This is a book that requires first and foremost a love of and prior knowledge of world history, and particularly of Indian history. If you don't have this prior knowledge (which all truly cultured people should), its likely that you just won't get it. An understanding of history however is not enough, and its not enough to understand the principles of mysticism, this book requires the reader to have already had actual mystical experiences, and to have wrestled with their meaning or lack thereof. Rushdie writes in the clear tradition of Hesse. This book is about the adoration, nay, the deification, of women who aren't central characters. Its the logical continuation of Demian and Narcissus and Goldman. Some have called the climax unsatisfying. The anti- climax is the entire point. The joy of this book is in the reading of it, the thoughts and the laughter it provokes. This book is beyond reproach.