Free The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie Page B

interrupted. ‘He doesn’t know what freaks you guys turn into. That Miss Singh, outrageous. I told her, the name’s Khalida, dearie, rhymes with Dalda, that’s a cooking medium. But she couldn’t say it. Her own name. Take me to your kerleader. You types got no culture. Just wogs now. Ain’t it the truth?’ she added, suddenly gay and round-eyed, afraid she’d gone too far. ‘Stop bullying him, Zeenat,’ Bhupen Gandhi said in his quiet voice. And George, awkwardly, mumbled: ‘No offence, man. Joke-shoke.’
    Chamcha decided to grin and then fight back. ‘Zeeny,’ he said, ‘the earth is full of Indians, you know that, we get everywhere, we become tinkers in Australia and our heads end up in Idi Amin’s fridge. Columbus was right, maybe; the world’s made up of Indies, East, West, North. Damn it, you should be proud of us,our enterprise, the way we push against frontiers. Only thing is, we’re not Indian like you. You better get used to us. What was the name of that book you wrote?’
    ‘Listen,’ Zeeny put her arm through his. ‘Listen to my Salad. Suddenly he wants to be Indian after spending his life trying to turn white. All is not lost, you see. Something in there still alive.’ And Chamcha felt himself flushing, felt the confusion mounting. India; it jumbled things up.
    ‘For Pete’s sake,’ she added, knifing him with a kiss.
‘Chamcha
. I mean, fuck it. You name yourself Mister Toady and you expect us not to laugh.’

     
    In Zeeny’s beaten-up Hindustan, a car built for a servant culture, the back seat better upholstered than the front, he felt the night closing in on him like a crowd. India, measuring him against her forgotten immensity, her sheer presence, the old despised disorder. An Amazonic hijra got up like an Indian Wonder Woman, complete with silver trident, held up the traffic with one imperious arm, sauntered in front of them. Chamcha stared into herhis glaring eyes. Gibreel Farishta, the movie star who had unaccountably vanished from view, rotted on the hoardings. Rubble, litter, noise. Cigarette advertisements smoking past: SCISSORS – FOR THE MAN OF ACTION, SATISFACTION . And, more improbably: PANAMA – PART OF THE GREAT INDIAN SCENE .
    ‘Where are we going?’ The night had acquired the quality of green neon strip-lighting. Zeeny parked the car. ‘You’re lost,’ she accused him. ‘What do you know about Bombay? Your own city, only it never was. To you, it’s a dream of childhood. Growing up on Scandal Point is like living on the moon. No bustees there, no sirree, only servants’ quarters. Did Shiv Sena elements come there to make communal trouble? Were your neighbours starving in the textile strike? Did Datta Samant stage a rally in front of your bungalows? How old were you when you met a trade unionist? How old the first time you got on a local train instead of a car withdriver? That wasn’t Bombay, darling, excuse me. That was Wonderland, Peristan, Never-Never, Oz.’
    ‘And you?’ Saladin reminded her. ‘Where were you back then?’
    ‘Same place,’ she said fiercely. ‘With all the other bloody Munchkins.’
    Back streets. A Jain temple was being re-painted and all the saints were in plastic bags to protect them from the drips. A pavement magazine vendor displayed newspapers full of horror: a railway disaster. Bhupen Gandhi began to speak in his mild whisper. After the accident, he said, the surviving passengers swam to the shore (the train had plunged off a bridge) and were met by local villagers, who pushed them under the water until they drowned and then looted their bodies.
    ‘Shut your face,’ Zeeny shouted at him. ‘Why are you telling him such things? Already he thinks we’re savages, a lower form.’
    A shop was selling sandalwood to burn in a nearby Krishna temple and sets of enamelled pink-and-white Krishna-eyes that saw everything. ‘Too damn much to see,’ Bhupen said. ‘That is fact of matter.’

     
    In a crowded dhaba that George had