The Satanic Verses

expedite.’ Chamcha fought to restrain his anger, but finally burst. ‘Do I look like a Khalistan zealot to you?’ The official shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you who I am,’ Chamcha bellowed, incensed by that shrug, ‘I’m the poor bastard who got blown up by terrorists, fell thirty thousand feet out of the sky because of terrorists, and now because of those same terrorists I have to be insulted by pen-pushers like you.’ His visa application, placed firmly at the bottom of a large pile by his adversary, was not granted until three days later. The first available flight was thirty-six hours after that: and it was an Air India 747, and its name was
Gulistan
.
    Gulistan and Bostan, the twin gardens of Paradise – one blew apart, and then there was one … Chamcha, moving down one of the drains through which Terminal Three dripped passengers into aircraft, saw the name painted next to the 747’s open door, and turned a couple of shades paler. Then he heard the sari-clad Indian stewardess greeting him in an unmistakably Canadian accent, and lost his nerve, spinning away from the plane in a reflex of straightforward terror. As he stood there, facing the irritable throng of passengers waiting to board, he was conscious of how absurd he must look, with his brown leather holdall in one hand, two zippered suit-hanger bags in the other, and his eyes out on stalks; but for a long moment he was entirely unable to move. The crowd grew restive;
if this is an artery
, he found himself thinking,
then I’m the blasted clot
. ‘I used to chichi chicken out also,’ said a cheerful voice. ‘But now I’ve got the titrick. I fafa flap my hands during tatake-off and the plane always mama makes it into the isk isk isky.’

    ‘Today the top gogo goddess is absolutely Lakshmi,’ Sisodia confided over whisky once they were safely aloft. (He had been as good as his word, flapping his arms wildly as
Gulistan
rushed downthe runway, and afterwards settled back contentedly in his seat, beaming modestly. ‘Wowoworks every time.’ They were both travelling in the 747’s upper deck, reserved for business class non-smokers, and Sisodia had moved into the empty seat next to Chamcha like air filling a vacuum. ‘Call me Whisky,’ he insisted. ‘What lie lie line are you in? How mum much do you earn? How long you bibi been away? You know any women in town, or you want heh heh help?’) Chamcha closed his eyes and fixed his thoughts on his father. The saddest thing, he realized, was that he could not remember a single happy day with Changez in his entire life as a man. And the most gladdening thing was the discovery that even the unforgivable crime of being one’s father could be forgiven, after all, in the end.
Hang on
, he pleaded silently.
I’m coming as fast as I can
. ‘In these hihighly material times,’ Sisodia explained, ‘who else but goddess of wewealth? In Bombay the young businessmen are hoho holding all night poopoo pooja parties. Statue of Lakshmi presides, with hands tuturned out, and lightbulbs running down her fifi fingers, lighting in sequence, you get me, as if the wealth is paw paw pouring down her palms.’ On the cabin’s movie screen a stewardess was demonstrating the various safety procedures. In a corner of the screen an inset male figure translated her into sign language. This was progress, Chamcha recognized. Film instead of human beings, a small increase in sophistication (the signing) and a large increase in cost. High technology at the service, ostensibly, of safety; while in reality air travel got daily more dangerous, the world’s stock of aircraft was ageing and nobody could afford to renew it. Bits fell off planes every day, or so it seemed, and collisions and near-misses were also on the up. So the film was a kind of lie, because by existing it said:
Observe the lengths we’ll go to for your security. We’ll even make you a movie about it
. Style instead of substance, the image instead of the reality … ‘I’m planning a big bubudget picture about her,’ Sisodia said. ‘This is in strictest coco confidence. Maybe a Sridevi weewee wehicle, I hohope so. Now that Gibreel’s comeback is flaw flaw flopping, she is number one supreme.’
    Chamcha had heard that Gibreel Farishta had hit the comeback trail. His first film,
The Parting of the Arabian Sea
, had bombed badly; the special effects looked home-made, the girl in the central Ayesha role, a certain Pimple Billimoria, had been woefully