Thomas Moran Fort George Island paintingThomas Moran Cliffs of Green River paintingThomas Moran A Pastoral Landscape painting
eyes. Gibreel Farishta, the movie star who had unaccountably vanished from view, rotted on the hoardings. Rubble, litter, noise. Cigarette advertisements smoking past: SCISSORS -- FOR THE MAN OF ACTION, SATISFACTION. And, more improbably: PANAMA -- PART OF THE GREAT INDIAN SCENE.
"Where are we going?" The night had acquired the quality of green neon strip--lighting. Zeeny parked the car. "You're lost," she accused him. "What do you know about Bombay? Your own city, only it never was. To you, it's a dream of childhood. Growing up on Scandal Point is like living on the moon. No bustees there, no sirree, only servants' quarters. Did Shiv Sena elements come there to make communal trouble? Were your neighbours starving in the textile strike? Did Datta Samant stage a rally in front of your bungalows? How old were you when you met a trade unionist? How old the first time you got on a local train instead of a car with driver? That wasn't Bombay, darling, excuse me. That was Wonderland, Peristan, NeverNever, Oz."
"And you?" Saladin reminded her. "Where were you back then?"
"Same place," she said fiercely. "With all the other bloody Munchkins."
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