In many ways the book could be titled A Hundred Years of Indian Solitude. It is not just that it is a magical realist book, it is really strongly reminiscent of A Hundred Years of Solitude.
The book is good, but there is something frivolous about it. In a weird way it is precocious and there is a sense that Rushdie is not using his considerable talents to their fullest. I don't know that it has much of great interest to say about Indian politics and it does not delve deeply into the mystery of things. It seems a bit precocious and there is a sense that Rushdie feels that he knows everything about everything, so that he does not push himself. There is a look-at-me, look-at-me, aspect to the whole thing.
The writing is really very good and there are a lot of well realized scenes, but in the end it does not add up to as much as it might. I think it would be a better book if Rushdie, who is very clever, was not quite so smitten with his own cleverness.