The Ground Beneath her Feet

by Salman Rushdie

Salman Rushdie's books are often like a big digestive system that swallows you whole so that you become part of it. This is no exception, you are swept up in it from page one. You live the twentieth century with Vina, Rai and Ormus and remember its excesses and heartbreaks as you do so, often with a wry humour that takes some beating. Sex, drugs and rock and roll, what more could you want?


Disorientation is the loss of the East. Ask any navigator: the east is what you sail by. Lose the east and you lose your bearings, your certainties, your knowledge of what is and what may be, perhaps even your life. Where was that star you followed to that manger? That's right. The east orients. That's the official version. The language says so, and you should never argue with the language.

But just let's suppose. What if the whole deal - orientation, knowing where you are, and so on - what if it's all a scam? What if all of it - home, kinship, the whole enchilada - is just the biggest, most truly global, and centuries-oldest piece of brainwashing? Suppose that it's only when you dare to let go that your real life begins?


Beach Boy by Ardashire Vakil
Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie

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