Throughout Unaccustomed Earth, photographs represent alienation, loss, and grief. In the collection’s stories, photos preserve special moments of connection while emphasizing the characters’ distance from those happy memories—an idea that mirrors the immigrant characters’ experiences of feeling as though they’re being torn between past and present, home and the unknown. For instance, in “Only Goodness,” the framed photographs in Sudha’s home remind Rahul of his estrangement from his family, which shows him all he’s missed out on due to the alcoholism that rules his life. Ultimately, the pain of seeing these images contributes to his relapse, which only worsens his relationships with his family members—following his relapse, Sudha cuts contact with him.
In the Hema and Kaushik trilogy, photographs make this symbolism even more explicit. Kaushik’s work as a photojournalist allows him to observe life and people from behind the camera, reflecting his inner struggle with emotional intimacy and belonging. Following the death of his mother, Parul, Kaushik never fully recovers from his grief, and he is thus unwilling to get close to anyone. And as a photographer (rather than the person being photographed), he can maintain distance from other people—a coping mechanism that the stories ultimately suggests only alienates him further. Additionally, when he views photos of his late mother, they conjure repressed emotions, emphasizing his unresolved grief and the rootlessness he carries as a result.
Photographs Quotes in Unaccustomed Earth
There is only one photograph in which my mother appears; she is holding me as I sit straddling her lap [...] In that picture, Pranab Kaku’s shadow, his two arms raised at angles to hold the camera to his face, hovers in the corner of the frame, his darkened, featureless shape superimposed on one side of my mother’s body. It was always the three of us.
But there were too many pictures, and after a few I, like my father, could no longer bear their sight. A slight lessening in the pressure of my fingertips and the ones I was holding would have blown away into that wild sea, scattering down to where my mother’s ashes already resided. [...] so I put them back in the box and began to break the hardened ground.
His work depended wholly on the present, and on things yet to come. It was not the repeated resurrection of texts that had already been composed, of a time and people that had passed, and it made Hema aware of the sheltered quality not only of her life but her mind.