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The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

Writer's picture: HadleyHadley


I feel somewhat rusty writing reviews, and The God of Small Things isn’t the most straightforward book to get back into it. But reading this stunning novel was such an extraordinary experience that I simply have to try.


Arundhati Roy’s debut novel, which won the Booker Prize in 1997, is a richly told and tragic story of the demise of one Indian family. The narrative opens with Rahel, now 31, returning to her childhood home in Ayemenem after years of living in the United States. What was once a bustling, prosperous household—bolstered by her uncle Chacko’s transformation of his mother‘s small pickle business into a thriving factory—has decayed. The grand home is now occupied solely by her great-aunt, Baby Kochamma, until Rahel’s estranged twin brother, Estha, is unexpectedly sent back to live there.


The twins, once inseparable and connected in ways others could never comprehend, haven’t seen each other in nearly 25 years—not since the tragedy that shattered their family.

The story flashes back to 1969. The entire family, crammed into their Plymouth and dressed in their best airport outfits, is on the way to pick up Sophie Mol, the twins‘ cousin, and her mother Margaret from the airport. Sophie Mol’s arrival excites the family and shows Rahel and Estha what unconditional love looks like—something they now realise they have never experienced. Over the next two weeks, long-simmering family tensions—fueled by power struggles, unmet expectations, and societal constraints—come to a head. The rigidities of India’s caste system, the promises of Communism, and the hypocrisies of Christianity ignite longings and resentments within Ayemenem House, culminating in catastrophe when Sophie Mol’s lifeless body is pulled from the river by a fisherman. This isn’t a spoiler; Roy begins the novel with Sophie Mol’s funeral, warning us of the tragedy that unfolds.


Roy skillfully weaves a complex yet never confusing narrative, moving effortlessly between past and present to reveal how both small and large events shape lives and destroy families.

What captivated me most were the “two-egg twins,” as they call themselves. Rahel and Estha’s innocence shines even as life—and their embittered elders—throws one hardship after another at them. They’re not idealised as perfect children; they’re vividly real, with virtues and flaws alike. I desperately wanted them to overcome their circumstances and was struck by how their free spirits pushed against the restrictions imposed on them. And yet one of the novel’s greatest tragedies is that Rahel and Estha never truly grow up.


The supporting characters are equally vivid. There’s their mother, intelligent and beautiful, but trapped in a life overshadowed by a failed marriage and reduced social standing as a divorced woman. Baby Kochamma is a joy to despise with her manipulative cruelty. Chacko, despite his charm, is ultimately pitiable. Each character carries personal and societal burdens, reflecting a country struggling to reconcile its past with its uncertain future.


Beyond the characters and plot, the true magic of The God of Small Things lies in Roy’s prose. Her writing is rich, evocative, lucid, and almost physical in its impact. I was enthralled by her sentences, which create a sweltering atmosphere and immerse you completely in the world of Ayemenem. She masterfully shifts perspectives and feeds just enough information to propel the story forward while leaving you yearning to understand the full extent of the characters’ tragedies.


This is a great tragedy, but it’s also a joy to read—crafted with extraordinary skill and imagination.

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