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 under candlelight. As I described the story to him, the tourist
couple realized we were talking about the book. Strangely enough, at that
moment, we were passing through Kottayam. Ayemenem, the fictional village in
the novel, which is believed to be inspired by Aymanam, a village near Kottayam.
This coincidence sparked a conversation with the couple.
They assumed that everyone in Kottayam might have a similar connection to the
book. They asked me, “Would you ever consider writing a book like The
God of Small Things?”
I smiled at the question. Having read the book and
experienced how complex and layered it was, I couldn’t imagine writing
something even remotely comparable. Arundhati Roy’s writing reflected not only
her incredible talent but also her deep observations as a child during her
visits to Ayemenem. I replied, “No, I can’t write like her, nor do I have her
kind of perspective.”
Like any typical father, my dad had high hopes and
expectations for me. He said, “Why don’t you give it a try? You weren’t born in
Kerala, so your perspective might be unique—different from how others see it.”
I smiled and replied, “Her experiences are different, Papa. I don’t have
stories like hers to share.”
Now, with Arundhati Roy publishing her first memoir, Mother
Mary Comes to Me, which delves into her complex relationship with her
mother, I find myself reflecting on my own life. In many ways, I see echoes of
my relationship with my mother in hers—the same layers of complexity, love, and
challenges. Today, I feel as though I’ve been reborn, standing at the threshold
of a new journey, one that feels entirely different from where I began.
Once, I told myself I didn’t have stories to tell. But now,
I realize I do—stories that are perhaps just as profound, maybe even richer
than hers. The only difference is, I don’t have a publisher or the loyal fan
base that Arundhati Roy has 😉.
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