STEVE INSKEEP, host:
The writer Salman Rushdie is living more openly these days. It's been years since Rushdie was in hiding, facing an Iranian death threat for his book, "The Satanic Verses." But if Rushdie's life is a little easier, life in his family's ancestral home is not. His latest book tells the story of that place. The book is called "Shalimar the Clown." The place is Kashmir, the mountainous province that's disputed between Pakistan and India. After decades of war and division, that same province recently suffered an earthquake that killed thousands. None of that nightmarish news erased Rushdie's love for Kashmir.
Mr. SALMAN RUSHDIE (Author): The first thing that comes to my mind is paradise. I suppose we all have a need of paradise or the idea of paradise in our lives, and those of us who don't expect to find it after death need to find it in this life, and Kashmir has been the closest I've ever found. And indeed, not only I, because many other people have thought the same way. In fact, when James Hilton wrote his book "Lost Horizon," the idea of Shangri-La was based on Kashmir.
INSKEEP: This is quite remarkable. Everyone, or many people anyway, seem to think that the place that they're from is special or the best place on Earth, but I can't think of many places where the people from there actually think they come from paradise.
Mr. RUSHDIE: I know. It's an unusual thing to believe. It is simply a very strange combination or unique combination of intense physical beauty with a culture that grew up there of enormous tolerance and harmony. The physical beauty, of course, is still there--the gigantic Himalayas, the lushness of the valley, the lakes, the streams, the saffron meadows, the honeybees--that's all still there. The human beauty of Kashmir which was derived from this culture of tolerance that grew up between the various communities, Hindu and Muslim and Sikh, that, of course, has been colossally damaged by the history of the last half century as India and Pakistan have trampled over it.
INSKEEP: You wrote a few years ago about India and Pakistan's rivalry over who controls Kashmir, and you quoted Shakespeare, "A plague on both their houses."
Mr. RUSHDIE: Yes, which I've used again as the epigraph to this novel because I do think the sad thing that happened in Kashmir was that nobody paid any attention to what the Kashmiri people themselves have rather consistently said they wanted, which is for both sides to back off. Instead there have been three wars fought over Kashmir. There's now a terrible combination of rampant Indian militarism and the Indian army is behaving very badly in Kashmir, and on the other side Pakistani-sponsored jihadist groups coming across the border terrorizing Kashmiri Muslims with a much more radical form of Islam which never had any kind of roots in the valley before.
INSKEEP: Does paradise not exist anymore?
Mr. RUSHDIE: Well, only physically, unfortunately. This isn't so much a story of paradise lost as of paradise smashed up.
INSKEEP: And I suppose it was while thinking about this troubled place that you began this writing what is essentially a story of a failed love between a Hindu and a Muslim in Kashmir.
Mr. RUSHDIE: In a way it's "Romeo and Juliet" in reverse, because in "Romeo and Juliet" the two families, which in this case would be a Hindu family and a Muslim family, oppose the marriage. In my story they rather tolerantly support the love of the young couple, and what happens instead is that the young girl, Boonyi the dancing girl who falls in love with the title character, Shalimar the Clown, in the village of traveling players where they both live, she becomes enormously claustrophobic as a result of this marriage and begins to look for ways to escape, and that becomes the engine that drives the plot when she betrays him by running off with the American ambassador.
INSKEEP: I want to ask about the face of Islamic terrorism as it's presented in this book, and I hope I'm not giving away too much here. You describe where one of the characters is committing an assassination...
Mr. RUSHDIE: Yes.
INSKEEP: ...and what it says is, `The man he was going to kill was a godless man, a writer against God who spoke French and had sold his soul to the West.'
Mr. RUSHDIE: Yeah, yeah. Well, I mean, I do speak French, but it's not me, if that's what you mean. I was thinking actually about actual writers who were killed in--and that actual incident happens in North Africa in--almost certainly in Algeria, and I was thinking about the writer Tahar Djaout, who was a great Algerian writer who was killed by Islamists in that country in a way not dissimilar to what's described in the novel.
INSKEEP: Was it hard for you as a writer to get into the mind at book length of a person who would want to kill someone like you?
Mr. RUSHDIE: Well, it was part of the challenge of the book, and I mean although it may seem false to say this, I wasn't really thinking about myself. I was thinking about trying to understand how a human being can change from being a gentle young man to a ruthless grownup murderer.
INSKEEP: The title character, Shalimar the Clown, this Muslim man, who's in this failed marriage, is the same man who becomes a terrorist.
Mr. RUSHDIE: Yes, he is. He becomes a violent man and a professional killer. He does it not just because his heart is broken by the betrayal of his wife, although that is part--one of the triggers; also because in a curious way both his personal tragedy and the tragedy of Kashmir attacks him in what one might call his honor or his manhood, and it's as if what he's trying to do is to reconstruct his sense of his manhood, his masculinity, and that in the end is what leads him to pick up the weapon, not just Islamic doctrine, if you like.
INSKEEP: What's the implication of that for those of us trying to understand terrorist movements around the world?
Mr. RUSHDIE: Well, I think just that one has to look at this as a human issue, not just as an ideological one, and to see that people are getting involved in these terrible events for often very trivial reasons, and the art of the novel has always been to get inside character, to get inside the reasons why people make the choices that they do. And at the moment I think we see a lot of explosions and terrible things on the news, but very little of the kind of heart information that would allow us to really understand what's happening, and maybe this is a function literature can perform.
INSKEEP: Did you say hard information or heart information?
Mr. RUSHDIE: Heart. Information of the heart. I think the stuff that allows you to get inside the feeling and the skin of a place. It's one of the miracles of literature, that it can take you into realities which may be very remote from your own, but it can make those realities your own.
INSKEEP: Salman Rushdie is the author of Shalimar the Clown.
Thanks for speaking with us.
Mr. RUSHDIE: Thank you very much.
INSKEEP: By the way, during our interview Salman Rushdie remembered his Kashmiri grandmother, and he described her as, `An enormously ferocious woman who scared the pants off all of us.' To find out why she was so scary, you can listen at npr.org.
This is MORNING EDITION from NPR News. I'm Steve Inskeep.
RENEE MONTAGNE (Host): And I'm Renee Montagne. Transcript provided by NPR, Copyright NPR.
Author Salman Rushdie has a new book out. Shalimar the Clown is set in Kashmir, the volatile region bordering India and Pakistan that was recently devastated by an earthquake that killed tens of thousands of people.
Author Salman Rushdie has a new book out. Shalimar the Clown is set in Kashmir, the volatile region bordering Indian Pakistan that was recently devastated by an earthquake that killed tens of thousands of people.
Rushdie is intimately familiar with the area. He had family in Kashmir growing up and spent summers there, much the way Americans might vacation in Maine or along the Great Lakes.
Rushdie tells Steve Inskeep about the book's vision of Kashmir, one that differs dramatically from the chaotic reputation it has today.
Excerpt from Shalimar the Clown:
At twenty-four the ambassador's daughter slept badly through the warm, unsurprising nights. She woke up frequently and even when sleep did come her body was rarely at rest, thrashing and flailing as if trying to break free of dreadful invisible manacles. At times she cried out in a language she did not speak. Men had told her this, nervously. Not many men had ever been permitted to be present while she slept. The evidence was therefore limited, lacking consensus; however, a pattern emerged. According to one report she sounded guttural, glottal-stoppy, as if she were speaking Arabic. Night-Arabian, she thought, the dreamtongue of Scheherazade. Another version described her words as science-fictional, like Klingon, like a throat being cleared in a galaxy far, far away. Like Sigourney Weaver channeling a demon in Ghostbusters. One night in a spirit of research the ambassador's daughter left a tape recorder running by her bedside but when she heard the voice on the tape its death's-head ugliness, which was somehow both familiar and alien, scared her badly and she pushed the erase button, which erased nothing important. The truth was still the truth.
These agitated periods of sleep-speech were mercifully brief, and when they ended she would subside for a time, sweating and panting, into a state dreamless exhaustion. Then abruptly she would awake again, convinced, in her disoriented state, that there was an intruder in her bedroom. There was no intruder. The intruder was an absence, a negative space in the darkness. She had no mother. Her mother had died giving her birth: the ambassador's wife had told her this much, and the ambassador, her father, had confirmed it. Her mother had been Kashmiri, and was lost to her, like paradise, like Kashmir, in a time before memory. (That the terms Kashmir and paradise were synonymous was one of her axioms, which everyone who knew her had to accept.) She trembled before her mother's absence, a void sentinel shape in the dark, and waited for the second calamity, waited without knowing she was waiting. After her father died-her brilliant, cosmopolitan father, Franco-American, "like Liberty," he said, her beloved, resented, wayward, promiscuous, often absent, irresistible father-she began to sleep soundly, as if she had been shriven. Forgiven her sins, or, perhaps, his. The burden of sin had been passed on. She did not believe in sin.
So until her father's death she was not an easy woman to sleep with, though she was a woman with whom men wanted to sleep. The pressure of men's desires was tiresome to her. The pressure of her own desires was for the most part unrelieved. The few lovers she took were variously unsatisfactory and so (as if to declare the subject closed) she soon enough settled on one pretty average fellow, and even gave serious consideration to his proposal of marriage. Then the ambassador was slaughtered on her doorstep like a halal chicken dinner, bleeding to death from a deep neck wound caused by a single slash of the assassin's blade. In broad daylight! How the weapon must have glistened in the golden morning sun; which was the city's quotidian blessing, or its curse. The daughter of the murdered man was a woman who hated good weather, but most of the year the city offered little else. Accordingly, she had to put up with long monotonous months of shadowless sunshine and dry, skin-cracking heat. On those rare mornings when she awoke to cloud cover and a hint of moisture in the air she stretched sleepily in bed, arching her back, and was briefly, even hopefully, glad; but the clouds invariably burned off by noon and then there it was again, the dishonest nursery blue of the sky that made the world look childlike and pure, the loud impolite orb blaring at her like a man laughing too loudly in a restaurant.
In such a city there could be no gray areas, or so it seemed. Things were what they were and nothing else, unambiguous, lacking the subtleties of drizzle, shade and chill. Under the scrutiny of such a sun there was no place to hide. People were everywhere on display, their bodies shining in the sunlight, scantily clothed, reminding her of advertisements. No mysteries here or depths; only surfaces and revelations. Yet to learn the city was to discover that this banal clarity was an illusion. The city was all treachery, all deception, a quick-change, quicksand metropolis, hiding its nature, guarded and secret in spite of all its apparent nakedness. In such a place even the forces of destruction no longer needed the shelter of the dark. They burned out of the morning's brightness, dazzling the eye, and stabbed at you with sharp and fatal light.
Her name was India. She did not like this name. People were never called Australia, were they, or Uganda or Ingushetia or Peru. In the mid- 1960s her father Max Ophuls (Maximilian Ophuls, raised in Strasbourg, France, in an earlier age of the world) had been America's best-loved, and then most scandalous, ambassador to India, but so what, children were not saddled with names like Herzegovina or Turkey or Burundi just because their parents had visited those lands and possibly misbehaved in them. She had been conceived in the East-conceived out of wedlock and born in the midst of the firestorm of outrage that twisted and ruined her father's marriage and ended his diplomatic career-but if that were sufficient excuse, if it was okay to hang people's birthplaces round their necks like albatrosses, then the world would be full of men and women called Euphrates or Pisgah or Iztaccíhuatl or Woolloomooloo. In America, damn it, this form of naming was not unknown, which spoiled her argument slightly and annoyed her more than somewhat. Nevada Smith, Indiana Jones, Tennessee Williams, Tennessee Ernie Ford: she directed mental curses and a raised middle finger at them all.
"India" still felt wrong to her, it felt exoticist, colonial, suggesting the appropriation of a reality that was not hers to own, and she insisted to herself that it didn't fit her anyway, she didn't feel like an India, even if her color was rich and high and her long hair lustrous and black. She didn't want to be vast or subcontinental or excessive or vulgar or explo- sive or crowded or ancient or noisy or mystical or in any way Third World. Quite the reverse. She presented herself as disciplined, groomed, nuanced, inward, irreligious, understated, calm. She spoke with an English accent. In her behavior she was not heated, but cool. This was the persona she wanted, that she had constructed with great determination. It was the only version of her that anyone in America, apart from her father and the lovers who had been scared off by her nocturnal proclivities, had ever seen. As to her interior life, her violent English history, the buried record of disturbed behavior, the years of delinquency, the hidden episodes of her short but eventful past, these things were not subjects for discussion, were not (or were no longer) of concern to the general public. These days she had herself firmly in hand. The problem child within her was sublimated into her spare-time pursuits, the weekly boxing sessions at Jimmy Fish's boxing club on Santa Monica and Vine where Tyson and Christy Martin were known to work out and where the cold fury of her hitting made the male boxers pause to watch, the biweekly training sessions with a Clouseau-attacking Burt Kwouk look-alike who was a master of the close-combat martial art of Wing Chun, the sunbleached blackwalled solitude of Saltzman's Moving Target shooting gallery out in the desert at 29 Palms, and, best of all, the archery sessions in downtown Los Angeles near the city's birthplace in Elysian Park, where her new gifts of rigid self-control, which she had learned in order to survive, to defend herself, could be used to go on the attack. As she drew back her golden, Olympic-standard bow, feeling the pressure of the bowstring against her lips, sometimes touching the bottom of the arrow shaft with the tip of her tongue, she felt the arousal in herself, allowed herself to feel the heat rising in her while the seconds allotted to her for the shot ticked down toward zero, until at last she let fly, unleashing the silent venom of the arrows, reveling in the distant thud of her weapon hitting its target. The arrow was her weapon of choice.
She also kept the strangeness of her seeing under control, the sudden otherness of vision that came and went. When her pale eyes changed the things she saw, her tough mind changed them back. She did not care to dwell on her turbulence, never spoke about her childhood, and told people she did not remember her dreams.
Excerpt from Shalimar the Clown by Salman Rushdie, courtesy of Random House, Inc.