The Ministry of Utmost Happiness: A novel
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Description
Humane and sensuous, beautifully told, The Ministry of Utmost Happinessdemonstrates on every page the miracle of Arundhati Roy’s storytelling gifts. How to tell a shattered story?By slowly becoming everybody.No.By slowly becoming everything. With stories told in a whisper, in a shout, through unsentimental tears and sometimes with a bitter laugh, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness takes us on an intimate journey of many years across the Indian subcontinent, as it braids together an aching love story and a decisive remonstration with characters who are as indelible as they are tenderly rendered. We meet Anjum, a hijra, as she unrolls her threadbare carpet on the floor of the cemetery in Old Delhi she calls home, while many miles away, we encounter the captivating Tilo, and the three men who in turn are captivated by her. On a concrete sidewalk, a baby suddenly appears, just after midnight, while in a snowy valley, a bereaved father writes a letter to his five-year-old daughter about the people who came to her funeral. In a second-floor apartment, a lone woman chain-smokes as she reads through her old notebooks. Roy entwines these stories together to reveal people who have been broken by the world they live in and then rescued, patched together by acts of love–and most especially, by hope. Beautiful in its telling, vivid in its detail, and breathtaking in its scope, with The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, Roy has reinvented what a novel can do and can be.
Additional information
Weight | 0.33 kg |
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Dimensions | 2.39 × 13.19 × 20.22 cm |
PubliCanadation City/Country | Canada |
by | |
format | |
Language | |
Pages | 464 |
publisher | |
Year Published | 2018-5-1 |
Imprint | |
ISBN 10 | 0735234361 |
About The Author | ARUNDHATI ROY is the author of the Booker Prize-winning novel The God of Small Things. Her nonfiction writings include The Algebra of Infinite Justice, Listening to Grasshoppers, Broken Republic, Capitalism: A Ghost Story, and most recently, Things That Can and Cannot Be Said, coauthored with John Cusack. |
One of The Globe and Mail's 100 Best Books of 2017A Financial Times Best Books of 2017 for FictionA New York Times Editor's Choice pick A Chatelaine 20 Best Books of 2017 selection A Now Toronto 10 Best Books of 2017 selectionAn Economic Times top-selling books of 2017 selection A National Post Best Books of the Year selectionAn Elle Magazine book club recommendation“Truly, this is a remarkable creation, a story both intimate and international, swelling with comedy and outrage, a tale that cradles the world’s most fragile people even while it assaults the Subcontinent’s most brutal villains.” —Ron Charles, Washington Post “The first novel in 20 years from Roy, and worth the wait: a humane, engaged near fairy tale that soon turns dark—full of characters and their meetings, accidental and orchestrated alike to find, yes, that utmost happiness of which the title speaks.” —Kirkus (starred review)“Ambitious, original, and haunting . . . a novel [that] fuses tenderness and brutality, mythic resonance and the stuff of headlines . . .essential to Roy’s vision of a bewilderingly beautiful, contradictory, and broken world.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review) “A masterpiece…Roy joins Dickens, Naipaul, García Márquez, and Rushdie in her abiding compassion, storytelling magic, and piquant wit…. A tale of suffering, sacrifice and transcendence—an entrancing, imaginative, and wrenching epic.” —Booklist"With its insights into human nature, its memorable characters and its luscious prose, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness is well worth the 20-year wait.” —Time“One of the effects of reading Roy is heightened, nagging awareness . . . [t]o read Roy is to build a sense of wonder” —Globe and Mail"… what is so remarkable is [Roy's] combinatory genius… [the] scenes of violence are hallucinatory… In fact, [she is] practicing… magic realism, which… among other things, [is] a means of reporting on political horror without inducing tedium.” —The New Yorker “To say this book is ‘highly anticipated’ is a bit of an understatement. The Ministry of Utmost Happiness will be a welcome gift for those who’ve missed Roy’s dazzling fiction.” —Cosmopolitan’s 11 Books You Won’t Be Able to Put Down This Summer “It’s finally here! Fans of The God of Small Things have been waiting for Roy’s next novel, and it doesn’t disappoint. The Ministry of Utmost Happiness is big, both in physical heft and in ideas. It features an unforgettable cast of characters from across India whose stories are told with generosity and compassion.” —Vulture Summer Books Preview “A novel that takes its readers into the abyss of poverty and patriarchy, thereby narrating the sordid uses of power and the agony it unleashes. . .it is an inward contemplation of a master storyteller on the times and surroundings she is living in.” —The Times of India“This intricately layered and passionate novel, studded with jokes and with horrors, has room for satire and romance, for rage and politics and for steely understatement…[I]t is exuberant, page-turning, and sometimes even frolicsome—though a frolic that can flip abruptly into something like despair…Like Dickens, Roy can plunge us into intimacy with a character within a few pages; she can also sustain the mystery of character across the entire span of the plot…This is a work of extraordinary intricacy and grace, as well as being fuelled by savage indignation. It is also a work that feels dangerous to read, even to those far from scenes described. There is no space left for easy objectivity in this challenging novel. It gives it its cutting edge.” —Prospect“A stunningly beautiful novel that wills another world to emerge from our collective darkness. Weaving the experiences and aspirations of India’s most marginalized peoples into perfect prose, Roy unveils complex characters possessed by a desire to invent new worlds even in dark times. In an era when the West is sensing the prescience of authoritarian rule, Roy’s novel is instructive: it illuminates the intelligent, critical, often rebellious perspectives of peoples belonging to a vast Indian underclass.” —Maclean’s "Roy’s novel is deeply political and offers the opportunity for audiences to engage with complex history in an accessible and compelling way." —Open Canada“The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, which marked her long-awaited return to fiction. . .is a book just as good, if not better, than The God of Small Things, and that is enough reason to celebrate.” —The Express Tribune“a magnificent, sweeping work about a divided India.” —The Straits Times"lyrical and life-affirming." —Irish Examiner “A story of unbinding love, mystery and thrill, uncertainty and perplexity, ambivalence and confusion that brings to life a whole lot of tales and stories from a host of origins…. The Ministry of Utmost Happiness is an unforgettable tale, which touches you on many levels of mind and heart and invites you to unweave its rich texture thread by thread and share its loss, love, horror and hope.” —Daily Times (Pakistan) “[A] wonderfully woven narrative…. This is the kind of book that makes one feel that life is worth living.” —Sabiha Huq, The Daily Star “After a 20-year-long wait, Arundhati Roy presented us with her second book, a mesmerising novel that deals with some of the most brutal atrocities of modern Indian history . . . The web of narratives that Roy has woven makes for an interesting read.” –Yourstory“Roy elucidates the conversation around power and diversity in a way that no other author does. This book is more than just one of the best protest novels ever written, standing up to reading after rereading. It is also the ultimate love letter to the richness and complexity of India — and the world — in all its hurly-burly, glorious, and threatened heterogeneity.” —The Los Angeles Review of BooksPraise for The God of Small Things: "A work of highly conscious art—A Tiger Woodsian début—the author hits the long, socio-cosmic ball but is also exquisite in her short game. Like a devotionally built temple, The God of Small Things builds a massive interlocking structure of fine, intensely felt details." —John Updike, The New Yorker "A work that is complex in structure, sophisticated in its handling of time, and bold in its themes. But perhaps what is most remarkable is Roy's deft use of language."—Maclean's "A compelling tale of forbidden love and its catastrophic consequences, wonderfully vivid—Arundhati Roy's novel has a magic and mystery all its own." —Toronto Star "Roy weaves her bold and startling narrative in sequences of luminously rendered scenes—remarkable." —The Globe and Mail |
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Excerpt From Book | She lived in the graveyard like a tree. At dawn she saw the crows off and welcomed the bats home. At dusk she did the opposite. Between shifts she conferred with the ghosts of vultures that loomed in her high branches. She felt the gentle grip of their talons like an ache in an amputated limb. She gathered they weren’t altogether unhappy at having excused themselves and exited from the story. When she first moved in, she endured months of casual cruelty like a tree would—without flinching. She didn’t turn to see which small boy had thrown a stone at her, didn’t crane her neck to read the insults scratched into her bark. When people called her names—clown without a circus, queen without a palace—she let the hurt blow through her branches like a breeze and used the music of her rustling leaves as balm to ease the pain. It was only after Ziauddin, the blind imam who had once led the prayers in the Fatehpuri Masjid, befriended her and began to visit her that the neighborhood decided it was time to leave her in peace. Long ago a man who knew English told her that her name written backwards (in English) spelled Majnu. In the English version of the story of Laila and Majnu, he said, Majnu was called Romeo and Laila was Juliet. She found that hilarious. “You mean I’ve made a khichdi of their story?” she asked. “What will they do when they find that Laila may actually be Majnu and Romi was really Juli?” The next time he saw her, the Man Who Knew English said he’d made a mistake. Her name spelled backwards would be Mujna, which wasn’t a name and meant nothing at all. To this she said, “It doesn’t matter. I’m all of them, I’m Romi and Juli, I’m Laila and Majnu. And Mujna, why not? Who says my name is Anjum? I’m not Anjum, I’m Anjuman. I’m a mehfil, I’m a gathering. Of everybody and nobody, of everything and nothing. Is there anyone else you would like to invite? Everyone’s invited.” The Man Who Knew English said it was clever of her to come up with that one. He said he’d never have thought of it himself. She said, “How could you have, with your standard of Urdu? What d’you think? English makes you clever automatically?” He laughed. She laughed at his laugh. They shared a filter cigarette. He complained that Wills Navy Cut cigarettes were short and stumpy and simply not worth the price. She said she preferred them any day to Four Square or the very manly Red & White. She didn’t remember his name now. Perhaps she never knew it. He was long gone, the Man Who Knew English, to wherever he had to go. And she was living in the graveyard behind the government hospital. For company she had her steel Godrej almirah in which she kept her music—scratched records and tapes—an old harmonium, her clothes, jewelry, her father’s poetry books, her photo albums and a few press clippings that had survived the fire at the Khwabgah. She hung the key around her neck on a black thread along with her bent silver toothpick. She slept on a threadbare Persian carpet that she locked up in the day and unrolled between two graves at night (as a private joke, never the same two on consecutive nights). She still smoked. Still Navy Cut. One morning, while she read the newspaper aloud to him, the old imam, who clearly hadn’t been listening, asked—affecting a casual air—“Is it true that even the Hindus among you are buried, not cremated?” Sensing trouble, she prevaricated. “True? Is what true? What is Truth?” Unwilling to be deflected from his line of inquiry, the imam muttered a mechanical response. “Sach Khuda hai. Khuda hi Sach hai.” Truth is God. God is Truth. The sort of wisdom that was available on the backs of the painted trucks that roared down the highways. Then he narrowed his blindgreen eyes and asked in a slygreen whisper: “Tell me, you people, when you die, where do they bury you? Who bathes the bodies? Who says the prayers?” Anjum said nothing for a long time. Then she leaned across and whispered back, untree-like, “Imam Sahib, when people speak of color—red, blue, orange, when they describe the sky at sunset, or moonrise during Ramzaan—what goes through your mind?” Having wounded each other thus, deeply, almost mortally, the two sat quietly side by side on someone’s sunny grave, hemorrhaging. Eventually it was Anjum who broke the silence. “You tell me,” she said. “You’re the Imam Sahib, not me. Where do old birds go to die? Do they fall on us like stones from the sky? Do we stumble on their bodies in the streets? Do you not think that the All-Seeing, Almighty One who put us on this Earth has made proper arrangements to take us away?” That day the imam’s visit ended earlier than usual. Anjum watched him leave, tap-tap-tapping his way through the graves, his seeing-eye cane making music as it encountered the empty booze bottles and discarded syringes that littered his path. She didn’t stop him. She knew he’d be back. No matter how elaborate its charade, she recognized loneliness when she saw it. She sensed that in some strange tangential way, he needed her shade as much as she needed his. And she had learned from experience that Need was a warehouse that could accommodate a considerable amount of cruelty. Even though Anjum’s departure from the Khwabgah had been far from cordial, she knew that its dreams and its secrets were not hers alone to betray. |
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