The God of Small Things is the first novel by Arundhati Roy. Published in 1997 and winner of the Booker Prize, this beautiful book is a melancholy, endearing portrait of a shattered family, and the slow recounting of their destruction. A wonderful, painful read, the haunting tragedy hanging over the story sets the tone as Roy’s abundant language fills the landscape, providing the reader with both a sweeping view of India, and a detailed illustration of this family.
The story centers around the twins Rahel & Estha, and the death of their cousin, Sophie Mol. A sweet girl, but never a full character, “…far more quickly than ever should have happened, Sophie Mol became a Memory, while The Loss of Sophie Mol grew robust and alive.” The opening scene is of the adult Rahel walking through her hometown. Here where disaster struck, where her soul was rent in two, where her life fell apart. Where she was separated from Estha, who was sent away directly after tragedy, a separation from which neither has recovered. We then move shift back to their birth, and then the funeral they all must attend. The novel’s flits between past and present allow great flexibility, building the environment of both times so the reader understands the state of these characters, both then and now.
Told in a series of snapshots that capture the personal quirks and flaws of her cast, Roy’s use of a non-linear narrative better entrenches the reader in the heart of her world, riven with tragedy. From the beginning, she shares the pasts of characters, even the ancillary, not to further the action, but to induce a mindset of loss as a fact of life, something expected, unavoidable. And while this tactic is easily perceived by the reader, Roy’s skill resides in the creation of rules unspoken, but ever-present.
Often left unmentioned, the “love laws,” as Roy terms them, are such rules. In India, the love laws pervaded society. These laws determined “who should be loved, and how. And how much.” In a broad, cultural sense, these can be interpreted through the caste system, which determined the social class of an individual. In The God of Small Things, Roy takes the concept and runs with it. Much of the book can be seen as a riff on these laws, even if hardly mentioned in the text. To Roy, the love laws seem to be an aspect of India’s essence, and in this book they appear in much the same way. So ingrained are these laws that for the adult characters, no mention is needed. Yet the children are left in the dark. The adults act as if these love laws are inherent, ignoring the fact that their discrimination is learned, not primal. It is only as the reader moves through the book that this social construct is perceived, a construct so necessary the narrative would crumble without it. The magic of this work exists in Roy’s ability to lay this truth bare without subverting the small, essential joys sprinkled in the pages.
The ability to find joy and survive tragedy is in the realm of the Small God. A mercurial being, the God stands at the edge of the page, but his presence is always felt. Roy’s first explanation lies behind Rahel’s adult eyes, wrongly perceived as “between difference and despair.” In India, the Small God offers respite through both tragedy and joy. In comparison to the epic turmoil surrounding the country, personal despair is inconsequential. The Small God is happiness in the face of small tragedy, and small joy. “In the country that [Rahel] came from, poised forever between the terror of war and the horror of peace, Worse Things kept happening. So the Small God laughed a hollow laugh, and skipped away cheerfully…the source of his brittle elation was the relative smallness of his misfortune.”
After finishing the last word, I had the strong urge to return to page one, reliving the story in a more informed fashion, but since I read those last words on the way to my book club meeting, I haven’t yet gotten the chance. As per usual, I picked up the book three days before the meeting, a time when the countdown is measured better in hours than in days. But the last few books hadn’t been this literary. Or I’d listened to the audio book. But this one won an award, is considered literature; the back cover compares her to Faulkner. I felt the sinking obligation. Initially skeptical that I’d finish in time, and with a considerable lack of knowledge about India, I started reading. As the narrative voice took hold, I was captivated. Whisked away to a beautiful India. In retrospect, I think the short length of my reading period was an advantage. Every event was fresh in my mind, no reminders were needed. I could recall the tricks of Roy’s language with ease, and her vast story overtook me like a wave, all at once. It is sad. It is beautiful. It is a Kathakali troupe, full of magic and the Great Stories, dancing “to ask pardon of the gods.”
Critical Dan 