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“Where is the rape-victim‟s complaint? Has it been filed? Has she
made a statement? Have you brought it with you?” The Inspector‟s
tone was belligerent. Almost hostile.
Baby Kochamma looked as though she had shrunk. Pouches
of flesh hung from her eyes and jowls. Fear fermented in her and
the spit in her mouth turned sour. The Inspector pushed a glass of
water towards her.
“The matter is very simple. Either the rape-victim must file a
complaint. Or the children must identify the Paravan as their
abductor in the presence of a police witness. Or,” He waited for
Baby Kochamma to look at him. “Or I must charge you with
lodging a false F.I.R. Criminal offense.”
Sweat stained Baby Kochamma‟s light-blue blouse dark
blue. Inspector Thomas Mathew didn‟t hustle her. He knew that
given the political climate, he himself could be in very serious
trouble. He was aware that Comrade K. N. M. Pillai would not
pass up this opportunity. He kicked himself for acting so
impulsively. He used his printed hand towel to reach inside his
shirt and wipe his chest and armpits. It was quiet in his office. The
sounds of police-station activity, the clumping of boots, the
occasional howl of pain from somebody being interrogated,
seemed distant, as though they were coming from somewhere else.
“The children will do as they‟re told,” Baby Kochamma said.
“If I could have a few moments alone with them.”
“As you wish.” The Inspector rose to leave the office.
“Please give me five minutes before you send them in.”
Inspector Thomas Mathew nodded his assent and left.
Baby Kochamma wiped her shining, sweaty face. She
stretched her neck, looking up at the ceiling in order to wipe the
sweat from crevices between her rolls of neckfat with the end of
her pallu. She kissed her crucifix.
Hail Mary, full of grace…
The words of the prayer deserted her.
The door opened. Estha and Rahel were ushered in. Caked
with mud. Drenched in Coca-Cola.