On Twin-Eggs and Dirty Secrets: A (slightly) critical review of The God of Small Things

Read With Me: October, 2022.

Disclaimer: reader discretion is advised. I do not advocate for themes discussed in books I review - I read a wide variety of fiction and non-fiction, for education and leisure. My views as a reader are my own, and not representative of any employer or organization. My reviews are biased by default, and will be heavily influenced by my code of ethics. You are free to click off where you please, and more than welcome to suggest books for reviewing :)

Book 2: The God of Small Things

Acclaim: Winner of the 1997 Booker Prize.

Rating: 4⭐️ / pg rating: 16+

Synopsis: The year is 1969. In the state of Kerala, on the southernmost tip of India, a skyblue Plymouth with chrome tailfins is stranded on the highway amid a Marxist workers' demonstration. Inside the car sit two-egg twins Rahel and Esthappen, and so begins their tale. . . . Armed only with the invincible innocence of children, they fashion a childhood for themselves in the shade of the wreck that is their family—their lonely, lovely mother, Ammu (who loves by night the man her children love by day), their blind grandmother, Mammachi (who plays Handel on her violin), their beloved uncle Chacko (Rhodes scholar, pickle baron, radical Marxist, bottom-pincher), their enemy, Baby Kochamma (ex-nun and incumbent grandaunt), and the ghost of an imperial entomologist's moth (with unusually dense dorsal tufts).

When their English cousin, Sophie Mol, and her mother, Margaret Kochamma, arrive on a Christmas visit, Esthappen and Rahel learn that Things Can Change in a Day. That lives can twist into new, ugly shapes, even cease forever, beside their river "graygreen." With fish in it. With the sky and trees in it. And at night, the broken yellow moon in it. The brilliantly plotted story uncoils with an agonizing sense of foreboding and inevitability. Yet nothing prepares you for what lies at the heart of it.

Genre: Historical Fiction / Indian Literature / Classic-Contemporary (yes, those exist)

Themes discussed: Family / Forbidden Love / Colonialism / Post-Colonialism / Social Class Inequality 

Review: 

As you would have it, I ventured into this book as blind as a bat. I had heard of it from my lecturer multiple times during the past three years, but she was always careful to keep the details to herself. All I knew was that Arundhati Roy wrote in riddles and I was intrigued. 

I happened to grab a copy at Makeens during the Book Fair (it was on sale, but it did leave a sizeable dent in my pocket). I started reading this long before I started Seven Moons, but it has taken me over a month to finish it for many reasons, which I will list as we dig deeper into this review. 

Arundathi Roy's jewel of a novel, The God of Small Things is anything but small; it's a stunner, with a ridiculously well-crafted plot, a sagacious tale of histories once spoken by ladies who would line up by community wells with their pitchers and sage advice. 

The narration is in third person omniscient and it's deliciously fulfilling. Roy sets you up from the start: you see every thought flit right in front of you and you start to believe you know these characters, that you've figured it all out. But, as with all well-written third person narratives, you're often too preoccupied with hearing everyone out to listen to what's in plain sight. 

The book flits between the past and present with a seamlessness that's hard to write and harder to identify in many newer novels in the market - the vocabulary is rich. Almost too rich. As someone who often blurs the background to focus on the characters, the heavy focus on backgrounds felt overwhelming at times. Still, I could picture the scenes as though they were playing on a PVR screen: illuminated by the light of Arundathi Roy's fluid narration. 

The book primarily focuses on a Syrian Christian family of Malayalis; Mammachi, the blind but indignant grandmother who plays a sick tune. Baby Kochchamma, her sister who is self-righteousness personified. Chacko, runner of factories and lover of Ex-wife Margeret and Daughter Sophie. Ammu, beautiful dreamer with a secret. and the twins - Rahel and Estha, twin-eggs, carriers of misfortune and harbingers of small things. 

Initially, the amount of characters seemed excessive - the list above is only a handful in comparison. But, overtime, each of them proved their necessity in this story full of terrible, terrible secrets. 

I adored Estha from the moment he was introduced: something about the quietness he carried with him, across the pages and well into the story, made me want to know more. Rahel, on the otherhand, felt too familiar. Almost immediately, I drew parallels to myself, a younger, more cynical child who had seen too much of the world too soon. Rahel and Estha go together as one but carry two very different versions of the same secret. They do say non-identical twins are more siblings than twins. Still, they had their moments of 'oneness' that pointed towards their 'twinness' (if that makes sense). 

I would love to dwell deeper into each character's story, to dissect them and to dig up the reason behind their existence, but that would make this review a minefield of spoilers. Instead, I'll tell you to trust the twins and be wary of everyone else. 

This book has a certain level of controversy to it; it talks of Kerala and Malayalis from the eyes of the English (we shall discuss how this plays a significant role in its claim to fame, someday. not today, but someday), it dips its fingers into the debate of uprisings by communist parties in an inherently capitalist society (interestingly enough, the portrayal of communists feels almost satirical. Almost) and it digs at the tourism industry's love for abridging culture. The story sits on a foundation of self-righteous and post-colonial beliefs, so can it be classified as Indian literature? Or is it literary fiction that happens to be written about Indians?

That aside, the book touches on sensitive themes with a tangible rawness; I retched at some parts, and I found myself completely shattered during others. There's a disturbing amount of truth wedged between the very purple prose. 

You're likely to enjoy this book if you're a fan of poetry, realism and timeless history: the words dance on the pages to the familiar tune of past realities and current histories. 

It doesn't claim to be a mystery novel, but it has the depth of one and carries the vague aftertaste of a psychological thriller. Be warned: you will feel entirely removed from your surroundings every time you dive out of the pages and back into your life. 

Arundhati Roy is an acclaimed author, for very good reasons; she writes stories like a mother sings lullabies. They're whimsical and soft, quiet but carry an undertone of harsh truth. Her stories are beautifully crafted and hauntingly absurd. 

The docked star comes from my inability to stomach one particular twist; it felt unnecessary and it sickened me. I understand its significance, I may even have seen it coming, but I had hoped, against my better judgement, that the story was complex enough without it. I was proven wrong. 

Still, I recommend this book to anyone who would like to learn a little bit more about Post-Colonial Kerala (not to be confused with Post-Colonial India; they are two separate things), and the intricacies of Fate. As a devout believer in destiny, this book toed the lines of sacrilegious narration on several occasions, yet delivered what most books do not; a Karmic circle made entirely from the twisted red strings of Fate. 

Final Verdict: 

Careful, Quiet and Absurd. Heavy on the prose, and the heart. Light, in the way it treads over the sensitive and grips the edges of truth. A Must Read if you can stomach having Fate shoved in your face. 

Brilliant but very, very strange. 

Here's to November and my (fortunately small) TBR,

N x