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| Arundhati Roy (photo: Mayank Austen Soofi) |
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Arundhati Roy is the author of the novels The God of Small Things, which won the 1997 Booker Prize, and The Ministry of Utmost Happiness. Her prolific nonfiction includes My Seditious Heart, an outstanding collection of political essays. Roy's upcoming memoir, Mother Mary Comes to Me (Scribner, September 2, 2025), recalls her fraught yet liberating relationship with her extraordinary late mother and tells the story of the author's journey toward literary freedom.
You were a bona fide vagrant in your youth, a term you use fondly in your memoir. What does that word mean to you today as you take a backward glance at those years?
Yes, I was a vagrant--a moneyless, reckless, runaway. I use the term fondly not to describe myself, but more to describe those times. Because during those years--the '70s--in the company I kept in Delhi, I did not feel shamed or judged or looked down upon as I probably would have been now. In my early childhood in Kerala there was not a small amount of shaming about other things--my missing, unknown father, my divorced mother--and so much else that's in the book. But once I took the decision to leave home and leave Kerala, I lived a sort of off-grid life, very removed from stable Delhi society. So, in my immediate circle of friends, there was no judgement. I was happy. I drifted. I did not go into a "family" home or eat at a "family" table for years. I was constantly worried about money. But not ashamed. It was almost the opposite--we mocked rich kids, we didn't envy them. It would not be possible today for me to make the choices I made then and to still manage to take my degree in architecture. There is no way I could have put myself through college the way I did. Not even with the help of my fellow student/boyfriend at the time. There's no respect for vagrancy now... it's a great pity. A failure of imagination.
Most of us have narratives about our childhood, our family, how growing up as we did helped shape us, for better or worse. Were you, in writing so deeply about everything of your past, surprised, and did it cause you to see things differently than you had before?
I'm surprised that I wrote this book. I had no intention of ever writing a memoir. I was shocked and a little ashamed at my reaction to my mother's death, I was devastated in a strange, almost spooky way. I couldn't understand it. After all that had happened between her and me. Those emotions blocked my blood flow. I found myself unable to write anything else. It took a fair amount of persuasion by my U.K. publisher, Simon Prosser, for me to even consider writing something this personal. Fortunately, it isn't only personal. Because neither Mrs. Roy--that's what I had to call my mother--nor I are hothouse plants. Both of us ended up living very public lives. I don't think I could have written a book that was only about our private selves. I couldn't have written a book in which the world doesn't come crashing in. I knew that the book would be worth nothing if I was not honest. About myself above all. And about her. But I do feel that Mrs. Roy deserves a place in literature for the woman that she was. For the very great as well as not-so-great things about her. I would write in the day and fear what I had written at night. But once it got going, I could not stop. Writing it has not caused me to look at things differently. It did not and of course cannot resolve or untangle what happened. The challenge was to see if my writing could accurately convey that un-resolvedness, those slashes and ragged edges that were the substance of our relationship. It was interesting to try and write without blinking, without making judgement--about her I have no judgment to make. It was a circus. Entertaining and often dangerous. I was just one of the creatures in it. I survived to report on it.
It's wonderful how you describe yourself as having a PhD in "not reacting." Does that get harder with age, as we are less willing to put up with the nonsense of others as we get older?
Ah yes. I earned that PhD the hard way. Mrs. Roy was a serious asthma patient. So, any talk-back, any reaction whatsoever from me would bring on an attack, maybe even a few days in hospital. It often led to my being blamed for causing her almost-death. As a very young child I lived in constant terror that she would die. So I learned to keep my counsel. Never to react. It has stood me in very good stead politically in the face of the storm that my writing evokes here in India. Particularly when I am in public. On a personal level too--I learned to be calm in the face of all sorts of assault. It's just habit. Training. Mother-managing behavior. But now that she's gone, I find myself being less patient.
This book shows a lot of love for Kerala, for the childhood you had there, notwithstanding the challenging moments. Did Kerala, as it's been in your life and as it is today, feel different in writing about it now? Do you visit there often?
Yes, I do. My beloved brother lives there. Many people I love are still there--many of the characters from the book. My mother's wonderful school is still running. Kerala has its shortcomings. When I was growing up, all I wanted to do was escape. But compared to the rest of the world, it feels positively enlightened. Muslims, Hindus and Christians live together in peace. People are educated and know their rights. The Hindu nationalists from the north have not been able to break it. But they have it in their cross-hairs and are doing everything they can to destroy the fabric and pit communities against each other. At the moment, it is in the grip of a massive drug crisis. I cannot help but feel there are political machinations behind that too. If Kerala falls--what a fall it will be.
India, as you say, is the water you swim in. Looking ahead to the next few decades, what is your most fervent wish for your homeland?
I have a few. An end to this hateful regime of corporate bank-rolled Hindu nationalism, an end to the persecution and brutalization of Muslims, in particular of people in Kashmir. My most fervent wish would be that my fellow Indians take a hard look at themselves and realize how disgusting and repulsive the caste system is. And for humans to understand that desecrating the planet they live on, our mountains, our forests, our rivers--is a form of suicidal psychosis. --Shahina Piyarali