The Ministry of Utmost Happiness

I understand the spread of opinions from one to five stars for this book. I honestly believe that immersion in Indian life, history, politics and literature is a prerequisite for gaining utmost happiness from this incredible book. I am overwhelmed by Ms Roy's abilty to capture and describe the complex cast of characters in all their irascible and detailed idiosyncrasy - and yet find the essence of their deepest lives and thoughts. Second only to the multiple beings who populate her world is the background of Mother India herself - her cities and her countryside, particularly that of Jammu and Kashmir. On every page there is a story, sometimes a heartbreaking one, or a surprising love story, particularly in the section on endemic militancy. Every chapter creates or ties the threads of the multiple intertwined lives, all told in gorgeous fluid language that speaks to the soul. What a very rich country India is. What a fabulous author to color its story is Ms Roy.

This is an enjoyable read with very likeable characters. Arundhati Roy captures the feel, and mood of India and every page transports you into the middle of the action. My only reservation is that Arundhati covered almost the entire political and social narrative of India over the last 5 decades. A huge undertaking well executed but I felt a little at the expense of the characters who seemed to be there just to glue the other events together. Having said that it was a wonderful read.

“He narrowed his blindgreen eyes and asked in a slygreen whisper…” Arundhati Roy’s second novel, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, published 20 years after her first beloved debut, The God of Small Things, was perhaps one of the most anticipated novels of 2017. It’s had a mixed reception and I can see why. The novel starts off in old Delhi with Anjum, a hijra, along with a colorful cast of characters. One of my favorite things about the novel is how the city’s flora and fauna is as much a part of the story as the humans. “When the bats leave, the crows come home. Not all the din of their homecoming fills the silence left by the sparrows that have gone missing, and the old white-backed vultures, custodians of the dead for more than a hundred, million years, that have been wiped out.” The old city’s centuries long Muslim culture and architecture is nostalgically laid out, and Roy’s ear for language and detail is often sublime: “a small tortoise…with a sprig of clover in one nostril.” I found Anjum compelling if tropeful - an elegant fierce outspoken Urdu poetry-quoting drag queen. It wasn’t obvious to me immediately that her companions and antagonists - and pretty much every other character in the book - are also symbols. They represent the many conflicts that routinely tear India apart and that have occupied Roy’s political, human rights, and environmental concerns and her nonfiction writing for the past 20 years: the Hindu-Muslim divide, the caste system, the Kashmir conflict, the Indo-Pak wars, the 1992 Gujarat massacre, the 1984 Bhopal gas leak, and of course the farmers and fishermen whose lands and livelihoods are variously taken over by capitalism and corruption and other horrors. The second half of the novel turns to the monstrous ongoing civil war tragedy that is Kashmir, following four college friends, a civil servant, a journalist, a Kashmiri activist, and the woman they all love. Again, the tropes and stereotypes abound: the quiet noble freedom fighter, the ambitious journalist, the suave diplomat, the mysterious beautiful woman who doesn’t have to say anything, has no past, but everyone falls anyway. “There was something unleashed about her, something uncalibrated and yet absolutely certain.” Despite this, I was wrecked by the account of the war in Kashmir. There is a scene when a boy is brought in after interrogation (i.e. torture, which is so graphically described at times that I wanted to throw up). “To refuse to show pain was a pact the boy had made with himself. It was a desolate act of defiance that he had conjured up in the teeth of absolute, abject defeat. And that made it majestic. Except that nobody noticed. He stayed very still, a broken bird, half sitting, half lying, propped up on one elbow, his breath shallow, his gaze directed inward, his expression giving nothing away.” Even with the overwriting, the melodrama, I don’t think I’ll ever forget this broken bird of a boy. I didn’t grow up in South Asia, and I’ve never been to Kashmir, but its beauty of landscape and people is legendary. I have long recognized the utter wonder in people’s voices when they speak of the region. And it seems as if there’s no way out now, no light at the end of the bloody tunnel. There are so many militant groups, so many broken families, so many displaced people of different religions, so many armies and guerrilla forces from India and Pakistan, so much sorrow, so much loss. No one wants to let go. No one will and everyone suffers for it. This is not a new story to South Asians (which might explain some of the grim subcontinental reviews of the book), but the novel outlines the longevity, continuity, complexity, and intensity of the conflict, and it is overwhelming and horrifying. That said, there are entire sections of the novel where semi-journalistic/semi-diary reports of violence, political intrigue, and human rights abuses in Kashmir are clumped together without context or explanation. This is a shame because these are real and important stories, but without tying them to characters we’ve grown to know or the places they inhabit, they end up feeling extraneous. I read these awkwardly written sections impatiently, trying to figure out how they tied in, and when they didn’t, waiting for the book to get back to the story. It felt like lazy writing, or lazy editing perhaps. The two halves of the novel are tied clumsily together with a plot point - a baby - that appears magical-realism style. Of course, in addition to connecting the two halves, this baby serves its political purpose, standing in for another conflict, this one from the vicious war the Indian government is waging against its own citizens - Maoist guerrillas in the jungle. “Normality in our part of the world is a bit like a boiled egg: its humdrum surface conceals at its heart a yolk of egregious violence.” If you don’t know much about modern Indian history and politics, Roy’s novel is an education, and an indictment of India Shining. Political figures are tarred and feathered, including the current Prime Minister, Narendra Modi, referred to as Gujarat ka Lalla. The country-wide violence, corruption, and discrimination seem bone deep, systematic, inevitable. Perhaps it’s as the novel itself says, “There’s too much blood for good literature.” But I have faith. Maybe now that Roy has painted the broad strokes in her second novel, her third might go more small things than utmost, deeper than wider. However, I have less faith in the future. If history is indeed a revelation of what’s to come as much as it is a study of the past, as The Ministry of Utmost Happiness claims, then “pretending to be hopeful is the only grace we have…”

This novel is about the marginalized people in modern India--people living on the periphery--the transgenders, Dalits (untouchables), Muslims, Kashmiris, people not included in the rising capitalist India. Aftab, who later changes his name to Anjum, is born to Muslim family in old Delhi. His mother notices that there is something not quite right with him, he has both the male and female body parts. Despite family’s best effort Anjum moves out of the house and starts living with other transgenders, called Hijras in Urdu-Hindi. There is a lot of symbolism in the novel how Anjum as a Hijra and as a Muslim is treated by the society at large, and how she perceives herself. Who is she, what is she, and maybe why? In most countries, including India, people have struggled to deal with transgenders. In this novel, Arundhati Roy, tries to show that it is not just transgenders, there are many different types of people who have uncertain role and relation with modern India. Muslim in general but especially muslims in Kashmir are one of those people.The novel describes the riots in Gujarat, and the violence in Kashmir. Musa, a Kashmiri, who is going to college in Delhi, due to a tragedy, in which his wife and daughter are killed, turns to extremism and becomes a Kashmiri separatist. The Chamars, Dalits, or Untouchables are another example of historic outcastes in the society like transgenders. Saddam Hussein, not his real name, who belongs to Dalit caste, is attacked with his father by Hindu extremists, and his father is murdered. There is similar pattern when it comes to his predicament, like Anjum a Hijra, Musa a Kashmiri Muslim, modern India does not quite know how to deal with him. Tilo is another such person, from South India, born out of wedlock, she is searching for destiny. Musa and her have close relationship, she even helps him out with insurgency in Kashmir. All these outcastes eventually start living in a graveyard together. It is in this graveyard, all of them rejected and scarred by the society, come together, share each other’s pain, and find some peace and sense of community. It is a beautifully written novel. It gives this hope that despite shortcomings of India democracy, there is room for protests and debate. All different kinds of protesters who gather at the Jantar Mantar is one example of that. Muslims, Dalits, Hijras, gas leak victims from Bhopal, Earthquake victims, and many other kind of protesters, they all gather there, with hope that they will be heard. Maybe a time will come when they will be.

The Ministry of Utmost Happiness takes you on a wild political, social and economic whirlwind. Nothing makes sense, yet everything makes sense. That might sound nonsensical, but it isn’t, not when reading this novel. At first, I was leery of reading this book, the reviews made me think I would have to wade through a hefty volume. But I couldn’t put it down. People and events unravelled at a pace that reflects Asian life. If you have lived in an overcrowded country where prejudices, wars and corruption abound, you will relate to this book. Corruption and marginalisation due to economic, social, gender and religious positions in life are a major part of this novel. Wars are fought over religion or economic status to the point where the point is lost, the truth of the battle is lost. One powerful group is not anymore virtuous than another. The central character of The Ministry of Utmost Happiness is Anjum who was born Aftab. Born a hermaphrodite, she struggled early in life with who she was, but as she matures, we see someone who becomes comfortable with herself. Operating a guesthouse (Jannat Guesthouse & Funeral Services out of a graveyard, she attracts other guests who become long term residents or friends, all others who are on the fringes of society but find a place of belonging under Anjum’s roof. This is a far cry from what is happening in the World (Duniya) where wars, hatred and power struggles are the mayhem of the day. Perhaps Roy could have spent less time on the Kashmiri struggle, it is a major part of the book. Yet without its length, we may never see the senseless or the futility of war where the “dead live and the living are really dead.” Themes of identity (only Tilo and Biplab use their real names) and freedom emerge through the pages, as does community vs. society and the non-existence of a heard voice of the marginalised. Kashmiri women whose sons had died come down from the mountains to weep, cry, lament, but no one heard, “no TV cameraman turned his camera on them, not even by mistake.” If you like a novel that looks at deep issues of power struggles, postcolonialism and the plight of the marginalised in India, then this is a definite read. I enjoyed reading it and I hope you do to.

Do not expect it to be like The God of Small Things, which I loved, and which influenced me to buy this book. This story is an epic, and it took me a while to get into it, but once I did, I was hooked. The story stretches from the slums of Delhi to the horrific unrest of Kashmir, and there’s a heart-breaking cast of characters. This is India, raw, exciting, and painful, but it is the characters and their individual and intertwined stories that make this novel so moving.

If possible I've liked it even more than her first book! I ABSOLUTELY recommend this utterly enjoyable reading to everyone

Wie wohl viele, die auf dieser Seite nachsehen, hatte ich lange auf einen weiteren Roman von A. Roy gewartet. Ihr Kampf für Umwelt und Menschenrechte hatte in der Zwischenzeit eine Reihe von Reportagen hervorgebracht, deren Engagement berührt, die aber das Niveau des "Gotts der kleinen Dinge" nicht erreichen. Im vorliegenden Werk wird der Leser sofort wieder auf die besondere Stärke Roys aufmerksam: die warmherzige Menschenzeichnung, die oft aus einer kindlich-kritischen Perspektive erfolgt. Das Werk zerfällt in zwei Teile, die eher notdürftig miteinander verbunden sind: Im ersten der beiden, der ca. 30 % des Buches ausmacht, geht es um Anjum, eine Frau in einem Männerkörper (Hijra), die in einer Hijra-Gemeinde Neu Delhis Aufnahme findet, sich später jedoch auf einem Friedhof mit einer Reihe Gleichgesinnter einrichtet. Hier wird nicht nur - wie so häufig in Indienromanen - das "malerische Elend" der indischen Unterschichten ausgebreitet, sondern auch die Unruhen in Gujarat zum Thema, die unter der Verantwortung des heutigen indischen Ministerpräsidenten zu einem von Hindu-Nationalisten begangenen Massenmord an Muslimen geführt hat. Wird dieser Konflikt noch subtil eingeführt – er wird vor allem im Schweigen und der psychischen Zerrüttung Anjums durch die Ereignisse deutlich –, bordet der zweite Teil geradezu mit Reportagen über den Kaschmir-Konflikt über. Die Heldin dieses Teils - Titotama – ist erkennbar ein Selbsportrait der Autorin: Als syrische Christin, ohne Vater aufgewachsen, Einzelgängerin gerät sie in den Kaschmirkonflikt. Die Schilderung der Ereignisse erfolgt aus mehreren Perspektiven: Bevor wir Titotamas Sicht kennen lernen, tritt überraschend ein Ich-Erzähler für kurze Zeit auf und gibt einen Grobüberblick über die Ereignisse. Dieser Ich-Erzähler kommt auf den letzten Seiten des Buches noch einmal kurz als gebrochener Mann vor: das war’s! Über Seiten zitiert er bei seinem ersten Erscheinen die Aufzeichnungen, die Titomama beim Tod ihrer sterbenden Mutter gemacht hat: Als diese bereits delirierte, stenografierte Titotama mit. Über Seiten finden sich so im Buch frei assoziierende, dunkle und nicht sonderlich tiefgehende Äußerungen der sterbenden Mutter: Ich musste hier als Leser deutlich kämpfen. Die Bedeutung dieser Passagen dürfte in einer persönlichen Aufarbeitung liegen, die für den Leser nicht nachvollziehbar ist. Im Einstreuen von Material liegt auch an späteren Stellen eine eindeutige Schwäche des Buches. Die Autorin ist so voller Botschaften, die sie an den Leser bringen muss, dass sie auch ihre Heldin über Seiten Protokolle über die Gewalttätigkeiten im Kaschmir wiedergeben lässt, die mit der Romanhandlung nichts zu tun haben. So bedrückend die Ereignisse sind, so banal und trivial ist auch vieles, was hier geliefert wird, etwa die Bemerkung, man habe Hennen jetzt genetisch so verändert, dass sie sich nicht mehr um Eier und Küken kümmerten, was besser für die Eierproduktion sei. Die Autorin empfiehlt, dieses Verfahren auch auf die Mütter aus Kaschmir anzuwenden, die nach ihren verschollen Männern und Söhnen suchen. Am Schluss des Buches wird dann auch noch der Kampf der dravidischen Maoisten gegen die Landenteignung der südindischen Bevölkerung in einem breiten Bekennerschreiben mit Reportagecharakter ausgebreitet. Die breiten Passagen innerhalb des Buches, in denen ungefiltert Ergreifendes, Passendes, Banales und Unpassendes hintereinander präsentiert werden, hat mich – auch im Impetus – an den Stil Victor Hugos erinnert, der etwa im „Mann mit den Lachen“ über Seiten die disparaten Lebensmaximen seines Helden ausbreitet, die dieser in Form kleiner Zettel in seinem Wohnwagen aufbewahrt. Dass beide Teile des Buches nicht auseinanderbrechen, verdankt sich der meisterhaften psychologischen Menschenzeichnung.Der „Henker von Kaschmir“ ist ebenso meisterhaft gezeichnet, wir der Weg des einzelnen in den Terrorismus und die einfache Volksgläubigkeit: Der Titel des Romans nimmt nämlich Bezug auf die Grablege eines mittelalterlichen Mystikers und Renegaten, der vom Mogul Aurangzeb aufgefordert wird, zur eigenen Entlastung das islamische Glaubensbekenntnis öffentlich auszusprechen: Der Arme kommt nicht über „Aschhadu al la ilah“ (Ich bezeuge, dass es keinen Gott gibt) hinaus und wird deshalb auf der Stelle enthauptet. Seine Grablege ist Wallfahrtsort für die Helden des Romans, die ohne doktrinäre Festlegung selig werden. Vor allem auch die warmherzigen Stimmung, in der alle am Ende vereint sind, versöhnt den Leser, der sich über Seiten durch das pseudodokumentarische Material kämpfen musste. Das Buch ist sicher eine Bereicherung, erreicht aber nicht den dichteren Eindruck des „Gotts der kleinen Dinge“. Man hätte sich als Leser schlicht ein strafferes Lektorat gewünscht, das die ergreifende Geschichte von eigentlich unnötigem Ballast befreit hätte: denn die humane Botschaft kommt beim Leser auch ohne dieses an!

This is a wonderful read - adjectives spring to mind mainly - complex, involving, moving, bitterly ironic, funny, fascinating... Like many people I am not well versed in the details of the long Kashmir conflict but despite the book's shifting viewpoints and the complex politics, I found it surprisingly easy to follow. Loved the way the story billowed out, giving an almost panoramic view, yet intimately connecting the characters. Arundhati Roy is incapable of being boring and the writing is full of vibrant detail and bitter jokes, as well as human warmth. There are a few things I am still wondering about - the title, the ending... But overall I loved it. Also good to see several mentions of Justice for Bhopal - so many people think that was over and done with years ago ... This is a novel to be savoured quite slowly. I feel I need to begin all over again now I have finished. Thank you Arundhati.