The God of Small Things - Get a Free Blog

His skin was salty. Hers too.
He left no footprints in sand, no ripples in water, no image in
mirrors.
She could have touched him with her fingers, but she didn‟t.
They just stood together.
Still.
Skin to skin.
A powdery, colored breeze lifted her hair and blew it like a
rippled shawl around his armless shoulder, that ended abruptly,
like a cliff.
A thin red cow with a protruding pelvic bone appeared and
swam straight out to sea without wetting her horns, without
looking back.
Ammu flew through her dream on heavy, shuddering wings,
and stopped to rest, just under the skin of it.
She had pressed roses from the blue cross-stitch counterpane
on her cheek.
She sensed her children‟s faces hanging over her dream, like
two dark, worried moons, waiting to be let in.
“D‟you think she‟s dying?” she heard Rahel whisper to
Estha.
“It‟s an afternoon-mare,” Estha-the-Accurate replied. “She
dreams a lot.”
If he touched her be couldn‟t talk to be, if he loved her be
couldn‟t leave, if be spoke he couldn‟t listen, if he fought he
couldn‟t win.
Who was he, the one-armed man? Who could he have been?
The God of Loss? The God of Small Things? The God of
Goosebumps and Sudden Smiles? Of Sourmetal Smells–like steel
bus rails and the smell of the bus conductor‟s hands from holding
them?