The Satanic Verses

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 therenegade 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