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Salman Rushdi's Satanic Verses At aboutislam.netfirms.comWe did not post the book in one part so that you don't download it since if you like what you are reading we think you should support the author of this book by buying it, it is a great book that took years to write, the author deserves the money |
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“And you,” Changez Chamchawala spoke as softly as his servant, “you come here to this temple. With your unbelief. Mister, you’ve got a nerve.”
And finally, the treason of Zeenat Vakil. “Come off it, Salad,” she said, moving to sit on the arm of the Chesterfield next to the old man. “Why be such a sourpuss? You’re no angel, baby, and these people seem to have worked things out okay.”
Saladin’s mouth opened and shut. Changez patted Zeeny on the knee. “He came to accuse, dear. He came to avenge his youth, but we have turned the tables and he is confused. Now we must let him have his chance, and you must referee. I will not be sentenced by him, but I will accept the worst from you.”
The bastard. Old bastard. He wanted me off-balance, and here l am, knocked sideways. I won’t speak, why should I, not like this, the humiliation . “There was,” said Saladin Chamcha, “a wallet of pounds, and there was a roasted chicken.”
Of what did the son accuse the father? Of everything: espionage on child-self, rainbow-pot-stealing, exile. Of turning him into what he might not have become. Of making-a-man of. Of whatwill-I-tell-my-friends. Of irreparable sunderings and offensive forgiveness. Of succumbing to Allah-worship with new wife and also to blasphemous worship of late spouse. Above all, of magic-lampism, of being an open-sesamist. Everything had come easily to him, charm, women, wealth, power, position. Rub, poof, genie, wish, at once master, hey presto. He was a father who had promised, and then withheld, a magic lamp.
Changez, Zeeny, Vallabh, Kasturba remained motionless and silent until Saladin Chamcha came to a flushed, embarrassed halt. “Such violence of the spirit after so long,” Changez said after a silence. “So sad. A quarter of a century and still the son begrudges the peccadilloes of the past. O my son. You must stop carrying me around like a parrot on your shoulder. What am I? Finished. I’m not your Old Man of the Sea. Face it, mister: I don’t explain you any more.”
Through a window Saladin Chamcha caught sight of a fortyyear-old walnut-tree. “Cut it down,” he said to his father. “Cut it, sell it, send me the cash.”