I left my mother not because I didn’t love her, but in order to be able to continue to love her.

When I’m choosing things to do to meet my professional development requirements, there are two topics that I’m immediately drawn to: attachment theory and narcissism. If those words are in the workshop title, sign me up.

I mention that because within the first page of Arundhati Roy’s memoir, Mother Mary Comes To Me, I knew there was a fascinating attachment story ahead (and I strongly suspected narcissism as well). And then, page two, I knew it was also a grief story. I couldn’t put it down.

As a child I loved her irrationally, helplessly, fearfully, completely, as children do. As an adult I tried to love her coolly, rationally, and from a safe distance. I often failed. 

Roy makes numerous references to her mother, Mary’s, presence in her work (as the inspiration for particular characters, and in her becoming a writer), but Mother Mary Comes to Me is Roy’s first work of memoir, and the focus is on her complex relationship with her mother, who she describes as ‘…my shelter and my storm’.

Mary Roy bucked the system. As an educator and women’s rights activist, she founded the Pallikoodam school* in Kerala, a place that championed equitable co-education (in practice, this meant that both boys and girls were learning things that they had previously been excluded from).

Mrs Roy made it her mission to disabuse boys of their seemingly God-given sense of entitlement. She turned them into considerate, respectful men… In a way she liberated them, too. She freed them of the burden of being what society thought men ought to be… What she did for her girl students, the spirit she instilled in them, was nothing short of revolutionary. She gave them spines, she gave them wings, she set them free. She bequeathed her unwavering attention and her stern love on them, and they shone back at her.

In 1986, Mary Roy sued her brother after their father’s death for equal inheritance. She won the landmark case in the Supreme Court, and it set a precedent for equal rights to ancestral property for women. Arundhati states that ‘…until the day she died, she never stopped learning, never stagnated, never feared change, never lost her curiosity.’

Arundhati discusses her mother’s achievements alongside her difficulties. She suffered poor health (severe asthma) for much of her life, and was known for flying into rages.

I watched her unleash all of herself – her genius, her eccentricity, her radical kindness, her militant courage, her ruthlessness, her generosity, her cruelty, her bullying, her head for business and her wild, unpredictable temper…

And it is in the exploration of Mary as an educator and activist, versus Mary as a mother that makes this memoir exceptional. Because Arundhati is generous, never down-playing Mary’s achievements or contributions and yet, the emotional distress – ‘…that thrum of apprehension was a constant theme, like the background score in a never-ending horror movie…’ – runs through the whole book.

In retelling scenes from her childhood, Arundhati describes her mother’s mercurial behaviour – she does not rationalise it, but simply acknowledges it, emphasising the complexities of her mother’s character, and their relationship. It is an exceptional writer who can hold such a dichotomy so lightly, never pushing the reader to the conclusion that her mother was either evil or benevolent.

I learned early that the safest place can be the most dangerous. And that even when it isn’t, I make it so.

Arundhati is explicit about how her childhood experience shaped her capacity as a writer.

Today, though, I am grateful for that gift of darkness. I learned to keep it close, to map it, to sift through its shades, to stare at it until it gave up its secrets. It turned out to be a route to freedom, too.

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.

There is so much more to this book. Arundhati discusses her relationships; meeting her father after decades of estrangement (of which she said, ‘I had planned in advance to feel nothing’); her own role as a political activist; and, of course, winning the Booker Prize in 1997 for her novel, The God of Small Things –

Mrs Roy was both thrilled and upset at the attention I was receiving. Thrilled because I was a former student of her school and that was something to be showcased. Upset because I was her daughter and she felt that I was being given more attention than was good for me, and certainly more than I deserved. (Which was absolutely true.)

And it goes without saying that Roy’s writing is stunningly beautiful.

Nothing made me forget the world like reading did. Nothing made me think about the world like reading did. Nothing else filled me up. Nothing else emptied me out. Sentences and paragraphs would drift through my head like clouds.

What I found particularly interesting about this book was the use of long sections where Mary is not discussed (and in fact, Arundhati didn’t see her for more than ten years), and yet, her presence is very much felt – an incredible tribute to Mary Roy.

4.5/5

*Side note on the school: Mary Roy was an innovator in all sorts of ways, including her collaboration with architect Laurie Baker, who designed the school using sustainable materials and design principles that were unheard of at the time. After reading this section of the memoir, I went down a deep Laurie-Baker-rabbit-hole. His work is incredible. The images below are from this article about the school.