The God of Small Things - Get a Free Blog

“Oower, oower, oower. In Amayrica now, isn‟t it.” It wasn‟t
a question. It was sheer admiration.
He remembered vaguely a whiff of scandal. He had forgotten
the details, but remembered that it had involved sex and death. It
had been in the papers. After a brief silence and another series of
small nods, the man handed Comrade Pillai the sachet of
photographs.
“Okay then, comrade, I‟ll be off.”
He had a bus to catch.
“So!” Comrade Pillai‟s smile broadened as he turned all his
attention like a searchlight on Rahel. His gums were startlingly
pink, the reward for a lifetime‟s uncompromising vegetarianism.
He was the kind of man whom it was hard to imagine had once
been a boy. Or a baby. He looked as though he had been born
middle aged. With a receding hairline.
“Mol‟s husband?” he wanted to know.
“Hasn‟t come.”
“Any photos?”
“No.”
“Name?”
“Larry. Lawrence.”
“Oower. Lawrence.” Comrade Pillai nodded as though he
agreed with it. As though given a choice, it was the very one he
would have picked.
“Any issues?”
“No,” Rahel said.
“Still in planning stages, I suppose? Or expecting?‟
“No.”
“One is must. Boy, girl. Anyone,” Comrade Pillai said. “Two
is of course your choice.”
“We‟re divorced.” Rahel hoped to shock him into silence.
“Die-vorced?” His voice rose to such a high register that it cracked
on the question mark. He even pronounced the word as though it
were a form of death.