The god of small things by Arundhati Roy
Lovely cover , lot of fame and intricate writing.
Portrayed gods own country in its true colours.
I am reading this book for about a month now, I do have to agree the fact that this book as old I am and has acquired quite an enormous amount critical acclaim, indeed a man booker prize winner.
I have never mulled over what others claim this book is, perhaps I have no idea to scamper behind the crowd and praise the book,my review is exactly what I feel about the book, call me rebel I don’t care.
The thing, I adored and despised the most, was her writing .I loved her writing so did I detest it .
I loved the way she described an ancient house. Here it goes
It was a beautiful house.White-walled once. Red-roofed. But painted in weather-colours now. With brushes dipped in nature’s palette. Mossgreen. Earthbrown. Crumbleblack. Making it look older than it really was .Like sunken treasure dredged up from the ocean bed. Whale kissed and barnacled. Swaddled in silence. Breathing bubbles though it is broken windows.
how lucid? how magnificent? dandy I would agree, her writings on other pages were no less. It was trailing across providing glory to the paper which bore the ink. She has evinced the most insignificant detail with utmost care.
Still, the whopping good turned out to be cause for colossal disdain. There are portions where you feel too much detailing is eminently gross, at certain sections she illustrates about some awful real life gestures, human habits, phew Roy you shouldn’t make your reader puke out just by your words.
The book uses a lot of Malayalam words sprinkling beauty and realness to the writing, I am not arguing if story is good or not. Every story’s beauty lies in its writing.
She critizises social issues, unsaid rules about whom to love ,whom not to.
Especially a strong voice, that mocks at this society,
The Kathakali men took off their make-up and went home to beat their wives. Even Kunti the soft one with breasts.
The book is really different, it is a masterpiece, several incidents woven together into a veil through which story is explained from Rahel’s point of view.
The story is about a mother(Ammu) and her two egged twins Rahel and Esthappen Kuttapen Peter Mon who were abandoned by their alcoholic father from Calcutta .They returned to their granny Mamachi( Ammu’s mother) in Ayemanam in Kottayam, to Paradise jams and pickles. Their mother breaks the unwritten codes of love by having an affair with Velutha(a lower caste wonderful person). This leads to ruining of the mother’s as well as her kids life by their own granny and baby Kochamma. It also leads to dire consequences like the death of Velutha and Sofie mol. The story discusses about river ,plants, shrubs ,communism and above all real human characters and indeed about god of small things.
Too much of reality is really heart wrenching or perhaps a pure headache.
The book do have quite a few fall-backs. It is surely not a gripping book. You don’t feel drawn to this book. There isn’t a pull, no what next question. I guessed the story, well no much guessing, the whole story is depicted in first few pages, questioning our reason why to read forward leaving us adhere to our only reason just because it is a book and I love to read.Here, I don’t whine my money is lost nor can I reread it again.