Today after listening to her interview, it just fell into place. Why women worship Arundhati Roy, women of a particular era. Where their mothers left homes at least mentally with their children tagging along. Why some men like her too, men who tagged along with those mothers as babies, when their feisty mothers left homes.

She is a novelist, she has the tools of the fiction and fiction is her truth. As actor Parvathy says in an interview, once the camera is on, I can be nothing else but honest. It is the same with Roy, that is why her political essays don't enrage you but romanticize you.

She uses data and then laces it with fiction. Her anger, masha allah, what a sight to see. We are talking about falling bodies, nuclear war and that woman stitches laces, makes tea in smaller teacups, plucks small juicy mangoes and ask us to think about politics and power. That is why I hated her for twenty years.

I wanted her fiction. Blood, bones, and skin.

She is as stubborn as her twisted phrases. Doesn't budge. How many would have tried to coax her into writing the next big hit and she just put her feet up and giggled? Like you cannot get words out of me, I would give them when I want to dance. The audacity. The audacity of enjoying her absolute solitude, on a mango tree, listening to Bhim Sen Joshi singing about submittal, I mean about submittal, she is teasing us all right.

The spunkiness in telling her village, she is bold and bold women are happily married many times. Gosh, the shock she can send through your spine, with those never ending teases, she makes you feel wanted. She digs through all those gaps in your life with her lyrical prose and sits pretty up in those cracks, tickling you and taunting you.

Of feisty mothers and feisty children.

No wonder the women I let near me, like ten inches near me, all worshiped and even could recite her in their sleep. We are all born of the same womb separated by time and space. She sounds as if it is me. Giggles included.
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