The God of Small Things - Get a Free Blog

Ammu said, “Can you see her, Rahel?”
She turned around to find her crisp-knickered daughter
communing with cement marsupials. She went and fetched her,
scoldingly. Chacko said he couldn‟t take Rahel on his shoulders
because he was already carrying something. Two roses red.
Fatly.
Fondly.
When Sophie Mol walked into the Arrivals Lounge, Rahel,
overcome by excitement and resentment, pinched Estha hard. His
skin between her nails. Estha gave her a Chinese Bangle, twisting
the skin on her wrist different ways with each of his hands. Her
skin became a welt and hurt. When she licked it, it tasted of salt.
The spit on her wrist was cool and comfortable.
Ammu never noticed.
Across the tall iron railing that separated Meeters from the
Met, and Greeters from the Gret, Chacko, beaming, bursting
through his suit and sideways tie, bowed to his new daughter and
ex-wife.
In his mind, Estha said, “Bow.”
“Hello, Ladies,” Chacko said in his Reading Aloud voice
(last night‟s voice in which he said, Love. Madness. Hope.
Infinnate joy). “And how was your journey?”
And the Air was full Of Thoughts and Things to Say. But at
times like these, only the Small Things are ever said. The Big
Things lurk unsaid inside.
“Say Hello and How d‟you do?” Margaret Kochamma said
to Sophie Mol.
“Hello and How d‟you do?” Sophie Mol said through the
iron railing, to everyone in particular.
“One for you and one for you,” Chacko said with his roses.
“And Thank you?” Margaret Kochamma said to Sophie Mol.
“And Thank you?” Sophie Mol said to Chacko, mimicking
her mother‟s question mark. Margaret Kochamma shook her a little