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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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visited him, her shade, and then after a time there was nobody at all. Gibreel’s passion began to drive Chamcha wild with anger and frustration, but Farishta didn’t notice it, slapped him on the back, cheer up, Spoono, won’t be long now .
On the hundred and tenth day Tavleen walked up to the little goateed hostage, Jalandri, and motioned with her finger. Our patience has been exhausted, she announced, we have sent repeated ultimatums with no response, it is time for the first sacrifice. She used that word: sacrifice. She looked straight into Jalandri’s eyes and pronounced his death sentence. “You first. Apostate traitor bastard.” She ordered the crew to prepare for take-off, she wasn’t going to risk a storming of the plane after the execution, and with the point of her gun she pushed Jalandri towards the open door at the front, while he screamed and begged for mercy. “She’s got sharp eyes,” Gibreel said to Chamcha. “He’s a cut-sird.” Jalandri had become the first target because of his decision to give up the turban and cut his hair, which made him a traitor to his faith, a shorn Sirdarji. Cut-Sird . A seven—letter condemnation; no appeal.
Jalandri had fallen to his knees, stains were spreading on the seat of his trousers, she was dragging him to the door by his hair. Nobody moved. Dara Buta Man Singh turned away from the tableau. He was kneeling with his back to the open door; she made him turn round, shot him in the back of the head, and he toppled out on to the tarmac. Tavleen shut the door.
Man Singh, youngest and jumpiest of the quartet, screamed at her: “Now where do we go? In any damn place they’ll send the commandos in for sure. We’re gone geese now.”
“Martyrdom is a privilege,” she said softly. “We shall be like stars; like the sun.”
Sand gave way to snow. Europe in winter, beneath its white, transforming carpet, its ghost-white shining up through the night. The Alps, France, the coastline of England, white cliffs rising to whitened meadowlands. Mr. Saladin Chamcha jammed on an anticipatory bowler hat. The world had rediscovered Flight A 1-420, the Boeing 747 Bostan . Radar tracked it; radio messages crackled. Do you want permission to land? But no permission was requested. Bostan circled over England’s shore like a gigantic sea-bird. Gull. Albatross. Fuel indicators dipped: towards zero.