The God of Small Things - Get a Free Blog

A chameleon.
A startling shoeflower.
The scurry of gray jungle fowl running for cover.
The nutmeg tree that Vellya Paapen hadn‟t found.
A forked canal. Still. Choked with duckweed. Like a dead
green snake. A tree trunk fallen over it. The Touchable Policemen
minced across. Twirling polished bamboo batons.
Hairy fairies with lethal wands.
Then the sunlight was fractured by thin trunks of tilting trees.
Dark of Heart neS~&-tiptoed 4fl to the Heart of Darkness.
The sound of stridulating crickets swelled.
Gray squirrels streaked down mottled trunks of rubber trees
that slanted towards the sun. Old scars slashed across their bark.
Sealed. Healed. Untapped.
Acres of this, and then, a grassy clearing. A house.
The History House.
Whose doors were locked and windows open.
With cold stone floors and billowing, ship-shaped shadows
on the walls.
Where waxy ancestors with tough toe-nails and breath that
smelled of yellow maps whispered papery whispers.
Where translucent lizards lived behind old paintings.
Where dreams were captured and re-dreamed.
Where an old Englishman ghost, sickled to a tree, was
abrogated by a pair of two-egg twins–a Mobile Republic with a
Puff who had planted a Marxist flag in the earth beside him. As the
platoon of policemen minced past they didn‟t hear him beg. In his
kindmissionary voice. Excuse me, would you, umm... you wouldn‟t
happen to umm... I don‟t suppose you‟d have a cigar on you?
No?… No, I didn‟t think so.
The History House.
Where, in the years that followed, the Terror (still-to-come)
would be buried in a shallow grave. Hidden under the happy
humming of hotel cooks. The humbling of old Communists. The