The God of Small Things

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy is a book I first bought over 20 years ago. Back then, I eagerly tried to read it but soon found myself frustrated, eventually abandoning it altogether. The intricate narrative, the unfamiliar structure—it all felt too overwhelming.

Fast-forward two decades, and there it was again, buried on my bookshelf. Its pages browned with age, coffee stains marking its journey with me, and my children's scribbles dancing across its margins. After finishing 100 Years of Solitude, I felt a renewed curiosity, a sense that maybe this was the right time to pick it up again. And this time, it was different.

The fault hadn't been the book's, I realized, but mine. I hadn't been ready. The God of Small Things is not a book you read casually. It's raw, unflinching, and deeply emotional, especially for someone like me, who grew up in South Asia.

With every page, memories long buried resurfaced. I could feel the sensation of boarding a crowded bus, gripping a metal railing, and inhaling the sharp, sour tang it left on my hands. Roy's prose stirred something deep within me—she captures the sensory experience of South Asian life in a way that is so visceral, so palpable. From the small, seemingly inconsequential details to the larger, more profound explorations of family, love, and loss, this novel cuts through the skin and reaches right into the bone.

This time around, I was ready for the ache it created. I understood its emotional weight in a way I couldn't have, all those years ago. Roy's ability to weave together the personal and the political, the small and the grand, is nothing short of masterful.

Ultimately, The God of Small Things is a masterpiece. It's not an easy read, but it's one that stays with you, seeping into the corners of your memory, like the sour smell of metal. This time, I could let myself sink into its depths, and what I found there was haunting, beautiful, and utterly unforgettable.