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“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.