Arundhati Roy exists as literature’s most uncompromising truth-teller, a writer whose pen serves simultaneously as artistic instrument and political weapon. Her singular career trajectory—from Booker Prize-winning novelist to fearless activist-essayist—represents one of contemporary literature’s most compelling arguments for the writer as public intellectual. Roy refuses the comfortable boundaries between art and politics, creating work that burns with both aesthetic brilliance and moral urgency.

The God of Small Things announced Roy as a literary force of extraordinary power. The 1997 novel’s fractured narrative mirrors the broken lives of its twin protagonists whilst weaving together intimate family trauma with India’s rigid social hierarchies. Roy’s prose achieves something rare: sensuous beauty married to political precision. Her exploration of the “Love Laws” that dictate “who should be loved, and how, and how much” extends beyond romance to encompass caste, class, and cultural transgression. The novel’s strength lies in its refusal to separate personal and political; every family secret becomes a broader indictment of social structure. Her distinctive style—playful capitalisation, Malayalam-English fusion, overwhelming sensory detail—creates prose that feels both ancient and startlingly contemporary. Critics occasionally argue that linguistic virtuosity overwhelms narrative, but this misses Roy’s deliberate attempt to forge a new literary language capable of containing India’s contradictions.

Following her literary triumph, Roy made a calculated pivot towards political writing that defined her subsequent career. Essays like “The Greater Common Good” and “Walking with the Comrades” reveal an activist whose concerns span from local dam projects to global imperial ventures. Her critique of the Narmada dam projects combines rigorous research with devastating personal testimony, creating perhaps the most influential piece of environmental writing in contemporary Indian literature. Roy’s authority stems from direct engagement—she walks through displaced villages, speaks with affected communities, embeds with Maoist guerrillas. This immersive approach distinguishes her from academic critics, lending her political writing an urgency that transcends mere policy analysis.

Roy’s political philosophy defies easy categorisation whilst maintaining fierce intellectual consistency. Her anti-globalisation stance recognises economic development not as neutral progress but as cultural imperialism that devastates local communities whilst enriching urban elites and multinational corporations. Her environmental activism consistently links ecological destruction with social injustice, arguing that environmental degradation disproportionately affects the poor who depend most directly on natural resources. Essays like “Capitalism: A Ghost Story” frame environmental destruction not as development’s unfortunate byproduct but as capitalism’s essential feature, requiring constant expansion and resource extraction.

Her criticism of both Indian state policy and American foreign policy has generated fierce controversy. “Come September,” delivered shortly after 9/11, suggested American foreign policy contributed to global anti-American sentiment, drawing accusations of anti-nationalism that Roy consistently rejects whilst defending dissent as patriotic duty. Her support for Kashmiri independence and criticism of Indian military actions have similarly provoked establishment fury. Yet Roy’s positions reflect coherent philosophical commitments rather than mere contrarianism—she opposes state violence whether perpetrated by Washington or New Delhi.

The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, Roy’s 2017 return to fiction after twenty years, attempts to capture contemporary Indian experience through interconnected stories spanning decades. Centred on Anjum, a transgender woman whose journey from Delhi’s Red Fort area to a graveyard home becomes a metaphor for marginalised existence, the novel received notably divided reception. Critics praised Roy’s continued commitment to voicing the voiceless whilst examining communal violence, particularly the 2002 Gujarat riots. However, many found the structure unwieldy and political messaging heavy-handed, suggesting Roy the activist had overwhelmed Roy the novelist. This criticism arguably misses the point—the novel reads less like traditional fiction than a deliberate attempt to create new forms capable of containing India’s contradictions and complexities.

Roy’s writing style, in both fiction and non-fiction, achieves immediate recognition through elaborate sentences building through detail accumulation and rhythmic repetition. Her metaphors startle with precision—describing the Indian state as “a country that has a nuclear bomb and no drinking water.” This style proves divisive; admirers praise its musicality and emotional power whilst critics argue it becomes mannered and overwrought. However, at its finest, Roy’s style serves political purposes perfectly, creating writing that achieves both intellectual rigour and emotional compulsion. Her multilingual approach, suffusing English with Indian languages and cultural references, creates work accessible to international audiences whilst remaining rooted in specifically Indian experiences.

Roy’s international influence extends far beyond literature into environmental activism, anti-globalisation movements, and post-colonial studies. Academic conferences regularly feature panels on her work, and her essays circulate widely online, translated into dozens of languages. However, this international acclaim sits uneasily with her polarised Indian reception, where supporters see her as a fearless truth-teller whilst critics argue her celebrity status disconnects her from Indian realities. This tension reflects broader questions about writers’ social roles and the relationship between literary achievement and political activism.

Contemporary global crises have rendered Roy’s work increasingly prescient. Her early warnings about unfettered development and corporate power now seem prophetic, whilst her defence of dissent and minority rights gains particular resonance amid rising authoritarianism. Her influence on younger writer-activists like Naomi Klein and Rebecca Solnit demonstrates how she opened space for politically engaged literature, proving serious literary writers can be effective political activists.

Any honest assessment must acknowledge both Roy’s remarkable achievements and limitations. Her fiction sometimes struggles under political ambitions’ weight, whilst her non-fiction occasionally sacrifices nuance for rhetorical effect. However, these pale beside genuine achievements—Roy has created work that is both artistically significant and politically necessary, giving voice to perspectives too often excluded from mainstream discourse. Her willingness to leverage literary celebrity for political causes demonstrates rare commitment to using privilege responsibly.

Roy’s career represents a sustained argument for the writer as public intellectual, demonstrating that literature can matter in political discourse and writers can challenge power whilst speaking for the marginalised. Whether one agrees with her positions or not, the seriousness and consistency of her engagement with crucial contemporary issues commands respect. Her legacy rests equally on political courage and literary achievement, proving that in a world where writers increasingly retreat into aesthetic concerns or commercial considerations, it remains possible to use one’s voice in service of justice. Roy offers no easy answers to complex problems, but asks the right questions with unusual clarity and force, fulfilling literature’s highest function: disturbing complacency and forcing us to see the world with new eyes.

Sapna Sharma