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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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Mahound’s eyes open wide, he’s seeing some kind of vision, staring at it, oh, that’s right, Gibreel remembers, me. He’s seeing me. My lips moving, being moved by. What, whom? Don’t know, can’t say. Nevertheless, here they are, coming out of my mouth, up my throat, past my teeth: the Words.
Being God’s postman is no fun, yaar.
Butbutbut: God isn’t in this picture.
God knows whose postman I’ve been.
In Jahilia they are waiting for Mahound by the well. Khalid the water—carrier, as ever the most impatient, runs off to the city gate to keep a look—out. Hamza, like all old soldiers accustomed to keeping his own company, squats down in the dust and plays a game with pebbles. There is no sense of urgency; sometimes he is away for days, even weeks. And today the city is all but deserted; everybody has gone to the great tents at the fairground to hear the poets compete. In the silence, there is only the noise of Hamza’s pebbles, and the gurgles of a pair of rock-doves, visitors from Mount Cone. Then they hear the running feet.
Khalid arrives, out of breath, looking unhappy. The Messenger has returned, but he isn’t coming to Zamzam. Now they are all on their feet, perplexed by this departure from established practice. Those who have been waiting with palm-fronds and steles ask Hamza: Then there will be no Message? But Khalid, still catching his breath, shakes his head. “I think there will be. He looks the way he does when the Word has been given. But he didn’t speak to me and walked towards the fairground instead.”
Hamza takes command, forestalling discussion, and leads the way. The disciples—about twenty have gathered—follow him to the fleshpots of the city, wearing expressions of pious disgust. Hamza alone seems to be looking forward to the fair.
Outside the tents of the Owners of the Dappled Camels they find Mahound, standing with his eyes closed, steeling himself to the task. They ask anxious questions; he doesn’t answer. After a few moments, he enters the poetry tent.
Inside the tent, the audience reacts to the arrival of the unpopular Prophet and his wretched followers with derision. But as Mahound walks forward, his eyes firmly closed, the boos and catcalls die away and a silence