I tried to keep a strict “no spoiler” attitude about my movie reviews, but seeings how the books I’ll be reading are at least 25-30 years old, and many much older, I guess I can not worry too much about that. Also, sometimes (like right now) I may be moved to break up my synopses in parts, especially when the book has clear, delineated parts. Sometimes it will feel like a book report, sometimes just my thoughts.
My foray into reading some of the great classics starts with Midnight’s Children, published in 1981 by Salman Rushdie. It (so far) tells the story of the birth of India as an independent nation, through the eyes of fictional biographer Saleem Sinai. Book 1 is the intro leading up to his birth at the exact stroke of midnight when India becomes a country. Saleem is the storyteller, with interjections from his impatient girlfriend (and audience) Padma. Padma provides the glue that tries to keep Saleem on target when his story starts to stray, but for the reader, she is the one that keeps us intrigued and excited for the story, as she herself is.
Saleem starts with his grandfather Aadam Aziz (the similarity between Aadam and Biblical Adam is not lost), a doctor trained in Germany and returned to his homeland. Much is made of Kashmir where he was born, and his bulbous nose, a feature that he will pass on to his family down the line. He falls in love with (or more, falls in love with the idea of) a local wealthy man’s daughter, Naseem. Of course they discover later it isn’t true love, but by then they have 3 daughters and a life together.
Throughout the first course of the novel, Padma interrupts Saleem’s tale, asking things like, “Which daughter is to be your mother?” or whenever a new male enters, “Is that to be your father?” As I said, these keep Saleem on target when his prose starts to go off on a tanget, but it also keeps the reader wanting more. What’s more, Saleem will often end a thought with a snippet glance into the future, some word or sentence that in context doesn’t give the reader any dawning information, but which does keep you wanting to know the whole as-yet-unrealized future.
The 3 daughters take their lives in different ways, with Saleem’s mother (and father) finally introduced in an astounding way. As excitement builds in India towards their coming independence (and among the backdrop of rising tension between the Muslim and Hindu population), Saleem’s birth finally comes. Of course even this comes with a big surprise, so here is where I must say a huge SPOILER ALERT and drop a literary bombshell :
And now we come to it: the noise brought everyone running; my father and his injury grabbed a brief moment of limelight from the two aching mothers, the two, synchronous midnight births – because Vanita had finally been delivered of a baby of remarkable size: “You wouldn’t have believed it,” Dr. Bose said, “It just kept on coming, more and more of the boy forcing its way out, it’s a real ten-chip whopper all right!” And Narlikar, washing himself: “Mine, too.” But that was a little later – just now Narlikar and Bose were tending to Ahmed Sinai’s toe; midwives had been instructed to wash and swaddle the new-born pair; and now Miss Mary Pereira made her contribution.
“Go, go,” she said to poor Flory, “see if you can help. I can do all right here.”
And when she was alone – two babies in her hands – two lives in her power – she did it for Joseph, her own private revolutionary act, thinking He will certainly love me for this, as she changed name-tags on the two huge infants, giving the poor baby a life of privilege and condemning the rich-born child to accordions and poverty… “Love me, Joseph!” was in Mary Pereria’s mind, and then it was done. On the ankle of a ten-chip whopper with eyes as blue as Kashmiri sky – which were also eyes as blue as Methwold’s – and a nose as dramatic as a Kashmiri grandfather’s – which was also the nose of grandmother from France – she placed this name: Sinai.
That is about where the first book of this 3 parter ends. Saleem comes into this world as a person he shouldn’t be to parents he doesn’t belong.
I can’t say enough for Rushdie’s style in this novel. He is extremely descriptive, and wandering in a way that a storyteller would be, and through his meandering keeps the reader riveted. I can’t wait to see how Saleem’s life unfolds.
Jons Movie Takes 