness to my good days and bad. Pondy Bazaar, where Shreya and I roam the streets and buy silver jhumkhas. GRT, the jewelry store where the achari will give me a withering side eye if I dare walk in for yet another piercing (he's already done a second on my ears and two on either side of my nose). 

There is a certain richness in the familiar company. Tanishta and I have known each other since we were twelve. We find ourselves at Adyar Sangeetha after our morning walk to Besant Nagar beach, sharing a single golden paper roast. We try on clothes at Westside that our mothers would never allow us to own (despite nearly being in our twenties).  We wander into expensive cafes, seduced by the promise of novelty and the polished interiors. We thumb through the menus, with foreign words and elaborate descriptions, tempted to try something new. As we pick at the artfully arranged food that eventually arrives, our dissatisfaction grows. The flavors, though sophisticated, lack the soul we crave. 

Besant Nagar deserves a dedicated ramble of its own. Eden dinners with my parents and sibling are a core memory. Birthdays, anniversaries and post-exam, the restaurant has seen it all. Occasional Besant Nagar evenings with Diwakar and Shashvathi happen when they're home from college in Delhi. There is just enough time for catching up and exchanging the wildest college stories as we walk down the expanse of the beach, sipping on a drink from Chai Kings. Shashvathi drinks chai now. It's the Sonipat showing. We make elaborate plans to have breakfast at Murugan Idli but nobody wakes up on time. It'll happen. Someday.

It is the fleeting moments, the first sip of filter coffee, the conversations over breakfast, the exchange of stories, the people, the familiarity, and ultimately, the comfort, that shape the Chennai experience. I wouldn't trade it for the world. 

A high school graduation like no other

As a young girl, I always envisioned the day of my high school graduation to be a somewhat grand, honorary ceremony. I had grown up imagining an electric atmosphere, a massive auditorium packed with thousands of people, giving the valedictorian speech, a flurry of colour and movement as caps are thrown into the air, graduates cheering and shouting as they revel in the freedom of the moment – something along the lines of what graduation was like in Hollywood movies. 

The actual event was a much more humble affair. 

As I walked down the familiar street, on the path I’d taken all those years to school, it was almost as though nothing had changed: the pookaramma’s veined and knotted hands moved swiftly as she expertly strung together strands of jasmine, there was the little pillayar kovil, deserted in the afternoon sun, except for one or two particularly determined devotees, Kumaran Stores was overflowing with a sea of schoolchildren in green and white buying themselves drinks. 

There was a splendid kolam drawn on the ground in front of the school gates. There were no caps and gowns, instead, the girls were draped in flowing cotton sarees, the boys in veshtis. We were handed eclairs as we make our way inside. We assembled before a small podium in the modest school auditorium, where we spent the next hour watching music and dance performances by the students, and listening to the principal's usual "motivating words" of the "importance of hard work and dedication" one last time.

A number of other school events have occurred in the time that has passed since then. We've all ventured out to different cities and countries in the pursuit of college degrees, but it's the shared experiences, the little things, that still bring us together.

We are all in possession of a series of class photographs in which nearly all the teachers are (terribly) photoshopped. Never once did we have a school picnic in which there was enough room for everyone on the bus (we would resort to sitting on each others' laps). Kumaran Stores, the local provisions shop students frequented for chips and soda after school, holds nostalgia for many (not for me, though – amma still sends me there all the time to buy a number of things, ranging from curd packets to incense sticks). The school uniform of green and white was much dreaded (the salwar sets are long gone now, having been turned into washcloths minutes after my last board exam). Finding safety pins every morning to secure the dupatta in place was a real battle. There are vague memories of the morning assemblies, held on the school grounds in the unforgiving Chennai heat. They would always result in someone or the other fainting, and yet, the principal's speeches would still go on and on, as though nothing significant had happened.

The funny thing is, I wouldn't have wanted it any other way. These seemingly insignificant memories have woven themselves into the fabric of who we are. They are the threads that bind us, reminding us that our journey together, though filled with ups and downs, was uniquely ours, and I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Moving into college (a story of suitcases and stress)

About a year ago, I had to move into college. It was frustrating on so many different levels: I felt like I was blindly stumbling into this new phase of my life, I had an insane amount of shopping left to do and about three or four days to actually do it, my parents were moving to a different house, my sister was neck deep in midterms and struggling to focus amidst the chaos.

All my high school things, stacks and stacks of unfinished problem sets, notebooks in which I attempted to solve the aforementioned problem sets, question papers and answer sheets, report cards, post its with test schedules and important formulae, were all stashed away in a cardboard box and slipped into my grandparents' loft, where they are likely to collect dust for many years.

I remember making endless college themed Pinterest boards and saving a number of posts with titles like "Packing for college: the only guide you'll ever need" or "The complete college packing list," but when I was actually tasked with fitting my whole life into a single large suitcase that I had bought two or three days before moving, I had no idea where to start. I was utterly clueless.

After browsing through a series of social media posts and unhelpful YouTube videos, I sent a barrage of texts to the handful of people who had already moved into college. Turns out that college shopping looks very different if you're a guy. If not for a lifesaving call from a close friend who'd just started at UPitt, I might have ended up in my dorm room with about three sets of uncoordinated clothing and toothpaste that would've barely lasted me a week. 

All that was a year ago. Having lived in two different kinds of student housing since then, I feel like I have a lot to say. 

1. Bring clothes. All kinds of clothes, and lots and lots of clothes. I, for some godforsaken reason, thought three sets of solid colored t-shirts and a few decent pairs of jeans would suffice. But no, turns out there are formal lunches and dinners you have to go to, outreach programs, cultural events, garba, ethnic day, parties (for context, I go to a liberal university in Chennai). 

I recommend bringing (disclaimer: my fashion choices, although budget friendly, are genuinely questionable and it's highly likely that you can do better): 

• At least one set of formals (I bought a white formal shirt  and a comfortable pair of black cotton work utility pants and ended up repeating this outfit multiple times) 

• 4 sets of sleepwear or comfort clothing (I bought these t-shirts, this pajama set and this pajama set)

• At least one set of traditional clothes (I had a half-saree at home that I brought for garba night, and another that I wore for ethnic day. Reusing your high school farewell saree is also a great idea).

• At least two sets of clothes that you can work out in, more if you play sports or hit the gym often (I brought two sets of comfortable t-shirts and tracks). Bathing suits if you swim. A yoga mat is great, too. 

• At least 3-4 sets of daily wear. I hate deciding what to wear in the morning (I blame my high school, we had a uniform) and so I went ahead and bought three or four sets of the same t-shirts, plus a few slightly fancier ones, along with two pairs of comfortable jeans. I also make it a point to wear kurtis on Friday so I threw in a few of those as well. 

• It is ironic that I'm saying this, because I live in Chennai, but 1-2 sweaters or jackets. University buildings are often fully air conditioned. Like everything else about my university experience, the temperature inside the lecture halls is insane, and sometimes I can't help but wonder how I haven't died of hypothermia yet.

• A dress. I never actually got around to buying one that fit well, but most of my friends are in possession of a dress and yes, they come in handy. 

2. Shoes. Please, please invest in a decent pair of shoes. And bring more than one pair. It's ideal to have a decent pair of sandals, good walking shoes, and maybe a set of formal shoes (My GoWalks doubled as formal shoes so that was great). Bathroom slippers are a plus, too, depending upon your housing situation. 

3. Bathroom supplies. Comb, toothbrush, deodorant, perfume, moisturizer, skincare and makeup. Soap (a bar and a handwash), essential oils, shampoo, toothpaste and period supplies, all in bulk so that you don't have to worry about running out. Soap dispensers and toothbrush holders (nobody told me that I'd need a toothbrush holder). Tissues and kitchen spray. Bathroom freshener. A waterproof storage bag for all of these things. 

4. Laundry supplies. A large, durable cloth bag (portable laundry hampers are terrible, expensive, and not worth the money) and a bottle of detergent that'll last you all sem. A dry iron and a compact ironing board. 

5. A backpack. I like small backpacks because they force me to be minimalist, so I bought a compact one from Wildcraft, but take your pick. 

6. Bedding. Two sets of sheets, a blanket and as many pillows as you sleep with. A foldable mattress is a huge plus.

7. Storage. I bought two of these super useful foldable storage organizers. You're going to need a lot of bins, because where else are the bathroom supplies, cleaning supplies and snacks going to go?

8. Stationery. A folder for loose paper (there's an insane amount of paperwork and document verification, especially in the first week), actual loose paper, a large notebook that'll last you all sem, a bunch of working pens and you're good to go, at least if you're a CS major (my roommate takes Biology and Neuroscience classes and often needs more supplies). 

9. Electronics. Do your own laptop research and decide on a model that suits your needs and budget. A power bank is a great investment (except if you forget to charge it, like yours truly). Spare chargers, a good set of headphones and a power strip or extension cord are great. 

10. Kitchen supplies. A kettle came in handy, especially when a nasty bout of the flu went around (I haven't actually participated in the Maggi making ritual yet). It's great to stock up on snacks like granola, protein bars, nuts and dried fruit, especially if your university is in the middle of nowhere and the only trace of human civilization is many miles away. Bring your own water bottle and don't borrow other people's, that's how the flu spreads. Paper cups, plates and spoons are great, but please be kind to the environment. Trash bags are lifesavers. Kitchen spray and microfibre cloths are godsend. 

11. Random, uncategorized things nobody tells you about. You're going to need to have some cash on you (even if you have a credit card or UPI set up). Bring a decent wallet with plenty of room (turning eighteen involves getting all kinds of new IDs). Have meds on you all the time: in addition to any meds that you take regularly, throw in some painkiller, cough syrup and fever reducer. Mosquito and bug repellents can come in handy, depending on the nature of your housing. Get yourself an umbrella, too. 

After managing to fit all of my things into a single large suitcase and a not-so-large backpack (to this day, I don't know how I did it), muttering a prayer to our family deity, we drove to the hotel I'd be staying in for the next few months. 

Hotel? Huh? Do you mean hostel?

Not at all. 

I go to a start-up university and the housing isn't ready on campus, so I had the unique life experience of briefly being accommodated in a hotel, after which we were moved out to villas.

Unpacking turned out to be an entirely different struggle altogether. My roommate and I bonded over comparing toothpaste brands and skincare products (turns out we both used almond shampoo and the same deodorant). It was as though our suitcases would never empty. We would unpack, put things on shelves, fold clothes, organize, and just when we thought we were done, we'd unzip another hidden compartment in our suitcases, or find another bag, tucked away in the corner, waiting to be opened and sorted. 

We went downstairs for dinner later on, less than halfway through our suitcases, looking like we'd walked through a tornado. A group of boys in the dining area casually revealed that they had finished unpacking hours ago, and that it hadn't taken them more than forty five minutes. Huh. Moving into college really is different if you're a guy.

The level of freedom that living away from home brought about was overwhelming. We were free to sleep at whatever ungodly hour we pleased, eat fries and chips in large quantities and down carbonated drinks without being told off, party in our dorm rooms until late into the night, or get blasphemous tattoos and piercings without receiving bombastic side eyes. 

With this newfound freedom came extraordinary responsibility. I learned to wash my clothes by hand (courtesy bad laundry services) and take public transport. I was so much more conscious about the small, seemingly insignificant choices that I made on a daily basis: who I chose to talk to, how I dressed, what I chose to eat and drink, when I slept, how I spent my money, even the places I frequented on campus. 

Being the eldest daughter in a brown household is hard. 

Being the eldest daughter moving away from home for the first time is harder. 

Being the eldest daughter moving away from home and having to deal with protective parents is even harder. 

The conversations I had with my mom for the first few months were a constant back-and-forth of her telling me a long list of what not to do, and me reassuring her that I knew what I was doing and would come home in one piece. Our unconventional housing only seemed to heighten her concerns. Communicating over the phone wasn't easy. There were disagreements and fully blown arguments.

Visiting home is different now. The coffee no longer tastes like magic. There is a huge sense of displacement. My childhood bed has been taken apart, my desk has been thrown away. Neither can I stay at home, nor can I stay away from it. It is as though I am homesick for a place that no longer exists. There is a word for this feeling. Hiraeth. 

With time this feeling fades. We learn to embrace change. We become accepting of the fact that things are different. I sit in what is now my sister's bedroom, staring out the window at a honeybee lazily circling a cluster of bright pink flowers. It's funny how life goes on.