Book Box | On not writing about ‘Mother Mary Comes to Me’

What can you say about a memoir that bridges the haunting and heartbreaking spaces between mothers and daughters

Dear Reader,

I will go back to re-reading the Arundhati Roy’s novel The God of Small Things , and I will read her political essays.

I do not want to write about Mother Mary Comes to Me. And yet this is the book everyone is talking about.

Since the book released on August 28, there have been book events in bookstores all over the world. It’s not surprising. Because mother daughter stories are primeval. And when the mother is a celebrated social activist and the daughter is the first Indian to win a Booker prize for her novel The God of Small Things, the world will inevitably lean in and ask - what is the real story ?

And here we have it - in Mother Mary Comes to Me. The mother is no more; it is the daughter who tells us the mother-daughter story. And yet when you read it, it feels like a story told from two sides, this is the magic of this memoir.

But I am sorry. I cannot write about this book. I cannot write because for these past two weeks my head and heart are both too full. I cannot be coherent about this memoir.

Like Arundhati Roy, I too am a daughter. I am also mother of three daughters. The eldest of these daughters has stopped speaking to me for some months now. And I wonder everyday, at many points in the day, why this is so. I scour my memories and my journals for clues. This makes ‘Mother Mary’ even more personal to me. What can I as a reader learn from this story of a mother and daughter locked in a love hate bind.

I cannot write about ‘Mother Mary’ because there is just too much to say. And I am simply not sure where to begin.

Should I begin as a reader in her twenties, mesmerized by this stirring story set in Kerala - The God of Small Things? This novel about a young divorced mother with two children, with unforgettable characters like Sophie Mol, Chacko, Ammu and Velutha, the low caste lover, a man more real to me than actual people whose memoirs I read ?

Or should I begin at the end, in the present day, as a writer receiving the most authentic masterclass in writing there can be ? Of seeing a little girl grow up with the raw earth of rage and rejection and turn it into magical storytelling. Of watching ‘Mother Mary’ transformed into the lovable and loving Ammu in Roy’s novel.

I cannot write about ‘Mother Mary’ because it as at once sacred and haunting and holy and heartbreaking. Instead I will go back to re-reading the Arundhati Roy’s novel The God of Small Things, I will read her political essays in Walking with the Comrades, Azadi and Capitalism: A Ghost Story. I will trace the thread from the raw truth to the polished prize winning text and back again.

I cannot write about ‘Mother Mary’, or discuss the ethics of telling your mother’s story because it feels like betraying a confidence. This daughter has poured out every piece of heself in these pages, these powerful, poignant pages addressed simply to me, and only me.

I will not write about Mother Mary Comes to Me. Instead I will send the book to my daughters. I will send it to my mother. I will recommend it to everyone I know.

And then, I will wait. Not for a review, or an answer, or even a thank you. But for the silent, shared understanding that comes when a story speaks for you, building a bridge of words where your own have failed.

This, perhaps, is the only thing left to do.

(Sonya Dutta Choudhury is a Mumbai-based journalist and the founder of Sonya’s Book Box, a bespoke book service. Each week, she brings you specially curated books to give you an immersive understanding of people and places. If you have any reading recommendations or suggestions, write to her at sonyasbookbox@gmail.com.The views expressed are personal.)