The God of Small Things - Get a Free Blog

Hey Mr Monkey Man
Why‟s your BUM so RED?
I went for a SHIT to Madras
And scraped it till it BLED!
Temporarily, for a few happy moments, the Orangedrink
Lemondrink Man shut his yellow smile and went away. Fear sank
and settled at the bottom of the deep water. Sleeping a dog‟s sleep.
Ready to rise and murk things at a moment‟s notice.
Velutha smiled when he saw the Marxist flag blooming like
a tree outside his doorway. He had to bend low in order to enter his
home. A tropical Eskimo. When he saw the children, something
clenched inside him. And he couldn‟t understand it. He saw them
every day. He loved them without knowing it. But it was different
suddenly. Now. After History had slipped up so badly. No fist had
clenched inside him before.
Her children, an insane whisper whispered to him.
Her eyes, her mouth. Her teeth.
Her soft, lambent skin.
He drove the thought away angrily. It returned and sat
outside his skull. Like a dog.
“Ha!” he said to his young guests, “and who may I ask are
these Fisher People?”
“Esthapappychachen Kuttappen Peter Mon. Mr. and Mrs.
Pleasetomeetyou.” Rahel held out her ladle to be shaken in
greeting.
It was shaken in greeting. Hers, then Estha‟s.
“And where, may I ask, are they off to by boat?”
“Off to Africa!” Rahel shouted.
“Stop shouting,” Estha said.
Velutha walked around the boat. They told him where they
had found it.
“So it doesn‟t belong to anybody,” Rahel said a little
doubtfully, because it suddenly occurred to her that it might.
“Ought we to report it to the police?”
“Don‟t be stupid,” Estha said.