The Writer Is The Midwife Of Understanding.

Margaret Kochamma's Tiny, Ordered Life Relinquished Itself To This Truly Baroque Bedlam With The Quiet Gasp Of A Warm Body Entering A Chilly Sea.

The Trouble Is That Once You See It, You Can't Unsee It. And Once You've Seen It, Keeping Quiet, Saying Nothing, Becomes As Political An Act As Speaking Out. There's No Innocence. Either Way, You're Accountable.

May In Ayemenem Is A Hot, Brooding Month. The Days Are Long And Humid. The River Shrinks And Black Crows Gorge On Bright Mangoes In Still, Dustgreen Trees. Red Bananas Ripen. Jackfruits Burst. Dissolute Bluebottles Hum Vacuously In The Fruity Air. Then They Stun Themselves Against Clear Windowpanes And Die, Fatly Baffled In The Sun.

They Would Grow Up Grappling With Ways Of Living With What Happened. They Would Try To Tell Themselves That In Terms Of Geological Time It Was An Insignificant Event. Just A Blink Of The Earth Woman's Eye. That Worse Things Had Happened. That Worse Things Kept Happening. But They Would Find No Comfort In The Thought.

You Begin To Realize That Hypocrisy Is Not A Terrible Thing When You See What Overt Fascism Is Compared To Sort Of Covert, You Know, Communal Politics Which The Congress Has Never Been Shy Of Indulging In.