The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
The idea around this book, this story that doesn't need an explanation but stems from something that was endured. This book is a disguise that reveals itself delicately. It’s a vessel constantly overflowing on some days with politics; while love has invariably submerged itself with laws of having emotional and physical consequences. It leaves an impact on life and the thing we call life itself. A vessel brimming with water it’s not designed to hold. A life with consequences it’s not supposed to have. There’s a passing of worlds and generations in us that we are the unwavering outcomes of. A missing element. A shadow lurking in corners that were built years before we were born. Those corners feel like boulders we carry on our shoulders. Too heavy to lift without succumbing to the parched ground beneath our feet. Too wide to let go of without falling with it. The final weight crushing every part of our body. And everything else that nature conspired to build in us. This weight is pragmatic, no less. It is enslaved with history, desire, regrets, and forced imitations. The cost of living is unbiased to our means of paying for it. How can it be possible to build the simplest beings in the world and enforce on them ideas that remain unchanged for hundreds of years? So ingrained are our feelings of life and death that what’s left to render in between becomes the only primal test of living. What about the end of living? Death is certainly not the end of living. The former is not as consequential as we think it is. The stronger the dose of life, we feel its poison and willingly lay down in its grave. The end of living is also a form of death in which we're still inseparable of our bodies. We wander with no cause. Lost or found. When the little things are as indifferent in this world as the big things. And you see yourself in neither. The little things have a world of their own. Following the course of life in the objects humans leave behind. When it’s your wounds that still remain irreparable. What of the Small Things then? Who’s the Savior? Such consequences of living are memorable when felt. Or do they pass on, like the air we breathe?