The God of Small Things - Get a Free Blog

through the darkness and the driving rain. More than anything else
that body wanted to sleep. Sleep and wake up in another world.
With the smell of her skin in the air that be breathed. Her body on
his. He might never see her again. Where was she? What had they
done to her? Had they hurt her?
He kept walking. His face was neither lifted towards the rain,
nor bent away from it. He neither welcomed it, nor warded it off.
Though the rain washed Mammachi‟s spit off his face, it
didn‟t stop the feeling that somebody had lifted off his head and
vomited into his body. Lumpy vomit dribbling down his insides.
Over his heart. His lungs. The slow thick drip into the pit of his
stomach. All his organs awash in vomit. There was nothing that
rain could do about that.
He knew what he had to do. The instruction manual directed
him. He had to get to Comrade Pillai. He no longer knew why. His
feet took him to Lucky Press, which was locked, and then across
the tiny yard to Comrade Pillai‟s house.
Just the effort of lifting his arm to knock exhausted him.
Comrade Pillai had finished his avial and was squashing a
ripe banana, extruding the sludge through his closed fist into his
plate of curd, when Velutha knocked. He sent his wife to open the
door. She returned looking sulky and, Comrade Pillai thought,
suddenly sexy. He wanted to touch her breast immediately. But he
had curd on his fingers and there was someone at the door. Kalyani
sat on the bed and absentmindedly patted Lenin, who was asleep
next to his tiny grandmother, sucking his thumb
“Who is it?”
“That Paapen Paravan‟s son. He says it‟s urgent.”
Comrade Pillai finished his curd unhurriedly. He waggled his
fingers over his plate. Kalyani brought water in a little
stainless-steel container and poured it out for him. The leftover
morsels of food in his plate (a dry red chili, and stiff angular
brushes of sucked and spat-out drumsticks) rose and floated. She
brought him a hand towel. He wiped his hands, belched his