The God of Small Things - Get a Free Blog

Velutha knocked on the wood and then scraped a little patch
clean with his nail.
“Good wood,” he said.
“It sinks,” Estha said. “It leaks.”
“Can you mend it for us, Veluthapappychachen Peter Mon?”
Rahel asked.
“We‟ll see about that,” Velutha said. “I don‟t want you
playing any silly games on this river.”
“We won‟t. We promise. We‟ll use it only when you‟re with
us.”
“First we‟ll have to find the leaks,” Velutha said.
“Then we‟ll have to plug them!” the twins shouted, as though
it was the second line of a well-known poem.
“How long will it take?” Estha asked.
“A day,” Velutha said.
“A day! I thought you‟d say a month!”
Estha, delirious with joy, jumped on Velutha, wrapped his
legs around his waist and kissed him.
The sandpaper was divided into exactly equal halves, and the
twins fell to work with an eerie concentration that excluded
everything else.
Boat-dust flew around the room and settled on hair and
eyebrows. On Kuttappen like a cloud, on Jesus like an offering.
Velutha had to prise the sandpaper out of their fingers.
“Not here,” he said firmly. “Outside.”
He picked the boat up and carried it out. The twins followed,
eyes fixed on their boat with unwavering concentration, starving
puppies expecting to be fed.
Velutha set the boat up for them. The boat that Estha sat on,
and Rahel found. He showed them how to follow the grain of the
wood. He started them off on the sandpapering. When he returned
indoors, the black hen followed him, determined to be wherever
the boat wasn‟t
Velutha dipped a thin cotton towel in an earthen pot of water.