The God of Small Things - Get a Free Blog

Margaret Kochamma was physically at her most attractive.
Pregnancy had put color in her cheeks and brought a shine to her
thick, dark hair. Despite her marital troubles, she had that air of
secret elation; that affection for her own body that pregnant women
often have.
Joe was a biologist He was updating the third edition of a
Dictionary of Biology for a small publishing house. Joe was
everything that Chacko wasn‟t.
Steady. Solvent. Thin.
Margaret Kochamma found herself drawn towards him like a
plant in a dark room towards a wedge of light.
When Chacko finished his assignment and couldn‟t find
another job, he wrote to Mammachi, telling her of his marriage and
asking for money. Mammachi was devastated, but secretly pawned
her jewelry and arranged for money to be sent to him in England. It
wasn‟t enough. It was never enough.
By the time Sophie Mol was born, Margaret Kochamma
realized that for herself and her daughter‟s sake, she had to leave
Chacko. She asked him for a divorce.
Chacko returned to India, where he found a job easily. For a
few years he taught at the Madras Christian College, and after
Pappachi died, he returned to Ayemenem with his Bharat
bottle-sealing machine, his Balliol oar and his broken heart.
Mammachi joyfully welcomed him back into her life. She
fed him, she sewed for him, she saw to it that there were fresh
flowers in his room every day. Chacko needed his mother‟s
adoration. Indeed, he demanded it, yet he despised her for it and
punished her in secret ways. He began to cultivate his corpulence
and general physical dilapidation. He wore cheap, printed Terylene
bush shirts over his white mundus and the ugliest plastic sandals
that were available in the market. If Mammachi had guests,
relatives, or perhaps an old friend visiting from Delhi, Chacko
would appear at her tastefully laid dining table–adorned with her
exquisite orchid arrangements and best china–and worry an old