What a delicious read! I savored it like I savor rhubarb pie.
Baby Kochamma was holding on to the back of the front seat with her arms. When the car moved, her armfat swung like heavy washing in the wind. Now it hung down like a fleshy curtain, blocking Estha from Rahel.
Comrade Pillai's arms were crossed over his chest, and he clasped his own armpits possessively, as though someone had asked to borrow them and he had just refused.
A column of black ants walked across a windowsill, their bottoms tilted upwards, like a line of mincing chorus girls in a Busby Berkeley musical.
The green-for-a-day had seeped from the trees. Dark palm trees were splayed like drooping combs against the monsoon sky. The orange sun slid through their bent, grasping teeth.
The sound of the sun crinking the washing. Crisping white bedsheets. Stiffening starched saris. Off-white and gold.
Estha and Rahel lifted the little boat and carried it to the water. It looked surprised, like a grizzled fish that had surfaced from the deep.
Insanity hovered close at hand, like an eager waiter at an expensive restaurant (lighting cigarettes, refilling glasses).
Each of her tight, shining plaits was looped over and tied with ribbons so that they hung down on either side of her face like the outlines of large, drooping ears that hadn't been colored in yet.
