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kappa and meen vevichathu that they hadn‟t eaten for so long.
With love and a lick of shame that their families who had come to
meet them were so… so… gawkish. Look at the way they dressed!
Surely they had more suitable airport wear! Why did Malayalees
have such awful teeth?
And the airport itself! More like the local bus depot! The
birdshit on the building! Oh the spitstains on the kangaroos!
Oho! Going to the dogs India is.
When long bus journeys, and overnight stays at the airport,
were met by love and a lick of shame, small cracks appeared,
which would grow and grow, and before they knew it, the Foreign
Returnees would be trapped outside the History House, and have
their dreams re-dreamed.
Then, there, among the wash‟n‟wear suits and shiny
suitcases, Sophie Mol.
Thimble-drinker.
Coffin-Cartwheeler.
She walked down the runway, the smell of London in her
hair. Yellow bottoms of bells flapped backwards around her
ankles. Long hair floated out from under her straw hat. One hand
in her mother‟s. The other swinging like a soldier‟s (left left
lefrightleft).
There was
A girl,
Tall and
Thin and
Fair.
Her hair–
Her hair
Was the delicate colorriv
Gin-nnn-ger (left-lef-right)
There was
A girl–
Margaret Kochamma told her to Stoppit.
So she Stoppited.