Resumo de The Cost Of Living

From the author of ?The God of Small things ?, the first Indian writer to get the Booker prize, comes ?The Cost of Living?, a Book that contains two of her earlier political essays on the major issues of the Indian Government and of course, of we Indians.
Arundathi Roy was once asked what would be her next book after her best seller 'The God of Small things', to which she answered that if inspiration hits her she would really write another. Truly, The Cost of Living , which is her second book, is not without much inspiration. The Two Essays: 'The End of Imagination' and 'The Greater Common Good' focus on the issues of Sarovar dam on Narmada valley and Indian Government's growing temptation to become radio-active to show off itself as a power Block.
Arundhati Roy throws light on these issues which wears the costumes of the ?developing? India. For those of us who were taught from our ?school? time that building of huge dams were the pillar of modern India, Roy's essay would be a ?Flooding Shock?. The essay pictures the true scenario of Narmada valley where millions of people are displaced, and over 250 villages are drowned due to the construction of Sarovar dam. Roy notes that 60% of the displaced people are adivasis and dalits who would lose their land without any recompense. The essay which runs to about 85 pages, deals not just with the apparently visible facts but goes to the root of the issue.
Her daring and 'fear-for-none' writing pungently satirises the Supreme Court, the Government, the World Bank and all who have involved in the building of the Sarovar dam. Sample this:
Why did I laugh?
Because I suddenly remembered the tender concern with which the Supreme Court judges in Delhi (before vacating the legal stay on further construction of the Sardar Sarovar Dam) had enquired whether tribal children in the resettlement colonies would have children's parks to play in. The lawyers representing the Government had hastened to assure them that indeed they would, and, what's more, that there were seesaws and slides and swings in every park. I looked up at the endless sky and down at the river rushing past and for a brief, brief moment the absurdity of it all reversed my rage and I laughed. I meant no disrespect.
In the other essay ?The end of imagination' written during the Pokran nuclear test bombing, Roy once again tears of the masquerading masks of the Government. The essay voices her agitated mind over the threats of human existence on earth. Being a writer of fiction Roy knows the knack of appealing to the heart with her inventive language for presenting the hard facts, which otherwise would dilute our sensibility.
The essay explicates the basic flaws of the theory of deterrence and adds that in countries like that of ours and Pakistan where the level of ignorance on the seriousness of nuclear threat is high, the theory of deterrence would be a utter failure. Here again she quotes, as in other instances, to make us laugh, think and mock at .
Witness the VHP wanting to distribute radioactive sand from the Pokran desert as prasad all across India. A cancer yatra?
Roy is a passionate lover of Nature and humanity. It is this that makes her bold and compels her to rebel for the goodness of the humanity. The author of Midnight's Children, Salman Rushdie has got something to say about Roy: She combines brilliant reportage with a passionate, no-holds-barred commentary on two great Indian betrayals masquerading as progress. I salute both her courage and her skill. Nevertheless, the book suffers from some mild flaws: Fully a fifth of ?The End of Imagination? is devoted to friend telling Roy that she has become so famous that the rest of her life would be ?Vaguely unsatisfying?. These Person digressions distract the reader from the substantial issues at hand. The other minor issue is that the book lacks the illustrating photographs and the statistical charts (except maps of the Sarovar dam project) with which the originales were published in the magazines. Without these aids most of her writing would seem to be a hyperbole of a ?novelist naïvete??

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