The Ministry Of Utmost Happiness

The Ministry Of Utmost Happiness

By  Arundhati Roy

A new novel from the Booker Prize-winning author of the monumental God of Small Things.

'How to tell a shattered story? By slowly becoming everybody. No. By slowly becoming everything.'

In a city graveyard, a resident unrolls a threadbare Persian carpet between two graves. On a concrete sidewalk, a baby appears quite suddenly, a little after midnight, in a crib of litter. In a snowy valley, a father writes to his five-year-old daughter about the number of people that attended her funeral. And in the Jannat Guest House, two people who've known each other all their lives sleep with their arms wrapped around one another as though they have only just met.

Here is a cast of unforgettable characters caught up in the tide of history. Told with a whisper, with a shout, with tears and with laughter, it is a love story and a provocation. Its heroes, present and departed, human and animal, have been broken by the world we live in and then mended by love -- and for this reason, they will never surrender.

Format & Editions

Trade Paperback

9780241303986

June 6, 2017

Hamish Hamilton (UK)

RRP $38.00

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Hardback

9780241303979

June 6, 2017

Hamish Hamilton (UK)

RRP $50.00

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EBook

9780241980774

June 1, 2017

Penguin General UK (UK Adult)

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Extract

CHAPTER ONE

Where do old birds go to die?

 

She lived in the graveyard like a tree. At dawn she saw the crows off and welcomed the bats home. At dusk she did the opposite. Between shifts she conferred with the ghosts of vultures that loomed in her high branches. She felt the gentle grip of their talons like an ache in an amputated limb. She gathered they weren’t altogether unhappy at having excused themselves and exited from the story.

When she first moved in, she endured months of casual cruelty like a tree would – without flinching. She didn’t turn to see which small boy had thrown a stone at her, didn’t crane her neck to read the insults scratched into her bark. When people called her names – clown without a circus, queen without a palace – she let the hurt blow through her branches like a breeze and used the music of her rustling leaves as balm to ease the pain.

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