In the Autumn of Salman Rushdie

It began with a name. The name was disembodied from its owner, a shadow devoid of a source. “Rushdie”. Long before I knew it belonged to a writer, the shadowy name had crept into my home, where it was whispered in secretive tones. But it was also familiar, intimately so, a variant of our own name. Who was this Salman Rushdie? He didn’t sound “rightly guided” (the common meaning of “Rashid” and “Rushdie”). Was he a neighbour’s child who had misbehaved? A long-lost, outcast relative?