The God of Small Things: A Novel

It's ten-to-two. It's ten-to-two on Rahel's painted watch. It’s ten-to-two on Rahel’s painted watch which lies under the revolved earth of The History House in the Heart of the Darkness. It’ll be always ten-to-two on the stillness of Roy’s book as the derailed freight train of her story slams into our hearts. It’ll be always ten-to-two when Sorrow, Pain, Unrequited Love, Too Much Love, and Unbearable, yet Understandable, Truths of Life collapse from their wagons and bury us all under them; It’ll be always ten-to-two as the train’s sharp wheels scar our souls as deep as the ugly scars on Mammachi’s head, her blind soul carefully hidden by the gray hair and they will be there forever, for us to carry. Ours will be beautiful scars. Scars… Healed scars. Scars healed by Unbearable Forbidden Necessary Cleaning Love, which will always be able to follow the Music escaping from a tangerine radio as it floats in the Air. The Still Air of Life. The Air of Roy’s story is filled with the haunting Truths of Life, so heavy to carry, they need to be shared, breathed by the twins, Esthappen, the boy-man, and Rahel, the girl-woman, as One. They are so horrible to be spoken of, that Rahel’s eyes becomes empty, empty with everything and Estha stops speaking, speaking with all. Inside. But the Truths of Life leak as Mammachi’s Pickles’ bottles have leaked, impossible to be tamed into perfection, silent as a mute shriek of grief, imperceptible as a light cutting deep into darkness. As History evolves and revolves as the round World we live in, the skyblue old Plymouth, with its painted rack falling apart, thunders the careening story of Life and Death. Life and Death. Love and Hate. Angels and Demons. Humans and Beasts. Happiness and Rules. The Big Things and The Small Things, which in a reversal of their inherent nature belonged to the Small light God, who sweeps clean his steps as he walks backward, and the Big powerful God (god?), who stomps into the House with his dirty, muddied boots. Roy leads us past glass of pickles and jellies of Paradise Pickles & Preserves, the factory; past The Sound of Music, the film; and past childhood, marriage, madness, pedophilia, poverty, violence, injustice and betrayal. And love, so much love. With no mercy, she tows us past the lost, hidden beauties and still there horrors of India; past confused Indians, immersed in caste hierarchy and lost in the war between British Imperialism and Karl Marx Communism; forced Evangelism; past Elvis Presley, Oxford, Coca-Cola, American TV shows and London life; all preferred, favorites in spite of the unique, laid-to-waste-in-twenty-minutes Kathakali dance. And she dresses us in saris of intolerance sewed carefully by single, married and widowed women and she gives us the painted masks of their unavailable, chauvinist kinsmen. For us, she disrobes the once-one turned-lonely children and two couples of forbidden lovers - who had already been bared, robbed… Loved less… The four of them The Gods of Small Things. And she makes us watch the Terror and the Love. I read this in two seatings only because I had to get a couple of hours’ sleep. I was frozen in my armchair, fossilized in time by the unjustified justice of my few smiles and many tears; nerves uncapped, shaking, almost hiding, as I saw many of my thoughts being SHOUTED OUT LOUD at me, from me. Will I read it again? Yes. Later. (Lay. Ter.) Now, I need a moment. Of quiet emptiness. To rage. Et tu, English, Indians, Christians, Syrian Christians, Hindus, Pelaya, Pulaya, Paravan, Touchables and Untouchables, Lower Middle Upper Classes, No Classes, all-and-yet-never Comrades! Who saw and looked away! Et tu, Sophie Mol! The unfortunate English child killed-killer of the simple happiness of Rahel's and Estha’s childhood, the two-egg twin that was only One. Et tu, Pappachi, the Imperial Entomologist, domestic abuser, proud and full of cruel, ugly moths; Mammachi, the almost-blind beaten-wife and example of Christian beatitude; Vellya Paapen, the one with a mortgaged glass eye and the real blind one; Baby grand aunt Kochamma, the gullible girl turned bitter-sour, with her perfect Per-Nun-Ciation and unfair, hasty judgements and psychologic torture! Who played alone-along their parts, ignorantly not knowing life was no rehearsal! Et tu, poor Rahel and Estha! Children so loved less, from the Beginning until the End, the only one, forever un-living-dead bearers’ of short sad lives and long alive deaths, who didn't know how to do otherwise. Et tu, All-of-Us! Who are rehearsing the Play and making Black Holes in the Universe, while out-of-our-minds, we count our Keys, looking into the void-avoiding the smelly injustice being distributed! What it worth it? The price to pay for a forbidden love? Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I will need to read it again. Later. Now, I need a moment. Of empty quietness. To Praise. To Love. But no words of mine would do justice to Roy’s work of art, so leave me here, hurting and loving, stabbed in the back by my own hand with the Truths of my your our Life, accepting a bit more of myself you this world, and read this real, poetic, sad, grand, too-small-to-be-contained Book. And the Kathakali dancers danced and their drummers drummed, to ask pardon of their Gods, as we also should do for the daily, unconscious murder of our Gods of Small Things. While it’s ten-to-two. Before it’s too late… ——————————————————————— In the light of my last review of another book, where I closed its ebook covers at 20% because of typos, missing commas, too-many-grand-long-forgotten words and foreign mottos written wrongly, loose-lost opinions about historical facts, and over-the-top “'pumpkin bums’ descriptions of nothing-happening-to-many-characters-that-had-nothing-to-do-with-any-one”, I think that to be fair to those who read my reviews, I owe an explanation to my 5 star rating for ‘The God of Small Things’. Roy took me through the creation and death of an ornamental garden; made me sat in a church filled with ants, a baby bat and a dead child. I traveled in a bluesky Plymouth on a road full of frog stains while she uses foreign words, many half-full sentences, repeated ideas and (over-the-top, some will say) analogies. I consulted the dictionary more than a couple of times, as English is not my mother language and she uses words I was not familiar with (Probably, I would have to consult the Portuguese dictionary too). She made me wait, as a pregnant woman waits, as I read story upon story of many different characters, who seemed to have nothing to do with Rahel and Estha or anyone else, but were all linked somehow by society and social relationships. Yes, this book could have been smaller, but it could have been bigger. But if it were different, then it wouldn’t be ‘The God of Small Things’. I didn’t closed the book at 20% and I rated her work 5 stars. Why? Because. Because there are books and books; authors and authors. Because I don’t care if another author has used a style before Roy used it. I don’t care if there is another author who does it better than she did it. What readers and reviewers sometimes don’t understand is that gifted authors are often gifted-avid-readers, with screaming souls begging to be set free; who drown in the works they have read and let them soak in and soothe their pains. These authors are allowed to use all the styles as their own, without being accused of stealing them, as I’ve seen a few reviewers raging about. And I tell you that as an avid reader with a newly-freed author’s soul, hoping to be one day as gifted as Roy. Because what I care is that, in Roy’s work, there are magical, complex, centuries of old-untold relationships to be read about, learned and admired, in the middle of the marvel unseemly-going-nowhere descriptions of a ripple fruit bursting and an orange sun setting. Because Roy’s Universe is raw and rough, a few times sweet, filled with her beautiful, sharp-edged opinions - that some may think prejudiced - but are historically based and lived. She tells us an Indian story that could have been a Brazilian story. My story. Your story. Because what I care is that, without asking my permission, Roy took my soul and gave it back; Sadder for a moment, but more knowledgeable and fuller of passion. Because this is not a book for everyone, but for those who live life on its full, and are grateful for the possibility that, even being of die-able age, they are still alive; for those who are interested in relationships and its octopus sucking tentacles; for those who are mindful of how cruel the world can be and yet are able to see the beauty of a sunset and a strict forbidden incest love told in poetical, not-rhymed words; for those who can stand up for others in need. For those who love. “Because Anything can Happen to Anyone. It’s Best to be Prepared.” Arundhati Roy, in The God of Small Things ——————————————————————— P.S. 1 - If in your ebook you stumble upon lost inverted commas, dizzy dashes and en-dashes, overlook them. They are just simple typos - perhaps there on purpose, who knows? This book is like a child or a loved-lover, who should never be loved less, for his perchance carelessness, because it belongs to the Universe of Rippling Truths of Life.

The author goes back and forth from the past to the present. At first, I found this annoying. However, I begin to admire that the author had her own rules for writing this novel. There are instances where there is no standard punctuation. There are similes I found indefinable. I would reread a passage trying to get the gist of what the author conveyed The main characters are the fraternal twins, Rahel, daughter and Esthappen (Estha), son, the children of Ammu, a divorcé, her lover, Velutha, a Paravan (untouchable). The story begins with the funeral of Sophie Mol, cousin and playmate of the twins. Sophie Mol was the daughter of Ammu’s brother, Chacko and his former wife, Englishwoman, Margaret Kochamma. Sophie and Margaret had recently arrived from England at the invitation of Chacko after the death of Margaret’s second husband. Ammu and the twins are forbidden to sit with the family during the funeral service. The reason will be revealed later. A disillusioned Ammu, married to an abusive alcoholic, returned to the family home in Ayemenem. Her father, John Ipe (Pappachi) does not believe her husband’s English boss requested he sleep with her. At home, she is expected to live out her days, in shame at divorcing her husband. After his failed marriage and the death of their father, John, Chacko, a Rhodes Scholar at Oxford, returned home to manage his mother’s pickle business. Home is where Chacko and Ammu’s blind mother, Shoshamma Ipe, known as Mammachi (grandmother) resides. Mammachi founded and owned the Paradise Pickles and Preserves factory. Also living in the home are the twins’ deceitful, vindictive, unmarried, paternal great-aunt, Baby Kochamma. Throughout the novel, Baby Kochamma is devoted to self-interest. She is the catalyst who revealed life and death are in the power of the tongue. Kochu Maria (little Maria), is the family cook. This book gives a brief glimpse at the social mores of India concerning the “Untouchables.” Historically the country was divided among caste and color lines; an ancient system that rejected their fellow countrymen with discrimination, violence, persecution and social exclusion. In the book, the family’s bias is expressed with profound intensity when it is discovered Ammu and the brilliant and likable Velutha are having an affair. Velutha was the intelligent, skilled artisan, awarded a high position in the pickle factory by Mammachi. Even Velutha’s father, Vellya Paapen, was angry and horrified at his son “crossing the line.” Vellya felt indebted to Mammachi. She had purchased his artificial eye and treated his family well. The author’s vivid description of Mammachi’s deep-seated anger toward the “messenger,” Vellya, Velutha’s father, with Velutha was profound. Although blind, Mammachi’s vile denunciations and spittle hit their mark. Mammachi’ showed tolerance for her son Chacko’s “men’s needs” when he sexually exploited the female factory workers. However, she expressed intolerance for Ammu’s tender love affair with Velutha. Ammu was locked away in her room. As I read this book, I discovered the childhood terror witnessed by Rahel and Estha had damaged them emotionally as adults. Estha refused to communicate. As children, the twins were very close and had their own way of communicating. They even read backwards. Chacko, the weak-willed, indolent son, manipulated by Baby Kochamma’s promptings, ejected his sister, Ammu, from their home. Baby Kochamma is the “keeper of honor,” the traditionalist, and advocate of the caste system. Because of her deceit, she has her own reasons for wanting Ammu ousted and the children gone. I will not give the reasons away, but she strikes fear in the children’s hearts. I believe the small things are Velutha and Ammu’s love. He loved her children and they him. Ammu and Velutha were two kindred spirits. Theirs was a love affair that maybe even today would be unthinkable and not permitted in Indian society. But 40 years ago, they could have no future, so they made no plans. They lived for each night together. Although during the late sixties and early seventies, this was considered a patriarchal society, the women are strong characters. Mammachi was an accomplished violinist, later in life she was founder and owner of Paradise Pickles and Preserves, much to the annoyance of a violently abusive husband. I admired Ammu’s resilience. She defended herself against her husband, Baba’s, physical abuse, refused to sleep with his English boss and ultimately divorced him. I admired that she ignored the caste system and found love with Velutha. Velutha had an important role. Much of the conflict involved him, but in some instances he appeared almost invisible to me. I saw him as tender and loving with Ammu. A socialist, a man who desired change in his country. The prosaic love scene between Ammu and Velutha were beautifully written. The brief violence in the book is powerfully written too. I felt queasy reading it. I would have enjoyed more on the ill-fated lovers, Ammu and Velutha. Although the caste system and discrimination has been outlawed, I think Arundhati Roy’s book reveals what is still prevalent today, cruel and often inhumane treatment of India’s “Untouchables.” I think the author conveyed how deeply embedded the caste system is. How it destroys and demeans human lives and stereotypes them. Toward the end, Ammu’s outcome was sorely missed. The relationship that developed between the twins was perplexing. Imagery and symbolisms are common throughout the book. This novel would stimulate avid conversation in a book club.

A masterpiece. The book received a little well-worn

GW前にKERALA＆MUMBAIへ赴任することになっている為、この地を少しでも学ぶ必要があったので購入致しました。著者のArundhati Roy氏が脚本担当、出演された映画「In Which Annie Gives It Those Ones」も感銘を受けた大切な要素だ。当時は２６，７歳位で大変可愛らしい女性だなという印象。映画の内容はご本人が建築家の卵として学生時代を淡々と語ったものです。当時のインド国内では大変評価が高くお勧めできる作品です。 こちらを読み終えた後はSalman Rushdie氏著のMidnight's Children、Jhumpa Lahiri氏著のInterpreter of Maladies, Rohinton Mistry氏著のSuch a Long Journeyを大好きなLeopold Cafeの地で楽しみたいと思います(笑）

El caos en palabras. Conocer más sobre la vida en la India, su sistema de castas, su caos y su belleza. Todo aquel que se jacte de ser un gran lector, que ame los retos y la belleza de la narrativa debe conocer esta historia. Todo gira al rededor de la muerte de una niña. Por medio de saltos en el tiempo, de descripciones poéticas y complejas como la vida misma, conocemos la historia de una familia que se salta todas las normas de la cultura al amar. Sígueme en instagram para más recomendaciones literarias. @Nora_d_tinta_y_papel

This story most of us might have watched in some of the movies , heard ör seen it happening surrounding us but the way Arundhati Roy has weaved it around the characters is exquisite . It changes something in you.

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy is not merely a novel, it is an experience that seeps quietly into your bones and lingers long after the final page. It crushed my heart in the gentlest, most unexpected way. Roy’s prose is lyrical yet piercing, weaving childhood innocence with the brutal realities of caste, love, and loss. The story unfolds like memory itself - fragmented, nonlinear, and hauntingly intimate. Through Estha and Rahel, Roy captures the fragile world of “small things” that ultimately shape irrevocable destinies. What makes the novel extraordinary is how it renders pain so delicately that it almost feels beautiful, even as it devastates you. There is a quiet rage beneath its poetic surface, a critique of societal norms that dictate who can be loved and how. The tragedy does not erupt; it seeps, slow and suffocating, until you realize you are already undone. This Booker winning novel is not one you simply read and move on from. It demands emotional recovery. Even thinking about it feels like touching a bruise. Some books entertain; this one transforms and leaves you aching in silence.