If the way reality tilts in The Satanic Verses hooked you—the angelic visitations that shadow Gibreel Farishta, Saladin Chamcha waking to horns and hooves, Ayesha leading villagers to walk across the sea—then you’ll love how Macondo accepts wonders with a straight face. Flying carpets feel as ordinary as a family meal; a plague of insomnia steals names from memory; Remedios the Beauty simply floats skyward with the laundry. That same effortless, dreamlike seep of the miraculous into the mundane makes every page feel like the world could crack open at any moment.

Drawn to the incendiary theological play in The Satanic Verses—Gibreel as a doubtful angel, the scandal-sparking Mahound visions, prophecy and blasphemy wrestling in the dark? Bulgakov’s devil, Woland, drops into Moscow with a retinue of mischief-makers, staging black-magic shows that unmask hypocrisy, while parallel chapters revisit Pontius Pilate’s fateful choices. Like Ayesha’s sea-crossing and Gibreel’s tormented revelations, questions of belief, doubt, and the cost of the sacred are put on trial—only here with a wry grin, a flying witch, and a midnight ball hosted by the Devil himself.

If you relished how The Satanic Verses braids timelines and embedded tales—the explosive fall from the hijacked jet, Gibreel’s and Saladin’s diverging fates, the dream-visions of Mahound and Ayesha—Mitchell’s nested sextet will scratch the same itch. Stories leap from a 19th‑century voyage to a post-collapse future, each voice reshaping the last. Echoes ripple like the refrains that haunt Gibreel’s mind: a comet-shaped birthmark here, a repeated phrase there. The pleasure is in assembling the mosaic, the way you pieced together Rushdie’s shifting realities.

If the mordant comedy in The Satanic Verses made you grin—Saladin’s devilish makeover colliding with London tabloids, Gibreel’s celebrity unraveling in public, the chaotic clashes of diaspora neighborhoods—you’ll savor the farce and tenderness of Archie and Samad’s families. Millat veers toward a swaggering fundamentalist crew (KEVIN), Irie searches for herself, and the city’s many faiths and furies converge in the gloriously unhinged FutureMouse spectacle. It’s that same sharp, compassionate laughter at how migration, myth, and media tangle people’s lives.

If you were drawn to the dense weave of The Satanic Verses—the hijacking’s aftermath, Bollywood stardom’s fever-dream, and the prophetic sequences colliding into one mythic tapestry—Oskar Matzerath’s tale will feel thrillingly familiar. He refuses to grow at three, wields a glass‑shattering scream, and drums through Danzig’s convulsions, telling a story that’s part confession, part myth, part unreliable performance. Like Rushdie’s Saladin and Gibreel, Oskar’s self-invention sits at the fault line where private delirium meets public history.