The middle finger speaks

There are many reasons why Arundhati Roy's Mother Mary Comes to Me is essential reading. For people of my generation, who read The God of Small Things in our 20s—and walked around in a daze afterwards, “like somebody had shot heroin up our arms”, to quote Arundhati’s literary agent David Godwin—this book feels like a vital companion piece. It is a vivid “making-of” chronicle, a kind of behind-the-scenes narrative that in some ways surpasses the original novel.

- By ANUJA CHAUHAN

Unlike journalists and lesser writers who conceal their sources, Arundhati shares generously. We meet the inspirations for Velutha, for Chacko, for Baby Kochamma, the hideous sticky Orangedrink Lemondrink man, for doomed, dimpled Ammu and her beautiful, heartbroken children. We walk along the river, visit the pickle factory, ride in the tail-finned, sky-blue Plymouth and we get to see our Ammu live a long, massively successful life instead of perishing alone, 'swollen with cortisone' at 31.

She never gets with the real-life Velutha, though. Which isn't as tragic as it seems really, because as a much older woman myself now, I find I am less interested in Velutha's chocolatey abs and untouchable tongue (though they will always be swoonworthy) and more interested in what he symbolises. And boy, does Mary Roy (our Ammu) get down and dirty with what he symbolises!