
Mehreen Arshi is a Pakistani-born, Australia-raised writer, researcher, and reader based in Canberra. After fifteen years in scientific research and writing, she turned to fiction to explore family, identity, belonging, cultural expectation, and the private desires that shape a life.

She is the author of *I carry your heart*, a family romance set between Pakistan, Australia, and London. Her second novel, currently in progress, follows the long shadow of the 1947 Partition of India and Pakistan.


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Pakistani-born, Australia-raised writer based in Canberra.

Mehreen Arshi


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.


Midnight's Children

An intricately woven tale of India's partition, rich in magical realism and metaphors, that examines historical events through the life of its protagonist, Saleem Sinai, while also reflecting the author's evident biases.

Midnight's children - A review


What if you were unhappy with your life and were given a second chance? Or a third? And another after that? What if you had the opportunity to undo all of your life’s regrets, big and small? Where does one finally draw the line and say, “Yes, I am content”?

What does it take to live a happy life? For some, it is fame; for others, health, wealth, knowledge, children, or adventure. None of these aspirations come into play without perspective, “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” In a nutshell, this is the message conveyed in The Midnight Library by English author Matt Haig.

The protagonist, Nora Seed, has seemingly grown up in the shadow of her brother, striving and failing to live up to her father’s expectations. She is hopeless in love and directionless in her career, despite once aspiring to be a musician, a glaciologist, a swimming champion, or a professor. Drowning in despair, she overdoses in an attempt to end what feels like an unbearable existence and instead finds herself in limbo; the Midnight Library. Guided by her old school librarian, she navigates the alternate paths her life could have taken, undoing regrets one by one.

This is a simple read, as is its message, though simplicity does not lessen its impact. The book compels us to re-evaluate what truly matters. We are so consumed with achieving greatness, with being the best, that we often overlook what is already in front of us, the small, quiet details that bring meaning to our lives. We forget to live.

Often, we only recognise the value of simple things when they are on the verge of being taken away, or when mortality stares us in the face. When the end feels near, it becomes painfully clear that happiness lies not in chasing what we lack, but in shaping and appreciating what we already have. Nora’s journeys reveal that every choice creates a chain reaction of endless possibilities, yet there is no such thing as a perfect life. In her persistent search for validation and love, she repeatedly learns that hope and love are life’s true driving forces. But love does not necessarily begin with companionship; it begins within. If you cannot value yourself, you cannot expect others to see worth in you that you refuse to acknowledge.

The novel is written in an uncomplicated, accessible style. There are no dense metaphors or elaborate literary devices to elevate the prose. Just as the author advocates for the simple things in life, he conveys his message in straightforward language. It is quietly thought-provoking. As the book suggests, “You do not have to understand life; you just have to live it.”


The Midnight Library

A reflective journey of a woman exploring alternate lives, emphasising self-love, appreciation of simple joys, and understanding that perfection is a myth.

The Midnight Library - A review


#### Cease, cows, life is short.

This book had been on my list for the last two years, sitting patiently on my TBR pile. Somehow, it always found its way to the bottom, bearing the weight of other books that continually climbed higher in my reading priorities. Perhaps it was because of the general consensus that it is a complex read.

It is.

Now that that is out of the way, we can speak about a novel that is nothing short of a masterpiece. Written by Colombian author Gabriel García Márquez in 1967, One Hundred Years of Solitude spans multiple generations. It is set in the town of Macondo, a fictional place so removed from ordinary reality that people believe in flying carpets, marvel at the magic of magnets, and consider ice a wonder.

Why is this book a masterpiece? Márquez breathes life into magical realism, stretching the boundaries of imagination and language. He constructs a world in which extraordinary events unfold naturally, allowing him to explore the intricacies and contradictions of human nature in bold, inventive ways.

The beauty of this novel lies in its reliance on rich descriptive prose rather than dialogue. Conversation is sparse; atmosphere does the heavy lifting. If you are looking for a straightforward plot-driven story, I would suggest setting this book aside. But if you long to lose yourself in the enchantment of language, then immerse yourself in phrases such as “tying a colourful string of chatter together,” the “rumble of the termites as they carved the wood,” or “the snipping of the moths in the clothes closets.” The imagery is so vivid you can almost hear the quiet destruction unfolding. One of my favourite lines reads, “The world must be all fucked up, when men travel first class and literature goes as freight.” Márquez’s ability to animate the inanimate is perhaps his most powerful tool in making Macondo feel alive.

There are as many stories running through this novel as there are silences between them. At its core, it chronicles the journeys of multiple generations of a single family who coexist in profound solitude. Each carries the burden of life according to their own internal code, yet none remain untouched by the decisions of others. Their actions ripple forward, shaping and reshaping the destiny of future generations. This is captured in Márquez’s powerful metaphor of time as a circle. The family’s defining traits are unconsciously inherited, transcribed across generations, making it nearly impossible to break the cycle. History repeats itself with quiet inevitability.

There are too many characters to do justice to them all, but a few demand mention.

José Arcadio Buendía, with his unquenchable thirst for innovation, is gradually driven into madness, yet he is the visionary who sets Macondo into motion. His wife, Úrsula, possesses an unwavering need to hold her family together, even in the face of relentless calamity. Through Úrsula, Márquez makes a subtle yet powerful observation: understanding others does not come merely from seeing them. It arises from careful observation, from attentiveness, from the silent act of truly watching.

Amaranta is a formidable presence, nurturing hatred alongside the tender love she once felt as a young girl. She dedicates herself to resentment, tending to it as one might tend a fragile plant, only to extinguish her own chances at happiness when they threaten to bloom. Her rival, Rebeca, seems to cling to life for decades in defiance, as though sustained by stubbornness alone. Then there is Fernanda, whose misery has become so deeply ingrained that it no longer registers as suffering. “Rain didn’t bother her; it had been raining all her life.” She moves through life performing her duties meticulously, avoiding the confrontation of her own despair, refusing to drown in it by pretending it does not exist.

The array of complex characters makes it nearly impossible to capture them all within a brief reflection. Yet what remains most striking is the execution of the novel’s conclusion. It powerfully reinforces the cyclical nature of time, the sense that history moves in circles unless, as Márquez suggests, “it stumbles and has an accident, in which case it can splinter and leave an eternalized fragment in a room.”


One Hundred Years of Solitude

A vivid, dialogue-scarce narrative, illustrating the cyclical nature of time and generational impacts within a family, brought to life through rich descriptions and complex characters.