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RAJGOPAL NIDAMBOOR
When Arundhati Roy's majestic novel
The God Of Small Things was formally launched, over
ten+ years ago, it set the publishing industry abuzz:
something truly unprecedented for a debutante novelist in
Indian-English writing.
The media-driven tizzy is now old hash;
but, Arundhati Roy, with her elfin charm, poise, grace and
elegance -- not to mention her literary skills -- continues to
capture our hearts... with every new reading.
Roy is
a natural. Maybe, she was destined to chisel a work as brilliant
as The God Of Small Things a la Rahul Dravid,
whose willow mechanics resonate a cricketing symphony in all
its resplendence -- a simile that is in consonance with Roy's
own way of thoughtful writing.
Roy's purple prose is something that is derived naturally from
within her psyche -- a renaissance of thought, a celebration
of the imagination.
Whatever the critical verdict on Roy's
first novel, one has to concede and acknowledge her amazing
repertoire. Roy not only webs a language which dislocates
established rhythms, but she also "engineers" a flourish that is,
quite simply, unmatched -- of words that are delicately knit
to fit into every slot and angle, every frame and character.
Not every writer has Roy's magic or talent. Which may explain
why none of her editors touched a word of her work. Which,
in turn, perhaps also explains the preponderance of metaphors
and similes: Roy seems to throw them in at the proverbial
"drop" of a phrase.
Roy is startlingly perceptive in the way
she juxtaposes the tensions within the Syrian Christian community
against the Naxalite movement. There is a definite political
underpinning, an undercurrent that flows through the roller-coaster
narrative. This gives the novel its natural umbrella of
sensuousness and animated delicacy.
Roy is also a non-conformist. She brings out
the high-handed ways of the police and their arrogance with
Skinnerian panache and a wacky sense of humour that stays
intact even in the most heartrending of situations. Example:
when Velutha, who is falsely implicated in the tragic death
of Sophie Mol, ends up as a truncated vegetable after the police
"roughen" him up by way of their "routine" investigation.
Though her sweeping generalisations are
not always warranted, they, to her credit, mirror an objective
likeness. They reflect the state of a nation: the India of
the unscrupulous politician, the unbridled hydra-headed monster
of power.
The God Of Small Things evolves
over just one day, and, as it does, it encompasses a few decades,
back and front. It X-rays how the little world of Ammu's twins
-- Estha and Rahel -- crumbles with the drowning of their cousin,
Sophie Mol. It wades through shock, human tragedy, disappointment,
frustration, depression, and acceptance. That Roy carves a
fascinating story line isn't as wondrous as the fact that
she has fashioned it from ordinary happenstance. In so doing,
she has almost single-handedly given the art of reading a
new lease of life.
The God Of Small Things has passion,
precision, and an ancient reciprocity with the natural world
-- a sustaining relationship with life, the breathing world,
human cognition, triumph and fallibility. It is a masterpiece
where the small things of life reach the crescendo, in both
form and charm.
Yes, The God Of
Small Things
is not just an astounding work of literature, it is a recoiled
lacework of human revelation, and [un]certainty: a truly delightful
experience.
If you have not read it yet, do yourself a favour.
Pick up a copy, today!
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