The Satanic Verses

by Salman Rushdie

  ‘Saeed, son, do you hate me completely?’ she wheedled, her plump features arranging themselves in a parody of coquettishness.

  Saeed was appalled by her grimace. ‘Of course not,’ he managed to say.

  ‘But you do, you loathe me, and my cause is hopeless,’ she flirted.

  ‘Ammaji,’ Saeed gulped, ‘what are you saying?’

  ‘Because I have from time to time spoken roughly to you.’

  ‘Please forget it,’ Saeed said, bemused by her performance, but she would not. ‘You must know it was all for love, isn’t it? Love,’ said Mrs. Qureishi, ‘it is a many-splendoured thing.’

  ‘Makes the world go round,’ Mirza Saeed agreed, trying to enter into the spirit of the conversation.

  ‘Love conquers all,’ Mrs Qureishi confirmed. ‘It has conquered my anger. This I must demonstrate to you by riding with you in your motor.’

  Mirza Saeed bowed. ‘It is yours, Ammaji.’

  ‘Then you will ask those two village men to sit in front with you. Ladies must be protected, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ he replied.

  The story of the village that was walking to the sea had spread all over the country, and in the ninth week the pilgrims were being pestered by journalists, local politicos in search of votes, businessmen who offered to sponsor the march if the yatris would only consent to wear sandwich boards advertising various goods and services, foreign tourists looking for the mysteries of the East, nostalgic Gandhians, and the kind of human vultures who go to motor-car races to watch the crashes. When they saw the host of chameleon butterflies and the way they both clothed the girl Ayesha and provided her with her only solid food, these visitors were amazed, and retreated with confounded expectations, that is to say with a hole in their pictures of the world that they could not paper over. Photographs of Ayesha were appearing in all the papers, and the pilgrims even passed advertising hoardings on which the lepidopteral beauty had been painted three times as large as life, beside slogans reading Our cloths also are as delicate as a butterfly’s wing, or suchlike. Then more alarming news reached them. Certain religious extremist groupings had issued statements denouncing the ‘Ayesha Haj’ as an attempt to ‘hijack’ public attention and to ‘incite communal sentiment’. Leaflets were being distributed – Mishal picked them up off the road – in which it was claimed that ‘Padyatra, or foot-pilgrimage, is an ancient, pre-Islamic tradition of national culture, not imported property of Mughal immigrants.’ Also: ‘Purloining of this tradition by so-called Ayesha Bibiji is flagrant and deliberate inflammation of already sensitive situation.’

  ‘There will be no trouble,’ the kahin broke her silence to announce.

  Gibreel dreamed a suburb:

  As the Ayesha Haj neared Sarang, the outermost suburb of the great metropolis on the Arabian Sea towards which the visionary girl was leading them, journalists, politicos and police officers redoubled their visits. At first the policemen threatened to disband the march forcibly; the politicians, however, advised that this would look very like a sectarian act and could lead to outbreaks of communal violence from top to bottom of the country. Eventually the police chiefs agreed to permit the march, but groused menacingly about being ‘unable to guarantee safe passages’ for the pilgrims. Mishal Akhtar said: ‘We are going on.’

  The suburb of Sarang owed its relative affluence to the presence of substantial coal deposits nearby. It turned out that the coal-miners of Sarang, men whose lives were spent boring pathways through the earth – ‘parting’ it, one might say – could not stomach the notion that a girl could do the same, with a wave of her hand, for the sea. Cadres of certain communalist groupings had been at work, inciting the miners to violence, and as a result of the activities of these agents provocateurs a mob was forming, carrying banners demanding: NO ISLAMIC PADYATRA! BUTTERFLY WITCH, GO HOME.

  On the night before they were due to enter Sarang, Mirza Saeed made another futile appeal to the pilgrims. ‘Give up,’ he implored uselessly. ‘Tomorrow we will all be killed.’ Ayesha whispered in Mishal’s ear, and she spoke up: ‘Better a martyr than a coward. Are there any cowards here?’

  There was one. Sri Srinivas, explorer of the Grand Canyon, proprietor of a Toy Univas, whose motto was creativity and sincerity, sided with Mirza Saeed. As a devout follower of the goddess Lakshmi, whose face was so perplexingly also Ayesha’s, he felt unable to participate in the coming hostilities on either side. ‘I am a weak fellow,’ he confessed to Saeed. ‘I have loved Miss Ayesha, and a man should fight for what he loves; but, what to do, I require neutral status.’ Srinivas was the fifth member of the renegade society in the Mercedes-Benz, and now Mrs Qureishi had no option but to share the back seat with a common man. Srinivas greeted her unhappily, and, seeing her bounce grumpily along the seat away from him, attempted to placate. ‘Please to accept a token of my esteem.’ – And produced, from an inside pocket, a Family Planning doll.

  That night the deserters remained in the station wagon while the faithful prayed in the open air. They had been allowed to camp in a disused goods train marshalling yard, guarded by military police. Mirza Saeed couldn’t sleep. He was thinking about something Srinivas had said to him, about being a Gandhian in his head, ‘but I’m too weak to put such notions into practice. Excuse me, but it’s true. I was not cut out for suffering, Sethji. I should have stayed with wife and kiddies and cut out this adventure disease that has made me land up in such a place.’

  In my family, too, Mirza Saeed in his insomnia answered the sleeping toy merchant, we have suffered from a kind of disease: one of detachment, of being unable to connect ourselves to things, events, feelings. Most people define themselves by their work, or where they come from, or suchlike; we have lived too far inside our heads. It makes actuality damn hard to handle.

  Which was to say that he found it hard to believe that all this was really happening; but it was.

  When the Ayesha Pilgrims were ready to set off the next morning, the huge clouds of butterflies that had travelled with them all the way from Titlipur suddenly broke up and vanished from view, revealing that the sky was filling up with other, more prosaic clouds. Even the creatures that had been clothing Ayesha – the elite corps, so to speak – decamped, and she had to lead the procession dressed in the mundanity of an old cotton sari with a block-printed hem of leaves. The disappearance of the miracle that had seemed to validate their pilgrimage depressed all the marchers; so that in spite of all Mishal Akhtar’s exhortations they were unable to sing as they moved forwards, deprived of the benediction of the butterflies, to meet their fate.

  The No Islamic Padyatra street mob had prepared a welcome for Ayesha in a street lined on both sides with the shacks of bicycle repairers. They had blocked the pilgrims’ routes with dead bicycles, and waited behind this barricade of broken wheels, bent handlebars and silenced bells as the Ayesha Haj entered the northern sector of the street. Ayesha walked towards the mob as if it did not exist, and when she reached the last crossroads, beyond which the clubs and knives of the enemy awaited her, there was a thunderclap like the trumpet of doom and an ocean fell down out of the sky. The drought had broken too late to save the crops; afterwards many of the pilgrims believed that God had been saving up the water for just this purpose, letting it build up in the sky until it was as endless as the sea, sacrificing the year’s harvest in order to save his prophetess and her people.

  The stunning force of the downpour unnerved both pilgrims and assailants. In the confusion of the flood a second doom-trumpet was heard. This was, in point of fact, the horn of Mirza Saeed’s Mercedes-Benz station wagon, which he had driven at high speed through the suffocating side gullies of the suburb, bringing down racks of shirts hanging on rails, and pumpkin barrows, and trays of cheap plastic notions, until he reached the street of basket-workers that intersected the street of bicycle repairers just to the north of the barricade. Here he accelerated as hard as he could and charged towards the crossroads, scattering pedestrians and wickerwork
stools in all directions. He reached the crossroads immediately after the sea fell out of the sky, and braked violently. Sri Srinivas and Osman leaped out, seized Mishal Akhtar and the prophetess Ayesha, and hauled them into the Mercedes in a flurry of legs, sputum and abuse. Saeed accelerated away from the scene before anybody had managed to get the blinding water out of their eyes.

  Inside the car: bodies heaped in an angry jumble. Mishal Akhtar shouted abuse at her husband from the bottom of the pile: ‘Saboteur! Traitor! Scum from somewhere! Mule!’ – To which Saeed sarcastically replied, ‘Martyrdom is too easy, Mishal. Don’t you want to watch the ocean open, like a flower?’

  And Mrs Qureishi, sticking her head out through Osman’s inverted legs, added in a pink-faced gasp: ‘Okay, come on, Mishu, quit. We meant well.’

  Gibreel dreamed a flood:

  When the rains came, the miners of Sarang had been waiting for the pilgrims with their pickaxes in their hands, but when the bicycle barricade was swept away they could not avoid the idea that God had taken Ayesha’s side. The town’s drainage system surrendered instantly to the overwhelming assault of the water, and the miners were soon standing in a muddy flood that reached as high as their waists. Some of them tried to move towards the pilgrims, who also continued to make efforts to advance. But now the rainstorm redoubled its force, and then doubled it again, falling from the sky in thick slabs through which it was getting difficult to breathe, as though the earth were being engulfed, and the firmament above were reuniting with the firmament below.

  Gibreel, dreaming, found his vision obscured by water.

  The rain stopped, and a watery sun shone down on a Venetian scene of devastation. The roads of Sarang were now canals, along which there journeyed all manner of flotsam. Where only recently scooter-rickshaws, camel-carts and repaired bicycles had gone, there now floated newspapers, flowers, bangles, watermelons, umbrellas, chappals, sunglasses, baskets, excrement, medicine bottles, playing cards, dupattas, pancakes, lamps. The water had an odd, reddish tint that made the sodden populace imagine that the street was flowing with blood. There was no trace of bully-boy miners or of Ayesha Pilgrims. A dog swam across the intersection by the collapsed bicycle barricade, and all around there lay the damp silence of the flood, whose waters lapped at marooned buses, while children stared from the roofs of deliquescent gullies, too shocked to come out and play.

  Then the butterflies returned.

  From nowhere, as if they had been hiding behind the sun; and to celebrate the end of the rain they had all taken the colour of sunlight. The arrival of this immense carpet of light in the sky utterly bewildered the people of Sarang, who were already reeling in the aftermath of the storm; fearing the apocalypse, they hid indoors and closed their shutters. On a nearby hillside, however, Mirza Saeed Akhtar and his party observed the miracle’s return and were filled, all of them, even the zamindar, with a kind of awe.

  Mirza Saeed had driven hell-for-leather, in spite of being half-blinded by the rain which poured through the smashed windscreen, until on a road that led up and around the bend of a hill he came to a halt at the gates of the No. 1 Sarang Coalfield. The pitheads were dimly visible through the rain. ‘Brainbox,’ Mishal Akhtar cursed him weakly. ‘Those bums are waiting for us back there, and you drive us up here to see their pals. Tip-top notion, Saeed. Extra fine.’

  But they had no more trouble from miners. That was the day of the mining disaster that left fifteen thousand pitmen buried alive beneath the Sarangi hill. Saeed, Mishal, the Sarpanch, Osman, Mrs Qureishi, Srinivas and Ayesha stood exhausted and soaked to the skin by the roadside as ambulances, fire-engines, salvage operators and pit bosses arrived in large quantities and left, much later, shaking their heads. The Sarpanch caught his earlobes between thumbs and forefingers. ‘Life is pain,’ he said. ‘Life is pain and loss; it is a coin of no value, worth even less than a kauri or a dam.’

  Osman of the dead bullock, who, like the Sarpanch, had lost a dearly loved companion during the pilgrimage, also wept. Mrs Qureishi attempted to look on the bright side: ‘Main thing is that we’re okay,’ but this got no response. Then Ayesha closed her eyes and recited in the sing-song voice of prophecy, ‘It is a judgment upon them for the bad attempt they made.’

  Mirza Saeed was angry. ‘They weren’t at the bloody barricade,’ he shouted. ‘They were working under the goddamned ground.’

  ‘They dug their own graves,’ Ayesha replied.

  This was when they sighted the returning butterflies. Saeed watched the golden cloud in disbelief, as it first gathered and then sent out streams of winged light in every direction. Ayesha wanted to return to the crossroads. Saeed objected: ‘It’s flooded down there. Our only chance is to drive down the opposite side of this hill and come out the other side of town.’ But Ayesha and Mishal had already started back; the prophetess was supporting the other, ashen woman, holding her around the waist.

  ‘Mishal, for God’s sake,’ Mirza Saeed called after his wife. ‘For the love of God. What will I do with the motor-car?’

  But she went on down the hill, towards the flood, leaning heavily on Ayesha the seer, without looking round.

  This was how Mirza Saeed Akhtar came to abandon his beloved Mercedes-Benz station wagon near the entrance to the drowned mines of Sarang, and join in the foot-pilgrimage to the Arabian Sea.

  The seven bedraggled travellers stood thigh-deep in water at the intersection of the street of bicycle repairers and the alley of the basket-weavers. Slowly, slowly, the water had begun to go down. ‘Face it,’ Mirza Saeed argued. ‘The pilgrimage is finished. The villagers are who knows where, maybe drowned, possibly murdered, certainly lost. There’s nobody left to follow you but us.’ He stuck his face into Ayesha’s. ‘So forget it, sister; you’re sunk.’

  ‘Look,’ Mishal said.

  From all sides, out of little tinkers’ gullies, the villagers of Titlipur were returning to the place of their dispersal. They were all coated from neck to ankles in golden butterflies, and long lines of the little creatures went before them, like ropes drawing them to safety out of a well. The people of Sarang watched in terror from their windows, and as the waters of retribution receded, the Ayesha Haj re-formed in the middle of the road.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Mirza Saeed.

  But it was true. Every single member of the pilgrimage had been tracked down by the butterflies and brought back to the main road. And stranger claims were later made: that when the creatures had settled on a broken ankle the injury had healed, or that an open wound had closed as if by magic. Many marchers said they had awoken from unconsciousness to find the butterflies fluttering about their lips. Some even believed that they had been dead, drowned, and that the butterflies had brought them back to life.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Mirza Saeed cried. ‘The storm saved you; it washed away your enemies, so it’s not surprising few of you are hurt. Let’s be scientific, please.’

  ‘Use your eyes, Saeed,’ Mishal told him, indicating the presence before them of over a hundred men, women and children enveloped in glowing butterflies. ‘What does your science say about this?’

  In the last days of the pilgrimage, the city was all around them. Officers from the Municipal Corporation met with Mishal and Ayesha and planned a route through the metropolis. On this route were mosques in which the pilgrims could sleep without clogging up the streets. Excitement in the city was intense: each day, when the pilgrims set off towards their next resting-place, they were watched by enormous crowds, some sneering and hostile, but many bringing presents of sweetmeats, medicines and food.

  Mirza Saeed, worn-out and filthy, was in a state of deep frustration on account of his failure to convince more than a handful of the pilgrims that it was better to put one’s trust in reason than in miracles. Miracles had been doing pretty well for them, the Titlipur villagers pointed out, reasonably enough. ‘Those blasted butterflies,’ Saeed muttered to the Sarpanch. ‘Without them, we’d have a chance.’

  ‘
But they have been with us from the start,’ the Sarpanch replied with a shrug.

  Mishal Akhtar was clearly close to death; she had begun to smell of it, and had turned a chalky white colour that frightened Saeed badly. But Mishal wouldn’t let him come near her. She had ostracized her mother, too, and when her father took time off from banking to visit her on the pilgrimage’s first night in a city mosque, she told him to buzz off. ‘Things have come to the point,’ she announced, ‘where only the pure can be with the pure.’ When Mirza Saeed heard the diction of Ayesha the prophetess emerging from his wife’s mouth he lost all but the tiniest speck of hope.

  Friday came, and Ayesha agreed that the pilgrimage could halt for a day to participate in the Friday prayers. Mirza Saeed, who had forgotten almost all the Arabic verses that had once been stuffed into him by rote, and could scarcely remember when to stand with his hands held in front of him like a book, when to genuflect, when to press his forehead to the ground, stumbled through the ceremony with growing self-disgust. At the end of the prayers, however, something happened that stopped the Ayesha Haj in its tracks.

  As the pilgrims watched the congregation leaving the courtyard of the mosque, a commotion began outside the main gate. Mirza Saeed went to investigate. ‘What’s the hoo-hah?’ he asked as he struggled through the crowd on the mosque steps; then he saw the basket sitting on the bottom step. – And heard, rising from the basket, the baby’s cry.