Salman Rushdie's books are often like a big digestive system that swallows you whole so that you become part of it. This is no exception, you are swept up in it from page one. You live the twentieth century with Vina, Rai and Ormus and remember its excesses and heartbreaks as you do so, often with a wry humour that takes some beating. Sex, drugs and rock and roll, what more could you want?
But just let's suppose. What if the whole deal - orientation, knowing where you are, and so on - what if it's all a scam? What if all of it - home, kinship, the whole enchilada - is just the biggest, most truly global, and centuries-oldest piece of brainwashing? Suppose that it's only when you dare to let go that your real life begins?
