The God of Small Things Audible Audiobook – Unabridged

It's ten-to-two.It's ten-to-two on Rahel's painted watch.It’s ten-to-two on Rahel’s painted watch which lies under the revolved earth of The History House in the Heart of the Darkness.It’ll be always ten-to-two on the stillness of Roy’s book as the derailed freight train of her story slams into our hearts.It’ll be always ten-to-two when Sorrow, Pain, Unrequited Love, Too Much Love, and Unbearable, yet Understandable, Truths of Life collapse from their wagons and bury us all under them;It’ll be always ten-to-two as the train’s sharp wheels scar our souls as deep as the ugly scars on Mammachi’s head, her blind soul carefully hidden by the gray hair and they will be there forever, for us to carry.Ours will be beautiful scars.Scars… Healed scars. Scars healed by Unbearable Forbidden Necessary Cleaning Love, which will always be able to follow the Music escaping from a tangerine radio as it floats in the Air.The Still Air of Life.The Air of Roy’s story is filled with the haunting Truths of Life, so heavy to carry, they need to be shared, breathed by the twins, Esthappen, the boy-man, and Rahel, the girl-woman, as One. They are so horrible to be spoken of, that Rahel’s eyes becomes empty, empty with everything and Estha stops speaking, speaking with all. Inside.But the Truths of Life leak as Mammachi’s Pickles’ bottles have leaked, impossible to be tamed into perfection, silent as a mute shriek of grief, imperceptible as a light cutting deep into darkness.As History evolves and revolves as the round World we live in, the skyblue old Plymouth, with its painted rack falling apart, thunders the careening story of Life and Death.Life and Death. Love and Hate. Angels and Demons. Humans and Beasts. Happiness and Rules. The Big Things and The Small Things, which in a reversal of their inherent nature belonged to the Small light God, who sweeps clean his steps as he walks backward, and the Big powerful God (god?), who stomps into the House with his dirty, muddied boots.Roy leads us past glass of pickles and jellies of Paradise Pickles & Preserves, the factory; past The Sound of Music, the film; and past childhood, marriage, madness, pedophilia, poverty, violence, injustice and betrayal. And love, so much love.With no mercy, she tows us past the lost, hidden beauties and still there horrors of India; past confused Indians, immersed in caste hierarchy and lost in the war between British Imperialism and Karl Marx Communism; forced Evangelism; past Elvis Presley, Oxford, Coca-Cola, American TV shows and London life; all preferred, favorites in spite of the unique, laid-to-waste-in-twenty-minutes Kathakali dance.And she dresses us in saris of intolerance sewed carefully by single, married and widowed women and she gives us the painted masks of their unavailable, chauvinist kinsmen.For us, she disrobes the once-one turned-lonely children and two couples of forbidden lovers - who had already been bared, robbed… Loved less… The four of them The Gods of Small Things.And she makes us watch the Terror and the Love.I read this in two seatings only because I had to get a couple of hours’ sleep. I was frozen in my armchair, fossilized in time by the unjustified justice of my few smiles and many tears; nerves uncapped, shaking, almost hiding, as I saw many of my thoughts being SHOUTED OUT LOUD at me, from me.Will I read it again? Yes. Later. (Lay. Ter.)Now, I need a moment. Of quiet emptiness.To rage.Et tu, English, Indians, Christians, Syrian Christians, Hindus, Pelaya, Pulaya, Paravan, Touchables and Untouchables, Lower Middle Upper Classes, No Classes, all-and-yet-never Comrades! Who saw and looked away!Et tu, Sophie Mol! The unfortunate English child killed-killer of the simple happiness of Rahel's and Estha’s childhood, the two-egg twin that was only One.Et tu, Pappachi, the Imperial Entomologist, domestic abuser, proud and full of cruel, ugly moths; Mammachi, the almost-blind beaten-wife and example of Christian beatitude; Vellya Paapen, the one with a mortgaged glass eye and the real blind one; Baby grand aunt Kochamma, the gullible girl turned bitter-sour, with her perfect Per-Nun-Ciation and unfair, hasty judgements and psychologic torture! Who played alone-along their parts, ignorantly not knowing life was no rehearsal!Et tu, poor Rahel and Estha! Children so loved less, from the Beginning until the End, the only one, forever un-living-dead bearers’ of short sad lives and long alive deaths, who didn't know how to do otherwise.Et tu, All-of-Us! Who are rehearsing the Play and making Black Holes in the Universe, while out-of-our-minds, we count our Keys, looking into the void-avoiding the smelly injustice being distributed!What it worth it? The price to pay for a forbidden love?Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.I will need to read it again. Later.Now, I need a moment. Of empty quietness.To Praise.To Love.But no words of mine would do justice to Roy’s work of art, so leave me here, hurting and loving, stabbed in the back by my own hand with the Truths of my your our Life, accepting a bit more of myself you this world, and read this real, poetic, sad, grand, too-small-to-be-contained Book.And the Kathakali dancers danced and their drummers drummed, to ask pardon of their Gods, as we also should do for the daily, unconscious murder of our Gods of Small Things.While it’s ten-to-two.Before it’s too late…———————————————————————In the light of my last review of another book, where I closed its ebook covers at 20% because of typos, missing commas, too-many-grand-long-forgotten words and foreign mottos written wrongly, loose-lost opinions about historical facts, and over-the-top “'pumpkin bums’ descriptions of nothing-happening-to-many-characters-that-had-nothing-to-do-with-any-one”, I think that to be fair to those who read my reviews, I owe an explanation to my 5 star rating for ‘The God of Small Things’.Roy took me through the creation and death of an ornamental garden; made me sat in a church filled with ants, a baby bat and a dead child.I traveled in a bluesky Plymouth on a road full of frog stains while she uses foreign words, many half-full sentences, repeated ideas and (over-the-top, some will say) analogies. I consulted the dictionary more than a couple of times, as English is not my mother language and she uses words I was not familiar with (Probably, I would have to consult the Portuguese dictionary too).She made me wait, as a pregnant woman waits, as I read story upon story of many different characters, who seemed to have nothing to do with Rahel and Estha or anyone else, but were all linked somehow by society and social relationships.Yes, this book could have been smaller, but it could have been bigger. But if it were different, then it wouldn’t be ‘The God of Small Things’.I didn’t closed the book at 20% and I rated her work 5 stars.Why?Because.Because there are books and books; authors and authors.Because I don’t care if another author has used a style before Roy used it. I don’t care if there is another author who does it better than she did it. What readers and reviewers sometimes don’t understand is that gifted authors are often gifted-avid-readers, with screaming souls begging to be set free; who drown in the works they have read and let them soak in and soothe their pains. These authors are allowed to use all the styles as their own, without being accused of stealing them, as I’ve seen a few reviewers raging about. And I tell you that as an avid reader with a newly-freed author’s soul, hoping to be one day as gifted as Roy.Because what I care is that, in Roy’s work, there are magical, complex, centuries of old-untold relationships to be read about, learned and admired, in the middle of the marvel unseemly-going-nowhere descriptions of a ripple fruit bursting and an orange sun setting.Because Roy’s Universe is raw and rough, a few times sweet, filled with her beautiful, sharp-edged opinions - that some may think prejudiced - but are historically based and lived. She tells us an Indian story that could have been a Brazilian story. My story. Your story.Because what I care is that, without asking my permission, Roy took my soul and gave it back; Sadder for a moment, but more knowledgeable and fuller of passion.Because this is not a book for everyone, but for those who live life on its full, and are grateful for the possibility that, even being of die-able age, they are still alive; for those who are interested in relationships and its octopus sucking tentacles; for those who are mindful of how cruel the world can be and yet are able to see the beauty of a sunset and a strict forbidden incest love told in poetical, not-rhymed words; for those who can stand up for others in need.For those who love.“Because Anything can Happen to Anyone.It’s Best to be Prepared.”Arundhati Roy, in The God of Small Things———————————————————————P.S. 1 - If in your ebook you stumble upon lost inverted commas, dizzy dashes and en-dashes, overlook them. They are just simple typos - perhaps there on purpose, who knows?This book is like a child or a loved-lover, who should never be loved less, for his perchance carelessness, because it belongs to the Universe of Rippling Truths of Life.

This book won the Booker Prize for Literature. And "in my book," it's also a world-class (as well as world-lit) winner, heartbreaking, haunting, and wise.The main action takes place in India in 1969, but it jumps around in time. As the author put it, the story "begins at the end and ends in the middle." So we know from the beginning that there has been a terrible tragedy that permanently affected the lives of fraternal twins Estha (boy) and Rahel (girl.) The book is about finding out exactly what it was that happened; and how and why it happened.I guessed most of the answer pretty early on, but I think that was the intent of the author. The book is more about the process than the solution, and she gives the reader plenty of hints, respecting the reader's intelligence and gently guiding him or her to figure out the answer for himself or herself. It's not so much a novel of mystery or suspense as it is one of psychology (of both personality and relationships) and social commentary. Ms. Roy shows enormous insight into her characters and their situation, and while the writing is deceptively lovely and easy to read, The God of Small Things has a great deal of depth.Some of her insight comes from writing about what she knows. Parts of the story are autobiographical. Arundhati Roy grew up in the same rural town in India where the book is set, and her grandmother really did own and run a pickle factory. A recipe for Banana Jam is included which not only sounds delicious, but also easily doable for the average American cook. (I'm totally fascinated by how the banana puree turns scarlet red as it cooks. I've got to try that!)Since the reader has already mostly figured out what happened, in a way the big "reveal" scene in which the full tragedy is described in detail, is anti-climactic; and again I feel certain that this is deliberate. It is as if Ms. Roy wants us to focus on the characters - why they each behaved as they did, and how they were affected, rather than the actual events. There are still a couple of surprises coming, though. Yet even with those, one feels less surprise than might be expected. There's a sense of, "Of course - I should have seen that coming." Because although the author hasn't given us any hints about those particular surprises, she has set up a certain subtle and carefully-crafted atmosphere in which such surprising/shocking/awful things become the natural or logical cause (in one case) or consequence (in the other case.) And this ability of hers to hit us with a big surprise while making it seem not all that surprising, is part of Ms. Roy's genius.The ending is also anti-climactic, and yet again this is clearly the author's intent. Partly this is because the book ends, as she says, in the middle. I think that, after all the tragedy and loss of the the story, she wanted us to leave the book on a note of gentleness, love, and hope.Social commentary is a strong theme throughout this work. (Arundhati Roy became a social activist after it was published to such acclaim that she was able to wield considerable influence.) As an adjunct to that, the breaking of taboos and the consequences of that are two major story lines. In one, the consequences are terrible. Yet later, an even more pervasive (across many cultures) and powerful taboo is broken without any noticeable consequence. In fact, Roy has prepared the reader so well that the taboo act comes across as natural, appropriate, and even a positive thing for the characters involved. It is a brilliant and thought-provoking juxtaposition.I was totally charmed by the way this author plays with the English language. She thinks out of the box: breaks the rules in such a way that it makes sense, rather than causing chaos and confusion. She capitalizes certain words against the rules of grammar, as a very successful way of emphasizing them (". . . life was full of Beginnings and no Ends, and Everything was Forever . . . "). She makes up words, often by combining one or more words ("a viable die-able age" "sicksweet", "a Furrywhirring and a Sariflapping", "dullthudding") or by deliberate misspellings ("Infinnate"). The result is a sense of non-native-English-speakers' minds, a foreign perspective and way of thinking; or perhaps the perspective of a child. Either way, that is so fitting for the setting of the book.And it's much the same as the way she breaks the rules of structure (i.e., rules of chronology, de-emphasizing the climax, letting us guess the answer to the mystery early on, etc.) in ways that work, that beautifully and creatively accomplish what she is trying to do with the book. She's an ultimate example of how someone with a thorough knowledge of the rules can know when and how to break them.The God of Small Things is an outstanding work of fiction, one that I think fully deserves its award and acclaim. So far it is Ms. Roy's only novel, as she has been occupied in the decade since its publication with social activism. However, the Kindle edition that I read included an interview with the author in which she says that she is now writing a new book. I hope that it is finished and published soon. I would love to read more of her work.Quotes from The God of Small Things:"Occasionally, when Ammu listened to songs that she loved on the radio, something stirred inside her. A liquid ache spread under her skin, and she walked out of the world like a witch, to a better, happier place. On days like this there was something restless and untamed about her. As though she had temporarily set aside the morality of motherhood and divorcée-hood. Even her walk changed from a safe mother-walk to another wilder sort of walk. She wore flowers in her hair and carried magic secrets in her eyes. She spoke to no one. She spent hours on the riverbank with her little plastic transistor shaped like a tangerine. She smoked cigarettes and had midnight swims. What was it that gave Ammu this Unsafe Edge? This air of unpredictability? It was what she had battling inside her. An unmixable mix. The infinite tenderness of motherhood and the reckless rage of the suice bomber.""He trembled his own body like a man with malaria.""It is after all so easy to shatter a story. To break a chain of thought. To ruin a fragment of a dream being carried around carefully like a piece of porcelain. To let it be, to travel with it, as Velutha did, is much the harder thing to do.""It's true. Things can change in a day."(321 pages)

This book is all about the author's attempts to be clever and controversial. No, it's crap.Lower caste characters are 'black calloused' characters are blind, paralysed and 'so black you couldn't see the blood'. Higher class characters are smooth and light skinned with dimples and classical violinist as a hobby. This is based in Kerala right? If you say so.And the middle characters are all communists or Syrian Christians. That's it for them.Laughable, the author's attempts at using the short lived communist movement as enlightening backdrop. Absolutely no connection or anything comes from the Communism angle. The author trying to be clever I guess. The author is not clever. She simply wrote a story pandering to white readers in the US (the British don't need such childish details about Indians). And this book is the Booker Prize receiver? What a joke...Get ready for predictable child abuse, you can see this a mile away, as soon as you read about the ridiculously detailed descriptions of the clothes, hair, hair band, shoes, colour of shoes, colour of dress blah blah blah. This is all boringly repeated every single time the character arc moved a millimeter forward. The conclusion of the character arcs - all sad, somewhat disgusting and disappointing. Seriously, the author's attempts to be controversial is pushed out to twins having sex. That's it. That's where these character's, whom you have had to painfully follow throughout the book (in a boring not an emotional way). Their conclusion, after all, is twins having sex. Slow clap to the author...Be prepared with being left angry and dismayed (even disgusted) at the end of this book. Absolutely no reward (positive or negative) at all.Be prepared for coma inducing detailed descriptions throughout really, from the drooping leaves in the rain (wow how original) to the log in the river dancing (amazing) to the character of the spider in the crack being moody. So very unnecessary, long winded and ridiculous.Go away and cleanse your palate with A Suitable Boy. Sea of Poppies. Red Earth Pouring Rain. Anything but this.

Here is a book that has had me flabbergasted since I started reading it. Now that I have finished with it, I am still unable to shake off a sense of… disbelief?Let’s consider why.To begin with, the book is about a Syrian Christian family in Kerala, God’s Own Country in India. The story is about family intrigues, intrigues of love in and out of wedlock, political intrigues, industry ownership and labor movement intrigues. And children ensnared in the whole shindig.While I am not Christian, part of my own ancestry is from Kerala, so I felt a sense of identity as I went through the book. I have identified and I have not identified.After finishing the book and ruminating over it for a couple of days, I have not identified the protagonist. There are a few candidates in the book, but not one of them stands out more than the other. And yet, the story is whole.There is an identifiable beginning, a mindboggling middle and a uncertain end that leaves the reader guessing. For a long time after the end, to be fair to the story.I am not able to identify the writing style. It is crazy, and I am using that word after a lot of consideration. The storyline shows no respect for accepted theories on clarity of points of view and it shows scant deference to prescribed norms of backstory. It jumps from here to there and back, from him to her and back, from then to now and back with gray abandon. The tone of the book is neither bright white, nor dull black, but all shades of gray in between.And yet, this extraordinary mishmash of ingredients works as a story, because it is almost horrifying in its underlying grime and struggle and pathos. It worked on me.

This book reads like the 300 words of descriptive prose you were asked to write in school. Okay, one page of OTT descriptive prose is fine, but a whole book of it? I gave up at page 10. Well done to those of you who read more of it and thought you ought to like it because everyone has raved about it and because it got the Booker Prize, but really! I suspect the good reviews started off like the Emperor's New Clothes - because someone says it's good and it's written in a florid style, it has to be good. I didn't get a sense of purpose, place or time - just ornate, "exuberant" someone called it, prose, written in order to be, well, good prose. This did absolutely nothing for me at all and I know that after ploughing through the first ten pages of sensual overload, I'd read enough. It really makes me question these book awards. There was no light and shade in the language, just overkill of adjective, metaphor and simile and at page ten I felt I was wading through highly spiced treacle.

This is not just another novel that you come across, this is serious, I just couldn't believe myself when I got to know that this was Arundhati Roy's first novel. It was truly deserving for the booker prize. This is not one of those novels that you pick up and finish in one go.You'll be carried along In to a journey, you'll feel pain of the characters and feel joy in their happiness. The phrases and the style of writing is ingenious.You may find it a little bit hard to keep up with certain character names, but you will never ever regret reading this book.

I struggled through this book to the very end only because it was a book club read. I have a policy of never giving up on a book, but I'm afraid I would have gladly abandoned this after the first chapter- and it didn't get better. I found this to be deeply muddled in structure, with unfollowable shifts between different times in the characters' lives, so that what few events there were were muddled and unclear in evolution. There was barely even a plot - SPOILER ALERT - two twins grow up in India, the boy is sexually assaulted in a cinema, their mother has an affair with someone from an untouchable caste, their cousin visits from England and drowns in the river then they sleep together. All of this is portrayed out of chronological order, and alluded to before the actual details are given, so I spent most of the book not having a clue what was going on. As for the language... I've never read such a load of verbose pretentious twaddle in all my life. Why use one word when thirty will do? It completely obscured any sense in the narrative for me, and left me with the impression that the author was trying to show off what a mastery she has of the English language, even being 'so clever' as to change spellings; why does a barn owl have to be a Bar Nowl? Why does she keep calling the twins a puff and a fountain in a Love-in-Tokyo after their hairstyle?I'm an intelligent educated person but this left me feeling as though I was too stupid to understand it - which if I'm honest I find the case with a lot of prize-winning books. Perhaps I am. I read for enjoyment and to a degree, education, and I'm afraid this did neither for me. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone.