The God of Small Things

Fire burn, banana bubble.

Ammu had allowed Estha to copy Mammachi’s recipe for banana jam into her new recipe book, black with a white spine.

Acutely aware of the honor that Ammu had bestowed on him, Estha had used both his best handwritings.

Bananajam (in his old best writing)

Crush ripe banana. Add water to cover and cook on a ~ hot fire till fruit is soft.

Sqweeze out juice by straining through course muslin.

Weigh equal quantity of sugar and keep b~.

Cook fruit juice till it turns scarlet and about half the quantity evapoarates.

Prepare the gelatin (pectin) thus

Proportion 1:5

ie: 4 teaspoons Pectin. 20 teaspoons sugar.

Estha always thought of Pectin as the youngest of three brothers with hammers, Pectin, Hectin and Abednego. He imagined them building a wooden ship in failing light and a drizzle. Like Noah’s sons. He could see them clearly in his mind. Racing against time. The sound of their hammering echoing dully under the brooding, storm-coming sky.

And nearby in the jungle, in the eerie, storm-coming light, animals queued up in pairs:

Girl boy.

Girl boy.

Girl boy. Girl boy.

Twins were not allowed.

The rest of the recipe was in Estha’s new best handwriting. Angular, spiky. It leaned backwards as though the letters were reluctant to form words, and the words reluctant to be in sentences:

Add the Pectin to concentrated juice. Cook for a few (5) minutes.

Use a strong fire, burning heavily all around.

Add the sugar. Cook until sheeting consistency is obtained.

Cool slowly.

Hope you will enjoy this recipe.

Apart from the spelling mistakes, the last line—Hope you will enjoy this recipe—was Estha’s only augmentation of the original text.

Gradually, as Estha stirred, the banana jam thickened and cooled, and Thought Number Three rose unbidden from his beige and pointy shoes.

Thought Number Three was:

(c) A boat.

A boat to row across the river Akkara. The Other Side. A boat to carry Provisions. Matches. Clothes. Pots and Pans. Things they would need and couldn’t swim with.

Estha’s arm hairs stood on end. The jam-stirring became a boatrowing. The round and round became a back and forth. Across a sticky scarlet river. A song from the Onam boat race filled the factory. Thaiy thay thaka rbazy thaiy thome!”

Enda da korangacha, chandi ithra thenjada?

(Hey, Mr. Monkey man, why’s your bum so red?)

Pandyill thooran poyappol nerakkamathiri nerangi njan.

(I went for a shit to Madras, and scraped it till it bled.)

Over the somewhat discourteous questions and answers of the boat song, Rahel’s voice floated into the factory

“Estha! Estha! Estha!”

Estha didn’t answer. The chorus of the boat song was whispered into the thick jam.

Theeyome

Thithome

Tharako

Thithome

Theem

A gauze door creaked, and an Airport Fairy with hornbumps and yellow-rimmed red plastic sunglasses looked in with the sun behind her. The factory was angry-colored. The salted limes were red. The tender mangoes were red. The label cupboard was red. The dusty sunbeam (that Ousa never used) was red.

The gauze door closed.

Rahel stood in the empty factory with her Fountain in a Love-in-Tokyo. She heard a nun’s voice singing the boat song. A clear soprano wafting over vinegar fumes and pickle vats.

She turned to Estha bent over the scarlet broth in the black cauldron.

“What d’you want?” Estha asked without looking up.

“Nothing,” Rahel said.

“Then why have you come here?”

Rahel didn’t reply. There was a brief, hostile silence.

“Why’re you rowing the jam?” Rahel asked.

“India’s a Free Country,” Estha said.

No one could argue with that.