Sometimes, I feel like, Rushdie deserves Fatwa. No. I haven’t read his Shame or Fury. But I have read The Ground Beneath Her Feet and now, reading – for a second time, though at first time I wouldn’t say, I read. I just flew through the pages, for no apparent reason! – Midnight’s Children. This time, I have to admit, I am enjoying it thoroughly. I always wonder where in the world he keeps all these words. Both the novels – The Ground Beneath Her Feet, is a first-class word galore! – use lot of unknown words, atleast for me. Again, No, don’t be silly, the Fatwa is not for using unknown words.
And then sometimes, I feel like, I love him, for his way of criticism. How in the world, he finds such sarcastic comments over anything and everything he sees or come in contact with. Being sarcastic is too bad, when the sarcasm is false. But he is right, at times, very right, indeed!
I can quote a lot from his books, but this thought – that urged me to write it down – popped up, after I read these lines in Midnights Children.
The twin hearts of her kingdom were her kitchen and her pantry. I never entered the former, but remembered staring through the pantry's locked screen doors at the enigmatic world within, a world of hanging wire baskets covered with linen cloths to keep out the flies, of tins which I knew to be full of gur and other sweets, of locked chests with neat square labels, of nuts and turnips and sacks of grain, of goose eggs and wooden brooms. Pantry and kitchen were her inalienable territory; and she defended them ferociously. When she was carrying her last child, my aunt Emerald, her husband offered to relieve her of the chore of supervising the cook. She did not reply; but the next day, when Aziz approached the kitchen, she emerged from it with a metal pot in her hands and barred the doorway. She was fat and also pregnant, so there was not much room left in the doorway. Aadam Aziz frowned. 'What is this, wife?' To which my grandmother answered, 'This, whatsitsname, is a very heavy pot; and if just once I catch you in here, whatsitsname, I'll push your head into it, add some dahi, and make, whatsitsname, a korma.' I don't know how my grandmother came to adopt the term whatsitsname as her leitmotif, but as the years passed it invaded her sentences more and more often. I like to think of it as an unconscious cry for help… as a seriously meant question. Reverend Mother was giving us a hint that, for all her presence and bulk, she was adrift in the universe. She didn't know, you see, what it was called.
- An excerpt from Midnights Children.
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