Arundhati Roy - The God of Small Things

Then Estha unraveled her. The cement kangaroos were watching. Ammu looked at them. The Air was quiet except for the sound of Baby Kochamma’s throbbing neckmole.

“So,” Ammu said.

And it was really a question. So?

And it hadn’t an answer.

Ambassador Estha looked down, and saw that his shoes (from where the angry feelings rose) were beige and pointy. Ambassador Rahel looked down and saw that in her Bata sandals her toes were trying to disconnect themselves. Twitching to join someone else’s feet. And that she couldn’t stop them. Soon she’d be without toes and have a bandage like the leper at the level crossing.

“If you ever,” Ammu said, “and I mean this, EVER, ever again disobey me in Public, I will see to it that you are sent away to somewhere where you will jolly well learn to behave. Is that clear?”

When Ammu was really angry she said jolly well. Jolly Well was a deeply well with larfing dead people in it.

“Is. That. Clear?” Ammu said again.

Frightened eyes and a fountain looked back at Ammu.

Sleepy eyes and a surprised puff looked back at Ammu.

Two heads nodded three times.

Yes. It’s. Clear.

But Baby Kochamma was dissatisfied with the fizzling out of a situation that had been so full of potential. She tossed her head.

“As if!” she said.

As if!

Ammu turned to her, and the turn of her head was a question. “It’s useless,” Baby Kochamma said. “They’re sly. They’re Uncouth, Deceitful. They’re growing wild. You can’t manage them.”

Ammu turned back to Estha and Rahel and her eyes were blurred jewels.

“Everybody says that children need a Baba. And I say no. Not my children. D’you know why?”

Two heads nodded.

“Why. Tell me,” Ammu said.

And not together, but almost, Esthappen and Rahel said:

“Because you’re our Ammu and our Baba and you love us Double.”

“More than Double,” Ammu said. “So remember what I told you. People’s feelings are precious. And when you disobey me in Public, everybody gets the wrong impression.”

“What Ambassadors and a half you’ve been!” Baby Kochamma said.

Ambassador E. Pelvis and Ambassador S. Insect hung their heads. “And the other thing, Rahel,” Ammu said, “I think it’s high time that you learned the difference between CLEAN and DIRTY. Especially in this country.”

Ambassador Rahel looked down.

“Your dress is-was-CLEAN,” Ammu said. “That curtain is DIRTY. Those Kangaroos are DIRTY. Your hands are DIRTY.”

Rahel was frightened by the way Ammu said CLEAN and DIRTY so loudly. As though she was talking to a deaf person.

“Now, I want you to go and say Hello properly,” Ammu said. “Are you going to do that or not?”

Two heads nodded twice.

Ambassador Estha and Ambassador Rahel walked towards Sophie Mol.

“Where d’you think people are sent to Jolly Well Behave?” Estha asked Rahel in a whisper.

“To the government,” Rahel whispered back, because she knew. “How do you do?” Estha said to Sophie Mol loud enough for Ammu to hear.

“Just like a laddoo one pice two,” Sophie Mol whispered to Estha. She had learned this in school from a Pakistani classmate.

Estha looked at Ammu.

Ammu’s look said Never Mind Her As Long As You’ve Done The Right Thing.

On their way across the airport car park, Hotweather crept into their clothes and dampened crisp knickers. The children lagged behind, weaving through parked cars and taxis. -

“Does Yours hit you?” Sophie Mol asked.

Rahel and Estha, unsure of the politics of this, said nothing.

“Mine does,” Sophie Mol said invitingly. “Mine even Slaps.”

“Ours doesn’t,” Estha said loyally.

“Lucky,” Sophie Mol said.

Lucky rich boy with porketmunny. And a grandmother’s factory to inherit. No worries.

They walked past the Class III Airport Workers’ Union token one-day hunger strike. And past the people watching the Class III Airport Workers’ Union token one-day hunger strike.

And past the people watching the people watching the people.

A small tin sign on a big banyan tree said For VD. Sex Complaints contact Dr. OK Joy.

“Who d’you love Most in the World?” Rahel asked Sophie Mol. “Joe,” Sophie Mol said without hesitation. “My dad. He died two months ago. We’ve come here to Recover from the Shock”

“But Chacko’s your dad,” Estha said.-

“He’s just my realdad,” Sophie Mol said. “Joe’s my dad. He never hits. Hardly ever.”

“How can he hit if he’s dead?” Estha asked reasonably.

“Where’s your dad?” Sophie Mol wanted to know.

“He’s…” and Rahel looked at Estha for help.

“…not here,” Estha said.

“Shall I tell you my list?” Rahel asked Sophie Mol.

“If you like,” Sophie Mol said.

“Rahel’s `list” was an attempt to order chaos. She revised it constantly, torn forever between love and duty. It was by no means a true gauge of her feelings.

“First Ammu and Chacko,” Rahel said. “Then Mammachi-”

“Our grandmother,” Estha clarified.

“More than your brother?” Sophie Mol asked.

“We don’t count,” Rahel said. “And anyway he might change. Ammu says.”

“How d’you mean? Change into what?” Sophie Mol asked.

“Into a Male Chauvinist Pig,” Rahel said.

“Very unlikely,” Estha said.

“Anyway, after Mammachi, Velutha, and then-”

“Who’s Velutha?” Sophie Mol wanted to know.

“A man we love,” Rahel said. “And after Velutha, you,” Rahel said “Me? What d’you love me for?” Sophie Mol said. “Because we’re firstcousins. So I have to,” Rahel said piously. “But you don’t even know me,” Sophie Mol said. “And anyway, I don’t love you.”

“But you will, when you come to know me,” Rahel said confidently.

“I doubt it,” Estha said.

“Why not?” Sophie Mol said.

“Because,” Estha said. “And anyway she’s most probably going to be a dwarf.”

As though loving a dwarf was completely out of the question.

“I’m not,” Rahel said.

“You are,” Estha said.

“I’m not”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. We’re twins,” Estha explained to Sophie Mol, “and just see how much shorter she is.”

Rahel obligingly took a deep breath, threw her chest out and stood back to back with Estha in the airport car park, for Sophie Mol to see just how much shorter she was.

Maybe you’ll be a midget,” Sophie Mol suggested. “That’s taller than a dwarf and shorter than a… Human Being.”

The silence was unsure of this compromise.

In the doorway of the Arrivals Lounge, a shadowy, red-mouthed roo-shaped silhouette waved a cemently paw only at Rahel. Cement kisses whirred through the air like small helicopters.

“D’you know how to sashay?” Sophie Mol wanted to know.

“No. We don’t sashay in India,” Ambassador Estha said.

“Well, in England we do,” Sophie Mol said. “All the models do. On television. Look-it’s easy.”

And the three of them, led by Sophie Mol, sashayed across the airport car park, swaying like fashion models, Eagle flasks and Made-in-England go-go bags bumping around their hips. Damp dwarfs walking tall.

Shadows followed them. Silver jets in a blue church sky, like moths in a beam of light.

The skyblue Plymouth with tailfins had a smile for Sophie Mol. A chromebumpered sharksmile.

A Paradise Pickles carsmile.

When she saw the carrier with the painted pickle bottles and the list of Paradise products, Margaret Kochamma said, “Oh dear! I feel as though I’m in an advertisement!” She said Oh dear! a lot.

Oh dear! Oh dearohdear!