The first and last book I ever had read by Salman Rushdie was his Satanic Verses. I liked it, in spite of a tendency to unevenness that left me a bit unsatisfied. Yet, I remember placing it on the shelf with such masters as Amado, Allende, Garcia Marquez... My only contact with Rushdie, ever since, had been the occasional op-eds or comments I came across here and there, some of them intelligent considerations on events of our times, others sheer nonsense.

Well, with all the respect due to someone whose output not doubt has been affected by the hardships of a quite peculiar fate, unevenness seem like the only mastery Rushdie has perfected with this last novel, to the detriment of any other stylistic and literary achievement. Magical realism, when it makes its timid appearance, seems counterfeit and not at all integrated with the rest of the plot.

The two first parts, India and Boonyi, were boding well, though. I recognized the imagination served by the flowery style that had pleased me in the Verses, and to that point I didn't mind the characteristic excesses of verbosity which more often than not lead Rushdie to say in ten sentences what others might have expressed in two. Then, brutally and mercilessly, in the next part, called Max, Rushdie plunges us in a parody of Dan Brown that in terms of nonsensicality, poor research and stylistic sloppiness barely leaves anything to desire to the biggest best-selling writer of our times (which says not so little about the latter). Whether the pastiche is intentional or Rushdie unwillingly makes a concession to the spirit, or lack of such, of our era, I am unable to tell. But somehow, it's the latter I'm inclined to believe to be the case, after finding no proper reason to indulge into this from the book's perspective.

Thankfully, Rushdie brings us back for a while to a more tangible world, with a description of the last decades' developments in Cashmere which I would like to think of as accurate. While I feel myself rather well informed as to the general outline of contemporary history in that region, Kashmir hasn't been on the top of my list when it comes to details. Yet, after Max and the literary and historical massacre committed on France during World War 2, I can't help but remaining with the nagging feeling that the same sloppiness might also be pervading what I am reading in the part of the book named Shalimar the Clown, which covers a subject I'm not familiar enough with. At any rate, what we get from Rushdie's pen in this part is what we would expect from a survey of the region by Robert Fisk - praiseworthy, without a word of argument, but a far cry from our expectations if a good novel is what we're looking for.

Finally, Kashmira, the last part of the book, brings us back home to the superficiality of contemporary America. I will grant Rushdie that he manages to convey some the superficiality very well, especially when describing the US media and judicial system's black-or-white appraisals of the very complex issues developed in the previous chapters. But I have once again to wonder whether this was fully intentional.

For again, we have landed in a segment of the book which reads as if it was written by an altogether different author, who has made his the superficiality of the authors of galloping action novels favoured by today's readership in most parts of the world. Chases, thrills, court actions, the whole bit is there, as well as a finale of superficial profundities that sounds like the author really got tired of his novel and had to get done with it quick. Are we reading a pastiche too, in this case a pastiche of a whole society? The rather shallow picture of the rather shallow personality of India/Kashmira (as opposed to those of the other characters, which are much more "real"), could lead us to believe so. There is preciously little, unfortunately, to rescue a poorly designed plot, not even the few bits of magical realism, which I otherwise am a great fan of, and not even the barely veiled satirical disgust at what goes for social interractions in that part of the world. A redeeming feature in this last part, however, is the description of the appalling conditions in the USA's prison system. But here too, I have to wonder: how much of it is accurate, and how much of it is the product of Rushdie's fancy of the moment?

At times I seem to perceive that throughout the book, Rushdie has attempted to convey a symbolic meaning. Or a series of overlapping symbolic meanings. Either he manages, most of the time, to keep this well hidden from view, or I am just not able to see through the unevenness.

Excellent book! Terrible narration by Mandvi. I cannot understand why he did not learn to pronounce the common Indian names in the book,... wasn't that the point of using an South Asian narrator?

I'm gonna quote a paragraph from the book, please note - in no way can this paragraph tell you anything about the book or spoil it for those who havent read it.

" A woman left at home would close her eyes and the power of her need would enable her to see her man on his ocean ship battling pirates with pistol, her man in the battle's fray with his sword and shield, standing victorious among corpses, her man in a desert whose sands were on fire, amid mountain peaks, drinking the driven snow. So long as he lived she would follow his journey, would feel his elation and his grief, and if he died a spear of love would fly back across the world to pierce her waiting omniscient heart. It would be the same for him. IN the midst of desert's fire he would feel her cool hand on his cheek and in the heat of battle she would murmur the words of love into his ear : live, live. That was what the stories said about love. That was what human beings knew love to be."

Shalimar the Clown was about as good as I thought it would be. It definitely isn't the best book I've read this year but I must say Salman Rushdie's writing style captivates me nonetheless. In between the most relevant paragraphs, he says things that are unique and have a true stronghold on the reader's mindset. In this book, he mentions a quote, twice, which really caught my eye. "One doesn't know the questions of life until one is asked"

Another thing I noticed about the book is that the central character, Shalimar, is seldom mentioned. The book seems to hover around other dozen characters. Only in prison and in that one letter sent back to Kashmira does Shalimar's true character really come out. The second quarter of the book got immensely boring and I really despise how Max's character was written about. It was annoying, difficult to read, over-detailed and excruciating to read.

Boonyi was an outstanding character. So was the old witch and Boonyi's father. When Colonel Tortoise was mentioned in the book, I thought his character would prove of some consequence but nothing about yielded anything. One couldn't help but dislike Max's lack of integrity. Mythology is rather well written about in this book. Every 50 pages, a one page something would be mentioned including just the right amount of detail and words.

Conclusion -

While reading,time and again I would rage on to my friend about how superb the writer's grasp on the reader is. The writer knows his words,where to use them, he knows that he has a prodigious way of writing and he employed them better than ever. Maybe this book disappointed his core fans. Maybe it LACKED A SPARK enough to obilerate doubt.

All in all, I can say that Salman Rushdie has a wierd way of his own. His vocabulary is truly astounding. Maybe he is the most "learned" writer I've ever read, if not the best. Respect.


H.S Anand
-17th October'06 12.13PM

One has to admire the research that Mr. Rushdie does to write his novels. It is sometimes easy to forget that you are reading fiction in the face of his ability to place the reader into a time period evoking memories which almost seem lived through. His love of language is a given, making the reader love the language he uses.
I found this book to be devastating. It is a true reflection on our times.
The courage of authors who write about topics that have the potential to make a reader uncomfortable, as well as Mr. Rushdie's penchant for stirring the pot has to be admired. Certainly his uncovering of facts that perhaps only the most well read news addict may know, and how he makes connections to historic events has always been one of the things I most appreciate about his writing. Shalimar the Clown is deep, sad, funny, and absorbing.