In the course of her evolution from freakishly talented literary "babe" (in 1997 she won the Booker prize for The God of Small Things) to political icon, Roy has clearly not become any more "nice". At first glance she may be the picture of elegance and good taste: a bohemian and dignified 40-year-old in Nehru top and shawl, hair cropped tightly into her head; softly spoken and grave, as she rages against the nuclear bomb, the displacement of the native tribes from the Narmada valley, and the consequences for the Third World of corporate globalisation.
But then you start to notice a few contradictions: that girlish clothes-peg clip in her hair, the eruptive wild giggle, the mild but recurrent swearing.
"Actually," she grins, "you can be completely political and have a high old time. You know, have fun and dress well and enjoy yourself and wear bangles and do what you like."
You can, it seems, if you are Arundhati Roy, mess around before a court case that could put you in prison for years, buying yourself a pair of joke plastic spectacles with a moustache, to point up the fact that the judge has asked you to be a "reasonable man". You can teach aerobics and hang out with weight lifters. All this and still fight for your political beliefs.
But then you start to notice a few contradictions: that girlish clothes-peg clip in her hair, the eruptive wild giggle, the mild but recurrent swearing.
"Actually," she grins, "you can be completely political and have a high old time. You know, have fun and dress well and enjoy yourself and wear bangles and do what you like."
You can, it seems, if you are Arundhati Roy, mess around before a court case that could put you in prison for years, buying yourself a pair of joke plastic spectacles with a moustache, to point up the fact that the judge has asked you to be a "reasonable man". You can teach aerobics and hang out with weight lifters. All this and still fight for your political beliefs.