Sameer Gudhate Presents the Book Review of Mother Mary Comes to Me by Arundhati Roy

I remember the exact moment I discovered The God of Small Things—the air sticky with monsoon humidity, the smell of old paper, the faint clatter of a train in the distance—and how the world Roy created felt impossibly alive in my hands. Until then, the Booker Prize was just a shiny emblem, a distant flag waving over literature’s vast plains. But Roy made it pulse with heartbeat, heartbreak, and mischief. Picking up Mother Mary Comes to Me decades later, I felt that same electric anticipation, only this time I was stepping into the labyrinth of Roy’s own life, shaped and sharpened by a mother as brilliant as she was formidable, a mother whose very presence seemed capable of inspiring both awe and fear.

Arundhati Roy, celebrated for novels like The God of Small Things and The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, and for essays that carve through political and social injustice, now offers a memoir that is as intimate as it is unflinching. This is a story of two forces entwined: a daughter and a mother. Mary Roy, formidable, brilliant, and fiercely feminist, built a legacy in Kerala through education and activism, leaving her fingerprints on every page. But she was also mercurial and demanding, a woman whose high expectations shaped and often tormented her daughter. Watching Arundhati navigate love, fear, and reverence for such a mother is at once unsettling and mesmerizing. There is no pretense, no sugar-coating. It is raw, alive, and painfully human.

The memoir vibrates with sensory richness. Kerala’s lush greenery smothers the landscape like a living, breathing quilt, yet Roy reminds us that beauty and toxicity often coexist. Electric poles tangle in creepers, monsoon-darkened alleys glisten with rain, and the oppressive heat sticks to your skin through her words. Delhi, by contrast, appears as liberation—a space to breathe, to write, to exist outside the confines of family expectation. The prose is a masterclass: precise and lyrical, playful yet incisive, slicing through memory, politics, and family with a journalist’s eye and a poet’s heart. It is brisk yet reflective, a rhythm that mirrors life itself: unpredictable, layered, and utterly compelling.

The mother-daughter dynamic is magnetic. One moment you are laughing at a mischievous childhood anecdote, the next, wincing as Mary’s sharp words sting Arundhati’s tender self. The scene where Arundhati finally rebels, smashing a chair under years of ridicule, stays with you—love, admiration, and resentment folded together in one explosive moment. Beyond this, Roy effortlessly weaves personal memory with social and political commentary—from Naxalism in Jharkhand to Kashmir’s unrest, from the trials and triumphs of Mary’s school to the whirlwind success of The God of Small Things. It’s a memoir that blends the trivial and the profound, the political and the personal, in a way that feels entirely seamless.

The pacing reflects life’s natural rhythm: sometimes fast, sometimes meditative. Moments of pause invite reflection; moments of intensity make the heart race. While the constant shifts between political landscapes, literary history, and intimate recollection can leave the reader momentarily breathless, this is perhaps intentional—life, after all, rarely grants us neat pauses. Yet, it is in these shifts that Roy’s genius shines, reminding us that human experience is multifaceted, messy, and vividly textured.

What lingers most is the emotional honesty. Reading this memoir made me reflect on my own parents, my own inheritance of love, expectation, rebellion, and admiration. It reminded me that brilliance often comes wrapped in complexity, and that the people who shape us most profoundly are rarely simple or gentle. Arundhati’s story becomes a mirror, a conversation with every reader who has experienced a mixture of awe, fear, and adoration for someone formative in their life.

Mother Mary Comes to Me is more than a memoir—it is a meditation on life, love, family, and the making of an extraordinary writer. It hums like monsoon rain on tin roofs, echoes like a distant train whistle across Kerala’s sleepy towns, and smolders like a candle in a quiet, dark room. It is for anyone who has loved fiercely, been challenged, or sought to understand the tangled roots of genius and defiance. Read it slowly, savor it, and let it linger.

Pick it up. Step inside. Let it change the way you see mothers, daughters, and the artistry of living fully. And when you close the cover, carry a fragment of Roy’s verdant, chaotic, brilliant world with you—you will not forget it.

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