“Never read an Indian novel by an Indian author” – Guilty as charged – until last week.

I was waiting for a friend, I was meeting for lunch. He was late and I was lucky. I walked into Waterstones and picked up Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things.

I flipped through the pages as I waited for my friend and the first page grabbed me. I couldn’t put the book down. I thought about the characters after I put the book down. I even had dreams about the characters and I was sucked in fully.

What a way to write – she has broken every rule in the book to give a rare treat. The viewpoints jump, adjectives abound, adverbs are all over – but the language is music. It takes you on a journey that you want to travel. A journey where you forget airline security, baggage-check in, terrorist attacks. A journey back into a world where you’re somewhat familiar with and enjoy her description of something familiar.

I’d say the joy is doubled when you are an Indian because you get the inside jokes, you have seen the object she is talking about.

Intricate, complex, compelling and somehow rewarding – as if I had been let in on a family secret. I was happy to have been included. I am still thinking about the characters in the book – especially Velutha.

Whatever bad happened in this week, I am inclined to forgive God, because I read the God of Small Things.