Salman Rushdie

This novel has twice been voted the Booker of Bookers, both on the 25^th and 40^th anniversaries of the prize. Despite that, there are many readers that do not make it through what has sometimes been described as dense and impenetrable prose. It may be the case that some readers find it as hard to navigate as the jungle of the Sundarbans, the setting of one of the later chapters, and likely not often explored by many of DNFs.

“Things –even people- have a way of leaking into each other, like flavours when you cook”.

Given its size and reputation, perhaps the best way to approach the book would be to prepare for it as you would an expedition, that is, to prepare for all weathers, to bring supplies and, once you begin, to soak up the experience. This was my second trek through this novel and I can attest that those who make it through will be rewarded with a masterclass of storytelling and imagery that will remain in your mind for many years; having never forgotten my first visit, I was yearned to return and refresh my memory and find new experiences over two decades later.

The protagonist, Saleem, frames the novel from his writing desk, as an old man and omniscient guide. His family history begins with Saleem’s grandfather as the clock counts down from the beginning of the twentieth century towards Saleem’s birth in 1947, the exact day in fact, of India’s partition. Entwining Saleem with history. Mountbatten’s countdown to independence is used to build tension, and the pre and post measurement of time from partition also provides the central structure that underpins the novel and dictates the pace.

There is no doubt then that this is a journey through time and space, through a life and geographically through the post-partition states during which many subjects are discussed including colonialism and class. The rich language of the novel, which Rushdie describes as an Indian-English not owned by the English, is interspersed with colloquial vernacular such as the Bambaiyyan “rutty-putty” motor car.

The journey continues on trains and bicycles from rural Cashmere to the wealthy suburbs and impoverished alleys of Bombay/Mumbai, and the sensory writing brings all of this vividly from the page. Rushdie uses digression to hold back the birth of Saleem (and the post-partition states), purposefully frustrating the reader (at this point, many who DNF may side with those that have attempted to assassinate the author), but be assured: every side story, every description of place and character, every metaphor, repetition, symbol and piece of wordplay all tie back into this exquisitely crafted story.

The anniversary edition of this novel provides an introduction by the author, in which he describes the density of the prose as a deliberate device which forces Saleem’s voice to be heard from within a crowd of voices in a teeming Indian street. He also tells us of the Dickensian influence as his Mumbai echoes the streets of Victorian London but also draws on the duality and historical narrative of ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ and Dickens love of the ghost story, which melds into magic realism as the ghosts walk through the houses and dreams of Saleem’s family. The magic realism is at its height when Saleem telepathically hosts conferences of the midnight’s children, all of whom possess a superpower of some type.

One such victim of ghosts from the past is Saleem’s Ayah, Mary, and magic realism manifests the guilt which becomes the bitterness that she stirs into her chutney – the taste of which fills Saleem with so much nostalgia that he establishes a pickle factory in later life, and in the offices above which he will write his memoir. This idea of tainting a food with an emotion is further explored by Rushdie: “Things –even people- have a way of leaking into each other, like flavours when you cook”. He uses this metaphor to describe how the past affects us and in his introduction he writes: “History is not written in stone, [it is] the consequence of our choices”.

He means, of course, that we should learn from our mistakes.

That’s fair advice on a personal level, and for anything greater, reading fiction is certainly one of the greatest ways to develop our empathy and raise our awareness.

The secrets of this novel are gradually revealed in a sublimely spiced chutney of storytelling, making this a modern masterpiece more than deserving of its awards and a treasure for those that overcome their initial trepidation and complete the journey through the book.

For further reading I would recommend ‘A Fine Balance’ by Rohinton Mistry, also dealing with post-partition Indian, but focusing on the horrors of Indira Ghandi’s emergency state. But be warned . . . there is no magic realism from Mistry – only brutal realism.