Thunderbolts lashed at the fat clouds, the earth was a swarm of raindrops melting into each other, they looked like little ants made of mercury merging together to form a shade of earth that Sunil took a pile of and smeared all over his body. It reminded him of his ancestors, said a voice in his head. A kind of justification for being insane, nude and clay-caked. His ancestors would’ve prayed to the earth, they would’ve eaten off it, and then finally (with a pious sigh) would’ve offered themselves as ash into its sticky arms. He heard a lizard tut-tutting at his thoughts. Did it mean “I approve”? He kept forgetting what thaima (his maternal grandmother) kept whispering into his ears on that sun-soaked verandah that faced the paddy-fields. The clay had started cracking now. Peeling off like bits of skin that had decided to leave him. It fell in a heap at his feet, like he were the God of Flesh, and the skin were an offering to him. It had been a while now, but the smell of clay refused to leave him. Like the smell of his wife’s hair after she’d conditioned it with egg.
“One caramel popcorn, please.” a voice broke into his thoughts. Sunil shuffled a bit, stood up straight, and said, “Yes, madam.”
(In front of the popcorn vendor at a movie hall)
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