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Monday, September 12, 2005

The Spirit of T.S. Eliot Enters Salman Rushdie While He Writes Shalimar The Clown

Kashmir is the cruelest state, breeding
Saffron out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull prose with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Manhattan in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried caviar.

There is a shadow of Strasbourg in this section
(Come in under the shadow of this section.)
And I will show you something different from either
Midnight’s Children or Shame.
Or Christopher Hitchens at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you how to leave magic realism behind.

O O O O that Maximilian Ophuls--
He’s so elegant
So intelligent
"What shall I do now? What shall I do?"
"I shall rush out as I am, and walk to Kashmir
"With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?
"What shall we ever do?"

Well, if Shalimar won't leave you alone, there it is, I said.
What you get reviewed for if you don't want to be profiled?
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME FOR THE SHORTLIST
Well, that Sunday Boonyi Kaul was on the hill, she had a hot lunch,
And she asked me to write it down, to get the beauty of it hot--
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME FOR THE SHORTLIST
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME FOR THE SHORTLIST
Goonight Julian. Goonight Zadie. Goonight Kazuo. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, awards jury, good night, sweet jury, good night, good night.

If there was a Booker
And also the prize ceremony
And accolades
One by one
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
But there is no Booker.

I sat upon the shore of Dal Lake
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my characters in order?
My hair is falling down falling down falling down
Bareilly ke bazaar mein
Jhumka gira re

These Manolo Blahniks I have shored against my ruins
Padma. Padma. Padma Lakshmi
Shantih shantih shantih

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