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Quichotte by Salman Rushdie -- A review of a tale of journey, love and end

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‘Quichotte’ is a sprawling work consisting of two stories, that of an author and that of a character of his fabrication, which swirl and churn and tango around one another to the simultaneously sweet and cacophonous music of Rushdie’s prose, until they meet in a breathtaking climax which left me dazed for days after I finished the novel. In a backdrop coloured with drug abuse, strained family relationships, racism in America, a chronic addiction to television and impending apocalypse, Mr Ismail Smile’s (alias Quichotte) grand quest for love at such a late age strikes one as both completely lunatic and touchingly beautiful. Sancho, Quichotte’s son born from the heavens, appears initially to be a voice of reason compared to his father’s overly romantic worldview, but as the story descends slowly into chaos, so does Sancho’s reality and own love story, presenting to the reader the sombre possibility that love may not be the default purpose, the holy grail, of the journey of life. The defi...

What is Summer? (Debdale Park, Manchester; 25/07/2026)

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  © 2026 Rithvik Bala Praveen Shankar

Unreality (Thattekad, Kerala; 31/10/2024 - 01/11/2024)

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  Thattekad, where I was one with nature's perfection. © 2026 Rithvik Bala Praveen Shankar

Beauty

I To some she lives In a meadow, flooded with The gold of April sun; there she is, Within arm's reach, whichever Direction one turns in By dictation of fancy. II To some she lives On an island far away; severed clean From everyday places and people. To attain her is a struggle. Not heroic. The real, dirty kind. With tears, heartache, some more tears. In these characters' melodrama, she is Unbelievably far, yet not unattainable. And perhaps (and I can only guess) That attainment is the absolutest of victories If attained, that is. III To me, she lives In a palace of frosted glass. I see her move, a figure Animated, but without definition. And the glass is frosted like frost On the day after new year: no fun. No festive cheer. Just cold. And obstructive. And breaking it, I'm afraid, Is impossible. I have tried. Or maybe not, and maybe Breaking it would break one's heart Or breaking one's heart would break it. It must be either one. I wouldn't. Beauty is not worthy...

Serenity (Fletcher Moss Park and Gardens, 3/5/2026)

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  By Rithvik Dedicated to a friend who is impossible to hate.