It
was no surprise that all had read this novel when it came out first.
With great keenness we came together to experience the thrill again
and share our appreciation. We kept in mind what Arundhati Roy said
of the novel: “It is easy to forget it is a political novel. It is
about caste, about violence, about contemporary things. … The most
ugly thing about our country, and our culture, is caste. It is there
in the book. And please don't forget that.”
Bobby (away facing), Kavita, KumKum, Priya, Thommo, Mathew, Sunil
The
most arresting feature of Arundhati Roy's style is the wealth of similes
and metaphors, at times overwhelming the reader like a pelting of hail.
Somewhere she remarks that the structure of the novel was
the most difficult part of the writing, but she lost the painstakingly-made architectural plan of the book in the
mêlée
at her place soon after the book
was published.
Bobby, Kavita, KumKum, and Priya
When
the eloquent homilies of her political books on power and
powerlessness are forgotten, this novel will remain, and be read and
studied. So why can she not oblige with a second novel, she who said
in her famous Come September speech:
“For
reasons that I don't fully understand, fiction dances out of me, and
non-fiction is wrenched out by the aching, broken world I wake up to
every morning.” See
https://www.bisd303.org/cms/lib3/WA01001636/Centricity/Domain/616/comeSeptember.pdf
The spoken version of her speech is on Youtube.
Priya & KumKum exchanging life force à la Michelangelo
Come
dance, Ms Roy, or we'll arrive like midwives to wrench that novel
already germinating within you, waiting to be born ...
Here are the readers pictured after the session:
Kavita, Priya, Thommo, Bobby (hidden), KumKum Mathew, Sunil, Joe
To read the full record of the session, click below
The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy —
Reading on Apr
12, 2013
Present:
Priya,
KumKum, Joe, Mathew, Sunil, Kavita, Bobby, Thommo
Absent:
Talitha
(at YWCA to sing), Sivaram (no reason offered), Gopa (away to London), Zakia (called away by family)
The
next session is Poetry, on May
10, 2013.
The
next novel for reading is
Zorba
The Greek
by Nikos Kazantzakis
on Jun
14,
2013.
The Readings are collated at the end of the discussions by individual readers.
Thommo
Thommo
displayed such an intimate knowledge of the societal context of this
novel that Joe pleaded with him to write the account of this session.
The members of AR's own family are so widely, albeit fictionally,
represented in this novel, that some readers have been taken in, to
the point that one asked Mrs Mary Roy, AR's mother, who bears a
resemblance to Ammu: “Has your son started speaking [for Estha goes mute in the novel]?”
But Mary Roy has categorically stated: “I am not Ammu. Arundhati has
created a character called Ammu using my bio-data as her
bare-bones.'' See
http://www.rediff.com/news/oct/18booker.htm
http://www.rediff.com/news/oct/18booker.htm
Thommo's
mom and Mary Roy are second cousins. Chacko in the novel was based on
AR's uncle, George Isaac, and has been described to the T, pickles
and all ('Palat Pickles'). He did in real life marry a European and
later came away. Thommo met George Isaac at a Roundtable meeting.
George Isaac speaks in a very good Indian accent, not Plummy at all,
and is a very well educated Rhodes scholar. You can read a great deal
more than you need to know about Mary Roy and this novel at:
Thommo
made a comment that linked George Isaac with with Patrick Moynihan,
US Senator and one-time ambassador to India. Moynihan once visited
Kottayam, and he disappeared from sight. The police went to find out
what happened and discovered him with George Isaac, lingering over a
bottle. Joe asked Thommo: did George Isaac in reality have Men's Needs? To
which Mathew replied, to general laughter: Who does not have Men's
Needs?
But
Priya has a different take: Men just don't understand Women's Needs.
KumKum
decried the crudity of men who go urinating everywhere in public. Do
you see a woman do that she asked? But she was caught short, because
in S. India it is not uncommon for rural women to spread their
pavada or saree in a wide circle and micturate in the centre,
not even needing to go behind a bush.
Sunil
related his evidence of going to Andhra and seeing the public on
their haunches on one side of the road in the morning, and on the
other side of the road in the evening. Someone said that the usual
accompaniment of the morning ablution is a lota or kindi
and a stick. The stick is to fend off the pigs who like the
freshly laid stuff, which they would fain snatch from the bums.
After
Thommo read his passage on Pappachi's Moth, it was noted that Chacko
and Pappachi are modelled after real-life counterparts. Sunil
remarked on the part where Chacko stops Pappachi from hitting
Mammachi with a brass vase: “Always said it with flowers!”
Thommo
affirmed the the real-life Pappachi was trim and proper in
everything, and a wife-beater too – which was very common in those
days. Sunil pointed out that wife-beating was an assertion of
patriarchal power, designed to keep women in line. Pappachi, in real
life, did not drink. In Mathew's village of Adhirampuzha in Kottayam
district, there was no liquor shop, not even a toddy shop. But Sunil
said in Thrissur district they always enjoyed the good things of
life.
At
this point there was a digression on a church in Kumarkoni (?) and
the parishioners there putting on a play. From there Thommo mentally
transported the readers to the film Guns for San Sebastian where
Anthony Quinn, drunk, with a wineskin over his shoulder is shot by
invading American Indians when he is standing above a statue of the
Blessed Virgin and red liquid starts flowing down the breast of Our
Lady. The villagers gasp at the miracle … then the camera pans to
Anthony Quinn, his wineskin pierced by the arrow, spilling wine onto
the statue. Anthony Quinn was born Antonio Rudolfo Oaxaca Quinn on
April 21, 1915, in Chihuahua, Mexico, to an Irish-Mexican father and
a Mexican mother. See:
Mathew
The
passage Mathew chose says what he feels about the under-dog. It is
Ammu's reaction to the fore-vision of her old age.
After
the reading Sunil mentioned that Mrs Roy has admitted something (?).
Lalit, AR's brother, lives one floor below Thommo' sister-in-law in a
high rise building and their father comes to see Lalit. Prannoy Roy
(of NDTV) and AR are first cousins, because Prannoy Roy's dad is the
elder brother of AR's father.
Bobby
noted that AR has not written fiction after her first and only novel,
thus far. KumKum said AR has hinted she is writing one. Considering
how numerous have been her political writings, she notes ironically
in her famous speech Come September: “For reasons that I
don't fully understand, fiction dances out of me, and non-fiction is
wrenched out by the aching, broken world I wake up to every morning.”
See
Mrs
Roy got more than her share of property in the end after a long
struggle, it seems. You can read about this and her decision to give
it to charity here:
What
about Comrade Pillai – is he true to life, asked Priya?
Thommo
mentioned there is one mistaken detail in TGOST. AR confuses Kari
Saipu's house with the bungalow of EMS Namboodiripad. You can read
about Kari Saipu, the missionary who took on the ways of Kerala here:
His
children fanned out and the next generation went to Thekkady. There
is no connection with Laurie Baker, the architect who came to Kerala,
and married a Malalyali, Elizabeth.
Sunil
Sunil's passage
describes the art of Kathakali and its reduction to tourism
entertainment. This statement of AR in TGOST is most apt about
Kathakali:
… the
secret of the Great Stories is that they have
no secrets. The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to
hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably.
Sunil
found it a depressing book. Why? Because no character lives happily
ever after! But AR is not writing a fairy tale ...
In
a prefatory remark before reading the passage it was stated that when
Lalit, AR's brother, wanted to marry, Mary Roy complained to the
police. What was the basis of the complaint, asked Joe? Kidnapping. Odd. Thommo whose knowledge of the distant tributaries of
Arundhati Roy's life abounds in stories, stated that someone for
shock effect exclaimed at a gathering: “The first lady I slept with
was Arundhati Roy!” Turns out, as a child in Mary Roy's school this
chap slept through the regulation afternoon nap with AR stretched not
far away.
Mathew laughed at
this point in the passage:
From
the crafty ebullience of a rakshasa with a new idea, into a gossipy
Malayali with a scandal to spread.
Kathakali
has become a way of earning a living by branding and selling it. Art
and culture need patronage, said Mathew, and the new form of
patronage is tourism. The rajahs and nawabs offered patronage in the
old days which kept all forms of traditional Indian art alive. So it
was with Europeans too, where besides the kings, the Catholic Church
was a big patron of art, music, and architecture to glorify itself.
Joe
TGOST
broke new ground in Indian literature in English for its
extraordinary word–play and the wonderfully observed countryside in
which the story is set. It
is all lovingly described. The plant life, the river, the insects,
the people. So you are there taking part in the children’s eye view
of the scenes, and occasionally in that of the adults.
It
has its climax in the taboo subject in India of a lower caste man
having sex with an upper middle class woman – much like the
gardener in DH Lawrence’s banned novel Lady
Chatterly’s Lover. And TGOST is
unpalatable to many still for the same reason LCL was for the
Victorians, namely, that it crosses a sexual bar, and violates what
AR calls the Love Laws. Though TGOST does not have the word ‘fuck’,
it does have one clinical use of ‘cunt’
He
[Estha] was a naked stranger met in a chance encounter. He was the
one that she [Rahel] had known before Life began. The one who had
once led her (swimming) through their lovely mother’s cunt.
'Cunt'
was one of the reasons LCL was banned for obscenity, a verdict
reversed in the UK only 50 odd years ago. Another distinctive feature
of the novel is the exploration of the Kerala countryside. As she
said herself in a talk two years ago at which I was present: “There
is a lot of love for the land in the novel ... every insect every
plant, every fish, every smell.” In that talk she also reminded the
audience: “It is easy to forget The God Of Small Things is a
political novel. It is about caste, about violence, about
contemporary things … The most ugly thing about our country, and
our culture, is caste. It is there in the book. And please don't
forget that.”
The
most arresting feature of the writing I found was the use of similes.
I counted 473 uses of ‘like’ to introduce a poetic comparison.
This is a high density of similes, which testifies to her
imagination, and the poetic quality of her writing. In addition there
are metaphors which do not need the aid of ‘like.’ The poetry is
however offset by her penchant for shaking the reader out of the comfort
zone with the awful things that happen. That happiness does not last
is a constant message; you pay for every little bit of joy you snatch
in life. The foreshadowing of tragedy by the non-linear narration,
enhances the reader’s sense of being on edge throughout the novel.
I grasped a great deal more on re-reading it. The non-temporal sequence
of narration almost mandates that as soon as you finish the novel you
should go back and read it again, which I didn’t originally. AR
herself explains:
[The
structure] was the most challenging part of writing the book. It
begins at the end and ends in the middle. . . . if it had been a
straight, linear narrative, it would have meant something altogether
different. Each ordinary moment becomes more heightened, more
poignant because it is viewed through the complex lens of both past
and present.
http://www.randomhouse.com/rhpg//rc/library/display.pperl?isbn=9780812979657&view=qa
http://www.randomhouse.com/rhpg//rc/library/display.pperl?isbn=9780812979657&view=qa
She
can make an ordinary act like pissing a spectacular farce and I think
this is a Malayali trait. Once, a fond uncle of mine deflated me when
I was going abroad to an American university, saying – Eda,
avide thooralnum PhD ondu (Hey, over there you can even get a PhD in Shitting).
Joe's remark on
the density of similes in the book provoked Priya to say that AR was
greatly influenced by Salman Rushdie. But AR has always denied that
influence. Of course, you can point out that Midnight's Children
does use the trick of
non-temporal sequence in story-telling. So SR must have been
influenced by James Joyce, who must have been influenced by Laurence
Sterne, and so on. Joe averred that the great difference in style
between AR and SR is clear to see: the latter takes off with 'magical
realism'; AR is firmly grounded in natural realism. Which is borne
out by the confession of the Malayalam translator, Priya A.S., of
TGOST, that by far the most difficult time she had with the
translation was to find the precise Malayalam equivalents of the
hundreds of flora and fauna AR names and describes.
Priya,
our KRG reader, reiterated that the telescoped words in TGOST prove
AR's kinship with Salman Rushdie; for instance, Sophie Mol is
remembered simply as “ThimbleDrinker. CoffinCartwheeler.” But the
purpose is quite different, replied Joe; here it is to project a
child's imaginative play with words.
AR
uses words familiar to Indians in that era, such as
“Love-in-Tokyo—two beads on a rubber band, nothing to do with
Love or Tokyo.” The scrunchie became famous when Asha Parekh's
ponytail was held by a hair clip that consisted of two beads on a
rubber band. Priya liked the imagery in the description: “Most of
Rahel’s hair sat on top of her head like a fountain.” She
referred to the use of the upper case in many words in AR's novel.
For a thesis treating this and other stylistic features that recur in TGOST,
see
http://commons.ln.edu.hk/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1002&context=eng_etd
http://commons.ln.edu.hk/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1002&context=eng_etd
Bobby
Bobby
alluded to the reclusiveness of J.D. Salinger after he wrote Catcher
in the Rye. Not that AR has been
reclusive; she speaks out and writes frequently, but nowadays only on
issues of justice, power, nationalism, and imperial hegemony. In the
pre-TGOST days she wrote scripts for movies. She has a complicated
personal life, living apart from her second husband, Pradip Krishen,
most of the time because of the nature of their individual work. He
is acknowledged as “my love” in the dedication to this book. It
seems AR has a poor professional opinion of the School of Planning
and Architecture, Delhi, from which she graduated.
Bobby liked the
image of “high-stepping”chickens in the yard. And the phrase
“Jeweled
dragonflies hovered” caused Sunil to ask, “Do you see dragonflies
any more?” Yes, you do in her garden, said KumKum but they seem
scrawny. Sunil mentioned that as children they would catch
dragonflies and tie a tiny piece of paper to their tail and see them
fly off, thus encumbered. Estha's puff of hair in Elvis Presley's
style continues with the comic strip hero, Tintin. It was clarified
that 'Punnyan' means saint in Malayalam, for Punnyan
Kunju
was the nickname of Pappachi's father, Reverend E. John Ipe.
Kavita
Like
the previous reading which ends with the premonitory phrase “Things
can change in a day,” the passage of Kavita about Ammu's death,
alone in a lodge in Alleppey, ends in a similar phrase, “The
door of the furnace clanged shut. There were no tears.”
This is the sadness in the book: every reaching out by the characters
to chart a happier course in life, comes to naught.
Did
Ammu commit suicide? Bobby said the book doesn't state it, but it
would appear so, even if the details of Ammu's end are glossed over,
which is in striking contrast to the unrelenting description of the
kicking, stoning, and beating to death of Velutha by the police. Even
in death, the high-born get a pass, this time from the hand of the author.
Burial
is the normal disposition of the body for Syrian Christians. One of
the churchly reasons for refusing burial in the church graveyard is suicide; then the body is consigned to the themmadi kuzhi (miscreant's grave). But perhaps it
was on account of the metaphorical suicide she had committed earlier
by marrying a Hindu, and divorcing him. Ironical, isn't it, that even
after death we exclude certain categories of people from full
participation in the society they leave behind? Mathew said something to the effect that
suicides deserve hell-fire according to the church. But who reads the
hearts of the dead to know the state of their souls?
The
supply of firewood to the crematorium is a hereditary post in Kochi,
said Sunil, and that leads to hold-ups. The electric crematorium in
Ravipuram, Kochi, has not worked since 2008, but there are plans
afoot for an eco-friendly service:
At
this point Sunil who was particularly depressed by this book, sought
to elicit some humour by telling us of the thrifty ways of
Thrissur folk. There was this guy who went to purchase a coffin for
himself in advance, and started bargaining with the coffin-maker.
“Give me a discount,” he said; “after all I won't be able to
use it more than once.”
KumKum
“Thanks,
Bobby and Kavita, for choosing Arundhati Roy's The
God of Small Things.
I read this book soon after it won the Booker Prize. But I was in the
US at the time and did not know the Kerala countryside at all, being from Bengal. But
this time I read more critically for the KRG session.
I
still consider the book a stunningly beautiful literary work, for its
delightful language, visual charm and the captivating description of
the carefree life of children growing up in a rural Kerala setting.
The
two children, fraternal twins, seven years old, are the central
characters of the story. Much of the story is told from their
viewpoint. Hence, it is aptly jumbled up in a non-linear fashion. The
story is excavated from the repository of Rahel's childhood memories
and it is like a random splicing job; children remember only those
things that matter, and some events stick in the mind with gaps,
while others they can visualise graphically.
TGOST
is
not just a children's story. That part camouflages the more serious
adult-story of LOVE between a high caste, educated, woman and an
‘untouchable’ man, and describes the brutal retaliation that
follows.
There
are two pivotal points in the story: The death of Sophie Mol, and the
consummation of physical love between Velutha, the untouchable man,
and Ammu, the mother of the twins. Though both happen at nearly the
same time, somehow, Sophie Mol's accidental death gets sidetracked by
the racy story of illicit love. AR is ecstatically carnal in her
vivid description of the love-making of these oddly matched lovers
Of
course, Sophie Mol's death permanently damaged the well-being of
Estha, the innocent culprit of the crime. And it changed Margaret
Kochamma's world. Here I quote Roy to describe the effect of this
death on Margaret: “She had come to Ayemenem to heal her wounded
world, and had lost all of it instead. She shattered like glass.”
(p 263)
There
was no inquiry, no fact-finding how the accident had happened. Only
false accusations, blaming Velutha for the act. But, Margaret
Kochamma, intuitively knew who was the real culprit and “she had
actually sought Estha out and slapped him until someone calmed her
down and led her away.” (p 264)
I
like Arundhati Roy's style of writing. But I felt the style she chose was not the right one for this book. It was disorienting to read the
story from the seven year old's viewpoint. It contrasts with the simple, yet poetic language and style of the Bengali author, Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhay, in his classic novel, Pather
Panchali,
also a story of childhood.
Since
Thommo read the passage that was my first choice too (Pappachi's
Moth), I will read instead from Margaret Kochamma's reaction when she
knows her daughter, Sophie Mol, has died. Actually, one can open the
book anywhere and start to read.”
“That
is just like Katahkali,” interjected Mathew.
Sunil
noted how Baby Kochamma, ever eager to preserve the sanctimony of the
Ipe family, goes to the police station, manipulates the evidence and
suborns the children. BK wants to transfer the blame to Velutha for
the death of Sophie Mol because he has transgressed the Love Laws.
Kavita noted the father, Vellya Paapen, had feared the liaison of his
son, Velutha, would end badly. Sunil said a lot of children drown
during the summer holidays in Kerala, and added that Ammu goes to
Inspector Thomas (the man with the Air India maharaja moustache) to
state that the relationship with Velutha was consensual. But I don't
think that is borne out by the text; what Ammu goes to to tell Inspector
Thomas is that Velutha did not abduct the children, and the accident
happened when the children played truant on their own.
Later
Ammu visits the Inspector and this is what happens:
So
after Sophie Mol’s funeral, when Ammu went to him with the twins to
tell him that a mistake had been made and he tapped her breasts with
his baton, it was not a policeman’s spontaneous brutishness on his
part. He knew exactly what he was doing. It was a premeditated
gesture, calculated to humiliate and terrorize her. An attempt to
instill order into a world gone wrong.
A
reference was made to the practice of cutting off the hair of
prostitutes (veshyas) in the town of Ayemenem, which the author
describes. It still goes on in N. India, said Thommo, probably in the
villages where the Khap panchayats administer their own 'laws'
and care a fig for the Indian Penal Code. He also noted that the
highest crime rate reported in India is in Kerala, as judged by the
number of FIRs (First Information Reports) filed in the police
station. The reason is that FIRs are recorded as a matter of course
in Kerala, whereas in most parts of India, crime goes unrecorded, and
if you go to a thana to complain about a crime, the police
will persist in brushing it off, and fail to record it most of the time.
Thommo
had a minor complaint about women riding scooters in Kerala, for they
are taught to ride in the middle of the road.
Priya
The
passage is the leave-taking on the railway station when Estha is
re-returned. It is a poignant scene, as are all leave takings between
those who are intimately dependent on each other. Ammu is trying to convince
Estha the separation is temporary, but the novel has already
announced the death midway of Ammu in a lodge in Alleppey. So the
reader knows, even better than Estha, that it will be “Not Ever.”
Sunil
sensed an 'orphaned' feeling throughout the novel. This is how AR
phrased it when she appeared at the release of the Malayalam
translation of TGOST:
A
question about the prevailing sense of life being precarious in the
novel for the twins, Rahel and Estha, was addressed by the author.
She said it perhaps stems from the actual sense her own mother might
die any day, for she was subject to severe attacks of asthma a few
times a week, and then her mother would lament from her bed what
would happen to her two children. She and her brother both derived a
sense of being 'unprotected' since her mother was battling it alone
in Ayemenem after her divorce, living on the edges of their community
with no support.
In
the midst of this sadness KumKum was unforgiving of Ammu: “Even if
she had Women's Needs, Ammu was selfish and didn't consider what her
liaison would do to her children. If you're a mother there is a big
responsibility for the child.” In other words, Ammu should have
conformed to the Laws of Love and TGOST would never have been
written. Go tell that to the other protagonists of literature who
disobeyed: Anna Karenina, Helen, Juliet, Laila, Madame Bovary, and
the rest.
In
this connection someone noted the dedication: “For Mary Roy … who
loved me enough to let me go.”
Sunil
vividly remembers running after the car of his father in Bangalore
when he was left there at age six or seven in a boarding school. The
loss of your home's protective environment was tremendous. But then the
boys two years senior taught him how to cope and survive. Speaking of
which, AR dedicates the novel to her brother with these words: “For
LKC, who, like me, survived.”
Kavita
added that sending children to boarding school makes the children
closer to each other than they are to their parents.
Priya
noted there was a recipe for Bananajam by Estha, complete with
pectin. She was also taken by the descriptions of Baby Kochamma and
her maidservant watching TV together in their dotage. Their garden
was abandoned as BK grew older.
Since
there was doubt expressed by some about the incest in the book, Joe
agreed he'd supply the page reference. It's on p. 327 and begins:
“Esthapappychachen
Kuttappen Peter Mon,” she says. She whispers. She moves her mouth.
Their beautiful mother’s mouth.
…
Only that once again they broke the Love Laws. That lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much.”
Only that once again they broke the Love Laws. That lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much.”
The incest is not
as explicitly described as the copulation of Ammu and Velutha, but it
is unmistakably there, and intended by the author. Talitha's husband,
Satish, said it was there for the masala to attract even more
readers. But somebody said, assuming there was incest, isn't it
pointless in the novel? Perhaps it's there to reinforce the close
connection between the twins that courses through
the novel, and now having lost their support, and being ostracised by
the rest of the family, they have only each other to turn to.
The reading ended
with Priya reporting something she had heard at second hand: it seems AR spoke about oral sex very casually over breakfast, in the presence of her brother and remarked to him that oral sex is no longer a taboo subject. Everybody knows and talks about it. [An earlier version of this statement has been corrected with input from Priya]
For an insightful audio interview with Arundhati Roy at the BBC Radio 4 Bookclub on Oct 2, 2011, see
For an insightful audio interview with Arundhati Roy at the BBC Radio 4 Bookclub on Oct 2, 2011, see
https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/b015brn8
Readings
Thommo
p.47
– Ch 2 Pappachi's Moth
Mammachi
had started making pickles commercially soon after Pappachi retired
from Government service in Delhi and came to live in Ayemenem. The
Kottayam Bible Society was having a fair and asked Mammachi to make
some of her famous banana jam and tender mango pickle. It sold
quickly, and Mammachi found that she had more orders than she could
cope with. Thrilled with her success, she decided to persist with the
pickles and jam, and soon found herself busy all year round.
Pappachi, for his part, was having trouble coping with the ignominy
of retirement. He was seventeen years older than Mammachi, and
realized with a shock that he was an old man when his wife was still
in her prime.
Though
Mammachi had conical corneas and was already practically blind,
Pappachi would not help her with the pickle-making because he did not
consider pickle-making a suitable job for a highranking ex-Government
official. He had always been a jealous man, so he greatly resented
the attention his wife was suddenly getting. He slouched about the
compound in his immaculately tailored suits, weaving sullen circles
around mounds of red chilies and freshly powdered yellow turmeric,
watching Mammachi supervise the buying, the weighing, the salting and
drying, of limes and tender mangoes. Every night he beat her with a
brass flower vase. The beatings weren’t new. What was new was only
the frequency with which they took place. One night Pappachi broke
the bow of Mammachi’s violin and threw it in the river.
Then
Chacko came home for a summer vacation from Oxford. He had grown to
be a big man, and was, in those days, strong from rowing for Balliol.
A week after he arrived he found Pappachi beating Mammachi in the
study. Chacko strode into the room, caught Pappachi’s vase-hand and
twisted it around his back.
'I
never want this to happen again,' he told his father. 'Ever.'
For
the rest of that day Pappachi sat in the verandah and stared stonily
out at the ornamental garden, ignoring the plates of food that Kochu
Maria brought him. Late at night he went into his study and brought
out his favorite mahogany rocking chair. He put it down in the middle
of the driveway and smashed it into little bits with a plumber’s
monkey wrench. He left it there in the moonlight, a heap of varnished
wicker and splintered wood. He never touched Mammachi again. But he
never spoke to her either as long as he lived. When he needed
anything he used Kochu Maria or Baby Kochamma as intermediaries.
In
the evenings, when he knew visitors were expected, he would sit on
the verandah and sew buttons that weren’t missing onto his shirts,
to create the impression that Mammachi neglected him. To some small
degree he did succeed in further corroding Ayemenem’s view of
working wives.
He
bought the skyblue Plymouth from an old Englishman in Munnar. He
became a familiar sight in Ayemenem, coasting importantly down the
narrow road in his wide car looking outwardly elegant but sweating
freely inside his woolen suits. He wouldn’t allow Mammachi or
anyone else in the family to use it, or even to sit in it. The
Plymouth was Pappachi’s revenge.
Pappachi
had been an Imperial Entomologist at the Pusa Institute. After
Independence, when the British left, his designation was changed from
Imperial Entomologist to Joint Director, Entomology The year he
retired, he had risen to a rank equivalent to Director.
His
life’s greatest setback was not having had the moth that he
had discovered named after him.
It
fell into his drink one evening while he was sitting in the verandah
of a rest house
after a long day in the field. As he picked it out he noticed its
unusually dense dorsal tufts. He took a closer look. With growing
excitement he mounted it, measured it and the next morning placed it
in the sun for a few hours for the alcohol to evaporate. Then he
caught the first train back to Delhi. To taxonomic attention and, he
hoped, fame. After six unbearable months of anxiety, to Pappachi’s
intense disappointment he was told that his moth had finally been
identified as a slightly unusual race of a well-known species that
belonged to the tropical family Lymantriidae.
The
real blow came twelve years later, when, as a consequence of a
radical taxonomic reshuffle, lepidopterists decided that Pappachi’s
moth was
in
fact a separate species and genus hitherto unknown to science. By
then, of course, Pappachi had retired and moved to Ayemenem. It was
too late for him to assert his claim to the discovery. His moth was
named after the Acting Director of the Department of Entomology, a
junior officer whom Pappachi had always disliked.
Mathew
p.220
– Ch
11 The God of Small Things
Ammu
noticed that both her children were covered in a fine dust. Like two
pieces of lightly sugar-dusted, unidentical cake. Rahel had a blond
curl lodged among her black ones. A curl from Velutha’s backyard.
Ammu picked it out.
'I’ve
told you before,' she said. 'I don’t want you going to his house.
It will only cause trouble.'
What
trouble, she didn’t say. She didn’t know.
Somehow,
by not mentioning his name, she knew that she had drawn him into the
tousled intimacy of that blue cross-stitch afternoon and the song
from the tangerine transistor. By not mentioning his name, she sensed
that a pact had been forged between her Dream and the World. And that
the midwives of that pact were, or would be, her sawdust-coated
two-egg twins.
She
knew who he was—the God of Loss, the God of Small Things. Of
course
she did. She switched off the tangerine radio.
In
the afternoon silence (laced with edges of light), her children
curled into the warmth of her. The smell of her. They covered their
heads with her hair. They sensed somehow that in her sleep she had
traveled away from them. They summoned her back now with the palms of
their small hands laid flat against the bare skin of her midriff.
Between her petticoat and her blouse. They loved the fact that the
brown of the backs of their hands was the exact brown of their
mother’s stomach skin.
'Estha,
look,' Rahel said, plucking at the line of soft down that led
southwards from Ammu’s bellybutton.
'Here’s
where we kicked you.' Estha traced a wandering silver stretchmark
with his finger.
'Was
it in the bus, Ammu?'
'On
the winding estate road?'
'When
Baba had to hold your tummy?'
'Did
you have to buy tickets?'
'Did
we hurt you?'
And
then, keeping her voice casual, Rahel’s question: 'D’you think he
may have lost our address?'
Just
the hint of a pause in the rhythm of Ammu’s breathing made Estha
touch Rahel’s middle finger with his. And middle finger to middle
finger, on their beautiful mother’s midriff, they abandoned that
line of questioning.
'That’s
Estha’s kick, and that’s mine,' Rahel said. '…And that’s
Estha’s and that’s mine.'
Between
them they apportioned their mother’s seven silver stretch marks.
Then Rahel put her mouth on Ammu’s stomach and sucked at it,
pulling the soft flesh into her mouth and drawing her head back to
admire the shining oval of spit and the faint red imprint of her
teeth on her mother’s skin.
Ammu
wondered at the transparency of that kiss. It was a clear-as-glass
kiss. Unclouded by passion or desire—that pair of dogs that sleep
so soundly inside children, waiting for them to grow up. It was a
kiss that demanded no kiss-back.
Not
a cloudy kiss full of questions that wanted answers. Like the kisses
of cheerful one-armed men in dreams.
Ammu
grew tired of their proprietary handling of her. She wanted her body
back. It was hers. She shrugged her children off the way a bitch
shrugs off her pups when she’s had enough of them. She sat up and
twisted her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck. Then she swung
her legs off the bed, walked to the window and drew back the
curtains.
Slanting
afternoon light flooded the room and brightened two children on the
bed.
The
twins heard the lock turning in Ammu’s bathroom door.
Click.
Ammu
looked at herself in the long mirror on the bathroom door and the
specter of her future appeared in it to mock her. Pickled. Gray.
Rheumy-eyed. Cross-stitch roses on a slack, sunken cheek. Withered
breasts that hung like weighted socks. Dry as a bone between her
legs, the hair feather-white. Spare. As brittle as a pressed fern.
Skin
that flaked and shed like snow.
Ammu
shivered.
With
that cold feeling on a hot afternoon that Life had been Lived. That
her cup was full of dust. That the air, the sky, the trees, the sun,
the rain, the light and darkness were all slowly turning to sand.
That sand would fill her nostrils, her lungs, her mouth. Would pull
her down, leaving on the surface a spinning swirl like crabs leave
when they burrow downwards on a beach.
Ammu
undressed and put a red toothbrush under a breast to see if it would
stay. It didn’t Where she touched herself her flesh was taut and
smooth. Under her hands her nipples wrinkled and hardened like dark
nuts, pulling at the soft skin on her breasts. The thin line of down
from her belly button led over the gentle curve of the base of her
belly, to her dark triangle. Like an arrow directing a lost traveler.
An inexperienced lover
She
undid her hair and turned around to see how long it had grown. It
fell, in waves and curls and disobedient frizzy wisps—soft on the
inside, coarser on the outside—to just below where her small,
strong waist began its curve out towards her hips. The bathroom was
hot. Small beads of sweat studded her skin like diamonds. Then they
broke and trickled down. Sweat ran down the recessed line of her
spine. She looked a little critically at her round, heavy behind. Not
big in itself. Not big per
se
(as Chacko-of-Oxford would no doubt have put it). Big only because
the rest of her was so slender. It belonged on another, more
voluptuous body.
She
had to admit that they would happily support a toothbrush apiece.
Perhaps two. She laughed out loud at the idea of walking naked down
Ayemenem with an array of colored toothbrushes sticking out from
either cheek of her bottom. She silenced herself quickly. She saw a
wisp of madness escape from its bottle and caper triumphantly around
the bathroom.
Ammu
worried about madness.
Mammachi
said it ran in their family. That it came on people suddenly and
caught them unawares. There was Pathil Ammai, who at the age of
sixty-five began to take her clothes off and run naked along the
river, singing to the fish. There was Thampi Chachen, who searched
his shit every morning with a knitting-needle for a gold tooth he had
swallowed years ago. And Dr. Muthachen, who had to be removed from
his own wedding in a sack. Would future generations say, 'There was
Ammu—Ammu Ipe. Married a Bengali. Went quite mad. Died young. In a
cheap lodge somewhere.'
Chacko
said that the high incidence of insanity among Syrian Christians was
the price they paid for Inbreeding. Mammachi said it wasn’t.
Ammu
gathered up her heavy hair, wrapped it around her face, and peered
down the road to Age and Death through its parted strands. Like a
medieval executioner peering through the tilted eye-slits of his
peaked black hood at the executionee. A slender, naked executioner
with dark nipples and deep dimples when she smiled. With seven silver
stretchmarks from her two-egg twins, born to her by candlelight amid
news of a lost war.
It
wasn’t what lay at the end of her road that frightened Ammu as much
as the nature of the road itself. No milestones marked its progress.
No trees grew along it. No dappled shadows shaded it. No mists rolled
over it. No birds circled it. No twists, no turns or hairpin bends
obscured even momentarily her clear view of the end. This filled Ammu
with an awful dread, because she was not the kind of woman who wanted
her future told. She dreaded it too much. So if she were granted one
small wish, perhaps it would only have been Not to Know. Not to know
what each day held in store for her. Not to know where she might be,
next month, next year. Ten years on. Not to know which way her road
might turn and what lay beyond the bend. And Ammu knew. Or thought
she knew, which was really just as bad (because if in a dream you’ve
eaten fish, it means you’ve eaten fish). And what Ammu knew (or
thought she knew) smelled of the vapid, vinegary fumes that rose from
the cement vats—of Paradise Pickles. Fumes that wrinkled youth and
pickled futures.
Hooded
in her own hair, Ammu leaned against herself in the bathroom mirror
and tried to weep.
For
herself.
For
the God of Small Things.
For
the sugar-dusted twin midwives of her dream.
Sunil
p.228 – Ch 12
Kochu Thomban
June
is low season for kathakali. But there are some temples that a troupe
will not pass by without performing in. The Ayemenem temple wasn’t
one of them, but these days, thanks to its geography, things had
changed.
In
Ayemenem they danced to jettison their humiliation in the Heart of
Darkness. Their truncated swimming-pool performances. Their turning
to tourism to stave off starvation.
On
their way back from the Heart of Darkness, they stopped at the temple
to ask pardon of their gods. To apologize for corrupting their
stories. For encashing their identities. Misappropriating their
lives.
On
these occasions, a human audience was welcome, but entirely
incidental.
In
the broad, covered corridor—the colonnaded kuthambalam abutting the
heart of the temple where the Blue God lived with his flute, the
drummers drummed and the dancers danced, their colors turning slowly
in the night Rahel sat down cross-legged, resting her back against
the roundness of a white pillar. A tall canister of coconut oil
gleamed in the flickering light of the brass lamp. The oil
replenished the light. The light lit the tin.
It
didn’t matter that the story had begun, because kathakali
discovered long ago that the secret of the Great Stories is that they
have
no secrets. The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to
hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably.
They don’t deceive you with thrills and trick endings. They don’t
surprise you with the unforeseen. They are as familiar as the house
you live in. Or the smell of your lover’s skin. You know how they
end, yet you listen as though you don’t. In the way that although
you know that one day you will die, you live as though you won’t.
In the Great Stories you know who lives, who dies, who finds love,
who doesn’t. And yet you want to know again.
That
is their mystery and their magic.
To
the Kathakali Man these stories are his children and his childhood.
He has grown up within them. They are the house he was raised in, the
meadows he played in. They are his windows and his way of seeing. So
when he tells a story, he handles it as he would a child, of his own.
He teases it He punishes it. He sends it up—like a bubble. He
wrestles it to the ground and lets it go again. He laughs at it
because he loves it. He can fly you across whole worlds in minutes,
he can stop for hours to examine a wilting leaf. Or play with a
sleeping monkey’s tail. He can turn effortlessly from the carnage
of war into the felicity of a woman washing her hair in a mountain
stream. From the crafty ebullience of a rakshasa with a new idea into
a gossipy Malayali with a scandal to spread. From the sensuousness of
a woman with a baby at her breast into the seductive mischief of
Krishna’s smile. He can reveal the nugget of sorrow that happiness
contains. The hidden fish of shame in a sea of glory.
He
tells stories of the gods, but his yarn is spun from the ungodly,
human heart.
The
Kathakali Man is the most beautiful of men. Because his body is his
soul. His only instrument. From the age of three it has been planed
and polished, pared down, harnessed wholly to the task of
storytelling. He has magic in him, this man within the painted mask
and swirling skins.
But
these days he has become unviable. Unfeasible. Condemned goods. His
children deride him. They long to be everything that he is not. He
has watched them grow up to become clerks and bus conductors. Class
IV nongazetted officers. With unions of their own.
But
he himself, left dangling somewhere between heaven and earth, cannot
do what they do. He cannot slide down the aisles of buses, counting
change and selling tickets. He cannot answer bells that summon him.
He cannot stoop behind trays of tea and Marie biscuits.
In
despair, he turns to tourism. He enters the market. He hawks the only
thing he owns. The stories that his body can tell.
He
becomes a Regional Flavor.
In
the Heart of Darkness they mock him with their lolling nakedness and
their imported attention spans. He checks his rage and dances for
them. He collects his fee. He gets drunk. Or smokes a joint. Good
Kerala grass. It makes him laugh. Then he stops by the Ayemenem
Temple, he and the others with him, and they dance to ask pardon of
the gods.
Joe
p.174
– Ch 8 Welcome Home, Our Sophie Mol
A
little way away, Velutha walked up the shortcut through the rubber
trees. Barebodied. A coil of insulated electrical wire was looped
over one shoulder. He wore his printed dark-blue-and-black mundu
loosely folded up above his knees. On his back, his lucky leaf from
the birthmark tree (that made the monsoons come on time). His autumn
leaf at night.
Before
he emerged through the trees and stepped into the driveway, Rahel saw
him and slipped out of the Play and went to him.
Ammu
saw her go.
Offstage,
she watched them perform their elaborate Official Greeting. Velutha
curtsied as he had been taught to, his mundu spread like a skirt,
like the English dairymaid in “The King’s Breakfast” Rahel
bowed (and said “Bow”). Then they hooked little fingers and shook
hands gravely with the mien of bankers at a convention.
In
the dappled sunlight filtering through the dark-green trees, Ammu
watched Velutha lift her daughter effortlessly as though she was an
inflatable child, made of air. As he tossed her up and she landed in
his arms, Ammu saw on Rahel’s face the high delight of the airborne
young.
She
saw the ridges of muscle on Velutha’s stomach grow taut and rise
under his skin like the divisions on a slab of chocolate. She
wondered at how his body had changed—so quietly, from a flatmuscled
boy’s body into a man’s body. Contoured and hard. A swimmer’s
body. A swimmer-carpenter’s body. Polished with a high-wax body
polish.
He
had high cheekbones and a white, sudden smile.
It
was his smile that reminded Ammu of Velutha as a little boy. Helping
Vellya Paapen to count coconuts. Holding out little gifts he had made
for her, flat on the palm of his hand so that she could take them
without touching him. Boats, boxes, small windmills. Calling her
Ammukutty. Little Ammu. Though she was so much less little than he
was. When she looked at him now, she couldn’t help thinking that
the man he had become bore so little resemblance to the boy he had
been. His smile was the only piece of baggage he had carried with him
from boyhood into manhood.
Suddenly
Ammu hoped that it had been him that Rahel saw in the march. She
hoped it had been him that had raised his flag and knotted arm in
anger. She hoped that under his careful cloak of cheerfulness he
housed a living, breathing anger against the smug, ordered world that
she so raged against.
She
hoped it had been him.
She
was surprised at the extent of her daughter’s physical ease with
him. Surprised that her child seemed to have a sub-world that
excluded her entirely. A tactile world of smiles and laughter that
she, her mother, had no part in. Ammu recognized vaguely that her
thoughts were shot with a delicate, purple tinge of envy. She didn’t
allow herself to consider who it was that she envied. The man or her
own child. Or just their world of hooked fingers and sudden smiles.
The
man standing in the shade of the rubber trees with coins of sunshine
dancing on his body, holding her daughter in his arms, glanced up and
caught Ammu’s gaze. Centuries telescoped into one evanescent
moment. History was wrong-footed, caught off guard. Sloughed off like
an old snakeskin. Its marks, its scars, its wounds from old wars and
the walking-backwards days all fell away. In its absence it left an
aura, a palpable shimmering that was as plain to see as the water in
a river or the sun in the sky. As plain to feel as the heat on a hot
day, or the tug of a fish on a taut line. So obvious that no one
noticed.
In
that brief moment, Velutha looked up and saw things that he hadn’t
seen before. Things that had been out of bounds so far, obscured by
history’s blinkers.
Simple
things.
For
instance, he saw that Rahel’s mother was a woman.
That
she had deep dimples when she smiled and that they stayed on long
after her smile left her eyes. He saw that her brown arms were round
and firm and perfect That her shoulders shone, but her eyes were
somewhere else. He saw that when he gave her gifts they no longer
needed to be offered flat on the palms of his hands so that she
wouldn’t have to touch him. His boats and boxes. His little
windmills. He saw too that he was not necessarily the only giver of
gifts. That she had gifts to give him, too.
This
knowing slid into him cleanly, like the sharp edge of a knife. Cold
and hot at once. It only took a moment.
Ammu
saw that he saw. She looked away. He did too. History’s fiends
returned to claim them. To re-wrap them in its old, scarred pelt and
drag them back to where they really lived. Where the Love Laws lay
down who should be loved. And how. And how much.
Bobby
p.
201 – Ch 10 The River in the Boat
Outside,
the Air was Alert and Bright and Hot. Rahel lay next to Ammu, wide
awake in her matching airport knickers. She could see the pattern of
the cross-stitch flowers from the blue cross-stitch counterpane on
Ammu’s cheek. She could hear the blue cross-stitch afternoon.
The
slow ceiling fan. The sun behind the curtains.
The
yellow wasp wasping against the windowpane in a dangerous dzzzz.
A
disbelieving lizard’s blink.
High-stepping
chickens in the yard.
The
sound of the sun crinkling the washing. Crisping white bedsheets.
Stiffening starched saris. Off-white and gold.
Red
ants on yellow stones.
A
hot cow feeling hot. Amhoo.
In the distance.
And
the smell of a cunning Englishman ghost, sickled to a rubber tree,
asking courteously for a cigar.
'Umm…
excuse me? You wouldn’t happen to have an umm… cigar, would you?'
In
a kind, schoolteacherly voice.
Oh
dear.
And
Estha waiting for her. By the river. Under the mangosteen tree that
Reverend E.John Ipe had brought home from his visit to Mandalay.
What
was Estha sitting on? On what they always sat on under the mangosteen
tree. Something gray and grizzled. Covered in moss and lichen,
smothered in ferns. Something that the earth had claimed. Not a log.
Not a rock . . .
Before
she completed the thought, Rahel was up and running.
Through
the kitchen, past Kochu Maria fast asleep. Thickwrinkied like a
sudden rhinoceros in a frilly apron.
Past
the factory.
Tumbling
barefoot through the greenheat, followed by a yellow wasp.
Comrade
Estha was there. Under the mangosteen tree. With the red flag planted
in the earth beside him. A Mobile Republic. A Twin Revolution with a
Puff.
And
what was he sitting on?
Something
covered with moss, hidden by ferns.
Knock
on it and it made a hollow knocked-on sound.
The
silence dipped and soared and swooped and looped in figures of eight.
Jeweled
dragonflies hovered like shrill children’s voices in the sun.
Finger-colored
fingers fought the ferns, moved the stones, cleared the way. There
was a sweaty grappling for an edge to hold on to. And a One Two and.
Things
can change in a day.
Kavita
p. 161 – Ch 7 Wisdom Exercise
Notebooks
Ammu
died in a grimy room in the Bharat Lodge in Alleppey, where she had
gone for a job interview as someone’s secretary. She died alone.
With a noisy ceiling fan for company and no Estha to lie at the back
of her and talk to her. She was thirty-one. Not old, not young, but a
viable, die-able age.
She
had woken up at night to escape from a familiar, recurrent dream in
which policemen approached her with snicking scissors, wanting to
hack off her hair. They did that in Kottayam to prostitutes whom
they’d caught in the bazaar—branded them so that everybody would
know them for what they were. Veshyas. So that new policemen on the
beat would have no trouble identifying whom to harass. Ammu always
noticed them in the market, the women with vacant eyes and forcibly
shaved heads in the land where long, oiled hair was only for the
morally upright.
That
night in the lodge, Ammu sat up in the strange bed in the strange
room in the strange town. She didn’t know where she was, she
recognized nothing around her. Only her fear was familiar. The
faraway man inside her began to shout. This time the steely fist
never loosened its grip. Shadows gathered like bats in the steep
hollows near her collarbone.
The
sweeper found her in the morning. He switched off the fan.
She
had a deep blue sac under one eye that was bloated like a bubble. As
though her eye had tried to do what her lungs couldn’t. Some time
close to midnight, the faraway man who lived in her chest had stopped
shouting. A platoon of ants carried a dead cockroach sedately through
the door, demonstrating what should be done with corpses.
The
church refused to bury Ammu. On several counts. So Chacko hired a van
to transport the body to the electric crematorium. He had her wrapped
in a dirty bedsheet and laid out on a stretcher. Rahel thought she
looked like a Roman Senator. Et
tu, Ammu!
she thought and smiled, remembering Estha.
It
was odd driving through bright, busy streets with a dead Roman
Senator on the floor of the van. It made the blue sky bluer. Outside
the van windows, people, like cut-out paper puppets, went on with
their paper-puppet lives. Real life was inside the van. Where real
death was. Over the jarring bumps and potholes in the road, Ammu’s
body jiggled and slid off the stretcher. Her head hit an iron bolt on
the floor. She didn’t wince or wake up. There was a hum in Rahel’s
head, and for the rest of the day Chacko had to shout at her if he
wanted to be heard.
The
crematorium had the same rotten, rundown air of a railway station,
except that it was deserted. No trains, no crowds. Nobody except
beggars, derelicts and the police-custody dead were cremated there.
People who died with nobody to lie at the back of them and talk to
them. When Ammu’s turn came, Chacko held Rahel’s hand tightly.
She didn’t want her hand held. She used the slickness of
crematorium sweat to slither out of his grip. No one else from the
family was there.
The
steel door of the incinerator went up and the muted hum of the
eternal fire became a red roaring. The heat lunged out at them like a
famished beast. Then Rahel’s Ammu was fed to it. Her hair, her
skin, her smile. Her voice. The way she used Kipling to love her
children before putting them to bed: We
be of one blood, thou and I! Her
goodnight kiss. The way she held their faces steady with one hand
(squashed-cheeked, fish-mouthed) while she parted and combed their
hair with the other. The way she held knickers out, for Rahel to
climb into. Left
leg, right leg.
All this was fed to the beast, and it was satisfied.
She
was their Ammu and their Baba and she had loved them Double.
The
door of the furnace clanged shut. There were no tears.
KumKum
p.
263 – Ch 13 The Pessimist and the Optimist
Meanwhile,
Baby Kochamma returned to Ayemenem. The Plymouth was parked in the
driveway. Margaret Kochamma and Chacko were back from Cochin.
Sophie
Mol was laid out on the chaise longue.
When
Margaret Kochamma saw her little daughter’s body, shock swelled in
her like phantom applause in an empty auditorium. It overflowed in a
wave of vomit and left her mute and empty-eyed. She mourned two
deaths, not one. With the loss of Sophie Mol, Joe died again. And
this time there was no homework to finish or egg to eat. She had come
to Ayemenem to heal her wounded world, and had lost all of it
instead. She shattered like glass.
Her
memory of the days that followed was fuzzy. Long, dim, hours of
thick, furry-tongued serenity (medically administered by Dr. Verghese
Verghese) lacerated by sharp, steely slashes of hysteria, as keen and
cutting as the edge of a new razor blade.
She
was vaguely conscious of Chacko—concerned and gentlevoiced when he
was by her
side—otherwise incensed, blowing like an enraged wind through the
Ayemenem House. So different from the amused Rumpled Porcupine she
had met that long-ago Oxford morning at the cafâ.
She
remembered faintly the funeral in the yellow church. The sad singing.
A bat that had bothered someone. She remembered the sounds of doors
being battered down, and frightened women’s voices. And how at
night the bush crickets had sounded like creaking stars and amplified
the fear and gloom that hung over the Ayemenem House.
She
never forgot her irrational rage at the other two younger children
who had for some reason been spared. Her fevered mind fastened like a
limpet onto the notion that Estha was somehow responsible for Sophie
Mol’s death.
Priya
p.324
– Ch 20 The Madras Mail
It
took the twins years to understand Ammu’s part in what had
happened. At Sophie Mol’s funeral and in the days before Estha was
Returned, they saw her swollen eyes, and with the self-centeredness
of children, held themselves wholly culpable for her grief.
'Eat
the sandwiches before they get soggy,' Ammu said. 'And don’t forget
to write.'
She
scanned the finger-nails of the little hand she held, and slid a
black sickle of dirt from under the thumb-nail.
'And
look after my sweetheart for me. Until I come and get him.'
'When,
Ammu? When will you come for him?'
'Soon.'
'But
when? When eggzackly?'
'Soon,
sweetheart. As soon as I can.'
'Month-after-next?
Ammu?' Deliberately making it a long time away so that Ammu would say
Before
that, Estha. Be practical. What about your studies?
'As
soon as I get a job. As soon as I can go away from here and get a
job,' Ammu said.
'But
that will be never!' A wave of panic. A bottomless bottomful feeling.
The
eating lady eavesdropped indulgently.
'See
how nicely he speaks English,' she said to her children in Tamil.
'But that will be never,' her oldest daughter said combatively… 'En
ee vee ee aar. Never.'
By
'never' Estha had only meant that it would be too far away. That it
wouldn’t be now,
wouldn’t be soon.
By
'never' he hadn’t meant, Not Ever.
But
that’s how the words came out
But
that will be never!
For
Never they just took the O and T out of Not Ever.
They?
The
Government. Where people were sent to Jolly Well Behave.
And
that’s how it had all turned out.
Never.
Not Ever.
It
was his
fault that the faraway man in Ammu’s chest stopped shouting. His
fault that she died alone in the lodge with no one to lie at the back
of her and talk to her.
Because
he was the one that had said
it But
Ammu that will be never!
'Don’t
be silly, Estha. It’ll be soon,' Ammu’s mouth said. 'I’ll be a
teacher. I’ll start a school. And you and Rahel will be in it.'
'And
we’ll be able to afford it because it will be Ours!' Estha said
with his enduring pragmatism. His eye on the main chance. Free bus
rides. Free funerals. Free education. Little Man. He lived in a
cara-van. Dum dum.
'We’ll
have our own house,' Ammu said.
'A
little house,' Rahel said.
'And
in our school we’ll have classrooms and blackboards,' Estha said.
'And
chalk.'
'And
Real Teachers teaching.'
'And
proper punishments,' Rahel said.
This
was the stuff their dreams were made of. On the day that Estha was
Returned. Chalk. Blackboards. Proper punishments.
They
didn’t ask to be let off lightly. They only asked for punishments
that fitted their crimes. Not ones that came like cupboards with
built-in bedrooms. Not ones you spent your whole life in, wandering
through its maze of shelves.
Without
warning the train began to move. Very slowly.
Estha’s
pupils dilated. His nails dug into Ammu’s hand as she walked along
the platform. Her walk turning into a run as the Madras Mail picked
up speed.
Godbless,
my baby. My sweetheart. I’ll come for you soon!
'Ammu!'
Estha said as she disengaged her hand. Prising loose small finger
after finger. 'Ammu! Feeling vomity!' Estha’s voice lifted into a
wail.
Little
Elvis-the-Pelvis with a spoiled, special-outing puff. And beige and
pointy shoes. He left his voice behind.
On
the station platform Rahel doubled over and screamed and screamed.
The
train pulled out. The light pulled in.
Absolutely delightful account of KRG's Session on Arundhati Roy's book God of Small Things. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed reading the book, enjoyed our session on the 12th of April, now, your account.
It is obvious, when we discussed the book we digressed quite far, verging towards “gossip”.
Your account will retain its journalistic crispness, if you could expunge the utter irrelevant stuff from it.
KumKum
Joe, You have got me wrong. I believe AR spoke about oral sex very casually over breakfast, in the presence of her brother and remarked, addressing him that oral sex is no longer a taboo subject. Everybody knows and talks about it. My friend who narrated this was horrified and embarrassed about the subject being discussed so casually and that too publicly.
ReplyDeleteI mentioned this only to highlight the fact that AR seems to be comfortable with subversive lifestyle, especially the relationship between Estha and Rahel. I for one would like to give the incest inference a miss and therefore it does not exist for me in the book.
Never get tired of the book and enjoyed each and every comment and contribution. Greetings to all from afar! Nimmi
ReplyDelete