|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedablkbj

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the Plymouth windowRahel could see that the loudest word they
said was Zindabad. And that the veins stood out in their necks when they said it. And
that the arms that held the flags and banners were knotted and hard. Inside the Ply-
mouth it was still and hot.
Baby Kochamma’s fear lay rolled up on the car floor like a dampclammy cheroot.
This was just the beginning of it. The fear that over the years would grow to consume
her. That would make her lock her doors and windows. That would give her two
hairlines and both her mouths. Hers toowas an ancientage-old fear. The fear of be-
ing dispossessed. She tried to count the green beads on her rosary but couldn’t con-
centrate. An open hand slammed against the car window. A balled fist banged down
on the burning skyblue bonnet. It sprang open. The Plymouth looked like an angular
blue animal in a zoo asking to be fed. A bun. A banana. Another balled fist slammed
down on itand the bonnet closed. Chacko rolled down his window and called out to
the man who had done it. “Thanksketo !” he said. “Valarey thanks!” “Don’t be so
ingratiatingComrade” Ammu said. “It was an accident. He didn’t really mean to
help. How could he possibly know that in this old car tyilai：
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On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabliio