Sir Ahmad Salman Rushdie, a dandy word-smith turned randy geriatric is in a pickle today. That belligerati of a penman had been nursing this pipe dream that his splenetic oeuvre will be rewarded with a Nobel. All he got, after seducing troika of those Enchantresses of Florence, was Padma (not the award but that Chef of a fourth trophy wife) who could only tolerate him for a little longer than Two Years Eight Months & Twenty-Eight Nights and finally dumped him for being such a Shame, that Shalimar of a Clown who lives in Imaginary Homelands churning out The Satanic Verses day in, day out. After all Haroun got lost at the sea of his own stories and Luka put out the fire of his life. Joseph Anton turned out to be no Wizard of Oz or that lofty Grimus, but the wretched Midnight’s Child who’s fast losing The Ground Beneath His Feet awaiting destiny’s Fury that won’t even let him heave The Moor’s Last Sigh.
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