Arundhati Roy, Mother Mary Comes to Me (Scribner 2025)
Before the meeting: As my regular readers probably know, I belong to two book groups – the Book Group and the Book Club. The Book Club read this book in November, and I blogged about it, here. For this Book Group meeting, I reread as much as I had time for, which wasn’t much. I enjoyed the writing even more this time, but will let that earlier blog post stand as my ‘before the meeting’ notes.
After the meeting: It was a long time since we’d met. One man had had major heart surgery; another had spent months in India; there were stories of surgery on larynx and eyes; terrible things had happened in Sydney and around the world; Christmas had been and gone … Our host had prepared a delicious meal from recipes in the Kerala section of Madhur Jaffrey’s Indian Cookery, supplemented by riata, palak paneer, naan and choctop icecreams brought by others.
We had all enjoyed the book. One man said it was pretty much the best book he’s every read. Another (or perhaps the same one?) read it in a single sitting on a Sydney to Melbourne train trip. Our host said that he usually loves books that create a strong sense of place but loved this one in spite of its not doing that, and referred us by way of contrast to Madhur Jaffrey’s description of Kerala in her cookbook.
We tended to focus on the political dimensions of the book. Someone said that he had found first third of the book self-indulgent (not a view widely shared), but then it got interesting as Arundhati became more politically engaged. The picture that emerges of Narendra Modi was particularly striking – the man who had spent time in India said that his negative sense of Modi had been modified by conversations with educated, affluent Indians who saw his impact as largely benign; this book left him bemused. He was also able to tell us interesting bits about the antiquity Syrian Christians. (Founded by St Thomas in the first century CE. ‘I doubt that,’ said someone, then realised he’d made a Biblical joke.)
And inevitably we got to the paradox that a mother could be so horrible to her children, so beloved of people just outside her immediate family, and also a foundation for her daughter’s enormous success.
It looks as if our next book will be Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things.
We met on the land of Gadigal of the Eora Nation, and I have written this blog post closer to the river, on the land of Gadigal and Wangal. I acknowledge Elders past and present of those clans, and welcome any First Nations readers.
Me fail? I fly! 