The Moor's Last Sigh by Salman Rushdie

hot-weather babe; however poor his manger, it wasn't cold; and if Wise Men came, following (unwisely, as I've indicated) yonder star, they came, let's not forget it, from the East. Over in Fort Cochin, English families have put up Christmas trees with cotton wool on the branches; in St Francis's Church--Anglican in those days, though no longer- the young Rev. Oliver D'Aeth has already held the annual carol service; and there are mince pies and glasses of milk waiting for Santa, and somehow there will be turkey on the table tomorrow, yes, and two kinds of stuffing, and even brussels sprouts. But there are many Christianities here in Cochin, Catholic and Syriac Orthodox and Nestorian, there are midnight masses where incense chokes the lungs, there are priests with thirteen crosses on their caps to symbolise Jesus and the Apostles, there are wars between the denominations, R. C. v. Syriac, and everyone agrees the Nestorians are no sort of Christians, and all these warring Christmases, too, are being prepared. In the house on Cabral Island it is the Pope who rules. There are no trees here; instead there is a crib. Joseph could be a carpenter from Ernakulam, and Mary a woman from the tea-fields, and the cattle are water-buffalo, and the skin of the Holy Family (gasp!) is rather dark. There are no presents. For Epifania da Gama, Christmas is a day for Jesus. Presents--and even this somewhat unloving family makes an exchange of gifts--are for Twelfth Night, the night of gold frankincense myrrh. Nobody is shinning down a chimney in this house...) Aurora reached the top of the great staircase and saw that the chapel doors were open; the chapel itself was illuminated, and the light emanating from the doorway made a little golden sun in the stairwell dark. Aurora crept forward, peered in. A small figure, head covered by a black lace mantilla, knelt at the altar. Aurora could hear the tiny click of Epifania's ruby rosary beads. The young girl, not wishing the matriarch to become aware of her presence, began to back out of the room. Just then, in complete silence, Epifania Menezes da Gama fell sideways and lay still. ' One day you will killofy my heart.' 'Patience is a virtue. I'll just bide-o my time.' How did Aurora approach her fallen grandmother? Did she, like a loving child, run forward, raising a stricken hand to her lips? She approached slowly, circling along the walls of the chapel, moving in towards the immobile form in gradual, deliberate steps. Did she cry out, beat a gong (there was a gong in the chapel) or in other ways do her level best to sound the alarm? She did not. Perhaps there was no point in doing so; perhaps it was plain that Epifania was already beyond help: that death had been swift and merciful? When Aurora reached Epifania, she saw that the hand that held the rosary was still twitchingfeebly at the beads; that the old woman's eyes were open, and met hers with recognition; that the old woman's lips moved faintly, though no audible word emerged. And on seeing her grandmother still alive, did she then act to save her life? She paused. And, after pausing? Granted, she was young; a certain paralysis can be attributed to youthful panic, and forgiven, but, after pausing, she quickly summoned the household, so that help could be provided... did she not? After pausing, she took two steps backwards; and sat down, cross-legged, on the floor; and watched. Did she feel no pity, no shame, no fear? She was worried, it's true. If Epifania's seizure proved to be less than fatal, then her own behaviour would count against her; even her father would be angry. She knew that. No more than that? She worried about discovery; and so she went and closed the chapel doors. Why not go the whole hog, in that case; why not blow out the candles and turn out the electric lights? All must be left as Epifania left it. This was cold-blooded murder, then. Calculations were being made. If murder can be committed by inaction, then yes. If Epifania had