Arundhati Roy curiously dedicates The Ministry of Utmost Happiness to the “unconsoled” – this is the story she waited for twenty years to tell. She begins with a moving eulogy to the dead vultures, “the friendly old birds” that died silently due to Diclofenac poisoning. An acerbic critique of the cattle industry that depends on copious doses of “cow-aspirin” to increase milk production. Why? This is the question that I must ask myself even before I begin to the unravel the glorious mess that Roy likes to call a novel. We all know about her staunch anti-capitalist views, so perhaps, this is not as striking as it appears. However, this is something that I cannot ignore. Why the dead vultures?

Every review that I have read so far has chosen to ignore the vultures, one cannot blame them as Roy’s Narrative is a peculiar amalgamation of many stories – all stitched together in a seemingly disorderly way. However, I would like to think that the special mention of the fallen scavengers is vital to the narrative: which is, in essence, a fragmented story of broken people. Like the vultures, the characters of Roy’s novel are outcasts who choose to remain on the fringes of society. They are the ugly and evasive souls that never partake in the pride and glory of the shining India.

Roy opens her narrative with Anjum who unabashedly identifies herself as a “Hijra” and not a transgender. The story begins with the metamorphosis of an artless Aftab into a gaudy Anjum – the story moves from the conservative walls of a Muslim family in Old Delhi to the charmingly dilapidated Hijra heaven called “Khwabgah” or the house of dreams. It is in the crumbling courtyard of her newly found home that Anjum refashions herself to become the woman of her dreams. Roy captures the chaos and magic of the Old Delhi settlement perfectly using her trademark lyrical prose. It is only when the readers are attuned to the rhythm of the Old Delhi streets that Roy shifts from Khwabgah to make space for her larger narrative.

Gradually she introduces the reader to Tilo – the other outcast. While Anjum was made radical by her body, Tilo is made radical by her mind. Roy exploits Tilo’s characterization to make a larger political commentary on society. Tilo’s shameless ability to express love takes her on a journey to Kashmir where she falls victim to army atrocities. Kashmir transforms Tilo from a lover to a political commentator. Roy’s nuanced and melancholic narration deftly converts Tilo’s sexual awakening into a political one – giving Roy the much-needed freedom and space to ruminate over her years as a political activist in a rapidly developing India.

The narrative works as a pastiche that reveals the sinister political landscape of modern India. Roy drifts from moment to moment; poignantly touching upon the issues of untouchability, caste, gender, fundamentalism, fascism, and terrorism. She does not settle, much like the country she calls her home. Roy’s India is broken and shattered just like her narrative. Her description of India chooses to give voice to the silenced, the ones that are crushed under the burden of nationalism and economic growth. The Ministry of Utmost Happiness is decisive as it tells the story of the other India – the India that lies under the shroud of a shimmering nation.

In her own words, Roy tells the shattered story of modern India by “slowly becoming everything.” Perhaps, Roy is right to dedicate The Ministry of Utmost Happiness to the unconsoled – to those who have been rendered powerless by the system. And, those who hang their heads in shame and anger. However, is Roy’s novel a cynical and pessimistic critique of modern India? I guess not. Somewhere deep down at the heart of the novel lies delicate hope that binds the outcasts and the rebels, the broken and the unconsoled.