The God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy
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Arundhati Roy

The God of Small Things

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This was the trouble with families. Like invidious doctors, they knew just where it hurt.
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The Audience was a Big Man. Estha was a Little Man, with the tickets.
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The sky was orange, and the coconut trees were sea anemones waving their tentacles, hoping to trap and eat an unsuspecting cloud.
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His mind was full of cupboards, cluttered with secret pleasures.
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‘Our dreams have been doctored. We belong nowhere. We sail unanchored on troubled seas. We may never be allowed ashore. Our sorrows will never be sad enough. Our joys never happy enough. Our dreams never big enough. Our lives never important enough. To matter.’
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Estha could see the bedroom window reflected in his
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smooth, purple balls. And the sky beyond. And once a bird that flew across. To Estha—steeped in the smell of old roses, blooded on memories of a broken man—the fact that something so fragile, so unbearably tender had survived, had been allowed to exist, was a miracle. A bird in flight reflected in an old dog’s balls. It made him smile out loud.
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