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other he knew, had known, with an ancient instinct, that one day
History‟s twisted chickens would come home to roost. Through the
whole of Mammachi‟s outburst he remained restrained and
strangely composed. It was a composure born of extreme
provocation. It stemmed from a lucidity that lies beyond rage.
When Velutha arrived, Mammachi lost her bearings and
spewed her blind venom, her crass, insufferable insults, at a panel
in the sliding-folding door until Baby Kochamma tactfully
swiveled her around and aimed her rage in the right direction, at
Velutha standing very still in the gloom. Mammachi continued her
tirade, her eyes empty, her face twisted and ugly, her anger
propelling her towards Velutha until she was shouting right into his
face and he could feel the spray of her spit and smell the stale tea
on her breath. Baby Kochamma stayed close to Mammachi. She
said nothing, but used her hands to modulate Mammachi‟s fury, to
stoke it anew. An encouraging pat on the back. A reassuring arm
around the shoulders. Mammachi was completely unaware of the
manipulation.
Just where an old lady like her–who wore crisp ironed saris
and played the Nutcracker Suite on the violin in the evenings–had
learned the foul language that Mammachi used that day was a
mystery to everybody (Baby Kochamma, Kochu Maria, Ammu in
her locked room) who heard her.
“Out!” she had screamed, eventually. “If I find you on my
property tomorrow I‟ll have you castrated like the pariah dog that
you are! I‟ll have you killed!”
“We‟ll see about that,” Velutha said quietly.
That was all he said. And that was what Baby Kochamma in
Inspector Thomas Mathew‟s office, enhanced and embroidered
into threats of murder and abduction.
Mammachi spat into Velutha‟s face. Thick spit. It spattered
across his skin. His mouth and eyes.
He just stood there. Stunned. Then he turned and left.
As he walked away from the house, he felt his Senses had
been honed and heightened. As though everything around him had