Interpreter of Maladies

children only for the day; it was hard to believe they were regularly responsible for anything other than themselves. Mr. Das tapped on his lens cap, and his tour book, dragging his thumbnail occasionally across die pages so that they made a scraping sound. Mrs. Das continued to polish her nails. She had still not removed her sunglasses. Every now and then Tina renewed her plea that she wanted her nails done, too, and so at one point Mrs. Das flicked a drop of polish on the little girl's finger before depositing bottle back to her straw bag. 
    "Isn't this an air-conditioned car?" she asked, still blowing on her hand. The window on Tina's side was broken and could not be rolled down. 
    "Quit complaining," Mr. Das said. "It's not so hot." 
    "I told you to get a car with air-conditioning," Mrs. Das continued. "Why do you do this, Raj, just to save a few stupid rupees. What are you saving us, fifty cents?" 
    Their accents sounded just like the ones Mr. Kapasi heard on American television programs, though not like the ones on Dallas . 
    "Doesn't it get tiresome, Mr. Kapasi, showing people the same thing every day?" Mr. Das asked, rolling down his own window all the way. "Hey, do you mind stopping the car. I just want to get a shot of this guy." 
    Mr. Kapasi pulled over to the side of the road as Mr. Das took a picture of a barefoot man, his head wrapped in a dirty turban, seated on top of a cart of grain sacks pulled by a pair of bullocks. Both the man and the bullocks were emaciated. In the back seat Mrs. Das gazed out another window, at the sky, where nearly transparent clouds passed quickly in front of one another. 
    "I look forward to it, actually," Mr. Kapasi said as they continued on their way. "The Sun Temple is one of my favorite places. In that way it is a reward for me. I give tours on Fridays and Saturdays only. I have another job during the week." 
    "Oh? Where?" Mr. Das asked. 
    "I work in a doctor's office." 
    "You're a doctor?" 
    "I am not a doctor. I work with one. As an interpreter." 
    "What does a doctor need an interpreter for?" 
    "He has a number of Gujarati patients. My father was Gujarati, but many people do not speak Gujarati in this area, including the doctor. And so the doctor asked me to work in his office, interpreting what the patients say." 
    "Interesting, I've never heard of anything like that," Mr. Das said. 
    Mr. Kapasi shrugged. "It is a job like any other" 
    "But so romantic," Mrs. Das said dreamily, breaking her extended silence. She lifted her pinkish brown sunglasses and arranged them on top of her head like a tiara. For the first time, her eyes met Mr. Kapasi's in the rearview mirror: pale, a bit smaller, their gaze fixed but drowsy. 
    Mr. Das craned to look at her. "What's so romantic about it?" 
    "I don't know. Something." She shrugged, knitting her brows together for an instant. "Would you like a piece of gum, Mr. Kapasi?" she asked brightly. She reached into her straw bag and handed him a small square wrapped in green-and-white-striped paper. As soon as Mr. Kapasi put the gum in his mouth a thick sweet liquid burst onto his tongue. 
    "Tell us more about your job. Mr. Kapasi." Mrs. Das said. 
    "What would you like to know, madame?" 
    "I don't know," she shrugged, munching on some puffed rice and licking the mustard oil from the corners of her mouth. "Tell us a typical situation." She settled back in her seat, her head tilted in a patch of sun, and dosed her eyes. "I want to picture what happens." 
    "Very well. The other day a man came in with a pain in his throat." 
    "Did he smoke cigarettes?" 
    "No. It was very curious. He complained that he felt as if there were long pieces of straw stuck in his throat. When I told the doctor he was able to prescribe the proper medication." 
    "That's so neat." 
    "Yes," Mr. Kapasi agreed after some hesitation. 
    "So these patients are totally dependant on you," Mrs. Das said. She spoke slowly as if she was thinking aloud. "In a way, more dependant on you than the doctor." 
    "How do you mean? How could it be?" 
    "Well, for example, you could tell the doctor that the pain fell like a burning, not straw. The patient would never know what you had told the doctor, and the doctor wouldn't know that you had told the wrong thing. It's a big responsibility." 
    "Yes, a big responsibility you have there, Mr. Kapasi," Mr. Das agreed. 
    Mr. Kapasi had never thought of her job in such complimentary terms. To him it was a thankless