Mother Mary Comes to Me

In this phase of my life, I seem to be fascinated by memoirs, and this, too was not different. I didn't love it, but was captivated and I'm glad I read it.

Various disordered feelings informed my reaction to it. First, Arundhati's life is undoubtedly exciting and inspiring, and she knows it. I am awed by her capacity to achieve such great literary success but not be devoured by the desire for more and more approval, by her political engagement and principledness, and her commitment to think through inequalities and privilege, and act accordingly, which comes across as very genuine. At times, especially in the second half of the book, she got carried away with her own mythology: as if she was more interested projecting this cool, I-don't-give-a-fuck persona instead of exploring her feelings and experiences.

Second, given the title and beginning, I was expecting (and hoping) that the relationship with her mother were more central to the book. I could read a hundred books about this. She managed to portray Mary Roy as a three-dimensional character, without hiding her ugly traits but always recognising her merits. I see pieces of her in the women from my own family: fierce and petty, inspiring, vulnerable and cruel all at once. There were long chunks of the book were Mary Roy disappeared into the background, probably because real-life young Arundhati had to push her there to realise herself as a grown woman. Arguably, this compounded the self-mythologising I mentioned earlier.

Third, I found the writing to be quite uneven, which some pages full of cliches, and other outright poetic. Fourth, is it me or her ex husband comes across as an absolute jerk, even if that's clearly not her intention? Fifth, I went to hear Arundhati Roy speak about the book in the UvA Aula, it was packed with people, many wearing a keffiyeh, all the Indian folks from US4P. It was great to be there but I was so tired I fell asleep.

Highs and lows.