Arundhati Roy’s portrayal of her own childhood in Mother Mary Comes to Me is searing and moving. Seen through the candid eyes of a child, she describes the neglect, abuse and trauma she and her brother endured at the hands of their mother in plain terms. She also chronicles the complex and conflicting feelings that abused children contend with. When parents direct the wrath of unfulfilled wishes on helpless wards, the developing selves of children splinter. If the source of security is also the fount of fear, a child has to continually contend with contradictions that get housed in their bodies, minds and in the recesses of their subconscious.
The ”cold, furry moth” she carries in her heart is a visceral reminder of the fear that’s lodged in her body. So much so, that she repeatedly finds the “safest place can be the most dangerous.” If not, she says, “I make it so.” While Roy has no real ‘home’ to speak of in childhood, a state of unease is where she is most at home. This possibly explains why she is unable to lay down roots and flees from abodes that actually begin to feel like home, once in Goa with JC and then the beautiful love she crafted with Pradip Krishen’s family.
A childhood riven by contradictions
When she is feted with appreciation and applause, she cannot stop herself from thinking that “someone else, someone quiet, is being beaten in the other room.” The memory of her brother, LKC, being thrashed black and blue for getting an ‘average’ report has possibly left a deeper scar on Arundhati than her brother. When her mother hugs her the next morning for bringing a “brilliant report,” the child is overcome with shame. At an early age, Roy comprehends the perverse side of achievement and accolades. For every winner, there is a loser. Even as she receives the Booker prize, the applause reminds her that someone is possibly being pummelled elsewhere.
While Roy is seen as a feisty, independent, free-spirit, she writes that her perception of feminism has been “queered and complicated” by how her overbearing mother treated or rather mistreated her brother. In a country that celebrates and cherishes sons, Roy finds that women can be bullies and men can be victims too.
At a tender age, Roy is made to believe that she can be the cause of her mother’s death by triggering a fatal asthma attack. The child begins to believe that she is responsible for her mother’s breathing and takes it on herself to become Mrs. Roy’s surrogate lungs, an “organ-child.” To constantly live with the threat that you are responsible for your parent’s every breath, or lack thereof, is not a burden any child should carry.
The distinction between private and public has also been amorphous for Arundhati. As her childhood ‘home’ was in a hostel-school, she did not grow up with a clear sense of personal boundaries. Their family spats, usually with Mrs Roy venting her fury at one of her kids, took place within earshot of other students and staff. In addition to absorbing their mother’s taunts, Arundhati and her brother had to contend with the humiliation of others knowing about it. So, later in life, Roy admits that she “began to take public things extremely personally.”
When her mother died, Arundhati was “in ruins”. Unlike her brother who seems unfazed, she is overcome by inconsolable grief. Given the fraught and fractured relationships she had with Mrs. Roy, her reaction is inexplicable, or perhaps, it isn’t after all? She writes that there is “something puzzling about the human condition” and it’s “best to leave some things un-understood.” Could she also be grieving for what could have been? Arundhati notes that while Mrs. Roy gave her ‘light’ to her students, her children “had to absorb her darkness.” Many a time, she wished she was Mrs Roy’s student, instead of being her daughter.
Arundhati is in awe of her mother. At a core level, she loves and reveres Mrs. Roy for single-handedly setting up a model school, for her financial acumen, for contesting her share of property and overturning a sexist law while also educating her own children. She also craves her approval, though many of her actions suggest otherwise. Soon after winning the Booker, the only person she calls up is her mother who says “Well done, baby girl.” The daughter is delighted that she’d “caught her on a good day.” What Arundhati doesn’t acknowledge is that Mrs. Roy’s love is not only temperamental but also conditional, another feature of toxic parenting. Further, her pride in her mother is tinged with a harrowing dread, not knowing when her mother will erupt, flinging the choicest of insults at her daughter. As a child, she treads an emotional cliff, perched high, yet ever fearful of a steep fall.
While Roy is viewed as an irreverent, fearless and polemical figure, the seeds of her contrarian self were possibly sowed in her disruptive and dissonant childhood. For better or worse, parents stamp their imprint not only genetically but also through their interactions with children. A pattern of abuse seems to run in Roy’s maternal and paternal families, showing the intergenerational impact of both violence and alcoholism. Given her chaotic and unpredictable upbringing, Arundhati’s deep wells of grit, gumption and her glittering gift of the pen are a testimony of her indomitable spirit. Ironically, it’s a spirit she possibly inherited and imbibed from her indomitable mother.
About the Author
Aruna Sankaranarayanan is the author of Zero Limits and the co-author of Bee-Witched along with Brinda S. Narayan.