Not "The God of Small Things". In TGOST, the laws of love have been set, deciding who would love this book. And how. And how much. 

Exactly how I love this book ( if I love it at all) and how much I love it, is a question I find very difficult to answer even a week after I finish it. I picked up the book with a jaundiced eye, knowing very well that Indian Authors religiously go that extra mile to prove their mastery over the English language. And consciously aware of this effort, they then try to return to their roots, lavishly sprinkling their writing with Italicized Indian words, (the jhola that Ramu Postman carries, or the alluring dupatta that Savita bhabhi uses to adorns her cleavage revealing choli). 

As a result, Indian writing is often sporadic. A case in point is Siddharth Dhavant's "Last Song of Dusk". The book starts off with a verbally packed first three pages, and then settles comfortably into regular speech for the next hundred pages. Again book 2 ( which is a few years later), begins with some powerfully packed pages, before it too settles into more comfortable language. This demonstrates quite clearly to the searching eye of a break after part 1, when Siddharth would have rubbed his hands gleefully and decided he is ready to start part 2. And the enthusiasm shows for a few pages.  

"The God of Small Things", begins similarly. It opens to a panaromic view of Ayemenem in Kerala, sprinkled with sights, sounds and smells - about black crows gorging on bright mangoes, ripening of red bananas, bursting of jackfruits and "dissolute blue bottles humming vacuously in the fruity air". Very clearly, Arundhati Roy draws attention to her style and makes a point that she might be Indian, but her english, just like Kerala is hot, humid poetry. And into this poetry walks one half of our duel protagonists "Rahel". She returns to Ayemenem searching her long lost twin brother Estha who had been "returned" when they were only seven years old. Why he was returned is a story we learn through the rest of the book, where Small Things (duly capitalized in the eyes of our duel twin seven year olds) eventually lead to Big (and sad) Things. 

And like Arundhati Roy, the characters in TGOST, are caught up with their identities of establishing their intellect, be it Oxford educated Chacko uncle, who talks in his Read aloud voice, when he explains to the twins that an Anglophile is a person "well disposed to the English Language", or Grand Aunt Baby Kochama, who takes joy in Spandex wearing wrestlers (Mr. Perfect and Hulk Hogan) crack each other's skulls on television. Or the Elvis Puff shirt Estha is made to wear as the twins are dragged along to pick up Uncle Chacko's English wife (Ex-wife Chacko, she admonishes him), and his Half English-Half Indian daughter Sophie Mol. 

But where Arundhati Roy excels (as compared to most Indian authors), is that she is consistently and spectacularly enthusiastic, moving deftly between her thoughts and those of her character's, sometimes even interspersing the thoughts of seven year old twins with her own authorial third person narration - which is to say, by irony. An excellent example of that is the Australian Miss Mitten who gives the twins a baby book,  "Adventures of Susie Squirrel", which they read out to her backwards, just because they find the forward version too boring. A disappointed Miss Mitten complains to their grand Aunt, getting them impositions of "I will not write Backwards" to be written forwards. Arundhati Roys makes a an almost comical observation about Miss Mitten being killed soon after by a Van reversing "Backwards."

Also, unlike other Indian authors, Arundhati Roy does not dwell into Indianization of words and ideas just to bring the Indian touch. Instead she fiercly defends the Indianness that exists in a country that has been touched, corrupted and changed irreversably by the Western world, and yet still largely poor. An example is the lemon soda with thick blue marble stoppers to keep the fizz in, (an indian innovation, if any ever is) which sits close to a red icebox which says rather sadly (in her own words), "Things go better with Coca-cola."

There is poetry in what Arundhati Roy writes, even though she often writes about unpoetic things, about Communism, about the caste system, about Pickle factories, men's needs and naked beggars sitting on milestones their dangling penises pointing out that it is Cochin and it is 23 Kms away.  And the reason why there is poetry is because the images are often seen in the eyes of the seven year old twins, who often played small games without adult supervision. 

Who's mother sometimes asked them to Stoppit. And they Stoppited. 

At the crux of the story is a tragedy. We are made aware of this in the very beginning of the tale, and we see its sense through through the eyes of characters who have witnessed, lived, died (not young, not old, but at viable-diable ages), been returned and themselves re-returned. As we move through the book, we catch the characters in the midst of their miseries, in different points of their lives. Often, the characters know more about their tragedy than we do, and sometimes we know more about what awaits them than they do. In the end, we know the Small Things which lead to the Big Things, and in this omniscient secret we share with the author (and which the characters do not know) lies the Godliness of the Book.  

The God of Small Things is not a book for everybody. I do not love it entirely, because it is a book of language - not of plot. As a consequence, some of the plot twists appear a little contrived. The love story between Ammu and the untouchable Vellutha, for instance, happens too abruptly. There is no gradual progression of events that could lead a loving mother into the arms of the man who could spell disaster for everyone. This lack of motivation for a crucial act in the story, causes one to wonder if the author is not merely being manipulative to bring on the tragedy we have all been promised. 

Also, the act of incest between the twins, seems too trivial, if not perverted. We have come to believe the bond the twins share (they think of both as "I "and each individually as "us") something wonderful and unique, to the extent that one wakes up giggling at the other's funny dream. Such kinship finally culminating into a sexual act seems like an attempt by Arundhati Roy to go for cheap sensationalism. There is something wrong here - the beauty of Roy's characters have been sacrificed by her conjuring up of a sexual act that does not bequest them. Perhaps, this sensationalism is Roy's way of dealing for all practical purposes, with a hopelessly practical world. But for the idealistic reader, this sensationalism (manipulation?) does the exact opposite of tugging at his heart - it makes his dispassionate, and diminishes some of the divinity that otherwise made this book beautiful.  

It is a compromise she should not have made. 

Nevertheless, it is still a book that cannot be ignored. There were parts of the book that I was compelled to read. And read again. There were parts of the book, that overflowed with symbolism (the Tale of Mahabharatha told by Kathakali dancers who perform stoned because tourism has shortened and commercialized their danceform). There were parts of the book that appealed to the depth in me and spoke a truth which I could relate to. 

And  as I reached the last few pages of the book, I realized that the end of the story was not the end of the events. Nor was it the beginning. 

The book ended at a point in which the laws of love were laid down. Of who to love. And how. And how much.  The story ends with a promise, that one character makes to another. And yet, we feel a sense of loss because we share an omniscient secret with the author. We know the promise will never be kept. We have read the Small Things. We have read the Big Things. We know how the story ends. 

And in this anguish, lies the beauty of the book. 

But what caught my notice the other day raises the levels of retardedness to an new high.

This is a real life story that happened in the Kabul zoo in 1993. Despite the funny sad way that it played out, it is a story that has all the nuances of a successful motion picture. 

Without doubt, Afghanistan has had a turbulent history, starting off as one of the pioneers of art and exquisiteness and ending up as mere rubble in the hands of the Taliban. One of those places of noteworthy interest gone into ruins in their hands has been the Kabul Zoo. 

What began in 1979, as a slow decimation by the occassional rockets during the civil war, become an unmindful killing spree of all animals when the Mujahideens took over. However, it was soon pointed out to them that Prophet Muhammed(pbuh) was an adorer of animals and would have scorned on any cruelty towards them.

And so, for the time being the Afghan soldiers let the animals be. 

But in 1993, an Afghan soldier (who for lack of appropriate words, can only be described as a prick), wanted to prove his courage to the fellow soldiers. He climbed into the cage of Kabul Zoo's most famous inhabitant - Marjan the lion. 

The prick made his way to Marjan's lioness, Chucha and in an attempt at foolish bravado, tickled her belly. He then turned to wave at his friends. 

It turned out to be the last thing he ever did. 

Lions, unlike the soldiers, have integrity. They will not sit around when their loved ones are attacked. Marjan pounced upon the stupid prick and tore him to bits. He was dead in minutes. I can only assume that the rest of the prick's friends panicked, went around in circles and finally scattered like a bunch of flies. 

This is where the story should have ended. Unfortunately in real life, even true bravery has repercussions. 

The prick had a brother who returned the next day to take revenge. He threw a grenade into Marjan's cage. The lion, assuming it was food and not really understanding the vengeful malice that lies at the heart of men  jumped upon the grenade. 

In the explosion that followed, Marjan the lion, lost an eye, had its face badly mutilated and jagged ends of  shrapnel pierced in its jaws and mouth. 

In the battle of man against beast, man had won. He was after all, a beast armed with weapons. 

And yet all wasn't lost. 

At the time of the explosion, there was a photojournalist called Swen Conrad in the same zoo who witnessed the entire incident. He did something remarkable - Something that instills faith in humanity and insists to our goodness that all is not lost. 

He ran into the cage and assisted in restraining Marjan the lion and provided first aid. Curiously, the lion seemed to understand that this stranger was helping it. It did not resist much. 

After first aid and further treatment, the lion, though partially blinded managed to live for another 11 years till 2002. It is said that the man who threw the grenade is still serving time. 

Enough said about that. But on a similar thought, when I googled the term "famous blogger", I came up with this image. 

Beautifully illustrated, eh?