Shame

One of the many things I love about India is the abundance of great bookstores everywhere you care to venture. In Pondicherry, I happened into one such establishment, and headed towards the literary section. I love novels that employ the full range of the English language. Edgar Allen Poe is one of my favorite authors, totally twisted mind notwithstanding. Josh-bhai had highly recommended Salman Rushdie in this respect, and had in fact given me more than one of his books, but I had never actually gotten around to opening any of them.

So there I was perusing Salman's works. They didn't have the Satanic Verses, which earned him a fatwa by the late Ayatollah Khomeini. Earning the wrath of a man whose grave I would happily shit on if ever given the opportunity, I have made a mental note to acquire that particular book at the first opportunity. I settled on Shame, a novel that is sort of set in Pakistan, and examines the sort of relationship between Zulfikar Ali Bhutto and Muhammed Zia ul Haq.

The language employed is nothing short of stunning. The irony is at once piercing and hilarious. A few examples of cultivated cursing outdo even the best South Park has to offer. Published in 1983, it has an eerie foresight to it.

In sum, Shame comes highly recommended, and it has motivated me to explore more of Salman Rushdie's works.