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Book Corner – June 2015 (1)
Book Corner – June 2015 (1)
The God of Small Things – Arundhati Roy You may have guessed by now but I like to read a book about somewhere I have recently visited and so having got back from a trip to the Indian state of Kerala, Roy’s debut novel seemed to be the obvious choice. I didn’t let the fact that it had won the Booker Prize in 1997, usually code for challenging, put me off. The story is set in the village of…
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She ached for him with the whole of her biology.
Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things
VELUTHA MY POOR BBY YOU DID NOT DESERVE THE CRUELTY OF THIS WORLD
I AM NEARLY IN TEARS FROM ALL THIS FORESHADOWING AND I DONT WANT HIM TO GO
Deliberately delaying reading the last part of God of Small Things, because oh my god. And also that way Velutha remains alive.
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In a way, she liked him to be fictional. Unreal, touchable-y untouchable - the way he was. He was intangible, and she wouldn’t ever be able to smell the scent - or “smell” - of his naked body, never be able to bask in his shining skin, touch the brown autumn-leaf on his black back that made the monsoons come on time. She would never be able to be purified by this God of Small Things, God of Loss. And yet, in this intangibility, untouchablity, was how she could celebrate his arrival in her life, how she could worship him. Through these pages and words, he remained flawless and so, more than anything, she feared the idea of him being real. For being a Human on Earth would inevitably put flaws in his body, put a shadow of doubt over the scars and make ugly stories out of them and….Gods don’t have flaws, right? She celebrated the thought of him being a mere matter of fiction, like one of the numerous atoms in the atmosphere, one of the numerous stories from holy scriptures. It made him miniscule - invisible even - in the eyes of others, and made his presence belong wholly to her, and only for her. She was enamored with the idea of his lovemaking, drunk on his voice she never heard, already devoted to a God whose stories were not preached in Bibles and Qurans, but in a mere novel. Ink to paper, children to elders, touchables to untouchables.
For a father like Atticus, and a lover like Velutha. ♥
She went to him and laid the length of her body against his. He just stood there. He didn’t touch her. He was shivering. Partly with cold. Partly terror. Partly aching desire. Despite his fear his body was prepared to take the bait. It wanted her. Urgently. His wetness wet her. She put her arms around him. He tried to be rational. What’s the worst thing that can happen? I could lose everything. My job. My family. My livelihood. Everything. She could hear the wild hammering of his heart. She held him till it calmed down. Somewhat. She unbuttoned her shirt. They stood there. Skin to skin. Her brownness against his blackness. Her softness against his hardness. Her nut-brown breasts (that wouldn’t support a toothbrush) against his smooth ebony chest. She smelled the river on him. His Particular Paravan smell that so disgusted Baby Kochamma. Ammu put out her tongue and tasted it,. in the hollow of his throat. On the lobe of his ear. She pulled his head down toward her and kissed his mouth. A cloudy kiss. A kiss that demanded a kiss-back. He kissed her back. First cautiously Then urgently. Slowly his arms came up behind her. He stroked her back. Very gently. She could feel the skin on his palms. Rough. Callused. Sandpaper. He was careful not to hurt her. She could feel how soft she felt to him. She could feel herself through him. Her skin. The way her body existed only where he touched her. The rest of her was smoke. She felt him shudder against her His hands were on her haunches (that could support a whole array of toothbrushes), pulling her hips against his, to let her know how much he wanted her. Biology designed the dance. Terror timed it. Dictated the rhythm with which their bodies answered each other. As though they knew already that for each tremor of pleasure they would pay with an equal measure of pain. As though they knew that how far they went would be measured against how far they would be taken. So they held back. Tormented each other. Gave of each other slowly. But that only made it worse. It only raised the stakes. It only cost them more. Because it smoothed the wrinkles, the fumble and rush of unfamiliar love and roused them to fever pitch. Behind them the river pulsed through the darkness, shimmering like wild silk. Yellow bamboo wept.
Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things
