The God of Small Things
By Arundhati Roy
A pair of actors trapped in a recondite play with no hint of plot or narrative. Stumbling through their parts, nursing someone else’s sorrow. Grieving someone else’s grief. Unable somehow, to change plays. Or, purchase, for a fee, some cheap brand of exorcism from a couselor with a fancy degree, who would sit them down and say, in one of many ways: “You’re not the Sinners. Your the Sinned Against. You were only children. You had no control. You are the victims not perpetrators.”
If he held her, he couldn’t kiss her. If he kissed her, he couldn’t see her. If he saw her, he couldn’t feel her. If he touched her, he couldn’t talk to her, if he loved her, he couldn’t leave, if he spoke he couldn’t listen, if he fought, he couldn’t win.
The love laws lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much.