Why does a writer feel hesitant, his or her words and sentences do not flow like a flowing river stream as they used to so naturally before? Why is it that trepidation, that corky eminence emanating from the daily gore of triangulated hearsay stops the pen from moving an inch forward on an empty blank sheet of paper? Is it the ominous foretelling of a future portrayed by Margaret Atwood in her novels The Year of the Flood and Oryx and Crake? Or the very scarily plausible scenarios described by Justin Cronin in The Passage, or Stephen King’s everlasting The Stand or Under the Dome? Is it the aftermath of all the madness synched in Cormac McCarthy’s heartbreaking The Road or the vivid indifference depicted in Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go?
I haven’t read any stories or novels written by Arundhati Roy after her first glorious and famed book The God of Small Things more than a decade ago. However, from time to time I had seen her name appearing in newspaper news and articles. Her never tiring voice, steadfast in principle of humanity, daring words speaking the truth to collusion and modern hush monarchy, was not completely unnoticed. When the prevalent caustic orchestrated wind of the day blowing in one way dumbing down all the check on sanity and purporting flagrant oppression as jovial kindness in the lionized name of jingoistic adulation, Arundhati Roy’s words, in writing and speeches, never back down from unwrapping layers after layers of a tearful globe.
Like all the lively beings, a writer’s lifespan is relatively meagre. But the good words hope to inspire, to think beyond the very obnoxious theme or inhumane miasma. Read Arundhati Roy’s article in The New York Times and feel the strength of warm, boiled eggs over bullying and bias.
Link to article: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/09/opinion/09roy.html