{"product_id":"the-lowland-isbn-9780307278265","title":"The Lowland","description":"\u003cb\u003eNATIONAL BESTSELLER \u003cb\u003e•  \u003c\/b\u003eNATIONAL BOOK AWARD FINALIST • BOOKER PRIZE FINALIST • From the Pulitzer Prize-winning, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Namesake\u003c\/i\u003e comes an extraordinary novel, set in India and America, that tells the story of two brothers bound by tragedy, a fiercely brilliant woman haunted by her past, a country torn by revolution, and a love that lasts long past death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBorn just fifteen months apart, Subhash and Udayan Mitra are inseparable brothers, one often mistaken for the other in the Calcutta neighborhood where they grow up.  But they are also opposites, with gravely different futures ahead. It is the 1960s, and Udayan—charismatic and impulsive—finds himself drawn to the Naxalite movement, a rebellion waged to eradicate inequity and poverty; he will give everything, risk all, for what he believes. Subhash, the dutiful son, does not share his brother’s political passion; he leaves home to pursue a life of scientific research in a quiet, coastal corner of America.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut when Subhash learns what happened to his brother in the lowland outside their family’s home, he goes back to India, hoping to pick up the pieces of a shattered family, and to heal the wounds Udayan left behind—including those seared in the heart of his brother’s wife.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMasterly suspenseful, sweeping, piercingly intimate, \u003ci\u003eThe Lowland \u003c\/i\u003eis a work of great beauty and complex emotion; an engrossing family saga and a story steeped in history that spans generations and geographies with seamless authenticity. It is Jhumpa Lahiri at the height of her considerable powers.\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review \u003c\/i\u003eNotable Book • A \u003ci\u003eTime \u003c\/i\u003eTop Fiction Book • An NPR \"Great Read\" • A \u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune \u003c\/i\u003eBest Book • A \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book • A \u003ci\u003ePeople \u003c\/i\u003emagazine Top 10 Book • A Barnes and Noble Best New Book • A \u003ci\u003eGood Reads\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book • A \u003ci\u003eKirkus \u003c\/i\u003eBest Fiction Book • A \u003ci\u003eSlate \u003c\/i\u003eFavorite Book • A \u003ci\u003eChristian Science Monitor\u003c\/i\u003e Best Fiction Book • An Apple Top 10 Book\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Poised, haunting, exquisitely effective storytelling. . . . Lahiri is one of our most beautiful chroniclers of the aching disjunctions of emigration and family.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Exquisite. . . . Lahiri explores here what she has always explored best: the fragile inner workings of her characters. . . . An American master.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePhiladelphia Inquirer\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Lahiri’s] finest work so far. . . . At once unsettling and generous. . . . Shattering and satisfying in equal measure.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Review of Books\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Poignant. . . . There is an important truth here—that life often denies us understanding, and sometimes all there is to hold on to is our ability to endure.” \u003cbr\u003e—NPR\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Intriguing. . . . Brim[s] with pain and love and all of life’s profound beauty.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eO, The Oprah Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mesmerizing.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post Book World\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In \u003ci\u003eThe Lowland, \u003c\/i\u003ewe are all emigrants, not from one country to another but from the present to the future. . . . Tremendous.” \u003cbr\u003e—Lev Grossman, \u003ci\u003eTime \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A masterful work that shines with brilliant language. . . . [Lahiri] has created a masterpiece.” \u003cbr\u003e—Minneapolis\u003ci\u003e Star Tribune\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lahiri is an elegant stylist, effortlessly placing the perfect words in the perfect order time and again so we’re transported seamlessly into another place.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eVanity Fair\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Divided consciousness has been Lahiri’s recurrent theme. . . . This time, Lahiri daringly redraws the map. . . . [Her] prose is blunter, less mellifluous: here worlds, new and old, contain terrors.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A classic story of family and ideology at odds, love and risk closely twined. . . . An author, at the height of her artistry, spins the globe and comes full circle.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eVogue\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A great American writer.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Memorable, potent. . . . Lahiri has reached literary high ground with \u003ci\u003eThe Lowland\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A master of dramatic turns, but not in the conventional sense. She lets tension build slowly until something snaps. What she twists is \u003ci\u003eyou\u003c\/i\u003e. . . . Lahiri shows that a twist can be even more devastating when you’ve been afraid that it might happen all along. A” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A must-read. . . . Delivers Lahiri’s trademark lyrical prose woven with a fast-paced narrative and indelible characters.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSlate\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lahiri returns confidently to the themes that have earned her critical praise, an eager audience and a Pulitzer Prize. . . . [Here] she adds a historical dimension that creates a vital, intriguing backdrop. . . . [The] story is unique, but it’s also universal, a reminder of the past’s pull on us all.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Miami Herald\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Expansive and intimate. . . . Lahiri’s writing is precise and restrained. . . . Loyalty and betrayal, lies and forgiveness, filial responsibility and abandonment, the choices and sacrifices we make to find our way in the world are beautifully wrought in this novel.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Oregonian\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Subtle but devastating. . . . The themes of this beautifully written novel may be grand—love, ­revolution, desertion—but it’s an intimate tale that offers no easy answers.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eParade\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The kind of book that stays with you long after you finish it. . . . Full of sharp insights about marriage and parenthood, politics and commitment.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePittsburgh Post-Gazette\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Delicately harrowing. . . . Lahiri has a devastatingly keen ear for the tensions and misunderstandings endemic in our closest relationships.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBloomberg News\u003c\/i\u003eJHUMPA LAHIRI is the author of four works of fiction: \u003ci\u003eInterpreter of Maladies\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Namesake\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eUnaccustomed Earth\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Lowland\u003c\/i\u003e; and a work of nonfiction, \u003ci\u003eIn Other Words\u003c\/i\u003e. She has received numerous awards, including the Pulitzer Prize; the PEN\/Hemingway Award; the PEN\/Malamud Award; the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award; the Premio Gregor von Rezzori; the DSC Prize for South Asian Literature; a 2014 National Humanities Medal, awarded by President Barack Obama; and the Premio Internazionale Viareggio-Versilia, for \u003ci\u003eIn altre parole\u003c\/i\u003e.Normally she stayed on the balcony, reading, or kept to an adjacent room as her brother and Udayan studied and smoked and drank cups of tea. Manash had befriended him at Calcutta University, where they were both graduate students in the physics department. Much of the time their books on the behaviors of liquids and gases would sit ignored as they talked about the repercussions of Naxalbari, and commented on the day’s events.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The discussions strayed to the insurgencies in Indochina and in Latin American countries. In the case of Cuba it wasn’t even a mass movement, Udayan pointed out. Just a small group, attacking the right targets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e All over the world students were gaining momentum, standing up to exploitative systems. It was another example of Newton’s second law of motion, he joked. Force equals mass times acceleration.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Manash was skeptical. What could they, urban students, claim to know about peasant life?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nothing, Udayan said. We need to learn from them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Through an open doorway she saw him. Tall but slight of build, twenty-three but looking a bit older. His clothing hung on him loosely. He wore kurtas but also European-style shirts, irreverently, the top portion unbuttoned, the bottom untucked, the sleeves rolled back past the elbow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He sat in the room where they listened to the radio. On the bed that served as a sofa where, at night, Gauri slept. His arms were lean, his fingers too long for the small porcelain cups of tea her family served him, which he drained in just a few gulps. His hair was wavy, the brows thick, the eyes languid and dark.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His hands seemed an extension of his voice, always in motion, embellishing the things he said. Even as he argued he smiled easily. His upper teeth overlapped slightly, as if there were one too many of them. From the beginning, the attraction was there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He never said anything to Gauri if she happened to brush by. Never glancing, never acknowledging that she was Manash’s younger sister, until the day the houseboy was out on an errand, and Manash asked Gauri if she minded making them some tea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She could not find a tray to put the teacups on. She carried them in, nudging open the door to the room with her shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e Looking up at her an instant longer than he needed to, Udayan took his cup from her hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The groove between his mouth and nose was deep. Clean-shaven. Still looking at her, he posed his first question.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Where do you study? he asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e *\u003cbr\u003e Because she went to Presidency, and Calcutta University was just next door, she searched for him on the quadrangle, and among the bookstalls, at the tables of the Coffee House if she went there with a group of friends. Something told her he did not go to his classes as regularly as she did. She began to watch for him from the generous balcony that wrapped around the two sides of her grandparents’ flat, overlooking the intersection where Cornwallis Street began. It became something for her to do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Then one day she spotted him, amazed that she knew which of the hundreds of dark heads was his. He was standing on the opposite corner, buying a packet of cigarettes. Then he was crossing the street, a cotton book bag over his shoulder, glancing both ways, walking toward their flat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She crouched below the filigree, under the clothes drying on the line, worried that he would look up and see her. Two minutes later she heard footsteps climbing the stairwell, and then the rattle of the iron knocker on the door of the flat. She heard the door being opened, the houseboy letting him in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was an afternoon everyone, including Manash, happened to be out, and she’d been reading, alone. She wondered if he’d turn back, given that Manash wasn’t there. Instead, a moment later, he stepped out onto the balcony.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No one else here? he asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She shook her head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Will you talk to me, then?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The laundry was damp, some of her petticoats and blouses were clipped to the line. The material of the blouses was tailored to the shape of her upper torso, her breasts. He unclipped one of the blouses and put it further down the line to make room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He did this slowly, a mild tremor in his fingers forcing him to focus more than another person might on the task. Standing beside him, she was aware of his height, the slight stoop in his shoulders, the angle at which he held his face. He struck a match against the side of a box and lit a cigarette, cupping his whole hand over his mouth when he drew the cigarette to his lips. The houseboy brought out biscuits and tea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They overlooked the intersection, from four flights above. They stood beside one another, both of them leaning into the railing. Together they took in the stone buildings, with their decrepit grandeur, that lined the streets. Their tired columns, their crumbling cornices, their sullied shades.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her face was supported by the discreet barrier of her hand. his arm hung over the edge, the burning cigarette was in his fingers. The sleeves of his Punjabi were rolled up, exposing the veins running from his wrist to the crook of the elbow. They were prominent, the blood in them greenish gray, like a pointed archway below the skin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was something elemental about so many human beings in motion at once: walking, sitting in buses and trams, pulling or being pulled along in rickshaws. One the other side of the street were a few gold and silver shops all in a row, with mirrored walls and ceilings. Always crowded with families, endlessly reflected, placing orders for wedding jewels. There was the press where they took clothes to be ironed. The store where Gauri bought her ink, her notebooks. Narrow sweet shops, where trays of confections were studded with flies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The paanwallah sat cross-legged at one corner, under a bare bulb, spreading white lime paste on stacks of betel leaves. A traffic constable stood at the center, in his helmet, on his little box. Blowing a whistle and waving his arms. The clamor of so many motors, of so many scooters and lorries and busses and cars, filled their ears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I like this view, he said.A Novel","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304936263909,"sku":"NP9780307278265","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307278265.jpg?v=1767740345","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-lowland-isbn-9780307278265","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}