The God of Small Things - Get a Free Blog

eathing people and hairoil. And old carpets. A magical, Sound of
Music smell that Rahel remembered and treasured. Smells, like
music, hold memories. She breathed deep, and bottled it up for
posterity.
Estha had the tickets. Little Man. He lived in a caravan. Dum
dum.
The Torch Man shone his light on the pink tickets. Row J.
Numbers 17, 18, 19, 20. Estha, Ammu, Rahel, Baby Kochamma.
They squeezed past irritated people who moved their legs this way
and that to make space. The seats of the chairs had to be pulled
down. Baby Kochamma held Rahel‟s seat down while she climbed
on. She wasn‟t heavy enough, so the chair folded her into itself like
sandwich stuffing, and she watched from between her knees. Two
knees and a fountain. Estha, with more dignity than that, sat on the
edge of his chair.
The shadows of the fans were on the sides of the screen
where the picture wasn‟t.
Off with the torch. On with the World Hit
The camera soared up in the skyblue (car-colored) Austrian
sky with the clear, sad sound of church bells.
Far below, on the ground, in the courtyard of the abbey, the
cobblestones were shining. Nuns walked across it. Like slow
cigars. Quiet nuns clustered quietly around their Reverend Mother,
who never read their letters. They gathered like ants around a
crumb of toast. Cigars around a queen Cigar. No hair on their
knees. No melons in their blouses. And their breath like
peppermint. They had complaints to make to their Reverend
Mother. Sweetsinging complaints. About Julie Andrews, who was
still up in the hills, singing. The hills are alive with the sound of
music, and was, once again, late for Mass.
She climbs a tree and scrapes her knee
The nuns sneaked musically.
Her dress has got a tear
She waltzes on her way to Mass
And whistles on the stair…