Midnight's children - A review

A controversial author of his time, well known for shaking sections of the Muslim population to their deeply embedded religious roots with The Satanic Verses, Salman Rushdie also penned Midnight’s Children, a tale so intricately woven that not a single stitch feels misplaced in the fabric of its narrative. One can disagree with a person’s ideology and opinions without losing respect for their craft. It was this very thought that prompted me to read Midnight’s Children.

It is an epic tale that encapsulates the events before and after the Partition of the Indian subcontinent into Pakistan and India, a division that sliced the land along ideological and religious lines. The protagonist, Saleem Sinai, is born at midnight on August 15, 1947, at the exact moment of his nation’s birth. Saleem believes that his fate, along with that of the other children born in that midnight hour, is inseparably tied to the destiny of the nation; they are destined for greatness. It is a story of how Saleem and Mother India grow together, how their lives progress despite being repeatedly shaken, and how they struggle against what appears to be a predetermined fate.

Rushdie paints an emotionally and thematically vivid picture, showcasing his command over all five senses, expertly woven into the prose. The flying spittle juice, the humming of Mian Abdullah, the leitmotif “whatsitsname” of Reverend Mother, the stains of blood and mercurochrome — all drop the reader directly into the setting and immediately familiarise them with the characters. When we read of crawling mountains, blue skies, and frozen lakes, we know we are in Kashmir. Rushdie proves himself adept at assigning distinct physical attributes to nearly every character. These peculiar traits not only cement the characters in the reader’s mind but also sketch their personalities. The mere mention of a “centre parting of hair” signals Methwold; “powerful knees” invariably refer to Shiva; the “rhymeless and wordless poet” is Nadir, the impotent lover. There seem to be as many characters as pages, yet the consistent references to physical characteristics keep the narrative cohesive, sparing the reader from flipping back and forth. The imagery is so sharply etched that one keeps pace without confusion.

This book is a fine example of magical realism. The tone is established early on — the ancient boatman Tai, said to be hundreds of years old; the blind man who is an avid admirer of art. These implausibilities are introduced so naturally that we never question Saleem’s telepathic link with the other midnight’s children, his extraordinary nose that can detect not only smells but fears and emotions, or even the detail that, as a baby, he never blinks.

This novel stands as a reminder that we do not read merely to follow a story. We read for the passion of language, for expression, for the privilege of witnessing an author’s creative liberty. It is an art to take familiar words and arrange them in such a fresh order that they continue to sing long after the final page is turned.