Book review: Shalimar The Clown

Salman Rushdie arouses a mixed bag of emotions in many people. They either like him or hate him; many approach him with caution and a few more - me among them - with a mixture of envious anticipation and the wild abandon that only an author, amused by his own authority in the creation of lushly described and deludingly real scenarios can evoke. Many have been drawn out of curiosity due to the controversy created by Satanic Verses to try him out; some have come away disappointed and uncomfortable with his extravagant language and circular and often anachronistic (im still not sure how to use this word right) plot-formation, a disappointing sign of our minimalist postmodern times, and others (well, I) have given him the title of magician extraordinaire.

Seriously! After reading Shalimar the Clown, which was published last year, I really really wish he had written our history books! What tomes of splendour they would have been then! How crumpled with use! How our minds would have been filled with grand imagery and remembering even the smallest details, our senses filled with the sights sounds and tastes of times long past!

His tale is the story of lineage, of 2 men at opposite ends of the world linked by a lover and a daughter. It is the story of legacy, of honour, of defence, of madness. It is a story of lust, of power, of wanting only that which you cannot have, of the cages we live in, of the cages we build, of the world we ignore. It is the story of that world tumbling around as as we risk the crash and burn of our own lives with every chance we take. It is a story of murder, but it is also the story of our own demons. It is a story of Hindus, Muslims, Christians and Jews, of freedom and responsibility, of communalism and communitarianism. It is a story of family, of separation, of terror, of fate, of magic.

It is a story vast in its scope, spanning almost the entire past century. It is a story of Kashmir and its culture, its "Kashmiriyat", its food, its people, it natural wonders, retold in inspired detail. It is a story of Europe's high culture and its destruction during World War II, of adorable ancient classy people. It is a story of the grime of LA, of the seediness of Delhi, of the Indian army and the Pakistani and kashmiri terrorists, of real people transformed into automatons. It is a story of transformation, period. Of men, of women, of ghosts, of prophecies, of fanaticism, of kindness, of rebellion, of malice, of peace. Of the children and cultures trapped in between. Of death. Of myths. Of the coming true of deaths and myths.

The broken bodies and spirit of the people tell the tale of their places of origin. The imposition of the new upon the old is writ in the tale that is woven such that you know not whence came your joy and when it turned into sorrow. It contains his signature elements of magical realism, prolific prose with a new word per page, and his complacent yet active intellect. I think my nightmare from last night was based on the book that has been playing in my mind.

It took me a couple of weeks of reading for a couple of hours a day to read it, because i didnt have more time than that. Ive definitely stayed up later than I normally do trying to get as much at one time as I can, and was definitely extremely irritable when disturbed. Do read. Just superb.