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 “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 with driver? That wasn’t Bombay, darling, excuse me. That was Wonderland, Peristan, NeverNever, 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. Bhupcn 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

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