Arundhati Roy - The God of Small Things

Back inside the hairoil darkness, Estha held his Other Hand carefully (upwards, as though he was holding an imagined orange). He slid past the Audience (their legs moving thiswayandthat), past Baby Kochamma, past Rahel (still tilted back), past Ammu (still annoyed). Estha sat down, still holding his sticky orange.

And there was Baron von Clapp-Trapp-Christopher Plummer. Arrogant. Hardhearted. With a mouth like a slit. And a steel shrill police whistle. A captain with seven children. Clean children, like a packet of peppermints. He pretended not to love them, but he did. He loved them. He loved her (Julie Andrews), she loved him, they loved the children, the children loved them. They all loved each other. They were clean, white children, and their beds were soft with Ei. Der. Downs.

The house they lived in had a lake and gardens, a wide staircase, white doors and windows, and curtains with flowers.

The clean white children, even the big ones, were scared of the thunder. To comfort them, Julie Andrews put them all into her clean bed, and sang them a clean song about a few of her favorite things. These were a few of her favorite things:

(1) Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes.

(2) Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings.

(3) Bright copper kettles.

(4) Doorbells and sleigbbells and.rcbnizzel with noodles.

(5) Etc.

And then, in the minds of certain two-egg twin members of the audience in Abhilash Talkies, some questions arose that needed answers:

(a)Did Baron von Clapp- Trapp shiver his leg?

He did not.

(b)Did Baron von Clapp-Trapp blow spit bubbles? Did be?

He did most certainly not.

(c)Did he gobble?

He did not.

Oh Baron von Trapp, Baron von Trapp, could you love the little fellow with the orange in the smelly auditorium?

He’s just held the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man’s soo-soo in his hand, but could you love him still?

And his twin sister? Tilting upwards with her fountain in a Love-in-Tokyo? Could you love her too?

Baron von Trapp had some questions of his own.

(a)Are they clean white children? No. (But Sophie Mol is.)

(b)Do they blow spit bubbles? Yes. (But Sophie Mol doesn’t.)

(c)Do they shiver their legs? Like clerks? Yes. (But Sophie Mol doesn’t.)

(d)Have they, either or both, ever held strangers’ soo-soos?

N… Nyes. (But Sophie Mol hasn’t.)

“Then I’m sorry,” Baron von Clapp-Trapp said. “It’s out of the question. I cannot love them. I cannot be their Baba. Oh no.”

Baron von Clapp-Trapp couldn’t

Estha put his head in his lap.

“What’s the matter?” Ammu said. “If you’re sulking again, I’m taking you straight home. Sit up please. And watch. That’s what you’ve been brought here for.”

Finish the drink.

Watch the picture.

Think of all thepoorpeople-

Lucky rich boy with porketmunny. No worries.

Estha sat up and watched. His stomach heaved. He had a greenwavy, thick-watery, lumpy, seaweedy, floaty bottomless-bottomful feeling.

“Ammu?” he said.

“Now WHAT?” The WHAT snapped, barked, spat out. “Feeling vomity,” Estha said.

“Just feeling or d’you want to?” Ammu’s voice was worried. “Don’t know.”

“Shall we go and try?” Ammu said. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“Okay,” Estha said.

Okay? Okay.”Where’re you going?” Baby Kochamma wanted to know. `Estha’s going to try and vomit,” Ammu said. “Where’re you going?” Rahel asked.

“Feeling vomity,” Estha said. “Can I come and watch?” “No,” Ammu said.

Past the Audience again (legs thiswayandthat). Last time to sing. This time to try and vomit Exit through the EXIT. Outside in the marble lobby, the Orangedrink Lemondrink man was eating a sweet His cheek was bulging with a moving sweet He made soft, sucking sounds like water draining from a basin. There was a green Parry’s wrapper on the counter. Sweets were free for this man. He had a row of free sweets in dim bottles. He wiped the marble counter with his dirtcolored rag that he held in his hairy watch hand. When he saw the luminous woman with polished shoulders and the little boy, a shadow slipped across his face. Then he smiled his portable piano smile.

“Out again so soon?” he said.

Estha was already retching. Ammu moonwalked him to the Princess Circle bathroom. HERS.

He was held up, wedged between the notclean basin and Ammu’s body. Legs dangling. The basin had steel taps, and rust stains. And a brownwebbed mesh of hairline cracks, like the road map of some great, intricate city.

Estha convulsed, but nothing came. Just thoughts. And they floated out and floated back in. Ammu couldn’t see them. They hovered like storm clouds over the Basin City But the basin men and basin women went about their usual basin business. Basin cars, and basin buses still whizzed around. Basin Life went on.

“No?” Ammu said. “No,” Estha said. No? No. “Then wash your face,” Ammu said. “Water always helps. Wash your face and let’s go and have a fizzy lemondrink.”

Estha washed his face and hands and face and hands. His eyelashes were wet and bunched together. -

The Orangedrink Lemondrink Man folded the green sweet wrapper and fixed the fold with his painted thumbnail. He stunned a fly with a rolled magazine. Delicately, he flicked it over the edge of the counter onto the floor. It lay on its back and waved its feeble legs. -

“Sweet boy this,” he said to Ammu. “Sings nicely.”

“He’s my son,” Ammu said. -

“Really?” the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man said, and looked at Ammu with his teeth. “Really? You don’t look old enough-”

“He’s not feeling well,” Ammu said. “I thought a cold drink would make him feel better.”

“Of course,” the Man said. `Of course of course. Orangelemon? Lemonorange?” Dreadful, dreaded question.

“No. Thank you.” Estha looked at Ammu. Greenwavy, seaweedy, bottomless-bottomful.

“What about you?” The Orangedrink Lemondrink Man asked Ammu. “Coca-ColaFanta? Icecream Rosemilk?”

“No. Not for me. Thank you,” Ammu said. Deep dimpled, luminous woman.

“Here,” the Man said, with a fistful of sweets, like a generous Air Hostess. “These are for your little Mon.”

“No thank you,” Estha said, looking at Ammu.

“Take them, Estha,” Ammu said. “Don’t be rude.’

Estha took them.

“Say thank you,” Ammu said.

“Thank you,” Estha said. (For the sweets, for the white egg white.) “No mention,” the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man said in English.

“So!” he said. “Mon says you’re from Ayemenem?”

“Yes,” Ammu said.

“I come there often,” the Orangedrink Lemondrink man said. “My wife’s people are Ayemenem people. I know where your factory is. Paradise Pickles, isn’t it? He told me. Your Mon.”

He knew where to find Estha. That was what he was trying to say. It was a warning.

Ammu saw her son’s bright feverbutton eyes.

“We must go,” she said. “Mustn’t risk a fever. Their cousin is coming tomorrow.” She explained to Uncle. And then, added casually, “From London.”

“From London?” A new respect gleamed in Uncle’s eyes. For a family with London connections.

“Estha, you stay here with Uncle. I’ll get Baby Kochamma and Rahel,” Ammu said.

“Come,” Uncle said. “Come and sit with me on a high stool.”

“No, Ammu! No, Ammu, no! I want to come with you!” Ammu, surprised at the unusually shrill insistence from her usually quiet son, apologized to the Orangedrink Lemondrink Uncle.

“He’s not usually like this. Come on then, Esthappen.”

The back-inside smell. Fan shadows. Backs of heads. Necks. Collars. Hair. Buns. Plaits. Ponytails.