The God of Small Things

I have this weird, very weird, superstition of not letting myself leave home without a book. Any book. If I do, I’m sure I’ll have to wait for hours (or minutes) and hence, always always a book with me. The God of Small Things was my choice for August 2016. It was the second time I was reading the book and I was in love from the first page itself. The book gave a haunting experience. Still does. Every now and then I check upon it, like checking the heartbeats of a bedridden invalid, (ouch), in a less sorrowful way. I open it. Skim through it. Breathe its air. (Kiss it). I put more tick marks on more striking sentences. 

“Thirty-one. Not old. Not young. But a viable die-abke age.”

“Only Rachel noticed Sophie Mol’s secret cartwheel in her coffin.”

“It usually took strangers a while to notice him even when they were in the same room with him. It took them even longer to notice that he never spoke. Some never noticed at all.”

“He grew accustomed to the uneasy octopus that lived inside him and squirted its inky tranquilizer on his past.”

“It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined.”

“She felt she spoke much better English than everybody else. This made her lonelier than ever.”

“The infinite tenderness of motherhood and the reckless rage of a suicide bomber.”

“She was their Ammu and their Baba and she had loved them Double.”

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