They never did look much like each other, Estha and Rahel, and even when they
were thin-armed children, flat-chested, wormridden and Elvis Presley-puffed, there
was none of the usual “Who is who?” and “Which is which?” from oversmiling
relatives or the Syrian Orthodox bishops who frequently visited the Ayemenem
House for donations.

The confusion lay in a deeper, more secret place.

In those early amorphous years when memory had only just begun, when life was
full of Beginnings and no Ends, and Everything was Forever, Esthappen and Rahel
thought of themselves together as Me, and separately, individually, as We or Us.
As though they were a rare breed of Siamese twins, physically separate, but with
joint identities.

Now, these years later, Rahel has a memory of waking up one night giggling at
Estha’s funny dream.

She has other memories too that she has no right to have.

She remembers, for instance (though she hadn’t been there), what the
Orangedrink Lemondrink Man did to Estha in Abhilash Talkies . She remembers the
taste of the tomato sandwiches–Estha’s sandwiches, that Estha ate–on the Madras
Mail to Madras.

And these are only the small things.