Arundhatí Roy - The God of Small Things

Then the Bombay-Cochin people came out. From the cool air into the hot air. Crumpled people uncrumpled on their way to the Arrivals Lounge.
And there they were, the Foreign Returnees, in wash'n'wear suits and rainbow sunglasses. With an end to grinding poverty in their Aristocrat suitcases. With cement roofs for their thatched houses, and geysers for their parents' bathrooms. With sewage systems and septic tanks. Maxis and high heels. Puff sleeves and lipstick. Mixygrinders and automatic flashes for their cameras. With keys to count and cupboards to lock. With a hunger for kappa and meen vevichathu that they hadn't eaten for so long. With love and a lick of shame that their families who had come to meet them were so ... so ... gawkish. Look at the way they dressed! Surely they had more suitable airport wear! Why did Malayalees have such awful teeth?
And the airport itself! More like the local bus depot! The birdshit on the building! Oh the spitstains on the kangaroos!
Oho! Going to the dogs India is.
When long bus journeys, and overnight stays at the airport, were met by love and a lick of shame, small cracks appeared, which would grow and grow, and before they knew it, the Foreign Returnees would be trapped outside the History House, and have their dreams re-dreamed.
Then, there, among the wash'n'wear suits and shiny suitcases, Sophie Mol.
Thimble-drinker.
Coffin-cartwheeler.
She walked down the runway, the smell of London in her hair. Yellow bottoms of bells flapped backwards around her ankles. Long hair floated out from under her straw hat. One hand in her mother's. The other swinging like a soldier's (lef, lef, lefrightlef).

There was
A girl,
Tall and
Thin and
Fair.
Her hair.
Her hair
Was the delicate colorov
Gin-nnn-ger (leftleft, right)
There was
A girl-

Margaret Kochamma told her to Stoppit.
So she Stoppited.

Tahle kniha vyšla česky, jako Bůh maličkostí (o kvalitě překladu netuším), ale já bych ze všech sil doporučovala číst ji anglicky. Má totiž tu nejhravější angličtinu jakou jsem kdy četla, nápaditou a neobvyklou - půl kouzla té knihy spočívá ve hře se slovy. Royová vám při čtení moc neradí, nechá vás, ať si příběh rozpletete sami, zorientujete se v generacích, v indických reáliích, v čase.. a sotva to dokážete, už příběh zase splétá a utahuje. Takhle si představuju dokonalé vyprávění, nedělní knihu.