Gedney 1

Statement of Intent:

In this pastiche I will be combining the works The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

and The Form of the Sword, from the collection of short stories titled Ficciones, by Jorge Luis

Borges. I will assume that the reader is familiar with both stories and I will not give detailed

explanations of the plots or backgrounds to the characters.

I plan to use the basic plot structure of The Form of the Sword to tell of Ammu’s actions

towards Baby Kochamma after Estha had been Returned. In essence, I am removing the tale of

Moony and his comrade out of The Form of the Sword and replacing it with my own story about

Ammu. Baby Kochamma will be telling the story instead of Moony, and the scene that she

describes is an imaginary scene that I invent based on the events in The God of Small Things. I

also aim to use both of the writing styles of Roy and Borges for separate areas of my work and to

reproduce certain literary effects unique to each author. For example, I, as the author of this

piece, will make an appearance in my own work, similar to how Borges occasionally placed

himself in his own stories.

One of my main focuses is to show the contrast between the two writing styles. I also try

to develop the interaction and relationship between characters for a scene that was not actually

present in the novel and to portray their emotions and choices accurately compared to how they

are portrayed in the novel. My final main goal is to successfully use the plot of The Form of the

Sword to frame my story from The God of Small Things.

In order to achieve this, I first had to familiarize myself with the writing styles of both

Roy and Borges. I then chose to have Baby Kochamma telling the story because her actions as

they were portrayed in The God of Small Things can easily be considered despicable. Keeping
 Gedney 2

true to the methods used in The Form of the Sword, Baby Kochamma then tells the story from

the point of view of Ammu, up until the very end. Because Roy wrote in third person, I could not

use “I” when writing with her style nor could I mention Ammu’s name however, it is supposed to

be understood that the story told by Baby Kochamma is actually being told as if it were from the

point of view of Ammu. Also, because Moony had an unforgettable scar across his face which

served to reveal the true characters in his narrative, I gave Baby Kochamma burn marks on her

hand which were to serve the same purpose.

Word count: 452

 Gedney 3

Her right hand wielded a treacherous burn: it stretched from her wrist to her knuckles like

an ill-fitted glove. The few that she introduced herself to knew her as Navomi Ipe. They say she

was a bitter fiend, wallowing in pity for the fact that she was alone. They also say that she only

took comfort in the company of her television, and locked her refrigerator each night in order to

keep the sticky bun bandits at bay. I remember how backwards she seemed, her little fat legs, her

kohl-rimmed eyes, her second mouth formed by the misapplied lipstick.

The last time I traveled though those lands a sudden downpour forced me to spend the

night at her home. I tried appealing to her better nature and engaged in watching a Hulk Hogan

marathon with her, for she seemed displeased with the timing of my presence.

I do not know what hour it was that the storm shot out the power. The television screen

went dark and Navomi and I were forced to engage in some form of intelligent, if not

intellectual, conversation. I do not know what curiosity or stimulation or motivation caused me

to inquire about the burns. Navomi fell silent and I thought that she was about to order me to

leave. Finally she answered and began to recount for me her story in both English and

Malayalam. The vivid retelling was to remain in my mind for years afterwards.

She had loved a man.

He was a giver of small joys and pleasures. He was her Last Chance to Live her Life that

might have already been Lived.

But they were always watching her. The innocent glances of her two-egg twin children.

The greedy, beady eyes of Baby Kochamma. The imposing glare of her brother Chacko (who

once gave roses to his wife and child at the airport). They helped contain the madness within her
 Gedney 4

until it was ready to come bursting out like ink from a broken bottle, drowning the world in

blackness.

She could not smell the sourmetal smell or the sicksweet roses in her dreams. Her

children lived that for her. The Love-in-Tokyo and the spoiled puff were chosen by History to be

the messengers. And they brought back Two Messages:

1. The Love Laws would destroy anyone who mingled in forbidden love.

2. Tomorrow may not always happen.

Velutha’s death only marked the Beginning. Chacko’s large anger tried to drown it out

with Sophie Mol’s death. He beat down the door. He ordered her out (“Get out of my house

before I break every bone in your body!”). And she got one last promise from her children that

they would always love each other.

But perhaps it was for the best that Estha was Returned. After all, every boy needs a

Baba.

She could not see the emptiness left in Rahel after Estha’s departure. For a fever burned

in the child’s cheeks (Ambassador S. Insect no longer) as a result of her battle against Real Life.

It rendered both child and mother exhausted.

History had a brutal way of altering lives.

It was to be in the midst of cement vats and pickle fumes that she would discover Baby

Kochamma’s involvement in the situation. Paradise Pickles & Preserves. A moment of

confrontation. Then the ink bottle shattered and the blackness came spewing out with the vicious

truth riding forth on its crest. It was Baby Kochamma who went to the police.

Who offered them the lives of two lovers.

Who delivered to them a lone wolf Paravan with painted nails.

 Gedney 5

Who ensured Estha’s delivery out of Ayemenem.

Who played with Chacko’s emotions like a toy doll.

And who carried her jealousy, hidden, between folds of neck fat.

She didn’t have to try to hate Baby Kochamma. A pineapple can was lifted. Thrown.

Missed. A pot was dipped into a vat of bubbling juices.

This time, it was a bit closer to the target.

The boiling liquid splashed across Baby Kochamma’s hand, who gave a scream to match

her body size. They both knew Chacko would hear and be down in an instant. So she left Baby

Kochamma (now pickled, with a splash of mixed fruit), and fled out into the night.

Here Navomi stopped. Her numerous rings trembled on her shaking hands.

“And what of Baby Kochamma?” I asked her. I waited, almost fruitlessly, for her to

continue. After a few more moments of drunken silence, she raised her mutilated hand.

“Don’t you believe me, Marisa?” she sputtered. “Don’t you recognize the mark of my

deeds? I tore apart my own family because I was jealous of love I would never have. Navomi is

my birth name, but it is not what I have been called for most of my life. I am Baby Kochamma.

Despise me.”

Word count: 805