Arundathi Roy

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Topic started by sandihya (sandhyasundar@hotmail.con) on Mon Nov 22 08:35:19 .


Indian writers in English generally write for international readers. Arundathi wanted to show through The God of all Small Things that there is untouchability even in Christianity. Untouchability is what by the way missionaries profess to remove through conversions.

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The title is The God of Small things, not the god of all small things

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i had to read this perverted book for english at UT Austin for my World Lit class. The narrative began as many others mid life but unfolding into orangedrink lemon drink man- gross and Rahel and Estha making love...Totally fit in with our Professor's choice of "porn" novels and how he intentionally picked out the sex in each on tests. ok that is my comment. Roy you--you- oldnew running around ex crazed pedophilliac one

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Liked it, like all Malayalees did.
Some realities of Mallus born and brought up
outside Kerala, are shown.
Is it true that two-egged twins (twins one male and one female) have incestual
feelings towards each other?

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Hi all,

I too read this book, a while back so cant remember too many things about it. I am not from Kerala but always been fascinated by this place which resembles alot like Srilanka.....The book was so vivid and discriptive that I felt like I was right there.

TO: Arundhati Liker, Yeah, they do have incesutual realations towards the end of the story, which like others, I too did'nt get it.

Does anyone know anyother books written by Roy??

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she said she'll write no more books but has written a mini book on the proposed Dam in narmada and a huge article on india and pKISTAN HAVING nucluer bombs.

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I enjoyed reading Roy's book also - I mean this was my first time being exposed to a Malyalee Woman writer. And the story seems to bring out a lot of deep feelings in her - i mean i know that she was also mixed with a Bengali father and a Malayalee mother and that she did not fit into society. I also see a lot of political passions of hers instilled deeply in the book - I mean you can tell she was communist. We are always taught that democracy is the one true way in the schools here in the US but this book was like a mind opener to why Kerala has these communist affiliations but this book has not come up as a reading requirement in our lit classes - maybe as anon said due to some of the perverted qualities (?) Does anyone feel that Roy used the gross details a little too much or was it needed for such a story?

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From royfan
if ever there was a book needing to be be written, it was this, it was this. roy wears and uses english like it was water flowing in the river at ayemenem. i only wonder how such a fragile looking one with such a little excited girl voice could write such muscular prose (or is it poetry)always surprises me. i hope there never will be a Roy-shaped hole in this universe which i am honored to share with her.

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hi

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Roy's writings don't need any advocate for their defence. But perhaps this much has to be said, if only in defense of professors and teachers of English who choose novels such as Roy,s as course material.
Good literature doesn't hide behind the skirts of civil society. Nor was it ever the simpering handmaiden of squeamish teenyboppers. Good literature has to go boldly where no man or
woman has gone. With brutal honesty and
endearing frankness. It is thus that good
literature helps to exorcise society of its
lingering guilt and angst.
Good literature gets done because it has to be.
The world needs it.

Royfan

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Quite some time ago when I was working for a publishing house I happened to meet one of the well known writers (male) of India. He went to great lengths about how AR didnot receive the booker. Some of my colleagues and I questioned him about his opinion. His answers gave us a cl;earer picture about his reasons for disliking AR and her GOST--'How dare she get the prize when there were other Male writers like himself who have been ignored so far'.
The criticism that her novels are prnographic amazes me and I went back to the novel to see if there was anything I missed. No...there was nothing that struck me as being pornographic. The narrator's strong feelings for her twin brother which seems to cross borders at times...The mother's dalliance with the lower caste handyman...I guess all these are real issues of sexuality. But then the Indian psyche has always treated sex as a solely male prerogative. As for incest...I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours is a process of growing up in most hoseholds all over the world...even India is that incest?
If the book deserved the booker? Well did Salman Rushdi deserve it...I know quite a few well known scholars who regard him as a literary shyster. A prize is always relative. I personally regard the book as a fine work and she has a powerful gift for the language.

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Shard,
>>>As for incest...I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours is a process of growing up in most hoseholds all over the world...even India is that incest?

Is that a process of growing up? Grown up brother and sister sharing their bodies? And it's not just showing alone.
Anyhow, hers is the best work of fiction in English, I have read, by any Indian. I enjoyed reading it through out. What came as a fly in the ointment was that incest in the last but one chapter.

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Siby,

>>>>>Grown up brother and sister sharing
their bodies?
Shard meant "growing up children". Anyway,
I'm surprised that childhood sibling experimentation of the "I'll show you mine
if you'll show me yours" variety surprises
you. It is a natural part of growing up
(given the opportunity) in any culture, Indian
or other. The problem here for most of us is
that it makes us uncomfortable to be made to
hark back to it. Legitimate literature, or
for that matter any frank exposition,
has this "uncomfortable" quality about it.
One will have to ask Roy but it bespeaks
great intellectual courage to to be so
forthright in a novel that will almost
certainly be judged as autobiographical.
My point is that "Portnoy's Complaint",
"Tobacco Road", "Train to Pakistan" and
others works do not cease to be great
literature just because they hold up uncomfortable facts to light.
Comfortable literature is the domain of
Readers' Digest and other journals of that ilk.
Dare I say that "comfort level" is a good
indicator of the artistic relevance of a work to its day and age?

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Shakespeare,
Estha & Rahel are not growing children but grown up, in their late twenties. The incident occurs when Rahel is back from US and Estha from Calcutta.

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I would like to thank my friend who takes the name of the bard we love for his explanation. Yes siby...it is very much a part of growing up. There is a period of adolesence (in India as in many sexually repressed countries where talking of sex is considered taboo, it even extends to early teens) where such role play (Daddy-Mummy games) and mutual exploration occurs as a kind of 'self sex-education'. It's innocent and the percentage of these games turning to something more serious is very minimal.
I don't think AR included the incest bit to tittilate...maybe shock people...but definitely not tittilate. I guess it symbolises the absolute alienation of the siblings by those around them...they seek solace in each other. Ihe mental support that they seek from and provide to each other manifests physically as a 'natural' course (IN THE NOVEL). I don't think it is incest for incest's sake. Frankly I think the entire morality issue being raised about the novel is absolute hogwash.

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Shard: I agree with your comment about the morality issue.

It's a novel, for heavens sake, and an enjoyable one. I didn't think it was a very "Indian" novel or an insightful one, but it was definitely good. Better than a lot of other Indian English novels.

Aside: I wish RK Narayan had received some recognition. I come across lots of people who have read AR and never heard of RKN. RKN was an "Indian" writer in a way that Rushdie and AR have never been.

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Dear Naveen,

You said, "I didn't think it was a very "Indian" novel". Can you expand on that? What, for instance, is an "Indian novel"?
Again, how is RKN more of an "Indian writer" than Rushdie or AR? Can we some more comments on this please?
Shakespeare

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Bard,

AR and Rushdie write about India and describe India very successfully, but their points of view, their influences and their sensibilities, seem to me essentially Western. To me, they seem to think and write like Westerners who never really experience India below the level of the picturesque. Even starvation is beautiful seen through train windows or from behind sun-glasses.

I am afraid I read them too long ago to be able to give references. When I say an Indian novel, I mean the kind of novel that a foreigner can read and instantly get a glimpse of what the typical Indian lives, thinks and feels like. It is possible that when I say RKN is more Indian, I actually mean that he is more South Indian than some of the other people I am comparing him to(because I am South Indian).

VS Naipaul and RK Narayan describe India (or Indianness) more authentically, through Indian eyes. Or the guy who wrote Train to Pakistan. There is a earthiness in RKN's books, for example, that instantly recalls the hot and dusty roads of South India.

This is just my memory of the impression I came away with, after reading Midnight/Satanic and God..Little. Not that I am belittling any of those books: they were wonderfully creative and immensely enjoyable. I grew up reading RKN and that may be why I am biased.

So, what do you think? Do you personally find (I assume that you're Indian?) that Rushdie's characters and situations "feel" Indian to you?

By the way, was that "we" regal or representative? :-)

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Naveen,
I think I will be taking the bard's side on this. It is rather difficult to label Indianness when one is talking about a novel written in English. I will go off track here for a bit of flashback (insert appropriate music here). In my Univ. days i happened to attend a seminar on teaching of English in India and one of the speakers was an 'expert' on the subject from England. He spoke of how strong English culture was in India in spite of Independence and to illustrate this he held up a copy of Stardust...i mean how shallow can that be? What is English about it except for the language.
Back to point...what constitutes Indianness? True R K Narayan seems to use a great deal of Indian images and modifies his use of the language to use the rural Indian idiom. AR on the other hand has a more modern urban lilt to her language and her experiences are essentially Indian...an urban, anglo-educated, free thinking Indian...but Indian nonetheless.
As for Rushdie, I think it is only the Indians who consider him an Indian writer...the tools he uses are entirely alien. His novels may be set in the subcontinent but I don't think it goes further than that. Same thing with Naipaul...he is writing more about the Indians of the Indies (but there may be a hole there since diaspora Indians tend to be more Indian than the Indians in India....gasp).
RKN was writing of a different time to a different audience in a different language and AR is writing again of a different time...and so on. This does not mean that one is less Indian than the other. Have you seen In Which Annie Gives it Those Ones? I think you should. As an Indian who was guilty about my lack of Indianness it showed me how stupid I was being.

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Naveen, Sorry about the "we"! It was not meant to be regal, judicial or editorial. This is a common forum attended by other people (at least seven? on this thread anyway) and also "we" ( as opposed to "I")seems to alleviate any hint of personal affront. Hence "we"!! Yes, I'm Indian - deep south. Now to the point. You wrote that AR and co. do not write >>the kind of novel that a foreigner can read and instantly get a glimpse of what the typical Indian lives, thinks........<< Ironic indeed. This is exactly what some people accuse IndoAnglian writers like AR and V.Seth of! That they write with the western reader in mind, rather than an Indian audience. I second that accusation and I shall also defend AR and co. thus: Any writer is preoccupied,to a large extent, by language which is their only tool. The Indo Anglian author, precisely by virtue of their being fluent in that language, have also unconscviously imbibed a kind of western (nonIndian) sensibility. Therefore their writing seems more accessible, hospitable and relevant to a western reader. What, may I ask, is wrong with that? Now I come to your point. The sensibility may be western, but the viewpoint is totally Indian. I do not see the slightest suggestion of picturepostcard prettiness in any of these writers. Their preoccupations are Indian. I quote a reader from another thread, since I don't have the book (or the memory of it) with me right now - "slanting silver ropes slammed into the loose earth, plowing it up like gunfire." - any Keralite will tell you how this line evokes the first lashings of a June rain. With a little of visual images from hollywood. To an urban English educated Indian writer these are her own images. These are no views from behind a train window. All this goes for Rushdie too, to an extent, though his English ( England) background places him on a slightly different level. I think we need more writers to mine this peculiarly Indian sensibility - that alienation and that acuity of vision that plagues(!) IndoAnglian writers. Theirs is that schizophrenic world view that can offer new insight to the Indian reader ( since an Indian is vehemently protective of his country when any foreigner criticises India!) about his country and all that's good and bad in it. (re. your assumption, I shall leave you guessing!) Shakespeare

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Shard,
Thanks. Saw your post after composing the above. Coincidentally I was about to mention Shobha De ex Ed. Stardust for her novels which are Indo Anglian because they are written by an Indian and happen to be in English. Period! Any day, I'll go for a Ray than a De!
BetweenRKN and AR there is of course the age difference which we have to reckon with.
Shakespeare

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Shard,
Thanks. Saw your post after composing the above. Coincidentally I was about to mention Shobha De ex Ed. Stardust, for her novels which are Indo Anglian because they are written by an Indian and happen to be in English. Period! Any day, I'll go for a Ray than a De!
BetweenRKN and AR there is of course the age difference which we have to reckon with.
Shakespeare

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I too could not feel that Arundhati Roy wrote her novel keeping the Western readers in mind. All I could feel was that she had kept the Syrian X'ian community of Kottayam-- of which incidentaly I'm also a member as she is (or was?)--while writing the book. And who can understand the background and the plot of the work better than these people?

In fact, my fear was that whether the Western or even non-Keralite readers would be able to appreciate the work well enough without some understanding of the Syrian X'ian community of Kerala.

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I have nothing to comment on Shobha Dhe or Ms.Roy(who I know only as a brilliant journalist; I also know of Ms.Dhe only as a gossiping feminist columnist), but I would dare say that Ms.Dhe is/was one of the most beautiful women in India (Ms.Roy can't contend with her at least in physical aspects, in spite of herself being a good looking woman !)

Sorry guys, sometimes IT gets too much on your nerves and it relaxes to indulge in such asides !

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Vishvesh,
Shobha De was Shobha Khilachand back in those days when she appeared in the pages of women's magazines as a pretty face rather than a gritty writer. She was okay, I guess.
But to me Roy has an understated, unconsciously laidback approach to the camera's gaze. This, along with her translucent skin stretched so vulnerably over slender bones makes her a very appealing beauty. Not to talk of her very peculiarly husky nasal voice!
Tell me more about Roy as a journalist. I never knew she had been one.
Shakespeare

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Hi Shakes,

Man, you do have a sense of feminine beauty ! A criticism of female artists should necessarily take into consideration their beauty too when they are beautiful, aint it? (just kidding...)

Ms.Roy is also a very controversial journalist (I don't like to use the word controversial, but then that is how she is defined by her leftist ideas !). She has written very sensible and insightful articles on Enron and the Narmada issue and a few of her articles were even banned or burned, if I am right. At some part of time there was even a minor discussion on one of her articles in this forum itself and if you dig it you can find it.

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Shard, I think you should be grateful that your expert didn't hold up snakes and ropes :-)

Personally, I agree with the idea that AR is just as Indian as RKN when you qualify it as you did: “an urban, anglo-educated, free thinking Indian...but Indian nonetheless”. The diversity of India…

I have reservations about your more fundamental idea that one is no more Indian than the other. I understand that they are two completely different authors writing of different things in different times. Still, there is some room for debate as to who is more successful in expressing the Indian soul (hey, if Russian literature has a soul, why not ours!).

I haven’t seen the film that you mentioned; I’ll look for it when I have the time. Thanks for the recommendation.

Bard, I knew that you meant the “we” in a friendly way, but I couldn’t resist taking a dig at it :-)

You may have misunderstood my earlier post a bit. I definitely do not think there is anything “wrong” in appealing to the Western reader, intentionally or otherwise. I do not think AR or Rushdie write the books they do, in order to attract a Western audience. As I said earlier, I did enjoy those books (well, not Satanic…) and I remember very well, that line you quoted.

I agree with most of the things you said. A minor quibble: I think there are others more in need of representation than the urban English-educated though I agree with your point that they provide a unique and useful perspective.

I don’t completely agree with the implied inevitability of Indian English writers “unconsciously imbibing” western sensibilities. RKN disproves that point. Naipaul, whatever else he has in addition, hasn’t lost his Indian sensibility. (At this point, I am sick of the word “sensibility”.) An urban Indian education might help one acquire an understanding of Western sensibilities without losing what one already has. There are always exceptions (the armchair philosopher), but I think that in most cases, one has to be educated outside India or very exclusively, to acquire the “peculiarly Indian sensibility” that you talk about.

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Hi Vish,
Thanks for the info. Though I doubt if Roy would want to be known more as a journalist rather than an as an environmental activist.
Regarding Roy's beauty, perhaps you did inject the right amount of diversion into a discussion that was becoming too academic and highbrow!
Hi Naveen,
You wrote >>A minor quibble: I think there are others more in need of representation than the urban English-educated though I agree with your point that they provide a unique and useful perspective. <<
By "others more in need of representation" I presume you mean vernacular writers and their readers. And I think they are more than well represented by the numerous vernacular book and journal publishers.
Roy and her readers belong to a miniscule section of the Indian public. Nevertheless, sad but true, this section it is that inherited the (philosophical, moral, political, literary, aesthetic) mantle of our anglosaxon conquerors. This is also the section of the populace which provides the majority of the elite administration that holds this nation together in its "steel frame" I do not revel in this state. I used the word schizophrenic to indicate the peculiar alienation of this minority.
The writers among this alienated lot are like writers everywhere. They have to write. They have to create. And what do they have as tools? A foreigner's language. But since their duty and raison de etre is to write, that is what they will do. What are we the readers to do? Give them a patient hearing since they are Indians writing about their India - only the language happens to be English. And if they can use the language with the cunning felicity of a Roy, then all the more praise to them, I say.
I would always welcome meaning outsiders. They may have something to tell us. Eg. Why do we bring in an external management expert to tell us what is wrong with our own company? Only because he brings a different perspective which we have lost owing to our proximity. The IndoAnglian writer performs much the same function for this country, I think.
Regarding your point that >>one has to be educated outside India or very exclusively, to acquire the “peculiarly Indian sensibility<< I feel someone who is totally outside the Indian mainstream can never be in full touch to be relevant. His experience of his country is at many removes. He is mostly a foreigner who has an Indian name, that's all!
Shakespeare

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Hi folks,

i'm new 2 this forumhub, hence sorry for continuing an OLD topic by today's standards. Personally i think Ms. Roy as an one-book celeb. After God o' small Things, nuthing, rite?? and we have to also see the gimmicks she indulged into for being in the limelite.

First she wrote a third rate article in '98 (Outlook) when India tested an atom-bomb in Pokhran for the second time. It was supposed 2 b for the intellectual elite of India toread such a great article.

then she took part along with Medha Patkar in the Narmada Bachao Andholan. It was say, a week long stint and that's how far she could manage. She just had some figures and quoted it around whenever a media person happened tobe near. The irony is she survived the whole stay there on mineral water bottles, the way the Indian(NRI !!??) Rich defend their tribals, pity !!

As for as her book is concerned, I thought it was just written keeping the Western audience in mind. its a bane on Indian writers writing in English, the typical other example being Salman Rushdie. I dunno what these people get out of degrading the image and customs and practices of India. As such, if you ask any Westerner abo' India, there's a 90% chance that the answer will be "its a land o' snake charmers and roads full of cows". That's the image created by the Western media, why do our writers then add fuel 2 this ?

and the amount of sex the book had, its disgusting. all these written as seen by seven year old twins !!!

so, any reply folks??

bye
arvind.

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I attended a talk presented by Arundhati Roy at a university last year and found it an unpleasant experience. The topic was the Narmada Dam project and she had recently published an article titled "For the Greater Common Good". She carried on in a dramatic fashion and focussed on sensational aspects and somehow, I felt the entire point of the exercise was demeaned. While social issues need the voice of "celebrities" for publicity, the "celebrities" themselves should be sympathetic enough to ensure that the issue on hand is more important then themselves - such occassions should not be used to build/enhance one's personal media image.

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Arvind,yes I agree with you regarding the portrayal of Indians to overseas audiences - many writers pick on those aspects of Indian tradition that are suited for sensationalism. And regarding Arudhati Roy's references to sex in her writing - it is disgusting - her article on The Bandit Queen for example - she accuses the film-maker of focussing on the sexual aspects of P.Devi's life and in the process, strews her own article with explicit sexual references. So she ended up using the same tool as the film maker for drmatic effect !!!

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There's another writer from Kerala who writes about the royal Varma family. He himself belongs to the same lineage. The name of the book is LAMENT OF THE MOHINI. I don't think it was written to create a sensation but an artist finds it compelling to present his feelings.

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This thread was started by me and i used to fell bad that nobody discusses but now after a long time when I strayed here I was happy to find so many people discussing it

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beautiful novel...i read it three times. Should be made into amovie..and hope that she will come up something else like this one

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Hi Sandhya(or is it sandihya?!)

Yeah I read somebody expressing interest on AR s journalistic works.She is a regular contributor to Guardian and her articles are published in their website (www.guardian.co.uk).Now that the interest on GOST seems to have waned ; we can probably dissect her articles.
Could you plz mention who is the author you referred to - verma - and what context you had in mind?
Thanks.

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Arundathi Roy is a very good auother but lacks the sympathetic depth that is required in pursuing lofty civic goals. I have lately come across statements by her that the media tend to pick up (this may not be Roy's intended affect at all..) that sounds more like self agrandizement.

She was talking with Naom Chomsky and stated that there was nothing wrong with wearing them as she herself indulged in them.

Roy, as buitiful as you really are, with or without those colorful bangles, those bangles cannot be brought into the same subject header as the Afghanistan war and the iniquities of Western Imperial Power!

I remain an ardent admirer of your books and yes, your bangles.

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The role of a writer in the contemporary world is entirely different.He/She must be an activist.The part played by Arundhati on the contemporary issues are thougt provoking.I think it is better to discuss on that aspect.
jeyasankar

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this s a really breathtakingly interesting book.all realities r reaveled lightly and boldly which s rare in case of sub continent women writers.

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I do not know much about AR. However I caught part of an interview with her on PBS's show called NOW. I was very intrigued and impressed that views such as these are being aired on public television. As an African-American woman with Native American Indian and African American slave roots who is a practicing Muslim in America I can definitely relate to many of her views. I really appreciate that there are Hindu's from India in this world who care to share such opinions with the rest of the world. I believe that her views are ones that the world needs to be exposed to so that we may be challenged intellectually and spiritually. Regardless of any human imperfections that any choose to voice about her I am happy that she is being heard. Thank you AR for speaking up for those who are not heard. Thank you for trying to bring the world closer together.

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I do not know much about AR. However I caught part of an interview with her on PBS's show called NOW. I was very intrigued and impressed that views such as these are being aired on public television. As an African-American woman with Native American Indian and African American slave roots who is a practicing Muslim in America I can definitely relate to many of her views. I really appreciate that there are Hindu's from India in this world who care to share such opinions with the rest of the world. I believe that her views are ones that the world needs to be exposed to so that we may be challenged intellectually and spiritually. Regardless of any human imperfections that any choose to voice about her I am happy that she is being heard. Thank you AR for speaking up for those who are not heard. Thank you for trying to bring the world closer together.

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When America attacked Iraq in recent months , I raced to the local bookshop looking for the Algebra of Infinite Justice , perhaps looking for answer as to why this craziness is inflicted upon humanity . The book helped me to comprehend about the war on Iraq especially in exposing American hypocrisy .She's passionate in her deliverance and maybe a bit emotional at time , but why the hell not .We live in a crazy time where normalcy is under threat by grotesque images of war .

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When America attacked Iraq in recent months , I raced to the local bookshop looking for the Algebra of Infinite Justice , perhaps looking for answer as to why this craziness is inflicted upon humanity . The book helped me to comprehend about the war on Iraq especially in exposing American hypocrisy .She's passionate in her deliverance and maybe a bit emotional at time , but why the hell not .We live in a crazy time where normalcy is under threat by grotesque images of war .

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When America attacked Iraq in recent months , I raced to the local bookshop looking for the Algebra of Infinite Justice , perhaps looking for answer as to why this craziness is inflicted upon humanity . The book helped me to comprehend about the war on Iraq especially in exposing American hypocrisy .She's passionate in her deliverance and maybe a bit emotional at time , but why the hell not .We live in a crazy time where normalcy is under threat by grotesque images of war .

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yhai

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oops

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I saw Arundathi Roy speaking on Cspan 2
and was very impressed. She makes excellent points. I did not video tape the show and would love a video copy of it....How could
I get one?

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RESPECTED ARUDHATI JEE,
KINDLY PROVIDE ME YOUR POSTAL ADDRESS,EMAIL ADDRESS AND TELEPHONE NUMBER

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RESPECTED ARUDHATI JEE,
KINDLY PROVIDE ME YOUR POSTAL ADDRESS,EMAIL ADDRESS AND TELEPHONE NUMBER

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RESPECTED ARUDHATI JEE,
KINDLY PROVIDE ME YOUR POSTAL ADDRESS,EMAIL ADDRESS AND TELEPHONE NUMBER

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I am a MA literature student and I am very much interested in Roy's book The God of Small Things. I will be extremly happy if you could send the detail of this topic to my e-mail id. I can use it for my studies and the project I am preparing.

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i really admire roy for trying to explore the indin caste system. and am really horrified by the caste system. how can this happen in india- the largest democratic country?. keep the fight against imperialism and the injustice in india. roy i will be your fun. waiting your another article.
tedros redie

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dear arundhati roy, my name is sandeep.kumar.i want to write a book plz help me as yor knowledge is powerful plz share it with me also. i cant tell u anything about the book right now. but in due time i will tell u. so plz accept my invitation of working with me.plz help me. all i can promise right now is that the book wat i am writing is really outstanding. plz help me to start. your's sandeep.


my mail address is sandeep__007@hotmail.com

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I think it's a right time to have someone like Roy...along with Noam Chomsky to answer American imperialism....violence..ect.,

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hi all
i receantly read the book god of small things second time its roy showed her courage to slice the hidden caste variations even exist in the communist party and kerala christians its a fact still in tis 21st cent kerala heighly litrate gods own country all people in there deeper mind r divided on the basis of caste nd reliogion even the political parties r divided they count the vote on the basis of reliogion wat a pathetic condition people like me and lots of my friends saw leftist parties with a hope to stop all these bad practises but they failed she is a terrific persanality exaple for other writrs for her social work along with medha patker thanks AR for u r contribution to the society nd to the literary world
dipu

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RESPECTED ARUDHATI JEE,
KINDLY PROVIDE ME YOUR EMAIL ADDRESS. I will be in the next WSF in Mumbaï and i would like to meet you.

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RESPECTED ARUDHATI JEE,
KINDLY PROVIDE ME YOUR EMAIL ADDRESS. I will be in the next WSF in Mumbaï and i would like to meet you.

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i am a confrence organizor from pakistan and wish to invite ms.Arundhati Roy to our upcomming confrence in July 2004. for this i request you to please send me her postal address and contact number. looking forward to your co-operation, Mishelle Raza, School of Leadership,
Karachi, Pakistan...

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i am a confrence organizor from pakistan and wish to invite ms.Arundhati Roy to our upcomming confrence in July 2004. for this i request you to please send me her postal address and contact number. looking forward to your co-operation, Mishelle Raza, School of Leadership,
Karachi, Pakistan...

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http://www.iomx.com/online_ebooks.htm

[Oldposts]

Roy portrays her "self" in The God of Small Things. Find out all the concepts of the self. May it be Sociological, psychological, feminist, marxist or religious it is her inner consciousness that projects itself. The pickle factory, Ammu, Estha and Rahel they are all part of what her "self" has experienced.

[Oldposts]

Short stories For Arundhati Roy, From pakistan
Muhammad Nasrullah Khan.

23-C Commercial Area Satellite Town –C

Bahawalpur, Punjab.

Pakistan.

Phone: 0092-3006825501 E-Mail: nasar_peace@hotmail.com


BIO: "I try to write heartfelt stories based on bitter realities. I belong to a country where people are afraid of life. Their sleep has lost dreams. I want to reawaken their oppressed dreams; I want to share their woes; I want to share the suffering of their shrieking souls. Humanity is dying and I am trying to put a few drops of water on its dry tongue so that it should face death bravely. My writing is the echo of their flagging hopes and raging desires."


Unheard Melody
By

Muhammad Nasrullah Khan


The hot tea sucked me back into reality, my mind rudely awakened from frequent naps. It had recently succumbed to the habit of chasing thoughts unrelated to the topic at hand. My mind returned: ‘Wasteland’. I was sitting at a large wooden desk, examining the assignments of my students, but my mind was wandering elsewhere.
“Sir, your class-time has started”.
A voice brought me back.
All I wanted to do was to run…far away! I wished I could be able to write another ‘WASTE LAND’.
I had lost my enthusiasm in teaching years ago. I was merely going through the motions. I had long given up love for Chaucer or Shakespeare or Hemingway and Faulkner. My students had become nameless faces in the class room and faceless names during grading time,

The day ended with the usual monotony. In the afternoon I came out of college and started walking towards the sea---my only refuge. It was dark, so dark that I could barely see, and the thick fog obscured my vision further. It was December and the few trees lining the path towards the sea were chewed by the blood dripping jaws of autumn. An atmosphere I did not belong to. Stagnation---apathy---entropy---life there was a sad mystery.
Were these only dark thoughts echoing in my already distressed mind, or was this seed of malcontent very real? I didn’t know.

The road was overly familiar to me, twice a day; I walked on it and encountered Bengalis, Philippines, Sudanese, Egyptians, Indians, and Pakistanis; people almost representing every country of the entire poor world. They had come there to make money, fight against the eternal hunger of their lands and to fill empty stomachs of their families. They all were coming back from their long shifts in industries. They never had time to turn their faces. How full of life they had been in their youth when they were lost in fantasies and gentle dreams. How terrified they became as little by little truth made them cold and indifferent. They had left everything behind—children, wives, homes. But the future did not yet belong to them. Neither would it belong to their children nor to their children’s children. They belonged to the world where a terror of royal flesh prevailed. I was one of those many faces, out of my poor country, Pakistan, in search of livelihood. Many years ago I wrote some stories. I believed I would find the same stories again. Neil Marr, an editor of western literary magazine, had many times reminded me that I was a writer and I must continue to write stories. How could I tell him that my mind had become an empty trash bin, filled with the needs of daily life? I had to work from dawn to dusk. The monotonous routine had swallowed many years of my life. I had a small, sweet daughter in Pakistan, whom I had not seen since her birth. But Neil Marr was still advising me for a new story. Wow! I myself had become a story in search of stories.

Lost in my melancholic thoughts, I reached the seashore. Wild tides were smashing on the shore like a desperate animal. The cold wind would have frozen me if I had not entered the restaurant. Aslam, the waiter, recognized me and gave me a warm smile of welcome.
“Hello Professor, take a seat. Nobody comes in the restaurant with this killer weather.”
I thanked him with a smile and sat over at a corner table. The Sitar Music of Pakistan, a great achievement of human civilization, spoke to me with impossible complexities.
The wild tides of the sea outside reminded me of “Time” by P.B. Shelley:
“Unfathomable sea! Whose waves are years.
Ocean of time, whose waters of deep woe
Are brackish with the salt of human tears!”

I got up to see the descending sun and stood there until it was completely lost in the horizon.


When I returned to my table, I found professor Ramnath sitting at a table next to mine, staring out of the window.
“Cold, huh”, he murmured.
He was a professor of the English department at an Indian College overseas. He was an interesting fellow and a brilliant old man. He was as jaded about the world and people around him as I was. He picked up a cigarette and lifted it to his lips. He could hold the smoke in longer than anyone I knew. He must have been a whale in a previous life, as Indians believe seven lives are lived in this world. The smoke coiled around us.
Ramnath was looking sad and dejected. It was something new because he was always a loving and jolly fellow.
“You seem to be engrossed in something,” I said.

‘Have you heard the B.B.C. News today?”


“There is nothing new for me to know ----tell me if there is,” I replied.

“American Space Shuttle Columbia burst in the space, just before landing,” he told me.

“Yes, and there was some Indian lady, named Kalipna on it,” he added.
Yes, it is sad news,” I replied.

“But Kalipna was not someone just in the news for me, since I knew her personally”, said
Ramnath.

“Personally, but how?”

“She was my student, and I had great love for her.”

He uttered the word “love” in a sad tone. There was a world of revelation in that word. I found tears in that word. He was looking out of the window where a seagull was diving to catch mackerel. Professor Ramnath could not prevent the flood of memories from washing over him. This episode of the past haunted him. All was revealed in his eyes with great aching clarity. He could not conceal a single detail, nor could any pain conceal itself from him.

“Go on with your story.” I said.

“I met her when I just started teaching at the Punjab Engineering College. Kalipna was in her second year as a graduate student. She had shoulder length black hair that she clearly never worried about. It was tousled and covered the sides of her plain and unadorned face. When she looked right at you, you could see that her eyes were slightly lazy and her features were not what you would describe as traditionally pretty. But there was something in her eyes, a certain sparkle, which made you spell bound. There was also a slight curl to her lips that made her seem intelligent and alert. Overall, she was a very attractive girl. To me she was beautiful. I know I loved her.”

The Professor stopped talking and looked outside where the seagull was still diving for mackerel.

“What attracted you to her?” I asked.

The Professor sighed and said, “Her eyes... They are probably the one thing I will never forget. How much peace I attained just by looking at them. Her eyes made me feel how wonderful the earth was when I looked into them. How I wish I could close my eyes and see hers again---to see her eyes for one last time; to feel her smile once more.
Whenever we were alone, she wanted to learn. I explained quantum mechanics, geophysical terminology, and English literature to her. I had much to teach and she was a fine student, with a flexible mind. She was never afraid to admit her ignorance. She asked many questions:

“Is there necessarily a difference between energy and matter? May I join independent clauses by a comma?”

I wondered at her lust for learning. Once when there was a get-together, she turned her attention away from the party and asked me away to ask me something about the transit effects of light and colour in Impressionist painting. One day she was holding a big bundle of books from the library. I asked her if she had time to read all those heavy books.

“I always have time, professor. This is the best way to prevent fear and loneliness.”

I kissed her hand and said, “I love your knowledge, which sparkles in your eyes.”

How can I forget that evening when I delivered a lecture on astronomical history? She held my hand and said, “You are a wonderful man. It is no wonder you have such success in your work!”
I blushed at this, red as a boiled lobster.
She smiled and said,” Your modesty makes you all the more adorable.”

“She was an intelligent girl. I loved her mind. You know what made her distinctive from other girls? Other girls were a collection of body parts controlled by a mind, but she was a mind supported by body parts.

Her only dream in life was to visit the moon. Since her childhood, she had been dreaming of it. Once she told me about her childhood, spent in a poor village of India. Her secondary school Education passed her by in a lonely blur. In solitude she wandered the school grounds or sat under trees with a pad and pen. Her lunch breaks were spent in the library accompanied only by science fiction books. At home, after completing her homework she would spend her time dreaming of space and the moon. She passed her exams with distinction but it meant nothing for her. This was not her dream. Others may have escaped reality by dreaming unrealistically but she never forgot the hardships and lessons of reality. She never allowed reality to obstruct her dreams and plans with defeat. She knew that she had to harness talent more precisely to pursue her dreams.


“She wanted to join NASA. She won scholarship and got admission in aerospace program in Texas. She made her way to her goal smoothly. I knew she would get her target one day. It was not amazing for me when she was selected as an aeronautical engineer in NASA.”

The Professor looked again at the sea, where the seagull was still diving to catch the fish.

“Did you express your love for her, Ramnath?” I asked, presenting a cigarette to him.

“No, never. The beauty of love does not lie in expressing it directly. It lies in hidden words. As you know ‘Unheard Melodies are sweeter.’ But I got one thing very real from her. I was mystically transformed by her. She converted me from being nonexistent to being existent.

I still remember the sad evening of her departure from India. Something in me was telling me that she would never return. Such people never come back. They never look back. Their destination is always ahead of them. The sun’s last rays were sinking behind the trees. Shadows rose from the dense woods on both sides of the track. I saw her, waving her hands; I could see her sparkling eyes even from a distance. The distance eventually made her vanish and I could not see her anymore. Oh life, cruel stepmother, why have you separated the two of us?”

The Sea was silent now. Smooth waves were singing a sweet song. Ramnath stood up, walked slowly over and leaned his head against the cold windowpanes, overlooking the unfathomable waters, where the seagull was scraping his beak after eating a mackerel.

I looked at the sea again as I thought about Ramnath and his sorrow. Life has no mercy.It scraps us up like the seagulls do when they find their prey.

I reluctantly rose from the chair, sighed, took a look at my wristwatch as if the time mattered and walked out the door. I walked onto the sidewalk and up the street leaving Ramnath behind without saying goodbye. Most of the place was quiet. A few workers were returning from their night shifts. I was thinking about Kalipna who left her land to achieve glory and how death finished her at the moment of her glory. I thought about Neil Marr advising me to write more stories.

I put a cigarette in my mouth, but instead of lighting it I just placed it in my mouth for effect and to give my fingers something to do. I did not want to think anymore. That was enough for one night.


Muhammad Nasrullah Khan.

23-C Commercial Area Satellite Town –C

Bahawalpur, Punjab.

Pakistan.

Phone: 0092-3006825501 E-Mail: nasar_peace@hotmail.com


BIO: "I try to write heartfelt stories based on bitter realities. I belong to a country where people are afraid of life. Their sleep has lost dreams. I want to reawaken their oppressed dreams; I want to share their woes; I want to share the suffering of their shrieking souls. Humanity is dying and I am trying to put a few drops of water on its dry tongue so that it should face death bravely. My writing is the echo of their flagging hopes and raging desires."


Before Sunrise

By

Muhammad Nasrullah Khan.

Neeha Roomi was only 12 when she was raped for the first time. She was a famous model and dancer. Her delicate untroubled style was famous throughout Arab world; it aroused the deepest emotions of her audiences. It was hard to tell, as you watched her perform, that she had been raped repeatedly in her childhood.

I had known of Neeha for many years. I had seen her dance on Arab T.V. But I did not meet her until my friend, Abdullah, took me to one of the most highly reputed Arabian nightclubs, to a special show in which Neeha’s dance was featured.

As he and I found seats at a small table, Abdullah said, “I am going to tell you something about which you will want to write a story.”

He knew that I was a writer, and I knew that he was a good story teller. And so he spoke, and I listened. Abdullah poured wine and passed a cup to me.

He began, speaking slowly:

“Rape is very common thing in our country, Pakistan.”

“So what is strange about that?” I said. “Evil itself is very common in our country. Some are dropping bombs on innocent people and others are raping girls. More important, our leaders are raping the whole land, while we are exchanging talks about our fatherland like a volcano vomiting. Let us drink and forget our aching prayers “I raved on, indifferent to the poor, ravished girls. I stood up and looked out at the sun, like a golden ball growing smaller, which was disappearing behind the fast shut eyelid of the ocean.

"Did you not hear what I just said?" asked Abdulla with a sound of anger in his voice, thinking I wasn't listening or that I cared not to what was happening in our country. He set his glass down heavily, seeming very annoyed.

"Yes, I heard you. Speak, I'm listening."

Abdulla stared at me for a while. Finally he began: "Neeha is a Pakistani girl. She left home at a very tender age. She was sold to a Brothel house and was exposed to endless rapes."

Abdulla walked toward the window where I stood, both hands in the pockets of his pants, as though in thought. He then turned his back toward me. I could tell something was not right as he walked toward the table.

I frowned. “Girls are taught about this danger from an early age. When a young pretty girl runs away from home, she takes her chances.”

I felt no remorse for my unconcern. However, I then spotted an opportunity. Perhaps the outrages about which Abdullah wished to speak would make a good story, a story which might be beneficial to my reputation as a writer. As the band played unmistakable theme song from” Magnolia Girls”, I clinked my glass with Abdullah’s and urged him to go on.

Abdulla continued, while the music’s resounding beat snaked through the bar. “Neeha ran away from home because she had been raped by her father.”

I snorted with disbelief.

“Believe it, my dear writer,” Abdullah said. ”Facts are always strange.”

He looked at me closely. “Shall I continue?”

I was not sure. Abdullah and I had been friends since college, and I’d never known him to lie. But it was such a bitter truth, so hard to believe.

Why her father? It was such a disgusting truth. As I sat with face in my hands, pouring out my heart, Abdullah poured himself another drink of wine. "Care for another?" he asked offering me my cup.

"No, I just want you to tell me more about Neeha."

Abdulla proceeded;

"I was in my twenties when Neeha was born. She was the daughter of Fatima Dai.

Dai is the title for women in the villages who earn their living by singing at weddings, and births of male children. These women live to entertain others. They make people laugh, children happy. Lovers use them to deliver secret messages while elders delight in them. They are like minstrels. They live on peoples' joys, though no one cares for theirs.

At seventeen, when I became a man and first felt the stormy urge for sexual satisfaction, my friend revealed another secret of Fatima. He told me about “feeding time”, when young men are trained for sex.

One day I stole five rupees, the fee for “feeding”, from grandmother's old box and walked to the dark hut of Fatima. As I knocked on the door of her muddy, dirty room, my hand trembled.

She came outside. There was a strange look on her face.

"Is your mother okay?" she asked.

"I'm not here for my mother. I have come..." I paused.

"Don't be afraid," she said. "Tell me frankly why would you come here in this darkness?”
“I---I---“

Fatima broke into startling laughter.

“What is it you will do with me?” She laughed.

I started to laugh as well. My fears melted away.

"Yes Fati, I am here for feeding." She grasped my hand and took me inside.

"Where is my fee?" she asked immediately.

I gave her my five rupees.”

Abdullah paused. He did not meet my eyes.

“What did she do?” I asked with great intensity.

“Knowing that I was immature, she did everything.”

“So you got what you paid for.”

I looked at Abdulla and waited to hear what else he had to say.

"I am not sure. There was an intolerable smell on her body and mouth, like the stinking smell of a dead animal. Even at that young age, I sensed that sex should be sweet and gentle, not repulsive. But that is not the worst of it. Afterwards she told me, ‘Run away now’.”

“No love or kindness? She just told you to run away?”

“Correct, “Abdullah said, lowering his voice to a whisper. I looked at her dumbfounded.” Why should I run? I asked her.”

I moved closer to Abdullah. “What did she say?”

“Her answer was quite upsetting for me.” Abdullah moved back to the table, sat down, and examined the tablecloth closely. “She said, because now it is feeding time for your father. Your mother is pregnant, you know."

“I felt as if someone had thrown a bomb on me. I ran and ran until I came to a graveyard. I fell to my knees near a saint’s tombstone and wept bitterly. For many years afterward, I was sexually abnormal because I had been exposed to sex in such an insensitive manner. “

“A year later Fatima married Gulami, the male Dai. His status was the same as Fatima’s. A year after that, she bore Neeha. It was hard to believe such a pretty girl could come from such ugly parents.”

“Later, Neeha's father became another victim to the young men from the Pakistani Army. In those days there was tension on the borderline between India and Pakistan. The army would come and forcibly take poverty-stricken men away to fight against the enemy. As you know, dear writer, a poor man is unlucky by birth.”

“The Indian Army conscripted Ghulami for ten years. When he returned he was not the same person. He looked 100 years old, like a moving skeleton with a long white beard. We hardly recognized him.”

Abdullah went on, “That is when Neeha was raped by her father.”

I turned my eyes away from my friend. Was I, a born writer, actually beginning to regret asking him to tell me this story?

Abdullah sighed, “In those days Neeha used to go to Mosque to learn the Holy Quran. She always kept her head properly covered. Her father encountered her at the mosque. When he was taken away by army, she was 2. Now she was 12; he did not recognize her. He also experienced severe memory loss; he probably did not even realize that he had a daughter.”

“still--“

Abdullah persisted with the story. “Neeha’s crying brought tears to the eyes of the most stonehearted people of the village. I am sure that even God in Heaven was weeping. When Ghulami discovered his victim’s identity, he was driven out of his mind with remorse. He disappeared into the barren mountains and was never seen again.

“I went on with my life. I forgot about what happened until one night when I saw Neeha in a dance club. And now you will see Neeha for yourself.”


Soon after, the emcee announced Neeha’s arrival. Tears sprang to Abdullah’s eyes. She is still so beautiful!” he said.

I was amazed to see how well Neeha danced. Her every step seemed to hold the breath of life. With a delicate, untroubled style, she aroused the emotions of the people. Her style perfectly combined both both beauty and art, both the promise of heaven and assurance of pleasure. She was amazing. She was wonderful. Her eyes held a feeling of hope and charm. My mind went back to the time when she was raped.

On the way to the bar to see Neeha, Abdulla wondered if Neeha would dance as she did the last night he saw her. To his surprise, she captivated his very soul.

After the show Abdulla introduced her to me.” He is a Writer. He has a rich heart and great love for life and arts.”

“But does my base love for money and fame surpass the loves my friend has mentioned?” I wondered. Aloud, I said, “Though we have lived through different circumstances, it seems as if I know you. How might we become acquainted?”

A coy smile slowly crept across Neeha’s face. It lingered as we walked out the door.

"So you want to write a story about me?" she said still Smiling. I did not answer. I was beginning to question my desire to use the outrages of her life to raise my own status, to wonder if debasing her in such a way might debase me still more.

She bent down, picked up a stone and cast it out toward the dark waves.

"What odd chaps you writers are," she said.” You sell the afflictions of people and gain reputations. Then you die and other writers sell stories about your miserable life. First you talk about others, and then others talk about you. What a foolish desire to be known. I learned a long time ago that we should walk away from this life silently. Remember, all roads lead to the dark grave.”

Her talk of death fascinated me, frightened me, and confused me. I lost all desire to exploit her for gain. My mind returned to the group of men who had exploited her so mercilessly, a group I no longer wanted to join.

“How could she have put up with so much?” I wondered. She was smiling, but I was sure that deep in her heart she was aching with sorrow.

She looked me in the eyes and in a most delicate tone she said, "Do you hear the sound of the sand constantly running? Do you hear the waves splashing against the cliff?’ She hesitated, ever so slightly. ‘Do you hear steps creeping around the wet road on a stormy night? Do you hear the songs of a traveler singing in the vast desert? Do you hear the tragic music of falling leaves in autumn? Do you..."

I stopped her and said:

"Yes, yes, you are like me, a child at heart, even in this commercial society where feelings have become commodities. You love nurture and the arts.”

My heart was developing feelings that I had never thought it could contain. I felt free, totally lost in the moment.

The waves had thrown a fish upon the sand. Neeha noticed this and ran to throw the helpless creature back in the water.
“We are like that fish.” she said.” We get out of the water and someone, much like death, throws us back in. In this world, we are actually out of water but thanks to death, which takes us back to life. Death, in fact, is the real name for life. The rest is all sand! The desires we have are just love for sand."

My heart began to beat more rapidly. Neeha seemed to have a strange power over me. She had changed my mind, my feelings, and my outlook on life. We walked hand in hand along the seashore, looking out over the ocean waves. We no longer spoke.

The sweet confusion grew. My manhood bloomed with the desire to be closer to her. I was overwhelmed with the frightening but wildly exciting desire; I suddenly wanted nothing more than to love her forever.

We stopped and looked at each other. In the twilight of early morning, I could see her eyes glitter as if accepting my silent commitment. I took her face into my hands. She closed her eyes in surrender, and I softly placed a kiss on each of them. My heart leapt with joy.

"You are so beautiful!" I whispered.

But then I sensed a change in Neeha’s manner, a sudden distancing. She pulled away from me and looked at the rising sun.

She said softly, "Yes but, this beauty is for the beasts." And she walked away.

I stood alone on the sands of time waiting for someone to come to throw me into the water.

[Oldposts]

hello i'm shakti from Malaysia!
i'm postgraduate student, doing my thesis base on Roy dan Kamala Markandaya's novel. i compare The God of Small Things and Nectar in sieve in feminism' point of view. so if anyone interest in this topic can mail me.
My mother tounge is Tamil. u can mail me in Tamil. TQ

[Oldposts]

Respected Madam

I want to read The God of small things please send me.

Thanking you Madam
Ramanju

[Oldposts]

Whom are you expecting the book from, Pal????? It is sold in bookstores!!! Go get it for a pretty sum!!!!!

[Oldposts]

Respected medam
iwant to read the God of small things please send me
Tankingyou Madam
jayakumar
from jay5_play@yahoo.com
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[Surya]

I hear that her book "God of little things." I think is good. But based on reading some of her other stuff, I'm not her biggest fan.

[Querida]

it is a pretty good book Surya..though at times graphic it still did not lose its flowing poetic style

[nirosha sen]

Did she write another book after God of Small Things???? I would love to read it, Pa!!!! :D

[Surya]

Cool, I wanna try it.

[Querida]

Did she write another book after God of Small Things???? I would love to read it, Pa!!!! :D

count me in...i've been waiting for ages for her to write again! :D

[pooja.shankar]

I hear that her book "God of little things." I think is good. But based on reading some of her other stuff, I'm not her biggest fan. .

u mean THE GOD OF SMALL THINGS ..i feel it s highly perverted book ...and it is really dumb coming from an indian lady ....

i ve read other books of that range of pervertedness..but .....i dunt knw y..

u see...coz this book ..has ntn but the romance and nonsense ...other books .. talk abt teh romance part of it ..in between once in a while of the main story ....


hmm .....i dunno ..i dint like this book ..for some reason

[rocketboy]

let's discuss about arundhati's latest creation - the algebra of infinite justice. its a compilation of 8 essays penned by arundhati over a period of time.

1. the end of imagination

2. the greater common good

3. power politics

4. the ladies have feelings,so..

5.the algebra of infinite justice

6.war is peace

7.democracy

8. war talk

( Penguin publication
Non-fiction
India Rs 225)

[raagadevan]

"Estha, Rahel now speak Malayalam"

http://www.hindu.com/2011/02/05/stories/2011020565262400.htm

[smithjanny]

Many translations

There have been translations in several languages, including Estonian. “But no other translation is as important to me as this.” For, it is the language of Estha, Rahel, Ammu and Velutha, the novel's central characters.

The novel get its Malayalam translation, ‘ Kunju kaaryangalude odaya thampuran,' by short-story writer A.S. Priya, 15 years after it was first published. In a question-and-answer session between the author and the translator at the book release ceremony, Ms. Roy recounted her feelings about the novel.





http://www.ecigarette.org/* (http://www.ecigarette.org/)

[raagadevan]

The Ministry of Utmost Happiness

- Arundhati Roy's second novel


Two reviews; one from The Guardian, England...

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/jun/11/ministry-utmost-happiness-arundhati-roy-review


and the other from The New Yorker...

http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/06/05/arundhati-roy-returns-to-fiction-in-fury