The God of Small Things - Get a Free Blog

Love-in-Tokyo. She heard a nun‟s voice singing the boat song. A
clear soprano wafting over vinegar fumes and pickle vats.
She turned to Estha bent over the scarlet broth in the black
cauldron.
“What d‟you want?” Estha asked without looking up.
“Nothing,” Rahel said.
“Then why have you come here?”
Rahel didn‟t reply. There was a brief, hostile silence.
“Why‟re you rowing the jam?” Rahel asked.
“India‟s a Free Country,” Estha said.
No one could argue with that.
India was a Free Country
You could make salt. Row jam, if you wanted to.
The Orangedrink Lemondrink Man could just walk in
through the gauze doors,
If he wanted to.
And Ammu would offer him pineapple juice. With ice.
Rahel sat on the edge of a cement vat (frothy ends of
buckram and lace, delicately dipped in tender mango pickle) and
tried on the
rubber finger guards. Three bluebottles fiercely fought the
gauze doors, wanting to be let in. And Ousa the Bar Nowl watched
the pickle-smelling silence that lay between the twins like a bruise.
Rahel‟s fingers were Yellow Green Blue Red Yellow.
Estha‟s jam was stirred.
Rahel got up to go. For her Afternoon Gnap.
“Where‟re you going?”
“Somewhere.”
Rahel took off her new fingers, and had her old
finger-colored fingers back. Not yellow, not green, not blue, not
red. Not yellow
“I‟m going to Akkara,” Estha said. Not looking up. “To the
History House.”
Rahel stopped and turned around, and on her heart a drab