The Satanic Verses

until it was over, and even then I didn’t come to give you a hug, what a bitch, if you want to throw me out I will have no complaints.’ This was a generous woman, the most generous he’d known.
When you see her, you’ll know
, he had promised himself, and it turned out to be true. ‘I love you,’ he heard himself saying, stopping her in her tracks. ‘Okay, I won’t hold you to that,’ she finally said, looking hugely pleased. ‘Balance of your mind is obviously disturbed. Lucky for you you aren’t in one of our great public hospitals; they put the loonies next to the heroin addicts, and there’s so much drug traffic in the wards that the poor schizos end up with bad habits. – Anyway, if you say it again after forty days, watch out, because maybe then I’ll take it seriously. Just now it could be a disease.’
    Undefeated (and, it appeared, unattached), Zeeny’s re-entry into his life completed the process of renewal, of regeneration, that had been the most surprising and paradoxical product of his father’s terminal illness. His old English life, its bizarreries, its evils,now seemed very remote, even irrelevant, like his truncated stage-name. ‘About time,’ Zeeny approved when he told her of his return to
Salahuddin
. ‘Now you can stop acting at last.’ Yes, this looked like the start of a new phase, in which the world would be solid and real, and in which there was no longer the broad figure of a parent standing between himself and the inevitability of the grave. An orphaned life, like Muhammad’s; like everyone’s. A life illuminated by a strangely radiant death, which continued to glow, in his mind’s eye, like a sort of magic lamp.
    I must think of myself, from now on, as living perpetually in the first instant of the future
, he resolved a few days later, in Zeeny’s apartment on Sophia College Lane, while recovering in her bed from the toothy enthusiasms of her lovemaking. (She had invited him home shyly, as if she were removing a veil after long concealment.) But a history is not so easily shaken off; he was also living, after all, in the
present moment of the past
, and his old life was about to surge around him once again, to complete its final act.

    He became aware that he was a rich man. Under the terms of Changez’s will, the dead tycoon’s vast fortune and myriad business interests were to be supervised by a group of distinguished trustees, the income being divided equally between three parties: Changez’s second wife Nasreen, Kasturba, whom he referred to in the document as ‘in every true sense, my third’, and his son, Salahuddin. After the deaths of the two women, however, the trust could be dissolved whenever Salahuddin chose: he inherited, in short, the lot. ‘On the condition,’ Changez Chamchawala had mischievously stipulated, ‘that the scoundrel accepts the gift he previously spurned, viz., the requisitioned schoolhouse situated at Solan, Himachal Pradesh.’ Changez might have chopped down a walnut-tree, but he had never attempted to cut Salahuddin out of his will. – The houses at Pali Hill and Scandal Point were excluded from these provisions, however. The former passed to Nasreen Chamchawala outright; the latter became, with immediate effect, the sole property of Kasturbabai, who quicklyannounced her intention of selling the old house to property developers. The site was worth crores, and Kasturba was wholly unsentimental about real estate. Salahuddin protested vehemently, and was slapped down hard. ‘I have lived my whole life here,’ she informed him. ‘It is therefore for me only to say.’ Nasreen Chamchawala was entirely indifferent to the fate of the old place. ‘One more high-rise, one less piece of old Bombay,’ she shrugged. ‘What’s the difference? Cities change.’ She was already preparing to move back to Pali Hill, taking the cases of butterflies off the walls, assembling her stuffed birds in the hall. ‘Let it go,’ Zeenat Vakil said. ‘You couldn’t live in that museum, anyway.’
    She was right, of course; no sooner had he resolved to set his face towards the future than he started mooning around and regretting childhood’s end. ‘I’m off to meet George and Bhupen, you remember,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come along? You need to start plugging into the town.’ George Miranda had just completed a documentary film about communalism, interviewing Hindus and Muslims of all shades of opinion. Fundamentalists of both