Beyond the Book

  I wanted to take my time with this, to write it slowly, to process what I read and what I felt, and only then to push it in front of everyone. But often, I am left confused, asking myself questions, some I eventually answer, others that linger for days. This time, I am left with two. Their answers evade me as I sit down to write this. I do not want to call this a review. Arundhati Roy has endured far too much for someone like me to review her work. I want to call this an internal monologue, typed as I think, on a cold, rainy night. The first question finds its roots in an old conversation with a father figure in my life. “ Hunar, do you know what it means to be responsible? ” my mother asked me one day, on our way back from somewhere in Thailand. I, thinking rather highly of myself, took my time to fashion an answer that would sound different, philosophical, suitably impressive, given how well-read I believe myself to be, how capable of difficult conversations I thought I was. I ...