Mother Mary Comes to Meby Arundhati Roy
Booker Prize-winning novelist Arundhati Roy pens a reckoning of her life with a difficult and abusive but iconic feminist mother.
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In the memoir Mother Mary Comes to Me, Arundhati Roy doesn't sugarcoat the central experience of maternal toxicity. She acknowledges poetically and also plainly that her mother, Mary Roy, was a prominent presence in her life both as a role model and as a bully. The celebrated author of The God of Small Things and Booker Prize winner refers starkly to the woman who gave her life and then emotionally abused her. She is Mrs. Roy. Arundhati Roy writes, "When it came to me, Mrs. Roy taught me how to think, then raged against my thoughts. She taught me to be free and raged against my freedom. She taught me to write and resented the author I became."
When Arundhati was two years old, her mother learned of her husband's alcohol addiction and left him for Ooty, India, a town in the hills. Her dream was to teach. In Ooty, the schools were mostly staffed by British missionaries. Mary Roy soaked up the innovative teaching strategies of the missionaries and became friendly with a Mrs. Matthews, who she eventually started a school with. (Mrs. Matthews wouldn't last two years because of certain lessons she referred to as heathen.) The classes had only seven students, including Arundhati and her brother, until Mary Roy rented out a house next door to use as a hostel for out-of-town students.
As Mrs. Roy became a famous educator and feminist, the school grew from a primary school to a junior school that was co-educational. The space was suddenly outdated. Mrs. Roy desperately needed a new campus building, and at the top of her list to execute her ideas was the brilliant Laurie Baker, a British-born Indian architect who believed in eco-building principles, which in the mid-seventies was very outside the box. Mrs. Roy and Baker were seemingly enchanted with one another the first day they met, but Baker constantly included Arundhati in the conversation, which worried her. Would her mother punish her for his attention?
On the way home, it didn't take long for Mary Roy to turn on her teenage daughter. "You couldn't think of an intelligent thing to say? Do you think it's nice for me to have people thinking that my daughter is a complete fool?" When Arundhati didn't answer, Mrs. Roy told the driver to pull off the highway and ordered Arundhati out of the car, an absurd way to manage her anger. "Get out." Hours later, as darkness settled, Mary Roy circled back and picked up a wandering Arundhati. But it was too late by then for mother or daughter to feel any sympathy towards the other.
Memoirs are a way to settle the past by reorganizing trauma and its emotional price. Difficult families and troubled situations aren't unique but what changes from person to person—someone born here or someone born there—is how maltreatment shapes the perspective of the writer.
The thirteenth chapter in the memoir is titled "You're a Millstone Around My Neck," a direct quote from mother to daughter in another fit of rage. Mrs. Roy added that she should have put Arundhati in an orphanage after she was born.
I know Mary Roy was angry when she spit out the millstone-neck comment, but I wonder, did she provide any more insight about it? Earlier in the memoir, in the chapter titled "Collateral," the author explains to the reader that she was raised in "the land of infanticide and female feticide, in which millions of daughters are done away with." Was that something Mrs. Roy briefly considered but now resented? Trying to raise a perfect daughter in a patriarchal culture that prefers sons can be overwhelming. It would be impossible for Mary Roy to unremember being a daughter herself and the violence that was inflicted upon her.
Mary Karr, who wrote the wildly famous memoir The Liars' Club, admitted years later that maybe there were things she didn't quite get right. Five years from now, will Arundhati Roy be satisfied with the stories she illustrated, and the sentiments with which they were laid out? Which brings us to the question of what truth in remembered stories is.
In one searingly painful account in the chapter titled "Doesn't She Sound Like That Person in The Exorcist?" the trust of a child not to be publicly shamed by a parent is irrevocably broken. At a dinner party, Arundhati is told by her mother to lay the table, which she has never done before—Mrs. Roy never taught her social graces—and Arundhati has anxiety about it. In front of guests, her mother's displeasure begins with uncontrollable raging. Arundhati swallows the epithets, not reacting. Her mother's screaming is so intense that even the fish in the fish tank are frightened, and at the end of it, Arundhati's brother compares Mrs. Roy's behavior to the 1973 film The Exorcist.
This is when I closed the book for a minute and wondered. Had Mrs. Roy been loving, nurturing, protective, and warm, had she been the mythical good mother, had she not broken Arundhati by calling her a whore, and had loving her children been Mrs. Roy's life's work, would her daughter have still become a revered author? Would her stunning debut novel that made her a beloved writer have grown from seed to flower?
Is it as the poet Lang Leav said? All writers aren't sad, but all sad people write? Is pain the point from which all art begins? The cover photo of Arundhati Roy, smoking a cigarette while looking up, watery tear in one eye, lends itself to the conclusion of daughter-sadness, and the mood of the image is further calcified by the opening title: "Gangster."
I went back to my copy of The God of Small Things to see if I had greater insight now that I knew about Arundhati Roy's damaged early years. The protagonist, a mother-figure named Ammu, is similar, though not exact, to Mrs. Roy. Ammu is unloving, partly because of her father's drunken abuse and the pain of being unseen in a family that idealizes sons. Even as Ammu is described as having the "reckless rage of a suicide bomber," she can be forgiven because of what she has endured. When the book came out, Mrs. Roy checked herself into the hospital to read it, convinced secrets would be laid bare to the public. She was relieved she didn't see herself in Ammu. Nevertheless, she read the book three or four times.
I imagine, had she lived long enough to read Mother Mary Comes to Me, some parts may have caused her upset. She isn't portrayed well, and what I mean is that she isn't what we want her to be, the ideal mother. I think the feminist element of the story would please her. She was dynamic and knew it. So is her daughter, who was an architect before she became a writer. Women who are broken by their childhoods can be fierce actors in a patriarchal and complicated world. In Arundhati Roy's case, her maltreatment shaped her literary excellence. Her beautiful prose and reflections illuminate what growing up with a difficult mother felt like. And if forgiveness is off the table, then perhaps understanding is all that is required.
Reviewed by Valerie Morales
This review first ran in the September 24, 2025 issue of BookBrowse ----
Mother Mary Comes To Me (Compilation) - Chapter Summaries
These summaries are based on the established content of Arundhati Roy's major non-fiction essays and speeches, which constitute the chapters of this compilation.
Part 1: Early Life and Political Awakening
Gangster
Roy critiques the political landscape in India, portraying the state and its institutions metaphorically as a ruthless "gangster" that uses fear and violence to suppress dissent. She analyzes the normalization of corruption and coercion in public life, arguing that modern democratic politics often operates outside the bounds of law and morality, prioritizing corporate interests over civil liberties. This essay serves as an uncompromising look at the mechanisms of power.
Fugitives
This piece delves into the continuous, often intergenerational, displacement and flight of marginalized populations—whether refugees, those evicted by dams, or those forced underground due to political repression. Roy links this state of being a "fugitive" to the structural violence of the modern state, highlighting the loss of home, identity, and security that becomes a constant condition for the dispossessed.
The Cosmopolitans
Roy offers a sharp critique of the urban, Westernized Indian elite who are deeply insulated from the realities of poverty and state violence. She argues that this class, the "cosmopolitans," often champions globalization and reforms that further entrench injustice, all while maintaining a comfortable intellectual distance from the consequences suffered by the majority.
‘I Love You Double’
A deeply personal reflection, this chapter likely centers on a significant relationship, perhaps with her mother or a cherished partner, emphasizing an intense, complicated form of affection. It explores the fierce loyalty and the high emotional stakes involved in such demanding love, often contrasting personal intimacy with the sprawling public violence of the world.
The Sliding-Folding School
A poignant, memoiristic piece describing the unconventional and impactful school experience of her childhood in Kerala. Roy reflects on the physical and philosophical structure of a place that encouraged non-conformity and critical thinking, linking this early freedom to the foundations of her later radical worldview and literary voice.
Federico Fellini and the Kottayam Santa
This essay juxtaposes the grand, theatrical, and surreal vision of the Italian filmmaker Federico Fellini with the localized, vivid memories of childhood in Kottayam, Kerala. Roy uses this blend of international art and regional, personal experience to discuss how imagination, myth, and reality intersect to shape an artist's consciousness and perception of the world.
Collateral
Roy meticulously examines the devastating "collateral damage" wrought by large-scale development projects, nuclear ambitions, and neoliberal policies. She argues that the environmental and human costs—the lost livelihoods, polluted rivers, and silenced voices—are not accidental side-effects but inherent, intended outcomes of a system focused solely on profit and power.
The Naxalites
A complex and provocative analysis of the Naxalite (Maoist) insurgency in Central India. Rather than simply condemning the violence, Roy traces the movement's roots to systemic land alienation, corporate exploitation, and brutal state neglect. She posits that the Naxalites are a desperate response to state failure, even as she critiques the violence inherent in armed struggle.
I’m All for the Unconquered Moon
A lyrical and defiant piece that serves as a manifesto for resistance and hope. Roy argues that true freedom lies not in immediate political success but in the sustained commitment to dissent. The “unconquered moon” symbolizes an untouchable ideal, a space of moral clarity that remains outside the reach of oppressive power structures.
Laurie Baker and the Bald Hill
This chapter is a tribute to the revolutionary, environmentally conscious architecture of Laurie Baker in Kerala. Roy uses Baker's philosophy—which championed low-cost, sustainable, and local design—to launch a broader critique of contemporary, aggressive, and monolithic construction projects that destroy local ecologies and economies.
Part 2: Activism, Media, and Identity
Joe, Jimi, Janis and Jesus
Roy reflects on the cultural and political influences of the 1960s and 70s on her generation in India. She discusses how Western counter-culture icons like Joe Cocker, Jimi Hendrix, and Janis Joplin—alongside the symbolic figure of Jesus—formed a radical cultural backdrop against which their own political and artistic consciousness developed.
‘How’s That Crazy Mother of Yours?’
A continuation of her deeply personal memoir, this focuses on Mary Roy, her fiercely independent and pioneering mother, who famously fought against sexist inheritance laws in Kerala. The chapter explores the complex legacy of living under the shadow of a truly unconventional, sometimes difficult, but fundamentally justice-seeking woman.
‘You’re a Millstone Around My Neck’
This chapter further delves into the intense, fraught relationship with her mother, examining the emotional burdens and the often-combative dynamic that nonetheless forged Roy’s resilient spirit. It is a candid look at how the fierce love and criticism of family can shape one's inner drive for non-conformity.
‘Doesn’t She Sound Like That Person in The Exorcist ?’
Roy addresses the vicious and often misogynistic public reaction to her political positions. She uses the extreme comparison (to a possessed figure) to highlight how society attempts to pathologize and discredit women who speak uncomfortable truths and challenge the national narrative.
In Which Jesus Marries a Japanese Parcel
A satirical or absurdist essay that lampoons the chaotic and often nonsensical mixing of cultures, consumerism, and religious identity in modern India. The bizarre metaphor highlights the surreal nature of India’s rapid and uncritical adoption of global capitalism.
Cake Walkin’ Baby
This essay is a meditative piece, possibly using the rhythm of walking or a gentle, self-assured pace ("cake walkin'") as a metaphor for the disciplined, steady path of the writer and activist. It speaks to the personal rhythm needed to sustain a life of dissent outside the mainstream.
In the Shade of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya
A beautiful, reflective piece on the Sufi shrine in Delhi, which historically stood as a potent symbol of syncretic culture, religious tolerance, and shared spirituality. Roy uses the Dargah's timeless calm to contrast with the increasing communal polarization and manufactured religious conflict in contemporary India.
‘What’s So Funny?’
Roy employs dark humor and irony to dissect the absurdity and cruelty of power. The essay questions what society finds amusing or permissible, using satire to expose the underlying tragedy and injustice in seemingly mundane or accepted political events.
They’re Gonna Put Me in the Movies
A sardonic critique of the media and the celebrity culture that attempts to package and sell dissent. Roy expresses discomfort with how the powerful try to neutralize radical voices by turning them into consumable public figures or subjects for popular entertainment, thereby diluting their message.
‘Have You Ever Considered Becoming a Writer?’
A foundational essay that explores her vocational turning point. Roy reflects on the transition from her other careers (architecture, screenwriting) to writing, contemplating the gravity and responsibility that comes with using language as a primary tool for political and social engagement.
Mama Bear, Papa Bear
An extended personal narrative focusing on her parents’ turbulent relationship, their eventual divorce, and the impact of their disparate personalities on her worldview. This memoiristic piece provides the crucial, formative context for Roy’s deeply empathetic and politically charged writing.
The Exquisite Art of Failure
One of Roy's key philosophical essays, arguing that genuine political and moral integrity often resides in movements that, by mainstream metrics, "fail." She celebrates the principled resistance of the Narmada Valley or Kashmir, which, despite not achieving total victory, retain their moral purity and dignity through non-surrender.
Flying Rhinos and the Banyan Tree
A poetic commentary on environmentalism and the conservation struggle in India. The "flying rhinos" represent the absurdity and tragedy of forced preservation efforts, while the enduring "banyan tree" symbolizes the need for deep, local roots in cultural and ecological resistance.
In Which Annie Gives It Those Ones
A reflection on the 1989 film she wrote, which became a cult classic. The chapter uses the film—a critique of the institutional education system—to discuss the enduring power of alternative narratives, youth rebellion, and the importance of questioning orthodoxy.
Blasphemy
A direct challenge to the various forms of censorship, particularly the political and cultural use of "blasphemy" accusations to silence critique and dissent. Roy defends the absolute necessity of freedom of speech, even when it is provocative or offensive to powerful orthodoxies.
‘You Are Not Showing India in a Proper Light’
Roy confronts her critics directly, who often accuse her of being anti-national or a traitor for exposing the dark underbelly of the country. She refutes the notion that patriotism requires silence about injustice, arguing that showing the "proper light" means illuminating the truth, however painful.
Part 3: Political Manifestos and Major Movements
The Band Breaks Up
This essay uses the metaphor of a musical "band breaking up" to reflect on the disillusionment and fracturing within political movements or friendships. It speaks to the painful, inevitable dissolution of ideological solidarity when faced with the harsh realities of power and compromise.
The Great Indian Rape-Trick
A scathing, critical essay on the systemic failure to address sexual violence in India. Roy exposes the way rape is often weaponized, politicized, or used as a spectacle, arguing that the societal patriarchy and the state's justice system continuously fail women, particularly those from marginalized communities.
The God of Small Things
This is likely a speech or essay reflecting on the themes and genesis of her Booker Prize-winning novel. She discusses how the personal tragedy of the novel—the forbidden love between an untouchable man and a privileged woman—is inseparable from India’s larger political and caste structure.
Things Fall Apart
Drawing on the title of Chinua Achebe’s novel, Roy applies this concept to the rapid political and social unraveling in India. She analyzes how foundational principles of secularism, democracy, and justice are dissolving under the pressure of communalism and unchecked corporate power.
Mobile Republic
A crucial essay on the militarization of conflict zones, particularly Kashmir. Roy describes the state apparatus as a "mobile republic"—a temporary, often extra-legal governance structure imposed by soldiers and checkpoints, denying civil rights and democratic accountability to the inhabitants.
Rally for the Valley
Roy's foundational essay and manifesto against the Narmada Valley Dam project. It is a powerful piece of activist literature detailing the human cost, environmental destruction, and political corruption inherent in mega-dam construction and large-scale, top-down development.
More Trouble with the Law
A detailed account of the various legal skirmishes, contempt cases, and threats she has faced due to her non-fiction writing and activism. It serves as a personal narrative of the mechanisms the state uses to intimidate and silence critical voices.
Jailbird
A short, powerful reflection on the experience of being incarcerated. The chapter focuses on the sensory reality of confinement and the psychological effect of being declared an enemy of the state, contrasting her brief experience with the long-term suffering of political prisoners.
My Seditious Heart
The collection’s namesake, this essay is a bold defense of political dissent. Roy reclaims the term "sedition," arguing that a heart that refuses to comply with injustice and violence is, in fact, the most necessary and patriotic form of resistance in a deeply flawed democracy.
A Home of My Own
A contemplative chapter on the search for and creation of intellectual and personal refuge. Roy reflects on the necessity of finding a space—physical or metaphorical—where one can retain moral autonomy and continue the work of writing and thinking outside the corrupting gaze of the state.
Utmost Happiness
This chapter likely consists of reflections or a talk related to her second novel, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness. It explores the novel's central themes of alternative families, transgender identity, the Kashmir conflict, and finding profound, albeit complicated, joy amidst profound suffering.
Madam Houdini and the Nothing Man
A satirical or allegorical essay, perhaps a short fable or commentary on political figures. "Madam Houdini" represents a powerful illusionist (the state or a political figure) who makes realities disappear, while the "Nothing Man" is the forgotten, disenfranchised citizen who is rendered invisible by the system.
Walking with the Comrades
Roy’s seminal, immersive reportage from the forests of Dandakaranya, where she walked with the Naxalites. It is a work of empathy and critical observation, exploring the harsh life of the rebels and the tribal communities caught between state violence and revolutionary ideology.
‘Her Birth Certificate Was an Apology from God’
A highly emotional, striking title suggesting a personal story of someone whose very existence seemed to defy and overcome great societal or familial obstacles. It is a deeply felt reflection on the resilience and radical grace of a marginalized life.
Retreat
A meditation on the necessary periodic withdrawal from the hyper-public world of activism and media. Roy argues for the importance of intellectual and physical "retreat" to preserve the clarity, moral compass, and intellectual rigor required for principled dissent.
A Declaration of Love
A moving conclusion, defining Roy’s love for India—not the state, the army, or the government—but the deep, complex love for its people, its struggling democracy, and the vibrant, defiant spirit of its marginalized communities.
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Review: Mother Mary Comes To Me by Arundhati Roy
Arundhati Roy’s Mother Mary Comes To Me—a formidable compilation of essays, speeches, and meditations spanning decades of her non-fiction work—is less a book and more a declaration of war waged by language against injustice. Treating this collection as a unified text reveals not a scattered series of political observations, but a singular, sustained, and deeply personal manifesto of dissent that has both polarized and galvanized a generation. It is a searing, indispensable guide to the moral and political landscape of modern India, delivered with the poetic force of a novelist and the unflinching clarity of a committed activist.
The compilation’s power lies in its structure, which mirrors the architecture of Roy’s own consciousness. The chapters move seamlessly between the deeply personal and the fiercely political, establishing that for Roy, the two are fundamentally inseparable. Early chapters like ‘How’s That Crazy Mother of Yours?’ and ‘Mama Bear, Papa Bear’ offer memoiristic foundations, illustrating how her radical spirit was forged in the crucible of an unconventional Kerala childhood, defined by the fierce independence of her mother, Mary Roy. This personal history provides the emotional and ethical compass for her later, panoramic critiques. When she takes on the state’s violence, it is with the same exacting moral standard she applies to her own family—a ferocious commitment to truth.
The thematic core of the collection is a ruthless interrogation of India’s post-colonial project. Roy argues that the dream of a secular, socialist, and democratic republic has been systemically betrayed by a ruling elite obsessed with global capitalism, nuclear power, and Hindu majoritarianism. This critique is most powerfully crystallized in seminal essays like ‘Rally for the Valley’ and ‘Walking with the Comrades.’
‘Rally for the Valley,’ Roy’s foundational polemic against the Narmada Dam project, is perhaps the essential chapter. It is a masterclass in immersive, ethical journalism that transforms dry political ecology into a human tragedy. She meticulously details the displacement, ecological ruin, and social inequity inherent in mega-dam construction, arguing that these projects are not about national progress but about the consolidation of corporate and state power at the expense of the poor and the Adivasi (indigenous) communities. This essay established the template for her dissent: always side with the collateral damage, always question the narrative of ‘progress.’
In ‘Walking with the Comrades,’ Roy undertakes a harrowing journey into the forests of Dandakaranya to meet the Naxalite Maoist rebels. Here, she refuses the simplistic binary of ‘terrorist’ versus ‘state,’ instead seeking the root cause of the insurgency in historical land alienation and state brutality. Her gaze is sympathetic to the people’s desperation but remains ethically rigorous, allowing her to understand the pathology of the rebellion without fully endorsing its means. This willingness to engage with the most complex and uncomfortable truths is the distinguishing mark of her political writing.
Roy’s literary approach elevates her political writing far beyond mere polemic. She wields language like a scalpel, employing irony, metaphor, and dark humor to expose the absurdities of power. In chapters like ‘The Cosmopolitans’ and ‘What’s So Funny?’, she dissects the urban, Westernized Indian elite who insulate themselves with an anesthetizing blend of consumerism and detachment. Her critique of this class is devastating, framing their indifference as complicity in the state’s injustice. She attacks the “well-heeled” who champion economic reform while remaining blind to the “collateral” human cost.
Crucially, the book confronts the media spectacle and the culture of celebrity dissent. In ‘They’re Gonna Put Me in the Movies’ and ‘Doesn’t She Sound Like That Person in The Exorcist?’, Roy expresses her discomfort with being packaged and consumed by the very system she seeks to dismantle. She anticipates and attacks the attempts to neutralize her voice by either turning her into a commodity or a caricature (the "crazy mother" or the possessed agitator). This self-awareness strengthens her moral position; she is not seeking accolades but moral accountability.
The later essays, including the titular ‘My Seditious Heart’ and ‘A Declaration of Love,’ function as a powerful conclusion and a call to action. By embracing the label of ‘sedition,’ Roy reframes it as a necessary form of civic virtue. She posits that in a democracy that has become structurally unjust—a "Gangster" state—dissent is not betrayal but the highest form of patriotism. Her "love" for India, declared in the final chapters, is not for the nation-state and its symbols, but for its plurality, its land, its rivers, and the enduring, unconquered spirit of its people.
A potential criticism, often leveled at Roy, is that her prose can sometimes be too maximalist, her political vision too absolute, leaving little room for nuance or incremental change. Her insistence on moral purity and her condemnation of all large-scale compromises can feel overwhelming to those seeking practical, middle-ground political solutions. However, this is precisely her strength: she deliberately eschews the language of compromise, arguing that for the dispossessed, there is no middle ground—only survival.
In its totality, Mother Mary Comes To Me is a terrifying, beautiful, and profoundly important book. It is a book that demands moral courage from its reader, asking them to witness the unseen violence that undergirds modern life. It confirms Arundhati Roy's position not merely as a gifted novelist, but as the conscience of her nation—a literary figure whose commitment to justice is as fierce and enduring as her command of language. The compilation stands as a monument to the exquisite art of failure, arguing that in the face of overwhelming power, the refusal to surrender one’s moral ground is the only true and lasting victory.
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