Garlic
Mango
Salted lime
Then the gristly-bristly face contorted, and Estha’s hand was wet and hot and sticky. It had egg white on it. White egg white. Quarterboiled.
The lemondrink was cold and sweet. The penis was soft and shriveled like an empty leather change purse. With his dirtcolored rag, the man wiped Estha’s other hand.
“Now finish your drink,” he said, and affectionately squished a cheek of Estha’s bottom. Tight plums in drainpipes. And beige and pointy shoes. “You mustn’t waste it,” he said. “Think of all the poor people who have nothing to eat or drink. You’re a lucky rich boy, with porketmunny and a grandmother’s factory to inherit. You should Thank God that you have no worries. Now finish your drink.”
And so, behind the Refreshments Counter, in the Abhilash Talkies Princess Circle lobby, in the hail with Kerala’s first 70mm CinemaScope screen, Esthappen Yako finished his free bottle of fizzed, lemon-flavored fear. His lemon too lemon, too cold. Too sweet. The fizz came up his nose. He would be given another bottle soon (free, fizzed fear). But he didn’t know that yet. He held his sticky Other Hand away from his body.
It wasn’t supposed to touch anything.
When Estha finished his drink, the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man said, “Finished? Goodboy.”
He took the empty bottle and the flattened straw, and sent Estha back into
Back inside the hairoil darkness, Estha held his Other Hand carefully (upwards, as though he was holding an imagined orange). He slid past the Audience (their legs moving thiswayandthat), past Baby Kochamma, past Rahel (still tilted back), past Ammu (still annoyed). Estha sat down, still holding his sticky orange.
And there was Baron von Clapp-Trapp—Christopher Plummer. Arrogant. Hardhearted. With a mouth like a slit. And a steel shrill police whistle. A captain with seven children. Clean children, like a packet of peppermints. He pretended not to love them, but he did. He loved them. He loved her (Julie Andrews), she loved him, they loved the children, the children loved them. They all loved each other. They were clean, white children, and their beds were soft with Ei. Der. Downs.
The house they lived in had a lake and gardens, a wide staircase, white doors and windows, and curtains with flowers.
The clean white children, even the big ones, were scared of the thunder. To comfort them, Julie Andrews put them all into her clean bed, and sang them a clean song about a few of her favorite things. These were a few of her favorite things:
(1) Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes.
(2) Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings.
(3) Bright copper kettles.
(4) Doorbells and sleigbbells and.rcbnizzel with noodles.
(5) Etc.
And then, in the minds of certain two-egg twin members of the audience in Abhilash Talkies, some questions arose that needed answers:
(a)Did Baron von Clapp— Trapp shiver his leg?
He did not.
(b)Did Baron von Clapp-Trapp blow spit bubbles? Did be?
He did most certainly not.
(c)Did he gobble?
He did not.
Oh Baron von Trapp, Baron von Trapp, could you love the little fellow with the orange in the smelly auditorium?
He’s just held the Orangedrink Lemondrink Man’s soo-soo in his hand, but could you love him still?
And his twin sister? Tilting upwards with her fountain in a Love-in-Tokyo? Could you love her too?
Baron von Trapp had some questions of his own.
(a)Are they clean white children? No. (But Sophie Mol is.)
(b)Do they blow spit bubbles? Yes. (But Sophie Mol doesn’t.)
(c)Do they shiver their legs? Like clerks? Yes. (But Sophie Mol doesn’t.)
(d)Have they, either or both, ever held strangers’ soo-soos?
N… Nyes. (But Sophie Mol hasn’t.)
“Then I’m sorry,” Baron von Clapp-Trapp said. “It’s out of the question. I cannot love them. I cannot be their Baba. Oh no.”
Baron von Clapp-Trapp couldn’t
Estha put his head in his lap.
“What’s the matter?” Ammu said. “If you’re sulking again, I’m taking you straight home. Sit up please. And watch. That’s what you’ve been brought here for.”
Lucky rich boy with porketmunny. No worries.
Estha sat up and watched. His stomach heaved. He had a greenwavy, thick-watery, lumpy, seaweedy, floaty bottomless-bottomful feeling.
“Ammu?” he said.
“Now WHAT?” The WHAT snapped, barked, spat out. “Feeling vomity,” Estha said.
“Just feeling or d’you want to?” Ammu’s voice was worried. “Don’t know.”
“Shall we go and try?” Ammu said. “It’ll make you feel better.”
“Okay,” Estha said.
Okay? Okay.”Where’re you going?” Baby Kochamma wanted to know. `Estha’s going to try and vomit,” Ammu said. “Where’re you going?” Rahel asked.
“Feeling vomity,” Estha said. “Can I come and watch?” “No,” Ammu said.
Past the Audience again (legs thiswayandthat). Last time to sing. This time to try and vomit Exit through the EXIT. Outside in the marble lobby, the Orangedrink Lemondrink man was eating a sweet His cheek was bulging with a moving sweet He made soft, sucking sounds like water draining from a basin. There was a green Parry’s wrapper on the counter. Sweets were free for this man. He had a row of free sweets in dim bottles. He wiped the marble counter with his dirtcolored rag that he held in his hairy watch hand. When he saw the luminous woman with polished shoulders and the little boy, a shadow slipped across his face. Then he smiled his portable piano smile.
