okay, as a preface to this one - we had to create an additional chapter to a book that we'd picked and read for an independent reading project. we had to capture the characteres, situations and style of writing the author uses in order for the chapter to seem to fit seamlessly into the book. my book was called The God of Small Things and it is by Arundhati Roy. i recommend everyone in the world read this book at some point in their lives.
The garden had not yet been forgotten about in the haste (and then stagnancy) of old age. This was before the bright blossoms were choked by weeds, the soft underbrush of trampled flowers harbouring fugitive pill bugs and centipedes. Estha and Rahel, Fugitives in their own sense that day, sat under Baby Kochamma's prized jackfruit tree, their stolen goods clanking in hastily-made cheesecloth hobosacks. The tree was blooming, it was late April and the twins knew the risk of sitting under the heavy fruits. Baby Kochamma had screamed at them since they had found and crawled under the cooling cloak of shade almost seven years ago. They scrunched down, their limbs twisted like pretzels (no salt), with their metalcheesecloth sacks between their goosepimpled legs. Agent E. Pelvis and Agent Stick Insect were at it again.
Velutha had already sanded and shaped the boat, bringing it out of its soggy, rotten mold and closer to the shining sea (river-)faring vessel Estha and Rahel had hoped for. After uncovering it from under the years of fallen jackfruit leaves and picking confused, bumbling beetles from its crevices, the twins had stared at their find for days before deciding what to do with it. The only possible water on which to sail their treasure was the murky, quickslick river where their mother watched them with hawkeyes as they only sat on its banks. But on the other side, as Velutha told them, was a house with meaning. The History House - full of ancestors and whispers. Warnings, Lies and Love.
Although Rahel and Estha had not yet grasped the weight of the house, with its sagging roof and paintchipped wall windows, they sensed the importance of their decision. The History House was the reason they were huddling in the garden. It was the reason they'd gathered their raincoats and boots and old toys and two-egg twin blankets and stuffed them in their traveling bags at the back of the closet. For when it was Time. It was also the reason they'd stolen tin cups and utensils and even small cooking pots from their Mammachi's pickling factory. They were building an escape.
The metalclank noise in their sacks jolted them back to their mission. The disrupted earth underneath them was already (temporary) home to a deck of cards, two fuzzy tennis balls and a small bag of raisins and peanuts. The new roommates were two sets of utensils and a few tinyshiny pickling jars. Rahel opened the sacks as Estha pawwed at the dirt to find a corner of their already buried treasures. Baby Kochamma would be coming out to the garden soon to weed and water and touch and talk to the plants she had obsessively tended for years. Estha spotted the red and white checkerboard of the playing cards and began furiously digging to widen the hole. The front door creaked and the weight of the air shifted with it. It sat on their skin and prickled their armfuzz. Their hearts beat a too loud, too fast twin rhythm that they were sure could be heard from across the yard. They froze.
In the split second it took to understand the incredible trouble they could be in, Rahel and Estha had, at the same time (as two-egg twins often do), thrown both of their hands in the dirt and began piling their contraband into its shallow grave. They raced to cover the void with dirt, pat it down and replace the damp leaves and twigs. The clatter of metal on metal on plastic on hands attracted a presence. Baby Kochamma stood above Rahel and Estha with her usual scowl, but with her hands on her hips, signaling an UNusual fury. They'd just given her another reason to mutter under her breath about their mother and her nuisance children. They'd offered her a true reason to reject them, right there in a silver cooking pot.
She touched Estha and he flinched. She grabbed his shoulder and hoisted him to his feet, Rahel with her other hand. Walking sternly, eyes fixed forward, trampling her beloved Kotuveli flowers, Baby Kochamma shoved them through the door of the house and into the kitchen chairs. She called frantically for their mother. The two secret agents sat slumped in their seats, their shoulders throbbing and heads whirling. Rahel felt a choke in her throat and tears sliding paths down her cheeks. She didn't know when she'd started crying, but she knew that her aunt would no doubt laugh at her for it. Their mother appeared, framed in the doorway of the kitchen. Baby Kochamma sprang from her own kitchen chair, wildly waving her jello arms. She wanted to know what kind of children Ammu was raising, why they didn't do as they were told and stay out of where they shouldn't be. Why couldn't they be Good and proper like Chako's daughter? Their cousin was well-behaved, spoke perfect English and carried a pocketbook - she was British. Finally, the all-too-necessary, but better-left-unspoken question: Why couldn't they just live with
Him? The mention of their father made Estha and Rahel's stomachs curl into simultaneous, tight knots. They grew especially quiet and still, even made their hearts calm to the faintest thump-thumps.
Ammu stood fixedly, her features and the curves and dips of her body set, hardened like stones. So still that not even tiny pebbles or shards could fall off. Unbreathing. She turned to her children and motioned for them to stand by her. She kneeled to their level, whispered, then turned and walked out. They followed, trailing her closely to their bedroom. Rahel shut the door soundlessly behind them, closing out the mumbles, then shouting of Baby Kochamma; shutting out her angry eyes. Ammu, weary from the constant (unfounded) complaints, sat on the edge of their bed and sighed. At once, toppling over each other's words, Rahel and Estha began to explain.
She held her hand up to silence them. The only noise in the room was muffled kitchen cabinets slamming, muttering, Rahel's jagged breathing. Baby Kochamma had not gone outside to see what they'd been up to; she didn't see their stolen goods. She simply wanted them to be perfect children, shrunken adults that knew their place and didn't dare disobey. They were lucky. Their mother looked at them one at a time - not as a pair, a single being - as most people did and they sometimes found themselves doing. She asked them to get their pajamas on, to rest. To keep to Themselves that night and not to come out of their room. She would bring them dinner and check in on them. She would personally escort them to the bathroom, if they needed. She would handle Baby Kochamma. She would handle everything.
Ammu slipped out the door and left Rahel and Estha alone with their guilt and Fear and anger. She left them alone with their rejection and their plans and their dirty, sandyhands. They got undressed, slipping into the others plain red or blue summer pajamas, as they often did when they needed Closeness. They wore each other, the cotton and elastic representing their two-egg wholeness when Others tried to pull them apart. Rahel climbed into bed first, near the wall; her bony legs curled into her. Estha scrunched down under the blankets next to her, leaning on her hair. She usually hated when he did this, it restricted the tossingturning way she slept. But she didn't mind this time - it meant he was close. The sun was still shining outside, they could hear birds and the sound of their mother's voice calmly trying to save them.
They awoke as one, jumpy and disoriented. The moon had replaced the sun in the rays that shone on their blanket and the cricketsong was permeating the stillness of the night. They heard no more voices. Estha crept out of bed and tiptoed to the door, turning the knob as little as possible and pushing. The door eased open into the darkened, sleeping house. He motioned for Rahel to follow. Squinting through black, they peered outside and decided it was safe enough to walk into the kitchen. If anyone was up, they would claim thirst, get some lemonade and go back. No one was. They house looked deserted, the back door locked and the curtains drawn. They knew it was Time.
Thankfully, their slight bodies made little noise on the creaky floorboards; they made it out the back door and into the garden without trouble. From the direction of the train tracks, they could hear curiously triumphant gun shots; the Communist party had marched that day. It scared and excited them, in a dangerous/harmless, outlaw kind of way. They found, in the dark, their recovered boat and the ground where their supplies lay. Estha took the boat and Rahel threw their provisions onto its floor. They picked it up and walked in step to the river.
At the bank, there was only hushed movement in the water. No rushing waves, no child's laughter, no light. Agent E. Pelvis and Agent Stick Insect were on a mission. Tonight was their only chance; tomorrow was something they decided not to think about. Tomorrow the Fear would return, as the sun made its way across the sky, shedding light on all their wrongs and broken promises. Estha set the boat at the edge of the water, holding it steady for Rahel. He put one foot in and gave the ground a small push before climbing in and settling into the boat's hollow belly. The water held their boat safely, pushing it further and further away from their old lives. They were headed for the History House, for alarmingly real Warnings, Lies and Love. With the celebration guns in the distance, they were escaping.
