And in the background, the constant, high, whining mewl of local disapproval. Within the first few months of her return, to her parents' home, Ammy quickly learned to recognize and despise the ugly face of sympathy. Old female relations with incipient beards and several wobbling chins made overnight trips to Ayemenem to commiserate with her about her divorce. They squeezed her knee and gloated. She fought off the urge to slap them. Or twiddle their nipples. With a spanner. Like Chaplin in Modern Times.
When she looked at herself in her wedding photographs, Ammu felt the woman that looked back at her was someone else. A foolish jeweled bride. Her silk sunset-colored sari shot with gold. Rings on very finger. White dots of sandalwood paste over her arched eye-brows. Looking at herself like this, Ammu's soft mouths would twist into a small, bitter, smile at the memory - not of the wedding itself so much as the fact that she had permitted herself to be so painstakingly decorated before being led to the gallows. It seemed so absurd. So futile.
Like polishing firewood.
.......
Ammu knew that weddings were not something that could be avoided altogether. At least not practically speaking. But for the rest of her life she advocated small weddings in ordinary clothes. it made them less ghoulish, she thought.
They were all there (at the airport) - the deaf ammoomas, the cantankerous, arthritic appoopas, the pining wives, scheming uncles, children with the runs. The fiancées to be reassessed. The teacher's husband still waiting for his Saudi visa. The teacher's husband's sisters waiting for their dowries. The wire-bender's pregnant wife. "Mostly sweeper class," Baby Kochamma said grimly, and looked away while a mother, no wanting to give up her good place near the railing, aimed her distracted baby's penis into an empty bottle while he smiled and waved at the people around him...
Arundhati RoyThey looked cheerful in the photograph, Lenin and his wife. As though they had a new refrigerator in their drawing room, and a down payment on a DDA flat.
Arundhati RoyIf you are happy in a dream, Ammu, does that count? Estha asked. "Does what count?" "The happiness does it count?". She knew exactly what he meant, her son with his spoiled puff. Because the truth is, that only what counts, counts....."If you eat fish in a dream, does it count?" Does it mean you've eaten fish?
Arundhati Royشرح لهما أن التاريخ مثل بيتٍ قديم في الليل،حيث المصابيح مضاءة بأكملها، والأجداد يهمسون في الداخل.
ومن أجل فهم التاريخ، علينا أن ندخل ونصغي إلى ما يقولونه. وأن ننظر في الكتب والصور التي على الجدران. وأن نشم الروائح
لكننا لا نستطيع الدخول، لأننا قد حُجزنا في الخارج، وإذا ما نظرنا من خلال النوافذ، فإن كل ما نراه هو الظلال. وعندما نحاول أن نصغي، فإن كل ما نسمعه هو الهمس. ونحن لا نستطيع فهم الهمس، لأن عقولنا اجتيحت بحرب، حربٍ ربحناها وخسرناها، حرب هي الأسوأ على الإطلاق بين كل الحروب، حرب استولت على أحلامنا، وحلمت بها من جديد، حرب جعلتنا نعبد غزاتنا ونكره أنفسنا.
وعندما نحاول ان نصغي فإن كل مانسمعه هو الهمس. ونحن لانستطيع فهم الهمس،لآن عقولنا اجتيحت بحرب.
حرب ربحناها وخسرناها.حرب هي الأسوأ على الإطلاق بين كل الحروب.حرب استولت على أحلامنا،وحلمت بها من جديد.
حرب جعلتنا نعبد غزاتنا ونكره أنفسنا
ليس الموت ، فقط نهاية الحياة !
Arundhati Royلقد تم التلاعب باحلامنا .نحن لا ننتمي الى اي مكان.نحن نبحر دون رسو في بحار متلاطمه.
وقد لايُسمح لنا أبداً بالتوجه إلى الشاطئ.أشجاننا لن تكون حزينة كفاية .
أفراحنا لن تكون سعيدة كفاية.وحيواتنا لن تكون مهمة كفاية.لتؤثّر
كانت هذه هي العلة في الاُسر.إنهم مثل الاطباء المؤذين،يعلمون أين موضع الالم ويشدون عليه.
Arundhati Royليست سناً متقدمه ، وليست متأخره ، فقط سن مناسبة للحياة . مناسبة للموت
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