Typical of Lahiri’s other first-person protagonist-narrators, Lilia represses her emotion through much of the story. She strikes a fairly dispassionate note from the very first sentence:
In the autumn of 1971 a man used to come to our house, bearing confections in his pocket and hopes of ascertaining the life or death of his family.
This opening—which sets the stage for the memories that follow—is disinterestedly fact-based and neutral. Lilia holds onto this reportorial stance. Here, as in elsewhere, she makes use of technical terms like “confections” and “ascertaining” to signify a personal remove from her own story.
But narrative disinterest does not mean the total absence of feeling. Rather, the story’s mood works itself in more subtle ways. Through attentive descriptions, Lilia articulates feeling without explicitly expressing emotions; she lets the subjects of her narration speak for themselves. She communicates the suggestion of shame as Ms. Kenyon scolds her in the school library for reading about Pakistan. By casting Mr. Pirzada as a “compact man” with an “efficient posture” with two imaginary “suitcases” in tow, Lilia likewise endears her guest to the reader. Details like Mr. Pirzada’s “graying hair” and candy-filled suit pockets bring to life a character who becomes as close as family. Lilia acquaints the reader to Mr. Pirzada’s habits and quirks, and they feel his loss all the more painfully by story’s end. As Mr. Pirzada returns to Pakistan, Lilia refuses to linger over her guest any longer—“he had no reason to return to us”—and returns readers to the loneliness of her small town’s “fringes.” Though she never enters any emotional state herself, Lilia creates a story that nonetheless leaves readers with a muted sense of melancholy.