Poshan
Home »  Blog »   »  In The South: Salman Rushdie

In The South: Salman Rushdie

In the New Yorker:

The day that Junior fell down began like any other day: the explosion of heat rippling the air, the trumpeting sunlight, the traffic’s tidal surges, the prayer chants in the distance, the cheap film music rising from the floor below, the loud pelvic thrusts of an “item number” dancing across a neighbor’s TV, a child’s cry, a mother’s rebuke, unexplained laughter, scarlet expectorations, bicycles, the newly plaited hair of schoolgirls, the smell of strong sweet coffee, a green wing flashing in a tree. Senior and Junior, two very old men, opened their eyes in their bedrooms on the fourth floor of a sea-green building on a leafy lane, just out of sight of Elliot’s Beach, where, that evening, the young would congregate, as they always did, to perform the rites of youth, not far from the village of the fisherfolk, who had no time for such frivolity. The poor were puritans by night and day. As for the old, they had rites of their own and did not need to wait for evening. With the sun stabbing at them through their window blinds, the two old men struggled to their feet and lurched out onto their adjacent verandas, emerging at almost the same moment, like characters in an ancient tale, trapped in fateful coincidences, unable to escape the consequences of chance....

Clearly, we need to thank Padma Laksmi for this one. But one minor quibble:

D’Mello had grown up in another city, Mumbai, the legendary bitch-city, urbs prima in Indis, and had to be spoken to in English. 

And I thought His Salmanness only referred to the city as Bombay and not as Mumbai...

In the New Yorker:

The day that Junior fell down began like any other day: the explosion of heat rippling the air, the trumpeting sunlight, the traffic’s tidal surges, the prayer chants in the distance, the cheap film music rising from the floor below, the loud pelvic thrusts of an “item number” dancing across a neighbor’s TV, a child’s cry, a mother’s rebuke, unexplained laughter, scarlet expectorations, bicycles, the newly plaited hair of schoolgirls, the smell of strong sweet coffee, a green wing flashing in a tree. Senior and Junior, two very old men, opened their eyes in their bedrooms on the fourth floor of a sea-green building on a leafy lane, just out of sight of Elliot’s Beach, where, that evening, the young would congregate, as they always did, to perform the rites of youth, not far from the village of the fisherfolk, who had no time for such frivolity. The poor were puritans by night and day. As for the old, they had rites of their own and did not need to wait for evening. With the sun stabbing at them through their window blinds, the two old men struggled to their feet and lurched out onto their adjacent verandas, emerging at almost the same moment, like characters in an ancient tale, trapped in fateful coincidences, unable to escape the consequences of chance....

Clearly, we need to thank Padma Laksmi for this one. But one minor quibble:

D’Mello had grown up in another city, Mumbai, the legendary bitch-city, urbs prima in Indis, and had to be spoken to in English. 

And I thought His Salmanness only referred to the city as Bombay and not as Mumbai...

Subscribe to Outlook’s Newsletter

Download the Outlook ​Magazines App. Six magazines, wherever you go! Play Store and App Store

THE LATEST ISSUE
CLICK IMAGE FOR CONTENTS


Online Casino Betway Banner
Advertisement