I was pursuing my journalism course when Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things was published. A Booker Prize-winning novel, it quickly became the talk of the town, and, as was the trend, I too wanted to own a personal copy. However, as a student surviving on a minimal allowance from my parents, I couldn’t afford to buy the book. Luckily, a hostel mate had purchased it, and I managed to book a few hours with it. The time slot I got was from 12 a.m. to 4 a.m. Our hostel was run by nuns, who had a habit of switching off the power at night. So, I ended up reading the book by candlelight, determined to finish it in time, as there was a queue of others waiting to read it after me. Months later, I was traveling with my dad on a train to Thiruvananthapuram. Sitting opposite us was a couple who had traveled from Europe to Kerala. They had a copy of The God of Small Things in their hands. Seeing the book, I began narrating to my dad how I had read it in the hostel un...