Arundhati Roy

By then Esthappen and Rahel had learned that the world had other ways of breaking men.

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust

Ammu’s tears made everything that had so far seemed unreal, real

Yet Estha’s silence was never awkward. Never intrusive. Never noisy. It wasn’t an accusing, protesting silence as much as a sort of estivation, a dormancy, the psychological equivalent of what lungfish do to get themselves through the dry season, except that in Estha’s case the dry season looked as though it would last forever

A quiet bubble floating on a sea of noise

Once the quietness arrived, it stayed and spread in Estha. It reached out of his head and enfolded him in its swampy arms. It rocked him to the rhythm of an ancient, fetal heartbeat. It sent its stealthy, suckered tentacles inching along the insides of his skull, hoovering the knolls and dells of his memory, dislodging old sentences, whisking them off the tip of his tongue. It stripped his thoughts of the words that described them and left them pared and naked. Unspeakable. Numb. And to an observer therefore, perhaps barely there

It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined

He held her as though she was a gift. Given to him in love. Something still and small. Unbearably precious.

He had young Baby Kochamma’s aching heart on a leash, bumping behind him, lurching over leaves and small stones. Bruised and almost broken.

To love him just by looking at him.