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thevindicativevordan · 3 years ago

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Any thoughts on Grant Morrison's Action Comics run? Beyond T shirt-and-jeans Superman being great.

That whole run reinvigorated my love of the character.

There have been numerous thoughtpieces about New 52 Superman, how he worked and how he didn't but these two entries really do a great job of summing up why Morrison's take on Superman was great. Morrison laid the foundation for a new generational Superman that DC completely fucked up and ran into the ground. I'll always be bitter about that, even if I had tapped out of reading the New 52 Superman books by the end due to how bad they got. Editorial and their idiotic mandates were what screwed over the potential of this take in my eyes.

Now I get that it wasn't to everyone's taste, but I cannot fathom how anyone could ever claim that Pre-Flashpoint Superman was better. If you liked Byrne's reboot better, your guy already got rebooted after Infinite Crisis. For someone like me who really enjoyed the Johns/Busiek era, that era's potential got spoiled after Johns & Busiek left, with New Krypton imploding and the awful Grounded taking it's place. When you get to the point where the best Superman book is the one starring Lex Luthor, it's time to reassess the franchise and figure out where the hell it went wrong.

Which is exactly what Morrison did. For this new Superman, Morrison mined all the best ideas of every Superman era to really give what I consider the ideal "base" for Superman. They also took pains to address common criticisms about Superman, working to correct his pop culture image. People have been complaining that Superman is "too perfect", "too unrelatable" for a long time, so Morrison addressed that. They gave Superman his balls back, and let him reacquire that Golden Age edge he had originally.

There are a lot of complaints you can make about Morrison's Superman, but I don't see how you could accuse this guy of being "flawless" or "bland". He definitely had a personality that you could describe, love him or hate him. Compassionate, but not a pushover. Clearly holding himself back, but unafraid to occasionally let loose. Flaws that were patently obvious, Clark had a temper here that could get him into trouble. There was a real showcase of anger here, of Superman being furious at the way people were treated by the rich and powerful, then doing something about it that I ate up.

I read this run just as I was coming into my teens and it hit perfectly for where I was in life. Did not want a Superman who would smile and tell me it gets better, I wanted a Superman who looked you in the eye and told you he felt that same anger, and then encouraged you to go out and do something about how you felt. That was what this run delivered in spades, and it expanded what I believed could be done with Superman.

While it totally blew my mind to see Superman acting this way the first time I read Morrison's Action Comics run, in retrospect it really isn't that different from how Superman has acted even under Byrne. One of the few traits I've seen carry across Superman incarnations in the comics is that he has a temper underneath that affable nature. "Don't tug on Superman's cape" as the old song goes. This run simply elevated that to the forefront of the character again, for the better in my eyes given I believe "Wrath" is Superman's Deadly Sin.

In fact, one of the strongest features of this run is that Superman gets actual character development over the course of the run, analogous to what Batman underwent in Morrison's Bat-Epic. While the Bat-Epic was merely Morrison re-canonizing Batman's entire history, and applying a retroactive character development storyline that culminated in Morrison's current Batman work, their Action Comics run had them attempt to craft something similar for Superman from scratch. What that meant was Morrison attempting to draw on the most important traits of every Superman era and incorporate those into this new take. So Superman had the Golden Age temper, compassion for the oppressed, and cockiness. The Silver Age supergenuis, proud scion of Krypton who cherished his Kryptonian nature, member of the Legion of Superheroes, and participant in stories that weren't afraid to get weird. Superman's wrestling with his place in the world, the importance of Clark Kent, and making journalism a key part of the character strike me as all being hallmarks of the Bronze Age. From Post-Crisis we got that Clark views himself as human and loves his adopted parents, considering them as equal to his birth ones.

One of the big frustrations for me with the endless origin stories for Superman, is that so many of them follow a predictable and stale formula where Clark puts on the suit and is essentially ready to go. Doesn't interfere with human affairs, is modest and humble, restrained in usage of his powers, it's like Clark has meta knowledge of what he "should" be, despite that he shouldn't have any foreknowledge of what a "superhero" should look like. He operates the same way at the start as he does in the modern day, and that's really boring to me. This Superman, because of the difference in powers and attitude, operated extremely different from his "present day" incarnation. Dangling Glenmorgan over the edge of a building isn't something a fully powered and mature Superman should do, but it works great to make his early days different and exciting to read about, it makes returning to that era something you can do different storytelling with. This run is the only time where I really cared that Superman is "supposed" to be the first superhero, because figuring out what that means here is a big part of how he develops.

We all know the common complaint that Superman is "too powerful" and that "nothing can hurt him" (funny how Thor never gets hit with those accusations), so Morrison made sure to show that this take on Superman could be beaten even if he could never be defeated. Events conspired to force Clark to use his brains as well as his powers to overcome the challenges in front of him.

Examples include him using his heat vision to fry Lex's equipment and escape the military, using his rocket ship to defeat Brainiac, and rallying the population of Metropolis to banish Vyndktvx. Not to say that Clark never used his brains before to win, but this run was very upfront and in your face about how important Clark's intellect is to triumphing over his foes. Can't take seriously the complaint that Superman is too overpowered when Morrison constantly showcased how even a very powerful Superman could get his shit wrecked by his Rogues.

Another example of Morrison addressing criticisms is Kryptonite. A lot of people poke fun at how convenient it is that pieces of Superman's homeworld follow him all the way to Earth. Isn't that a bit of an asspull? So Morrison made Kryptonite the power source of Superman's rocket, giving it a perfectly natural and believable reason both for it to end up on Earth, and for Lex & the military to get a hold of it since Pa Kent gave the military the rocket. That's still my preferred explanation for how Kryptonite ended up on Earth.

It also provides a better explanation for all the different Kryptonite variants. DC can handwave away the different types as a result of Lex experimenting or the different "forces" on Earth such as magic or the Speed Force or whatever creating the different variants. That to me is much more believable than Kryptonite travelling all across the galaxy yet still ending up on Earth somehow.

There have also been a lot of complaints about Superman's villains, and Morrison diligently set about reworking them. By far one of my favorite aspects of the run, was the villain revamps. Nimrod felt like a clean revamp of Terra-Man, making him into Superman's Kraven the Hunter struck me as a patently obvious route to go, wild no one has followed up on that or used him since. Metallo felt like a good synthesis of Johns take of him as an Anti-Superman weapon, and the sympathetic aspects of Corben's origin that are always there, I liked that Morrison didn't make him a total bastard before his transformation like Johns did. Brainiac got some sympathy added to him in that the collected worlds that were already marked for damnation, thus he was "saving" them in a fashion. Clay Ramses embodied toxicity as a wife-beater even before becoming Kryptonite Man, and I thought his backstory was a great way for Clark to still deal with "real" issues via a manner he could punch. Ramses is still the best take on Kryptonite Man. Vyndktvx felt like the greatest realization of the threat Mr. Mxyzptlk could pose should he decide to get serious since Whatever Happened to the Man of Tomorrow?, plus I'm a sucker for stories where superheroes fight the Devil. Drekken and Superdoom took the only interesting aspects of Doomsday (his ability to evolve and that he can kill Superman respectively), and were much more interesting characters.

And oh my God, speaking of Superdoom, that part of Morrison's Action run has aged like fine wine. I don't know if they caught wind of DC's plans for the character, or if they were just prescient, but everything that Superdoom is playing on is still sadly all too present. What Superdoom is as a character is a condemnation of what DC keeps doing with Superman: killing him off or making him evil.

When you realize what Superdoom (demand for a more violent and "realistic" Superman) and Vyn (WB/DC) stand in for, it makes the frustration Morrison is channeling much more palpable. Those two plotlines are all DC can think of to do with the character, returning to those again and again. Endlessly attempting to recapture the high of Batman and Doomsday beating the shit out of Supes in The Dark Knight Returns and Death of Superman. Overcoming these two obstacles is Superman's greatest challenge as conceived by Morrison, because both are out to corrupt and ruin the very idea of him. It's not just a physical death he faces, but a metaphysical one as well. Sadly it's a threat Superman just can't seem to lick in the real world, with more and more takes on "Evil Superman" coming.

Lois and Jimmy are great here, because Morrison actually made the investigative journalism aspect of Superman important. Lois is an active participant in the story, trying to break in to the base where Clark is being held by her father, competing with Clark for stories (I love how Morrison writes the banter between the two of them), and generally being classic Lois. Jimmy though benefitted from being positioned as a peer rather than as a kid in comparison to the two, something I wish the comics had carried forward. It looks like My Adventures With Superman is going with that interpretation at least, so I hope others do as well. Jimmy being Clark's roommate really adds to their bond, and I wish we had gotten more stories with that status quo.

Investigative reporter Clark Kent was so actively used here that it feels jarring reading other Superman runs where they tend to downplay and ignore it. Following Clark as he travels to different areas of Metropolis and actually interacts with people, instead of hovering above them as Superman, makes him feel human. Watching Clark actively pursue stories aimed at bettering peoples livelihoods, and seeing how those stories crossed with the superheroics, was one of my favorite aspects of the run. It's one unfortunately few other writers seem all that interested in, especially the New 52 writers who followed Morrison (I know editorial probably bears a lot of blame for that though).

Besides all that, this run was a lot of fun! The Legion of Superheroes showed up, their connection to Clark restored, and they got to play a big role in Clark's adventures! Krypto the Superdog! Martian colonies! Memorizing all of medicine, Superman performs a lifesaving operation! Lex using a "bullet train" to knock Clark out! 5-D imps! Rampaging robots from beyond! A Phantom Zone Halloween story! John Henry Irons suits up as Steel and kicks ass alongside Clark! Every Superman Rogue teams up to try to kill him, but Lex Luthor saves his life because that's a privilege he reserves for himself! Showcasing their trademark love for the Supermythos, Morrison took us on a tour of Superlore that demonstrated the depth and width of what could be done with Superman. Meanwhile the backups by Sholly Fisch excelled at giving us smaller, more human stories about Superman (the one where Clark meets Pa again via time travel "after" Pa has died always gives me a lump in my throat to read).

Ultimately this didn't get to be the foundation for the next generation of Superman stories as it deserved. Johns made New 52 Superman the scapegoat in Doomsday Clock for a lot of storytelling choices he did over in Justice League, something that pisses me off to no end. You want to tell me that this guy "didn't relate" to people, didn't inspire "hope"?

Like hell he didn't. This guy was Superman in every way that mattered and he deserved better than to be framed as the scapegoat for all the stupid decisions DC made about what to do with him. Greg Pak was able to do some great work with this version after Morrison, and just like how Gene Yang got a redemption work starring Superman, I hope to one day see Pak return to the character. Would love to read a Black Label Superman story by Pak that follows his take on young Superman.

All wasn't lost however. Against all odds, and Rebirth trying it's damndest to sweep everything under the rug, it looks like parts of this era have actually survived to the current Infinite Frontier era. With Morrison being heavily involved no less, both as an ideas guy and as an actual writer.

Superman & the Authority is explicitly Superman coming full circle back to the attitude displayed by his young counterpart under Morrison. Janin has outright said that the costume Clark wears here is reminiscent of the t-shirt and jeans era of Superman, and this book so far feels saturated with an energy level from Morrison I haven't seen in their work for hire since they left Action. Reaching old age and realizing he never really delivered on the high ideals of his beginnings, it's Superman putting together a team to hopefully succeed where he couldn't alone. Scathing in how it criticizes the superhero status quo, this has been extremely entertaining to read. Wish Morrison was writing 12 issues with this team, and that ultimately it will be up to PKJ to deliver on the potential is a drawback (although I've loved PKJ's Action run so far), but I'm glad to see DC finally treating Morrison and their ideas with more respect than was shown during Rebirth.

Jon meanwhile feels like an even more explicit attempt at redoing New 52 Superman. There's the updated new suit, designed to appeal to a new generation with it's streamlined look. Positioning Jon as a Superman who wants to tackle the "real" issues, with Taylor explicitly comparing him to Golden Age Superman which as I mentioned was an era Morrison tried to reincorporate into their reboot. There's the Legion of Superheroes connection which played an important role in Morrison's reboot. The rumors about Jon's sexuality are interesting, hinting that DC is willing to go outside the box with him in a way they never would with Clark. I'm excited to see what kind of Superman Jon ends up becoming, if he can deliver on the promise of the New 52 Superman all the better.

This run deserves to be remembered and to have the lessons it tried to teach respected. Probably my favorite mainline run on Superman, I hope more people come around to liking it as time goes on.

#superman #grant morrison #action comics #new 52

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gongju-juice · 5 years ago

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2. Once Upon a Southern Night

Adopted Cousins

Warnings: Some language mah bois. . .that goes for the rest of the series, minor assault incident because men are trash

The following week of school was quite exciting. People from all over the school were interested in your story. Amelia had gotten you acquainted with her friends—jocks, nonetheless—but they were fairly easy to get along with and you weren’t the type to stereotype.

History was even better. You could really flex your skills in your class, and not feel worried that you’d be rebuked. And Pre-Calculus and Chemistry wasn’t even as hard as you originally thought it would be. All in all, things were great.

Since your first day, you hadn’t spoken to Jasper or any of the Cullens once. Sometimes you thought the tiny one, Alice, would smile at you behind your back as if she knew some big secret you didn’t. But she didn’t intimidate you, and neither did the others. Rosalie did seem a little off, but you figured that it had to do with the ridiculous number of boys confessing to her every week. And as for the others—Emmett and Edward—they seemed pretty normal. Though sometimes you wondered why Edward seemed to be so annoyed all the time, or why whenever you passed by him in the hallway, he inexplicably smirked from ear to ear.

One day, however, you had to sit at Amelia’s table without her. There was David, Mallory, Tyler, and Sarah. They were all the best athletes in the junior class, and you lowkey felt out of place being the only one at the table who didn’t play a sport.

“How was Psychology?” Mallory asked, digging into her leafy salad. She was a broad shoulder girl, whose athletic frame was large and unlike the “skinny-fit” girls you saw on tv.

You nodded. “Pretty good. We learned a lot about the brain and its association with fear.”

You began stirring your gumbo. Since you were a kid, you never liked eating school lunches anyway. And in addition to that, you obligated your mom and yourself to prepare only southern style dishes to remind you of home.

“Hey, Y/N,” David called, nudging your shoulder. “Do you think you could help me with math? All of this theta, alpha—whatever this shit is—it’s giving me a headache. Could I maybe come by your place tonight and get some help?”

You smiled hesitantly. You didn’t mind helping him, but you weren’t exactly about to let some boy you hardly talked to come to your house without your mother’s foreknowledge. Besides, what was wrong with tutoring on campus?

“We can do it at the school library,” you suggested. “Make sure you bring your things though. You’ll need your calculator, a pencil, and some paper.”

He grumbled lowly to himself, but you thought it best not to inquire after him. Instead, you continued sipping at your food. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw movement at the Cullen table.

At the end of the day, you walked to your locker and grabbed your things. The thing about Forks High School was that everybody seemed to automatically shift to their cars, in race to leave out onto the empty streets of the town.

You made your way to the parking lot to drop some of the things off at your car—the brand new pale yellow Volkswagen Beetle your mom bought for your sixteenth birthday. It’d arrived in Washington State on campus just an hour before you had to leave your first day of school.

You turned around and began heading towards the school. . .but where to go? You forgot where the library even was. Was it nearest the front entrance or the side? You decided to go to the side, not knowing that the ramifications of your actions would forever change your life.

“Y/N!” a voice called, and you whirled around on your Oxford heels, thankful it was only David leaning on the brick wall behind you.

“Ah, David! I must’ve been going the wrong way, wasn’t I? I bet it’s better to go to the front entrance. Well, we’re here now. Might as well keep going,” you giggled anxiously.

You reached your hand for the door handle, only to have your hand forcefully snatched in the grasp of his.

“We don’t have to do it in the library,” he said quietly, a sinister grin on his face. “We could do it in your car, inside the bathroom, if you’d like.” He leaned in closer. “Or we could do it right here.”

You tried to politely pull your hand from his only to realize that he was not talking about tutoring. He grabbed your shoulder and pushed you against the cold door, the backs of your thighs touching the metal. You struggled to push him off, but he was much stronger.

“I’m serious, David! This is not what you want! You’ll get in serious trouble, and I don’t give you consent or permission to touch me like this in any way!”

He smiled down at you. “Touch you. . .like this?” His fingers crawled down the sides of your skirt until they ripped down the material to the concrete.

You screamed, but suddenly he was gone. Jasper had him pinned up against the opposite wall, David’s feet dangling inches from the group.

“I will fucking kill you,” he said angrily. “If you ever touch her again. If you even look at her, I will personally rip your throat from your insides and make you wish you were never born.”

David nodded hysterically, his features contorted in terror. “Anything you want, man! Please—I won’t ever do it again. Just please put me down, please!”

Edward and Emmett appeared by Jasper’s side and forcibly lowered the quarterback from the wall. Emmett locked him in a choke hold and pushed him forward while Edward made a barrier of himself so that Jasper could not pursue.

“Are you okay?” Alice asked frantically, her golden eyes staring into yours. Rosalie pulled your skirt back up around your hips, but the cloth was ripped at the zipper and couldn’t be reattached. Tears were streaming down at your eyes at that point, but you nodded, too lost for words to reply.

“She needs some new clothes,” Rosalie warned, guarding your vulnerable form with her body. You stared at your pathetic skirt. It was a cute little plaid design you found while shopping at a thrift store in Port Angeles on your way from the airport.

Jasper took the leather jacket from his shoulders and handed it to his sister carefully. She tied the thing around your waist on top of the skirt so that it held it together. Then, they led you to the office.

Within three minutes, a squad car showed up. It was the police Chief, Charlie Swan, a man with a thick black mustache and chocolate dark eyes. He took one look at David before hauling him in handcuffs.

“This is the second complaint we’ve had against you this month,” he announced through gritted teeth. “Except this time, we’ve got witnesses. You had such promise kid, but all you want to be is a sex offender.”

David cried in protest before he was thrown in the back of the car.

“Are you alright?” the Chief asked. “You’ll have to come by the station for questioning and a full police report. . .do you think you’re in an okay mental state to do so?”

You nodded. “But can I go home first? He broke my skirt.”

He reflexively looked at your waist which resulted in Jasper hawking him down.

“Of course. And if possible, bring the skirt back with you in a plastic bag. It’s evidence.”

The siblings escorted you to your car, where, interestingly enough, a crowd had formed.

“Thanks, you guys, I don’t think things would’ve turned out as fortunate as they did if not for y’all.” You looked up at Jasper’s warm honey eyes. “And I thank you most of all, Jasper. You turned out to be my savior tonight.”

He gazed back at you, and you felt a flood of emotions you couldn’t explain.

“It’s my pleasure,” he said, “And you’re welcome.”

“Do you need someone to drive you home?” Alice asked, her hands squeezing yours. “Besides, we all have to come to the station anyway. I can ride with you.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t trouble you—”

“It’s okay, I’ll drive the boys to the station while you and Alice run home,” Rosalie said, pointing to her beaming red BMW.

You weren’t surprised that when you arrived at the station your mother was there. She immediately pulled you into her arms, her crushing embrace enough to suck the air out of you.

“My baby!” she cried, holding your cheeks. “What would I do if something ever happened to you! I should’ve put you in those jujitsu classes like you asked last year. I’m so sorry I put you in this terrible situation!”

You shook your head and pried her off of you. “Mom, Mom! It’s okay, I’m alright. Jasper and his siblings handled the situation just fine. Please calm down.”

Beside her, you realized Dr. Cullen and his wife stood by their children. They appeared to be such a charming family, but it was strange how they all had the same amber colored eyes though they were not all related.

“Jasper, I should reward you handsomely for this! That’s it, I’m ending my shift early. You all can come to our house . . .it’s about time we tell the news to Y/N anyway.”

“Y/N,” Dr. Cullen said, extending his hand, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

‘Finally,’ you wondered. “And you as well. Mom talks about you quite a bit at home.”

Esme hugged your shoulders just as tightly as your mother did. She smelled very good, like warm citrus and berries. “I’m glad you’re okay, sweetheart. If you ever need to talk, we’re here for you.”

You finished the police report, and everybody climbed in their cars headed home. What news your mother had in store for you, you had no idea. But no matter how much you begged her to tell you, she wouldn’t tell you.

Your mom ordered pizza—a meal just for you since the Cullens declined and she wasn’t going to eat anyhow—and you sat quietly at the dining room table. It was all so awkward considering you were the only one eating and since it had not been long since you were literally assaulted.

Jasper sat quietly at the other end of the table, his eyes trained on the vase of flowers on the center of the table. You really wanted to tell him your appreciation in private, but since your departure at the car, he had not made eye contact with you.

They made conversation quietly, but it all felt like meaningless hum in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps they were waiting on you to say something first.

“So. . .what is it that you wanted to tell me?” you asked your mom, biting the inside of your cheek. You hoped it wasn’t anything bad, you weren't sure if you could handle anything else.

Your mom smiled reassuringly. “I know you’re probably freaking out, but I promise, it’s nothing to worry about. You know how you’ve always wanted to have siblings or cousins of your own?”

You gasped, rising from your chair. “Are you finally adopting again!”

Everybody at the table laughed. She shook her head.

“No, even better. The truth is, I actually have a family you’ve never met before.”

Your brows scrunched together. “Really? Who are they? And I mean, why haven’t we ever met them?”

She sighed. “Well, the reason is quite complicated. I’ll tell you about that later. But the thing is—Carlisle is my younger brother.”

“Wait what?!” you shouted. “He’s your what?!”

“That’s right,” he grinned, “Carmine’s my sister. So I guess, in a way, that makes me your uncle.”

“Wow,” you breathed, “So you’re my adoptive mom’s brother who has adopted kids who are my adopted cousins.”

Everybody again laughed at your reaction. Your cheeks were hot with embarrassment, but for some reason, you didn’t seem as tense as you were before. You got up to hug all of the Cullens—your new family. You finally had people and loved ones to call your own; people you could trust and stood up for you when you couldn’t stand up for yourself.

When you finally got to Jasper, your heart rate soared. How lucky you were to have such an intelligent, kind, and strong person in your life! But secretly, there was a twinge of regret inside you. This feeling you felt for him—it was a crush. Cousins weren’t allowed to have crushed on each other.

“Something the matter?” he teased with a little smirk.

“Of course not I—”

He gently wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in close. He was cold and firm like a giant teddy bear left untouched on a bed. You wanted to hold him tighter and transfer your warmth to him, but just as quickly as you had the thought, the hug finished.

“We have so much to talk about!” Alice exclaimed. “You’re into the vintage aesthetics, aren’t you? There’s a lovely red dress I’ve been saving in my closet specifically for you!”

And with that, Rosalie and Alice whisked you away upstairs where you three began a wonderful, life-long friendship.

Okay but mad Jasper is a vibe.

Part One Part Three Part Four

#jasper hale #jasper hale imagines #jasper hale x reader #twilight imagines #Twilight x reader #carlisle cullen #edward cullen #esme cullen #rosalie hale #alice cullen #emmett cullen #the cullens #yeehaw mah bois

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mybeautifulchristianjourney · 4 years ago

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The way out—new life in Christ

1-2 No condemnation now hangs over the head of those who are “in” Jesus Christ. For the new spiritual principle of life “in” Christ lifts me out of the old vicious circle of sin and death.

3-4 The Law never succeeded in producing righteousness—the failure was always the weakness of human nature. But God has met this by sending his own Son Jesus Christ to live in that human nature which causes the trouble. And, while Christ was actually taking upon himself the sins of men, God condemned that sinful nature. So that we are able to meet the Law’s requirements, so long as we are living no longer by the dictates of our sinful nature, but in obedience to the promptings of the Spirit.

5-8 The carnal attitude sees no further than natural things. But the spiritual attitude reaches out after the things of the spirit. The former attitude means, bluntly, death: the latter means life and inward peace. And this is only to be expected, for the carnal attitude is inevitably opposed to the purpose of God, and neither can nor will follow his laws for living. Men who hold this attitude cannot possibly please God.

What the presence of Christ within means

9-11 But you are not carnal but spiritual if the Spirit of God finds a home within you. You cannot, indeed, be a Christian at all unless you have something of his Spirit in you. Now if Christ does live within you his presence means that your sinful nature is dead, but your spirit becomes alive because of the righteousness he brings with him. I said that our nature is “dead” in the presence of Christ, and so it is, because of its sin. Nevertheless once the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead lives within you he will, by that same Spirit, bring to your whole being new strength and vitality.

12-13 So then, my brothers, you can see that we have no particular reason to feel grateful to our sensual nature, or to live life on the level of the instincts. Indeed that way of living leads to certain spiritual death. But if on the other hand you cut the nerve of your instinctive actions by obeying the Spirit, you are on the way to real living.

Christ is within—follow the lead of his Spirit

14-17 All who follow the leading of God’s Spirit are God’s own sons. Nor are you meant to relapse into the old slavish attitude of fear—you have been adopted into the very family circle of God and you can say with a full heart, “Father, my Father”. The Spirit himself endorses our inward conviction that we really are the children of God. Think what that means. If we are his children we share his treasures, and all that Christ claims as his will belong to all of us as well! Yes, if we share in his suffering we shall certainly share in his glory.

Present distress is temporary and negligible

18-21 In my opinion whatever we may have to go through now is less than nothing compared with the magnificent future God has planned for us. The whole creation is on tiptoe to see the wonderful sight of the sons of God coming into their own. The world of creation cannot as yet see reality, not because it chooses to be blind, but because in God’s purpose it has been so limited—yet it has been given hope. And the hope is that in the end the whole of created life will be rescued from the tyranny of change and decay, and have its share in that magnificent liberty which can only belong to the children of God!

22-25 It is plain to anyone with eyes to see that at the present time all created life groans in a sort of universal travail. And it is plain, too, that we who have a foretaste of the Spirit are in a state of painful tension, while we wait for that redemption of our bodies which will mean that at last we have realised our full sonship in him. We were saved by this hope, but in our moments of impatience let us remember that hope always means waiting for something that we haven’t yet got. But if we hope for something we cannot see, then we must settle down to wait for it in patience.

This is not mere theory—the Spirit helps us to find it true

26-27 The Spirit of God not only maintains this hope within us, but helps us in our present limitations. For example, we do not know how to pray worthily as sons of God, but his Spirit within us is actually praying for us in those agonising longings which never find words. And God who knows the heart’s secrets understands, of course, the Spirit’s intention as he prays for those who love God.

28-30 Moreover we know that to those who love God, who are called according to his plan, everything that happens fits into a pattern for good. God, in his foreknowledge, chose them to bear the family likeness of his Son, that he might be the eldest of a family of many brothers. He chose them long ago; when the time came he called them, he made them righteous in his sight, and then lifted them to the splendour of life as his own sons.

We hold, in Christ, an impregnable position

31-32 In face of all this, what is there left to say? If God is for us, who can be against us? He that did not hesitate to spare his own Son but gave him up for us all—can we not trust such a God to give us, with him, everything else that we can need?

33-34 Who would dare to accuse us, whom God has chosen? The judge himself has declared us free from sin. Who is in a position to condemn? Only Christ, and Christ died for us, Christ rose for us, Christ reigns in power for us, Christ prays for us!

35-36 Can anything separate us from the love of Christ? Can trouble, pain or persecution? Can lack of clothes and food, danger to life and limb, the threat of force of arms? Indeed some of us know the truth of the ancient text: ‘For your sake we are killed all day long; we are accounted as sheep for the slaughter’.

37 No, in all these things we win an overwhelming victory through him who has proved his love for us.

38-39 I have become absolutely convinced that neither death nor life, neither messenger of Heaven nor monarch of earth, neither what happens today nor what may happen tomorrow, neither a power from on high nor a power from below, nor anything else in God’s whole world has any power to separate us from the love of God in Jesus Christ our Lord! — Romans 8 | J.B. Phillips New Testament (PHILLIPS) The New Testament in Modern English by J.B Phillips copyright © 1960, 1972 J. B. Phillips. Administered by The Archbishops’ Council of the Church of England. Cross References: Genesis 3:17; Deuteronomy 14:1; Ezekiel 18:9; Numbers 28:22; 2 Samuel 16:12; Jeremiah 12:4; Job 37:19; Psalm 44:11; Psalm 139:1; Isaiah 50:8; Song of Solomon 3:4; 2 Chronicles 31:5; 1 Kings 8:57; Hosea 1:10; Matthew 6:12; Matthew 7:11; Matthew 28:10; Mark 14:36; Mark 16:19; Luke 1:6; Luke 8:15; John 1:12; John 5:21; John 8:32; John 14:17; John 16:33; John 17:22-23; Acts 3:21; Acts 20:32; Galatians 5:17; Romans 1:7; Romans 1:21; Romans 4:18; Romans 6:21; Romans 6:23; Romans 14:7; Colossians 2:18; 2 Corinthians 4:17

#Holy Spirit #transformation #walk #desires #sinful nature changed #Romans 8 #The Epistle to the Romans #J.B. Phillips New Testament #Holy Bible #PHILLIPS #The Archbishops’ Council of the Church of England

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brandilovevip · 5 years ago

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What I Believe About Coronavirus

It’s been a HOT topic on Twitter...

So what do I think is really going on and what do I think about Coronavirus?

Read on.

WHAT IS REALLY GOING ON

When health events like this happen ( and they happen often )

there is always some fear and trepidation. In recent times however it has become an obsession in the media to track and breathlessly report the number of deaths especially with the flu and/or any other viral outbreak. They don’t do this with any of the actual leading causes of death in the USA which are:

1. Cardiovascular Disease deaths each year 647,457 2. Cancer deaths each year 599,108 3. Accidents deaths each year 169,936 4. Respiratory Disease deaths each year 160,201 5. Stroke deaths each year 146,383

So every flu season, despite the flu not making the top 5, we are fed a steady diet of fear and mounting death. When you add in a “rogue” virus like the Chinese Wuhan Coronavirus, things get really out of hand. You would think that they believe The Walking Dead and Outbreak are documentaries.

This FEAR drives ratings and the progressive left’s globalist agenda. This agenda is the agenda of 90% (+) of the global media, the EU , China etc. There are few countries left in Europe and Asia that don’t want globalism. They have already been pacified. The great spirit of America however has not. Donald Trump’s election was a shock to the globalist agenda which is clearly on display in the democratic party. They are now out in the open as unabashed, socialist/communist “progressives”

meaning… globalists.

There are a number of “conservative” publications out there that believe that Covid-19 was created in a lab an purposefully unleashed. I do not believe that is the case, although I do think it is possible. I do however believe that they had foreknowledge of the virus and it’s potential spread & impact.

Why do you believe this Brandi?

Because of Event 201. If you haven’t read about this, you need to educate yourself. This ACTUALLY took place. The “players” and sponsors should be looked at closely.

Only a few months ago, in OCTOBER 2019, Johns Hopkins, the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation and the World Economic Forum (a fraternity of self-professed globalists) ran a “pandemic simulation” called “Event 201” specifically focused on CORONAVIRUS. Not Ebola, or Swine Flu or even Avian Flu – but CORONAVIRUS. The simulation features the spread of coronavirus in South America, blamed on animal to human transmission (pigs). The conclusion of the exercise was that national governments were nowhere near ready.

Event 201 played out almost exactly as you see it in the world today. Even their propaganda pieces are eerily similar.

Some very disingenuous or perhaps rather stupid people have been arguing that this kind of thing is “normal”, claiming that we are “lucky” that the elites have been running simulations in advance in order to “save us” from a viral outbreak.

I believe that Event 201 was not a simulation but a war-game, played out to study the possible outcomes of an event the globalists already knew was coming. They played it out to see how to use it to their advantage.

In their simulation 65 million people died worldwide. A number they knew was false but it would certainly scare the sheep into submission.

Does anyone really believe that Event 201 is pure coincidence? Does anyone really believe they left up their “findings” for any other reason than to frighten readers?

But what do globalists have to gain directly from a coronavirus pandemic beyond simple chaos that can be exploited?

Interestingly, a representative from Johnson and Johnson, one of the companies that may end up designing a “vaccine” for the Coronavirus, suggested during Event 201 that a “centralized” global economic authority in charge of funding and procuring vaccines for various nations in crisis was an option for solving the pandemic.

The reason why globalists want a collapse is simple – They need crisis in order to manipulate the masses into accepting total centralization, a global monetary system and global governance. They are also rabid believers in eugenics and population reduction.

Regarding a “centralized” global economic authority and a global monetary system ... did you notice the Democrats included language pertaining to a digital currency in their bloated, globalist agenda filled coronavirus bill after pulling the rug out from under America.

The US and China are still currently in the middle of a trade war. This trade war has been demonized by Democrats and RINO’s alike. And despite it being the right thing for America, the Phase 1 deal was always a joke because it demands that China quadruple its purchases from the US within the next 1-2 years. This was never going to happen.

The Chinese cannot be trusted. They are the most evil, unfeeling regime in the world. They are cold , calculated and intelligent. They have made, through money, slaves of many of the worlds largest, most influential and wealthiest corporations and people.

Now, because of the impact of the Chinese Wuhan Coronavirus, there is no chance that China will meet the requirements of the Phase 1 deal as China’s economy will slow under the weight of the pandemic.

Coincidence?

If Trump continues tariffs against a nation in the state of a viral emergency, he will look like a monster. If he doesn’t continue the lockdown and one person dies thereafter, he will look like a monster. They have him in an almost impossible situation. He knows it, which is why he looks so somber & frustrated.

Another advantage of the viral crisis is that the globalist establishment will undoubtedly blame “climate change” for its impetus. Even though there is absolutely no concrete evidence linking human carbon emissions to climate change or viral outbreaks, given enough public fear, globalists will attempt to link the things together as if it is a proven fact.

Not only will they have a rationale for an economic collapse THEY created, but they can also present a virus as an “act of nature”, and use it as a rationale for implementing carbon controls. (ALSO PRESENT IN PELOSI’s DESPICABLE BILL)

So what is really going on:

The globalists are using COVID-19 to their advantage to wrestle back control and complete their globalist mission. They know that if Donald Trump gets re-elected their horror of a dream is over.

BUT BRANDI THIS IS A DEADLY VIRUS, YOU ARE BEING STUPID.

It is a deadly virus. It is highly communicable. But is neither as deadly or communicable as the fear mongers want you to believe. I’m not going to go through all of the FACTS here. But I would encourage you to read this excellent article:

http://archive.is/yuaUq

If the USA follows the pattern in SIMILAR countries with similar population demographics and geography then we should see maybe 250,000 total who have contracted this and a death rate of 1.5% for total deaths around 3,750

We have all been around death. Iv’e lost most of my family and it’s always gut wrenching. But if the numbers hold true, the 3750 deaths due to Coronavirus are about 5x less than the number of homicides we have every single year.

Where do I agree with the trolls that bombard my Twitter account?

I agree that we need to have a far better protocol in place for WHEN pandemics happen and I believe we need to make a HUGE investment into our healthcare system. Some things I would love to see them consider:

1. Everyone wears masks during a “Pandemic Protocol” I know , I know… surgical masks don’t stop the virus from getting in.. but if EVERYONE is wearing them it does stop a lot of the virus from getting OUT. Japan has an 80% adoption rate for masks. They have major population centers and yet.. their numbers remained low.

2. Have tests ready. Jesus. Everyone on the planet seemed to have more tests than us. That’s embarrassing. Test everybody.

3. Isolate & quarantine the most vulnerable to death, first.

4. Immediately close borders and international travel

5. If needed, in extreme situations impose a reasonable self isolation and social distancing period not to last longer than 21 days.

6. Have teams at CDC ready to collaborate with local and international physicians to discuss treatment modalities & vaccines.

7. Build regional medical facilities in conjunction with private, non profit health care systems to handle sudden increases in medical emergencies.

This closing down of the country however and spreading fear the way they have is grotesque and evil. Do you think it’s any less horrible to die from Cardiovascular Disease , Cancer an Accident, stroke, suicide or murder? No. Death is horrible and sad. But it is in fact part of life. I don’t want to die, I’m not looking forward to death but I do know that at some point, it will occur.

I’m ever thankful that in addition to my thirst for facts vs fear, I also have contacts across the medical landscape. In every single case, they tell me the same thing. If you don’t smoke, If you don’t have major underlying medical conditions and are in good health… then you have very little to fear even if you do contract the virus. Yes, it may have a 1.4% - 2.0% death rate but those numbers are skewed toward those 65+ and those with major medical issues. Regardless of age if you are generally healthy, you are looking at a death rate equal to or less than the common flu.

And they also tell me that if you do get it, demand that you be treated with the combination of Hydroxychloroquine and a Zpack unless there are contraindications.

Lastly…

Some things that have become perfectly clear:

1. Socialized Medicine would be a Disaster 2. Open Borders = Complete Insanity

References:

https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/fastats/leading-causes-of-death.htm

http://archive.is/yuaUq

https://www.europereloaded.com/how-viral-pandemic-benefits-the-globalist-agenda-event-201/

https://docplayer.net/11605196-Foreign-affairs-april-1974-the-hard-road-to-world-order-richard-n-gardner-volume-52-number-3.html

https://www.technocracy.news/globalization-faces-disaster-with-supply-chain-leaving-china/

https://meaww.com/wuhan-coronavirus-warned-2017-lab-wuhan-deadly-diseases-escape-lab-level-4-safety-scientists

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in-tua-deep · 6 years ago

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So I imagine that the kids eventually find out that their moms gave them up, and as they grow older they each grow angrier and angrier at these people they’ve never met. What if at the end of S1 when they all travel back in time they don’t arrive to a place/time that they’re all at the academy again,what if they somehow arrive in a time/place where they meet their mothers and have to pretend to be complete strangers to these women that they find unforgivable?

HMM honestly I can’t see most of them really being angry? On a big level their mothers just,,, don’t matter to them. They probably didn’t even know mothers were a thing until Grace came into their lives, and by the time they got around to learning about the birds and the bees and knew enough to know that Grace couldn’t exactly have brought them all to term, they already knew they’d been bought

and maybe they were angry at first, but they know their circumstances. Their mothers were seven (or six depending on if you think Luther and Five are twins in the show) women who were exceptionally unprepared for what happened to them.

Honestly that must have been so incredibly traumatic for all of them, they never consented to that pregnancy. They had to give birth, a process that is incredibly painful, when they had no prior knowledge or preparation mental or physical. They didn’t have a choice whether these children came into their lives, and honestly I don’t blame them for giving up the kids - and frankly having them be adopted by a billionaire? Who clearly has enough resources to take care of this child when perhaps you yourself so not?

The question isn’t why Reginald Hargreeves got so many kids, it’s why he got so few.

I would however be interested in maybe thinking about an au where one or more of the parents looked at the unveiling of the Umbrella Academy and looked at the seven children knowing that one of those kids was theirs and they just stopped a robbery (the one on the end is covered in blood, and some of the robbers are dead and the kids are little soldiers) and them trying to take some kind of action. Any kind of action. Because she thought her child would be safe and provided for, not… this.

And maybe it’s not out of place in canon. Maybe it’s an attempt that doesn’t work, because Reginald has access to plenty of lawyers. And the mothers terminated their parental rights. No matter how much they try, they can’t touch those kids.

I don’t know I understand that maybe some of the kids are angry. But I think some just… don’t care. These women aren’t in their lives. They aren’t important. They didn’t ask to have these kids, they didn’t have a choice. I can see at least some of the kids being downright empathetic about that - I mean, wasn’t their whole childhood about not having a choice but to obey Reginald Hargreeves? It might not have even occurred to them until they were older that their mothers even had a choice in giving them up, because Reginald is the ultimate authority in their lives.

There are a lot of reasons to give up a baby, and I refuse to think badly of these women for doing so. Not when they had to go through that. Not with how traumatic it must have been. They did not consent to these pregnancies. They did not ask for a child. They were not prepared for a child. They didn’t spend months bonding with a child growing inside them, didn’t go out to buy little onesies and cribs and toys, they didn’t pore over books of baby names, or have a baby shower, or get congratulations from coworkers and friends and family - they didn’t ask for this. That girl from the start of the show was young. She was shy with a boy that she liked and flirting and having fun, and she wasn’t expecting to give birth on the floor in front of all those people in her life, including the boy she liked.

So maybe they do go back in time, and there’s one of their mothers. And maybe they are angry at this stranger who didn’t want them. But they look at this young woman who gave birth to one of their numbers, and they see how young she is. See how she smiles and laughs without a care. Maybe she’s still in school. Maybe she isn’t. Maybe she’s working, working hard, she’s passionate about her career. Maybe she already has a family, maybe she has a husband or wife and maybe they already have kids or maybe they don’t. Maybe she’s helping take care of her parents who need assistance. Maybe she’s on her own in a shithole apartment and yeah it’s shitty but it’s hers and she’s out on her own and she’s independent and she worked so hard to get to this points.

My point is, they see their mothers, and they’re incredibly human. These women? They have lives. They have friends. They have family. And maybe they were angry, but they look at these women in their normal regular lives and think - how would I handle it? If I had a baby thrust upon me, right here, right now, with 0 foreknowledge and preparation, would I be able to take care of them? Would I keep them? If a billionaire swooped in and was able to make it all just - go away, wouldn’t I take him up on that?

Honestly I don’t think all of those children were bought. He probably got some of the kids for free, from mothers who weren’t willing to put a price on a baby’s head but were equally relieved to have someone to make it all go away. For this man who is obviously of means who has the funds to take care of a baby. Children are expensive, after all. That day would have been one of the most traumatic of their lives, wouldn’t you want to pretend it didn’t happen?

For this purpose i’m going to say Luther and Five aren’t twins and that there are seven individuals

So yeah, they meet their mothers. They pretend to be strangers and chat to these women. They find out that Luther’s mother is the first in her family to go to college, on a scholarship. She’s got big dreams and even bigger plans for her life. They learn that Diego’s mother is the eldest of four children and she’s very responsible, helping her parents out. She picks up her youngest sister from school and walks her home every day, she helps her siblings with their homework and cooks and cleans when her own parents are too tired to do so. They can barely make ends meet, but they’re close knit and they care about one another. A new mouth to feed on top of all of that would have been a terrible burden to bear (and Reginald’s money could put her siblings through college, she can make sure her parents don’t have to work as hard, that they can have some security, and all it costs is a baby she doesn’t even know). They learn that Allison’s mother is a leader among her peers, confident and social and outgoing. She’s climbing the ranks at work, confident and working hard to prove herself to all the people around her who say she can’t do it. She’s got her whole life ahead of her, and there’s no room in it for a baby. Not yet. Not now, when she has so much to do, so much to work towards. Maybe in the future, but not now when she has so much to lose and no one to help her.

They meet Klaus’s mother, who has clawed out a place for herself in the world with her own two hands. She has no one, she has her apartment and the two jobs she’s working and she’s going to make it no matter what just to prove everyone else wrong. They meet Five’s mother, who ran away from home when she was a kid and she’s putting herself through school going to night classes and working during the day. She runs on just as much spite as Klaus’s mother, but she has people. She’s stubborn and furious at the world, but she loves as furiously as she does anything else. She didn’t run alone, her little brother is with her. He’s in high school and she would sacrifice everything to make sure he has a future. She fought for custody of him, and she won, and she won’t do anything to jeopardize what little stability she has fought to give him.

They meet Ben’s mother, who has someone important in her life. They’re in love, but they have to keep it quiet. She loves her girlfriend, loves every stolen kiss and every moment they hold hands beneath tables. They plan to run away together, they’re saving up and they’re going to get a house together far away from everything that holds them down. They have plans. They barely have enough money scraped together for themselves, let alone a baby. A baby she knows her family won’t love, won’t want to take care of. They barely love her. They meet Vanya’s mother, who is afraid. She knows her family. They won’t love this child, born out of wedlock. She can’t make it on her own. She’s too young. She can’t support herself, let alone a child. She loves her family, she loves them, but they don’t understand her. They’ll take care of this child out of a sense of obligation perhaps, but they won’t love her. (They wouldn’t let her take care of her daughter anyway, would sweep it under the rug, maybe pretend that her daughter was her little sister. She wouldn’t get to raise her daughter, no matter what she chooses. And at least maybe this man, this rich man, wants her - and that’s important)

They meet their mothers, and learn about them, and they know Reginald. It isn’t these women’s fault, they didn’t choose this. They didn’t ask for this. And even if they did spend nine months carrying these children in their bodies, even if they were aware and prepared and knew what they were getting into, that still doesn’t mean that they were required to keep the kids.

So maybe they are angry, when they arrive. But that anger doesn’t survive contact, because these women are just… people. They’re smart and funny and sarcastic and irritating and passionate and spiteful and they’re so very very human. They have jobs, and families, and friends, and lives.

The Umbrella Academy arrived on a day like any other, the only remarkable thing was that their mothers weren’t pregnant when the day began. They arrived to a world that wasn’t prepared for them. To mothers who weren’t prepared for them. To mothers who had their own problems, their own reasons.

And now the Umbrella Academy gets to learn them.

Gets to see Luther’s mother who’s still in school, who can’t take care of a baby and complete her studies. Maybe she could have, if she was prepared. But she was taken by surprise. Gets to see Diego’s mother swing her and her sister’s hands between them as they walk back from school, hand-me-down clothes and worn out shoes. They’re living paycheck to paycheck, and babies are expensive. Gets to see Allison’s mother, a career woman, who doesn’t have time for a baby and doesn’t want a baby. She has a life, and a plan, and she knows what she wants.

Gets to see Klaus’s mother, who has clawed out a place for herself and herself alone. She’s supporting herself, she can’t support a baby on top of that. (and it’s not the baby’s fault, but her body was supposed to be hers, and she can’t help but hate what was forced upon her - she didn’t want to have a baby, didn’t want to go through that). Gets to know Five’s mother, who loves her little brother so fiercely and is so terribly proud of him. She worries over him and hangs his report cards on the fridge and neither of them speak about the home they left behind. She puts him first. Her brother comes before a squalling infant she didn’t ask for. They’re finally getting their footing, getting in a good spot. She can’t jeopardize that. She won’t.

Gets to see Ben’s mother, who is so in love and so ready to leave. A baby would be a chain, tying her down, making her have to stay because she can’t do it alone and she’s in love and their relationship isn’t ready for a baby. Gets to see Vanya’s mother, who is responsible and a member of the community. She swims. She flirts with a cute boy she wants to like her. She figures this baby has the best chance at life away from her, in a home that isn’t hers. She’s a nice girl, she wants to do what’s best, and she believes giving the baby up was the right thing to do.

Maybe they built their mothers up in their minds. These terrible women who would give their child to Reginald Hargreeves. But they didn’t know. They thought the babies would be cared for, why wouldn’t they?

The moral of this experience, the result of this time travel, is that they learn about the reasons someone can have for giving up a child. They learn that these abstract women in their thoughts are real people, with real lives, who make real mistakes.

They’re not monsters. They’re not evil. They’re frightened people who don’t know what’s happening to them, what’s happened to their bodies. None of them asked for this. None of them knew what was happening. It was painful, and frightening, and it wasn’t their fault.

And the kids have to realize that.

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bigfan-fanfic · 5 years ago

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30 Day DA Challenge - Day 19: Courtship

(Doing this one for ALL my OCs :D - except for Tash because he’s a kid)

The Origins Crew

Aster of course falls in love with Alistair, slowly and strongly. He’s had crushes before, on Cullen, on a fellow apprentice, but Alistair is the only one he felt such a great level of trust and respect in. Alistair shows him the world outside the Circle, and Aster show Alistair that he is not alone in optimism and looking for the goodness in the world. Their relationship lasts even through Alistair becoming King. Aster becomes the Chancellor at his side and his not-so-secret lover before Alistair summons up the courage after six years to break protocol and marry his true love.

Morgan (when not being paired with @herald-divine-hell‘s Alexandra) falls for Morrigan, although prior to that he has a brief tryst with Zevran. Morgan shows her unconditional love, which Morrigan really doesn’t know what to do with until she grows to care for him in return. She helps him conduct the Dark Ritual with her to keep their friends alive, and he swears to stay at her side. Which he does.

Katie doesn’t romance anyone, as she was only about fifteen when first coming to Thedas. She did, however, have a huge crush on Alistair and a huger crush on Leliana that has not worn off when they meet during Inquisition. However, meeting Ser Delrin Barris might make her forget about her infatuation.

Athalan once spent a night with Bann Teagan that both enjoyed, but never went anywhere. He considers the other companions family and does not develop romantic feelings for them. By Inquisition, however, he finds romance in Knight-Captain Rylen, who is a faithful lover to him, and the two maintain a relationship after Inquisition, moving to Antiva with Athalan’s adopted son Gale and his wife Josephine.

Delphi didn’t romance anyone in Origins, still having to sort out her feelings for her murdered fiancee. However, she met Cullen and was intrigued by Aster’s stories of him as a kind friend, not a tortured prisoner of a demon. She continued to encounter Cullen through the years, in Kirkwall, and finally as she joined the Inquisition, where she finally romances Cullen. She knows him, she is fond of telling him, and she knows he is a good man.

Reyn has bad experiences with romance in the past, of both genders. Being demiromantic, it takes a while before he feels anything like that, and he generally doesn’t let anyone get that close anymore. However, in the future he may end up finding someone to start a relationship with.

Hawke Kids

Ava, as an apostate mage, had a brief dalliance with Anders before he found out about her secret habitual use of blood magic and ended things, though he swore to keep her secret. She bonded greatly with Fenris, though after he left her she turned instead to Sebastian, mostly for power, though she grew to love him. When Fenris expressed regret, she invited him into the relationship, and though Sebastian was hesitant, he was too smitten to disagree with his Princess. It is safe to say she has thoroughly charmed them both... though how literal that statement is remains to be seen.

Cal had a brief and short-lived affair with Isabela before they decided they were better as friends. After all, Cal’s heart has always belonged to Varric. From early on Cal was smitten, and it only took Varric the better part of a decade to realize he felt the same. He generally preferred to help his siblings with their romances, helping Carver and Merrill get together and Bethany and Isabela find each other. He doesn’t get with Varric until Inquisition, but then they stay together forever.

Inquisition Peeps

Gale, though he is technically only the bodyguard of the Child of Andraste, becomes enamored with Josephine Montilyet. He spends quite a bit of his free time finding flowers and plants to make little gifts for her. Since Tash likes to help her and Cullen with paperwork, he also gets to spend quite a lot of time with her. The romance truly starts after Gale rescues her from being murdered in Skyhold by House of Repose assassins. From there, it continues with Tash assisting him through the protocol of Josie’s unexpected betrothal and subsequent duel for her hand. The relationship lasts, and after Inquisition, Gale (and his father) come to live at the Montilyet estate in Antiva, and Gale helps Josie with the new shipping company.

Henry and Lottie have a strange connection over romance. Originally, I shipped Lottie with Blackwall, but then I completely threw canon out the window. So now... here goes. They both were initially attracted to Solas, but Henry’s foreknowledge of what Solas will eventually become as Fen’Harel ruins the chance of love. Lottie is blessed with no such knowledge, and quickly begins a relationship with Solas over shared morals and hunger for information. She convinces Solas to let her go with him, and disappears after Inquisition, and is only mentioned by Solas in Trespasser as his right hand and bearer of his heart.

Henry, meanwhile, enters an unconventional relationship. Henry is asexual, although he isn’t sex-repulsed and doesn’t mind having sex if his partner needs it. Henry finds himself deeply in love with Blackwall, already knowing who he is. They enjoy a heavy flirtation in Haven before it grows. Blackwall finds Henry in his quarters, and Henry explains about his sexuality and how he knows Thom Rainier. It stops Blackwall only for a couple of days before he returns and begins a full relationship. When Cole becomes more human, he becomes a part of this, although being asexual and sex-repulsed, Cole will often leave during sex and return after to participate in comforting and cuddling. The three of them continue their relationship after Inqusition.

Owain (when I’m not shipping him with @herald-divine-hell‘s Amayian Trevelyan) romances the Iron Bull. It starts out mainly sexual, but becomes romantic as Owain realizes that he likes the person he allows himself to be with Bull. The relationship starts shortly after Owain joins the Inquisition as assistant ambassador and Inquisitor’s retainer, and continues on after Owain gifts Bull with the Necklace of the Kadan. Owain joins the Chargers eventually and rarely leaves The Iron Bull’s side.

#30dayDAchallenge #my ocs #dragon age #ocs #aster amell #morgan walker #katie cousland #athalan #delphi tabris #reyn caron #ava hawke #cal hawke #gale lavellan #henry lucas #lottie gamez #owain bonneville

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sp4c3-0ddity · 6 years ago

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2018 Year-in-Fic

so following @rueitae‘s example (because i’m curious about what i’ve been up to this year too) and building off my 2017 list, a Summary of Fic: 2018 Edition:

(For convenience, you can also find my fic master list here and ao3 account here)

STATS:

Gen/non-plance fics: 15

All right, let’s start with the fic that is not plance from oldest to most recent. An asterisk* denotes if it’s tumblr exclusive

Assassins (3109 words) - Allura tries to go about business as usual, despite their “guest” - Gen, mild Allura/Lotor, canon compliant through season four

Marathon (1081) - Pidge just wants Lance to get off her back about team bonding. / (She has fun anyway.) - Gen, Garrison Trio, pre-canon

Imprinting (540) - A flock of baby "ducks" adopts Hunk as their mother - Gen, canon compliant

Fanfiction (884) - Pidge has a skeleton in her closet, but she made the mistake of saving it to her hard drive - Gen, canon compliant

Everywhere Cats (7363) - A mysterious mishap transforms the Lions of Voltron into...cats, who are more troublesome for their Paladins than for Zarkon's Empire - Gen, canon compliant crack

A Rational Fear (3786) - Alteans aren't as fragile as humans, but they aren't invincible. / Or, Allura's injuries demand a stint in a healing pod; her reluctance can be easily explained - Gen, very mild Allura/Lance, canon compliant

Adrift (1621) - Krolia's translator breaks, but that's not why her sadness is so hard to bear - Gen, pre-canon

Displaced (1318) - Keith confuses his target for someone else. / Neither of them are happy about that - Gen, Keith/Matt, time travel AU

Seek Water’s Run* (~2300) - Gen, Garrison Trio, Abhorsen (Fantasy/Zombie) AU

Crushed* (~900) - Allura/Lance, canon compliant whump

Knowledge or Death, Gun or Blade* (~2000) - Acxa and her Blade trials - Gen, canon divergent/speculative

Pigeon Bait* (~1200) - Hunk rescues a pigeon - Gen, modern/college AU

Price of Pride* (~550) - Matt talks to the Green Lion - Gen, canon compliant

Trickle* (~1000) - Keith wanders a death-scape - Allura/Keith, canon divergent (probably)

Viable Pets* (~2000) - Hunk adopts a space chicken - Gen, dubiously canon compliant

Okay, this is where it might get a little confusing because i’m a dumbass sometimes...

plance fics (not collected): 32 wtf

Ordered from oldest to most recent; does not include anything posted (or to be posted) in this collection; anything exclusive to tumblr is denoted with an asterisk*

Growth (14042) - Lance finds his soulmate; Pidge does not - soulmate AU in canon

Misdirection (5328) - Lance pays attention, and Pidge just may come to enjoy a camping trip - modern AU

Fakeout (7840) - Shenanigans turn dangerous when Lance and Pidge overhear what they should not - canon compliant

A Promise Broken, a Promise Made (5294) - Pidge getting caught up in a project is nothing new, so why, exactly, is Lance so upset this time? - canon compliant

Facing Reality (14182) - Lance skips Fourth of July weekend with his family to spend it with his girlfriend's family instead... / ...only Pidge isn't his girlfriend. And her family is missing. In a completely different reality - modern/roommates AU...of a sort

Spill Your Thoughts (24962) - Mom bought me this notebook hoping I’d “organize my thoughts” or “find therapeutic value in it” or something like that. Personally, I think she’s just hoping I’ll leave it lying around somewhere so she can snoop into what’s going on in my life when I don’t want to tell her. / Mom, if you’re reading this, it’s not going to work because I do not need to keep a journal. So what if I don’t have any friends to vent to? / aka an AU where Pidge's journal is just that and nothing more - modern/high school AU in journal format

Infatuation, Actually (10418) - Pidge never learned basic gun safety. Lance suffers the nonfatal consequences - love spell AU in canon

Fatalistic Daydream (27873) - Being a low-ranking Galra soldier stationed in a virtual backwater isn’t stopping Pidge from finding out what happened to her family. But the secrets she’s keeping from her friend Keith on top of the unwanted attention of an Altean prisoner-of-war are definitely...slowing her down - somewhat Gen, everyone’s an alien AU

Living Nightmare (1892) - Lance's isolation doesn't seem to be ending anytime soon, even if he's out of solitary confinement - outtake of Fatalistic Daydream, technically gen

Frog Pond* (~3000) - Lance kisses a frog on a dare - modern/fantasy AU

Water Rescue (19229) - They start as strangers, but one day they may grow to be something more...familiar - fantasy AU inspired by @rueitae‘s Seasons of Magic

Dip* (~400) - They dance - canon compliant (?)

Sleep Cute* (~450) - Sleepy cuddles - canon compliant (?)

Tidal Lockdown (20937) - An ex-rebel enlists Pidge and Lance to find her missing grandson, but on a planet populated by criminals and where the sun never sets, they can only trust each other... - canon compliant (?)

Double Life (2312) - By day, they’re a secretive criminal-entrapping hacker and her minion; by night, they’re a flashy magician - excuse me, escape artist - and his ‘brilliant’ assistant - modern AU

Spellbound* (~3500) - urban fantasy AU

scaled to size (14747) - Lance returns to Altea triumphant, claiming to have slain a fearsome dragon and intent on collecting his reward from Prince Lotor. But not all is what it seems... / Or: The tale of how Lance survived a dragon despite leaving his heart behind - fantasy AU featuring dragon!Pidge

a prince, missing* (~7000) - Lance is a kidnapped prince and Pidge is his reluctant bodyguard - fantasy AU

a small step and a giant leap (47005, WIP) - Lance wakes when he shouldn’t to an angel of death standing over him. / It’s a first, but it won’t be the last - vague fantasy/modern AU

Full Circle (10275) - “I’m happy to be back, but I kind of don’t want to be.” / Lance, surprised, stared at Pidge. “What do you mean?” / “It feels like the end, doesn’t it? We’re back on Earth - back where we started - and it feels like we’ve come full circle.” / “Yeah, but circles just keep going, don’t they?” / Or, Lance and Pidge return to where they started, but it will never be the same again - canon divergent

Breakfast Date* (~600) - post-canon

(don’t) call an ambulance* (~3700) - modern/mafia AU

Final Lifeline (14466) - Pidge always plays to win, but this time the odds are not in her favor. / And if she loses, Lance may get worse than being fed to the Snick... - canon divergent

Misfortune Favors the Brave (26492, WIP) - Foreknowledge of a death doesn't make it any easier to prevent, but Lance is determined to try. / Even if it means breaking Pidge's heart. - canon divergent

Found and Lost* (~4800) - post-apocalyptic AU featuring android!Pidge

why not?* (~100) - drabble

Dueling Hearts (36213) - The king of a planet that Voltron is attempting to sway to the Coalition misinterprets the nature of Lance’s relationship with Pidge…and promptly challenges him to a duel for her hand in marriage. Lance accepts immediately, much to his teammates’ (especially Pidge’s) mortification. The only problem? Lance still hasn’t figured out how to unlock his bayard’s broadsword form at will - canon divergent

And Everything Was Fine (6416) - Pidge finds the reality where everything turned out fine; needless to say, she’s pissed - mostly Gen, mild post-canon fix-it

No Sky Like Home (6808) - Pidge hesitates to say yes when Lance asks her on a date - post-canon

plance fics in collaboration: 3

And now the fics i did in collaboration

Smack, Kiss, Fall in Love (19589 / 2) - Pidge was only at the Garrison to find her family, not her soulmate. Lance had always had a picture of a his 'perfect' soulmate in mind. / ...until reality smacks them both - soulmate AU in canon done round robin-style with @hailqiqi

To Sail, To Break, To Earn (10268 / 3, WIP) - Cursed by the witch Haggar, Lance, with the crew of the Blade of Marmora, sails the sea and preys on Zarkon's fleet. They are confined to the waves and forbidden from dropping anchor at port. But the deadline draws nearer, when they'll become the soulless servants of the same emperor they forswore, unless they rejoin Zarkon willingly...or earn the heart of a mermaid - in collaboration with @rueitae

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot like A Christmas Carol (14384 / 3, WIP) - Lance is no Scrooge, but when he gives up a family vacation and declines an invitation to his friends' holiday gathering, he finds himself the target of a ghostly intervention. / It's a tale as old as time...or as old as the nineteenth century, and if Lance doesn't learn his lesson, he just might be forgotten - post-canon, in collaboration with @hailqiqi and @rueitae

plance fics, collected:

I’m cheating on this one. Referring to my collection Strangeness and Charm, from about Chapter 48 onward are the 2018 chapters. Last year’s word count was 73407 and this year’s word count is (with the exception of some fic saved as chapters not yet posted) 200794. here are the longer/more notable (in my opinion at least) samples that probably should’ve been posted separately:

Future (~6000) - prompted historical/arranged marriage AU

Captive (~5200) - moderately gen AU where Pidge, Lance, and Hunk are captured by pirates

Another Time (~3700) - reincarnation AU in conjunction with canon

Masquerade* (~1300) - super tease-y fantasy AU and if you don’t have the song from Phantom of the Opera stuck in your head from just reading that title i envy you

Tease (~800) - “If you love it so much then why don’t you marry it?” - canon compliant

A Pirate’s Life for Me (~4000) - Pidge is captured by space pirates - canon compliant

Absence Makes the Heart Grow (Fonder) (~7200) - Pidge finds Lance on Earth - canon divergent AU that was hilariously accurate in retrospect

like a masochistic moth to dragonflame (~3200) - the aftermath of the battle against the Coranic Dragon - piklavar, Monsters & Mana AU

Steal to Save (~800) - Pidge “loses” her glasses - canon compliant

to trust a thief (~3800) - followup to other piklavar fic

Deadline (~1000) - Stressful countdown to Lance confessing - canon compliant

Glint of Silver (~5200) - Pidge’s double life just might endanger her werewolf roommate - roommates/urban fantasy AU

masks for two* (1500) - Lady Katie learns she and her fiance have more in common than expected - historical/thieves AU

Bad Press* (~1500) - It’s not easy pretending to date your celebrity friend - fake dating AU

a personal mission* (~780) - Lance is on a mission - canon compliant (?)

the eve of it all* (~1800) - Lance stands Pidge up on game night - season eight fix-it, canon divergent

okay that ended up being way longer than i expected...

BREAKDOWN:

Ship breakdown:

plance wins so easily it’s not even funny. oddly enough considering my current feelings on the pairing Allura/Lance takes second place (though only by very weak implication in one case and...by a very wide margin). and then there are the other mostly implied (Allura/Lotor, Keith/Matt) that occur once each plus an Allura/Keith fic and a gen fic that’s also technically Krolia/Keith’s dad

and then there’s my apparent thing for Hunk bonding with birds

Character breakdown:

Pidge and Lance because *jazz hands* plance. i suppose Hunk and Allura may be split for third place

Characters that had the main focus:

*sweats* hilariously i think it might be...Lance?? i feel like many of my longer fics (whether one-shots or multichapter) end up in his point of view, notably a small step and Misfortune. Pidge is an easy second place though, and which of the two i favor changes. Pidge is, in a sense, a little easier to write but Lance, depending on the tone i’m going for, can be wild fun because he’s so ridiculous sometimes

SPECIFICS:

Best title?

uh...i’m capable of having decent titles?? thing is, my titles tend to be on the nose or else something i forget i need till the point i’m posting a fic, but i like Everywhere Cats partly because it was very much inspired by a simple children’s song i remember my sister playing when she first started learning piano. i also like Facing Reality as a title because of the word play i can be clever

...okay i’m going to stop here because i keep looking back and realizing i like more of those than i thought i did

Worst title?

many of them are so...plain that i’m not sure i can pick just one. sure, they tell you what the story is about, but there’s nothing hidden in them...they’re so bland. throw a dart at a board with all my one-word titles and you’ll probably hit something

Best first line?

let’s go with a masochistic moth to dragonflame:

Pike is smitten the moment he sees her, and it only grows worse when the words family heirloom cross her lips.

Worst first line?

i think my first lines in general are...decent?? nothing spectacular, just meant to convey what’s going on and why it’s important (or that’s what i try to do at least), but out of laziness i’m going with the one from Everywhere Cats:

Hunk settled his helmet onto his head as he walked into the Yellow Lion’s hangar, feeling wonderfully light at the prospect of this mission.

Best last line?

Adrift made me so emotional when i was writing it that i have to use this one:

“Love,” [Krolia] said, “can you turn off the lights? I’m showing Keith the stars.”

Worst last line?

i tend to end my fics rather abruptly (i really really hate unnecessary bits tacked on when everything is pretty much resolved) and/or on dialogue and i’m usually thoughtful of how i end it so i’m not even gonna skim through the rest of my fics because this one from Assassins is just so boring:

She followed General Sahr inside, and this time both Coran and Lotor came with her.

GENERAL:

Looking back, did you write more fics than you thought you would this year, less than you thought, or about what you predicted?

yes, yes i did. also looking back at last year’s list i didn’t even get any of the goals i set accomplished...whoops??

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted last year?

uh...Keith/Matt i guess?? maybe Allura/Lance too because i really don’t like that pairing now (though i used to be indifferent or else somewhat like it) so it’s like a retrospective “well i can’t believe i managed to write them as a romantic pairing”

What’s your favorite story this year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you the happiest.

always will i answer this question with scaled to size because it actually does make me happy, especially thinking of all the pain and suffering i’m only somewhat exaggerating i went through while conceiving of it thanks to a computer mishap (and, tbh, my own neglect), and ultimately all it took to revive it was a timely prompt from the Pidgance Positivity Discord and dare i say it ended up far better than planned??

Okay, NOW your most popular story.

on ao3 by kudos and excluding my collection that’s Smack, Kiss, Fall in Love (i can’t tell if it’s the magic of collaborating with someone like @hailqiqi or the allure of a soulmate AU or a fic with that many chapters). most by comments/bookmarks and second most by kudos is Dueling Hearts.

by notes on tumblr would be Sleep Cute

Story most underappreciated by the universe?

oh gosh i don’t know. throw a dart at my gen fics and you’ll probably hit one?? or else To Sail, To Break, To Earn, my collaboration with @rueitae, could use lots more love i thought you guys liked mermaids

Story that could have been better?

all of them??

Sexiest story?

uh well i’ve never posted anything more explicit than simple foreplay so i suppose that would be Final Lifeline but i also want to make note of like a masochistic moth to dragonflame because i think i did well with a touch of Unresolved Sexual Tension and Bad Press was almost candid about that sort of thing and Lance almost propositioned Pidge by accident

Saddest story?

it’s probably a toss-up between Final Lifeline (major character death on top of a possible awful future), Misfortune (predicted character death), and a small step (they can’t really be together)

Most fun?

Bad Press was a riot while i was working on it. Everywhere Cats was a lot of fun too, as was scaled to size (though tbh i have fun writing a vast majority of my fics...)

Story with single sweetest moment?

nothing really stands out to me at the moment so this is mostly a cop-out (and Pidge and Lance are at their best when they’re teasing each other anyway) from scaled to size:

“Is there…any room for the brave and dashing knight that rescued you in that future?” Lance whispered.

“Maybe, if you find him.”

“Hey!” Lance exclaimed, pulling away from him slightly.

Pidge snickered and wrapped her arms around his neck. “But there’s room for the brave boy that grew into his too-big britches.”

“Yes, but I’m a knight now too,” Lance pointed out.

“Should I call you Sir Lance now?” Pidge raised an eyebrow while one of her hands wandered into his hair and pulled his head down. “But I think I like Lance better…”

Their noses brushed, and Pidge’s warm breath caressed his face.

Lance’s eyes slid shut when he kissed her.

Hardest story to write?

most likely Displaced because i’m not really into Keith/Matt as a romantic pairing (and it ended up more gen anyway) and i wasn’t really enamored by the idea so i was mostly just trying to wrap up what i had without getting into the concept too much

Easiest/most fun story to write?

the night i bolted out of bed possessed by a spark of inspiration thanks to this art to hammer out Masquerade will forever live in infamy

Did any stories shift your perceptions of the characters?

i don’t think so??

Most overdue story?

scaled to size if only because of the frustration i associate with its inception ;_;

Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them?

collaborations, for one, not that it’s especially risky, but i’d never done one so that was fun!! Smack, Kiss, Fall in Love oddly enough validated by typical “write on impulse” style though...

for another, i published a fic in a zine!! also i participated in a Bang and a gift exchange, neither of which i’d done before

also posting the start of a multichapter fic not yet finished is a risk that hasn’t quite payed off yet *sweats*

What are your fic writing goals for next year?

no idea. i’m decidedly not a very goal-oriented person, but for now i think i’ll keep it simple and finish my four dubiously active WIPs, write something amazing for the Plance Mini Bang (which i’m also mod-ing oh boy), and outline as often as possible to ease the writing

#qna #reem writes fic #...yikes this is long #and i got really lazy at the end and put less thought into those last questions

37 notes · View notes

anupamasdiggs · 6 years ago

Text

SV 1

Satan, being thus confined to a vagabond, wandering, unsettled condition, is without any certain abode; for though he has, in consequence of his angelic nature, a kind of empire in the liquid waste or air, yet this is certainly part of his punishment, that he is . . . without any fixed place, or space, allowed him to rest the sole of his foot upon.

Daniel Defoe, _The History of the Devil_

The Angel Gibreel

"To be born again," sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, "first you have to die. Hoji! Hoji! To land upon the bosomy earth, first one needs to fly. Tat-taa! Taka-thun! How to ever smile again, if first you won't cry? How to win the darling's love, mister, without a sigh? Baba, if you want to get born again . . ." Just before dawn one winter's morning, New Year's Day or thereabouts, two real, full-grown, living men fell from a great height, twenty-nine thousand and two feet, towards the English Channel, without benefit of parachutes or wings, out of a clear sky.

"I tell you, you must die, I tell you, I tell you," and thusly and so beneath a moon of alabaster until a loud cry crossed the night, "To the devil with your tunes," the words hanging crystalline in the iced white night, "in the movies you only mimed to playback singers, so spare me these infernal noises now."

Gibreel, the tuneless soloist, had been cavorting in moonlight as he sang his impromptu gazal, swimming in air, butterfly-stroke, breast-stroke, bunching himself into a ball, spreadeagling himself against the almost-infinity of the almost-dawn, adopting heraldic postures, rampant, couchant, pitting levity against gravity. Now he rolled happily towards the sardonic voice. "Ohé, Salad baba, it's you, too good. What-ho, old Chumch." At which the other, a fastidious shadow falling headfirst in a grey suit with all the jacket buttons done up, arms by his sides, taking for granted the improbability of the bowler hat on his head, pulled a nickname-hater's face. "Hey, Spoono," Gibreel yelled, eliciting a second inverted wince, "Proper London, bhai! Here we come! Those bastards down there won't know what hit them. Meteor or lightning or vengeance of God. Out of thin air, baby. _Dharrraaammm!_ Wham, na? What an entrance, yaar. I swear: splat."

Out of thin air: a big bang, followed by falling stars. A universal beginning, a miniature echo of the birth of time . . . the jumbo jet _Bostan_, Flight AI-420, blew apart without any warning, high above the great, rotting, beautiful, snow-white, illuminated city, Mahagonny, Babylon, Alphaville. But Gibreel has already named it, I mustn't interfere: Proper London, capital of Vilayet, winked blinked nodded in the night. While at Himalayan height a brief and premature sun burst into the powdery January air, a blip vanished from radar screens, and the thin air was full of bodies, descending from the Everest of the catastrophe to the milky paleness of the sea.

Who am I?

Who else is there?

The aircraft cracked in half, a seed-pod giving up its spores, an egg yielding its mystery. Two actors, prancing Gibreel and buttony, pursed Mr. Saladin Chamcha, fell like titbits of tobacco from a broken old cigar. Above, behind, below them in the void there hung reclining seats, stereophonic headsets, drinks trolleys, motion discomfort receptacles, disembarkation cards, duty-free video games, braided caps, paper cups, blankets, oxygen masks. Also -- for there had been more than a few migrants aboard, yes, quite a quantity of wives who had been grilled by reasonable, doing-their-job officials about the length of and distinguishing moles upon their husbands' genitalia, a sufficiency of children upon whose legitimacy the British Government had cast its everreasonable doubts -- mingling with the remnants of the plane, equally fragmented, equally absurd, there floated the debris of the soul, broken memories, sloughed-off selves, severed mothertongues, violated privacies, untranslatable jokes, extinguished futures, lost loves, the forgotten meaning of hollow, booming words, _land_, _belonging_, _home_. Knocked a little silly by the blast, Gibreel and Saladin plummeted like bundles dropped by some carelessly open-beaked stork, and because Chamcha was going down head first, in the recommended position for babies entering the birth canal, he commenced to feel a low irritation at the other's refusal to fall in plain fashion. Saladin nosedived while Farishta embraced air, hugging it with his arms and legs, a flailing, overwrought actor without techniques of restraint. Below, cloud-covered, awaiting their entrance, the slow congealed currents of the English Sleeve, the appointed zone of their watery reincarnation.

"O, my shoes are Japanese," Gibreel sang, translating the old song into English in semi-conscious deference to the uprushing host-nation, "These trousers English, if you please. On my head, red Russian hat; my heart's Indian for all that." The clouds were bubbling up towards them, and perhaps it was on account of that great mystification of cumulus and cumulo-nimbus, the mighty rolling thunderheads standing like hammers in the dawn, or perhaps it was the singing (the one busy performing, the other booing the performance), or their blast--delirium that spared them full foreknowledge of the imminent . . . but for whatever reason, the two men, Gibreelsaladin Farishtachamcha, condemned to this endless but also ending angelicdevilish fall, did not become aware of the moment at which the processes of their transmutation began.

Mutation?

Yessir, but not random. Up there in air-space, in that soft, imperceptible field which had been made possible by the century and which, thereafter, made the century possible, becoming one of its defining locations, the place of movement and of war, the planet-shrinker and power-vacuum, most insecure and transitory of zones, illusory, discontinuous, metamorphic, -- because when you throw everything up in the air anything becomes possible -- wayupthere, at any rate, changes took place in delirious actors that would have gladdened the heart of old Mr. Lamarck: under extreme environmental pressure, characteristics were acquired.

What characteristics which? Slow down; you think Creation happens in a rush? So then, neither does revelation . . . take a look at the pair of them. Notice anything unusual? Just two brown men, falling hard, nothing so new about that, you may think; climbed too high, got above themselves, flew too close to the sun, is that it?

That's not it. Listen:

Mr. Saladin Chamcha, appalled by the noises emanating from Gibreel Farishta's mouth, fought back with verses of his own. What Farishta heard wafting across the improbable night sky was an old song, too, lyrics by Mr. James Thomson, seventeenhundred to seventeen-forty-eight. ". . . at Heaven's command," Chamcha carolled through lips turned jingoistically redwhiteblue by the cold, "arooooose from out the aaaazure main." Farishta, horrified, sang louder and louder of Japanese shoes, Russian hats, inviolately subcontinental hearts, but could not still Saladin's wild recital: "And guardian aaaaangels sung the strain."

Let's face it: it was impossible for them to have heard one another, much less conversed and also competed thus in song. Accelerating towards the planet, atmosphere roaring around them, how could they? But let's face this, too: they did.

Downdown they hurtled, and the winter cold frosting their eyelashes and threatening to freeze their hearts was on the point of waking them from their delirious daydream, they were about to become aware of the miracle of the singing, the rain of limbs and babies of which they were a part, and the terror of the destiny rushing at them from below, when they hit, were drenched and instantly iced by, the degree-zero boiling of the clouds.

They were in what appeared to be a long, vertical tunnel. Chamcha, prim, rigid, and still upside-down, saw Gibreel Farishta in his purple bush-shirt come swimming towards him across that cloud-walled funnel, and would have shouted, "Keep away, get away from me," except that something prevented him, the beginning of a little fluttery screamy thing in his intestines, so instead of uttering words of rejection he opened his arms and Farishta swam into them until they were embracing head-to-tail, and the force of their collision sent them tumbling end over end, performing their geminate cartwheels all the way down and along the hole that went to Wonderland; while pushing their way out of the white came a succession of cloudforms, ceaselessly metamorphosing, gods into bulls, women into spiders, men into wolves. Hybrid cloud-creatures pressed in upon them, gigantic flowers with human breasts dangling from fleshy stalks, winged cats, centaurs, and Chamcha in his semi-consciousness was seized by the notion that he, too, had acquired the quality of cloudiness, becoming metamorphic, hybrid, as if he were growing into the person whose head nestled now between his legs and whose legs were wrapped around his long, patrician neck.

This person had, however, no time for such "high falutions"; was, indeed, incapable of faluting at all; having just seen, emerging from the swirl of cloud, the figure of a glamorous woman of a certain age, wearing a brocade sari in green and gold, with a diamond in her nose and lacquer defending her high-coiled hair against the pressure of the wind at these altitudes, as she sat, equably, upon a flying carpet. "Rekha Merchant," Gibreel greeted her. "You couldn't find your way to heaven or what?" Insensitive words to speak to a dead woman! But his concussed, plummeting condition may be offered in mitigation

. . . Chamcha, clutching his legs, made an uncomprehending query: "What the hell?"

"You don't see her?" Gibreel shouted. "You don't see her goddamn Bokhara rug?"

No, no, Gibbo, her voice whispered in his ears, don't expect him to confirm. I am strictly for your eyes only, maybe you are going crazy, what do you think, you namaqool, you piece of pig excrement, my love. With death comes honesty, my beloved, so I can call you by your true names.

Cloudy Rekha murmured sour nothings, but Gibreel cried again to Chamcha: "Spoono? You see her or you don't?"

Saladin Chamcha saw nothing, heard nothing, said nothing. Gibreel faced her alone. "You shouldn't have done it," he admonished her. "No, sir. A sin. A suchmuch thing."

O, you can lecture me now, she laughed. You are the one with the high moral tone, that's a good one. It was you who left me, her voice reminded his ear, seeming to nibble at the lobe. It was you, O moon of my delight, who hid behind a cloud. And I in darkness, blinded, lost, for love.

He became afraid. "What do you want? No, don't tell, just go."

When you were sick I could not see you, in case of scandal, you knew I could not, that I stayed away for your sake, but afterwards you punished, you used it as your excuse to leave, your cloud to hide behind. That, and also her, the icewoman. Bastard. Now that I am dead I have forgotten how to forgive. I curse you, my Gibreel, may your life be hell. Hell, because that's where you sent me, damn you, where you came from, devil, where you're going, sucker, enjoy the bloody dip. Rekha's curse; and after that, verses in a language he did not understand, all harshnesses and sibilance, in which he thought he made out, but maybe not, the repeated name _Al-Lat_.

He clutched at Chamcha; they burst through the bottom of the clouds.

Speed, the sensation of speed, returned, whistling its fearful note. The roof of cloud fled upwards, the water-floor zoomed closer, their eyes opened. A scream, that same scream that had fluttered in his guts when Gibreel swam across the sky, burst from Chamcha's lips; a shaft of sunlight pierced his open mouth and set it free. But they had fallen through the transformations of the clouds, Chamcha and Farishta, and there was a fluidity, an indistinctness, at the edges of them, and as the sunlight hit Chamcha it released more than noise:

"Fly," Chamcha shrieked at Gibreel. "Start flying, now." And added, without knowing its source, the second command: "And sing."

How does newness come into the world? How is it born?

Of what fusions, translations, conjoinings is it made?

How does it survive, extreme and dangerous as it is? What compromises, what deals, what betrayals of its secret nature must it make to stave off the wrecking crew, the exterminating angel, the guillotine?

Is birth always a fall?

Do angels have wings? Can men fly?

When Mr. Saladin Chamcha fell out of the clouds over the English Channel he felt his heart being gripped by a force so implacable that he understood it was impossible for him to die. Afterwards, when his feet were once more firmly planted on the ground, he would begin to doubt this, to ascribe the implausibilities of his transit to the scrambling of his perceptions by the blast, and to attribute his survival, his and Gibreel's, to blind, dumb luck. But at the time he had no doubt; what had taken him over was the will to live, unadulterated, irresistible, pure, and the first thing it did was to inform him that it wanted nothing to do with his pathetic personality, that half-reconstructed affair of mimicry and voices, it intended to bypass all that, and he found himself surrendering to it, yes, go on, as if he were a bystander in his own mind, in his own body, because it began in the very centre of his body and spread outwards, turning his blood to iron, changing his flesh to steel, except that it also felt like a fist that enveloped him from outside, holding him in a way that was both unbearably tight and intolerably gentle; until finally it had conquered him totally and could work his mouth, his fingers, whatever it chose, and once it was sure of its dominion it spread outward from his body and grabbed Gibreel Farishta by the balls.

"Fly," it commanded Gibreel. "Sing."

Chamcha held on to Gibreel while the other began, slowly at first and then with increasing rapidity and force, to flap his arms. Harder and harder he flapped, and as he flapped a song burst out of him, and like the song of the spectre of Rekha Merchant it was sung in a language he did not know to a tune he had never heard. Gibreel never repudiated the miracle; unlike Chamcha, who tried to reason it out of existence, he never stopped saying that the gazal had been celestial, that without the song the flapping would have been for nothing, and without the flapping it was a sure thing that they would have hit the waves like rocks or what and simply burst into pieces on making contact with the taut drum of the sea. Whereas instead they began to slow down. The more emphatically Gibreel flapped and sang, sang and flapped, the more pronounced the deceleration, until finally the two of them were floating down to the Channel like scraps of paper in a breeze.

They were the only survivors of the wreck, the only ones who fell from _Bostan_ and lived. They were found washed up on a beach. The more voluble of the two, the one in the purple shirt, swore in his wild ramblings that they had walked upon the water, that the waves had borne them gently in to shore; but the other, to whose head a soggy bowler hat clung as if by magic, denied this. "God, we were lucky," he said. "How lucky can you get?"

I know the truth, obviously. I watched the whole thing. As to omnipresence and -potence, I'm making no claims at present, but I can manage this much, I hope. Chamcha willed it and Farishta did what was willed.

Which was the miracle worker?

Of what type -- angelic, satanic -- was Farishta's song?

Who am I?

Let's put it this way: who has the best tunes?

These were the first words Gibreel Farishta said when he awoke on the snowbound English beach with the improbability of a starfish by his ear: "Born again, Spoono, you and me. Happy birthday, mister; happy birthday to you."

Whereupon Saladin Chamcha coughed, spluttered, opened his eyes, and, as befitted a new-born babe, burst into foolish tears.

Reincarnation was always a big topic with Gibreel, for fifteen years the biggest star in the history of the Indian movies, even before he "miraculously" defeated the Phantom Bug that everyone had begun to believe would terminate his contracts. So maybe someone should have been able to forecast, only nobody did, that when he was up and about again he would sotospeak succeed where the germs had failed and walk out of his old life forever within a week of his fortieth birthday, vanishing, poof!, like a trick, _into thin air_.

The first people to notice his absence were the four members of his film-studio wheelchair-team. Long before his illness he had formed the habit of being transported from set to set on the great D. W. Rama lot by this group of speedy, trusted athletes, because a man who makes up to eleven movies "sy-multaneous" needs to conserve his energies. Guided by a complex coding system of slashes, circles and dots which Gibreel remembered from his childhood among the fabled lunch-runners of Bombay (of which more later), the chair-men zoomed him from role to role, delivering him as punctually and unerringly as once his father had delivered lunch. And after each take Gibreel would skip back into the chair and be navigated at high speed towards the next set, to be re-costumed, made up and handed his lines. "A career in the Bombay talkies," he told his loyal crew, "is more like a wheelchair race with one-two pit stops along the route."

After the illness, the Ghostly Germ, the Mystery Malaise, the Bug, he had returned to work, easing himself in, only seven pictures at a time . . . and then, justlikethat, he wasn't there. The wheelchair stood empty among the silenced sound-stages; his absence revealed the tawdry shamming of the sets. Wheelchairmen, one to four, made excuses for the missing star when movie executives descended upon them in wrath: Ji, he must be sick, he has always been famous for his punctual, no, why to criticize, maharaj, great artists must from time to time be permitted their temperament, na, and for their protestations they became the first casualties of Farishta's unexplained hey-presto, being fired, four three two one, ekdumjaldi, ejected from studio gates so that a wheelchair lay abandoned and gathering dust beneath the painted coco-palms around a sawdust beach.

Where was Gibreel? Movie producers, left in seven lurches, panicked expensively. See, there, at the Willingdon Club golf links -- only nine holes nowadays, skyscrapers having sprouted out of the other nine like giant weeds, or, let's say, like tombstones marking the sites where the torn corpse of the old city lay -- there, right there, upper-echelon executives, missing the simplest putts; and, look above, tufts of anguished hair, torn from senior heads, wafting down from high-level windows. The agitation of the producers was easy to understand, because in those days of declining audiences and the creation of historical soap operas and contemporary crusading housewives by the television network, there was but a single name which, when set above a picture's title, could still offer a sure-fire, cent-per-cent guarantee of an Ultrahit, a Smashation, and the owner of said name had departed, up, down or sideways, but certainly and unarguably vamoosed . . .

All over the city, after telephones, motorcyclists, cops, frogmen and trawlers dragging the harbour for his body had laboured mightily but to no avail, epitaphs began to be spoken in memory of the darkened star. On one of Rama Studios' seven impotent stages, Miss Pimple Billimoria, the latest chilli-and-spices bombshell -- _she's no flibberti-gibberti mamzel!, but a whir-stir-get-lost-sir bundla dynamite_ -- clad in temple--dancer veiled undress and positioned beneath writhing cardboard representations of copulating Tantric figures from the Chandela period, -- and perceiving that her major scene was not to be, her big break lay in pieces -- offered up a spiteful farewell before an audience of sound recordists and electricians smoking their cynical beedis. Attended by a dumbly distressed ayah, all elbows, Pimple attempted scorn. "God, what a stroke of luck, for Pete's sake," she cried. "I mean today it was the love scene, chhi chhi, I was just dying inside, thinking how to go near to that fatmouth with his breath of rotting cockroach dung." Bell-heavy anklets jingled as she stamped. "Damn good for him the movies don't smell, or he wouldn't get one job as a leper even." Here Pimple's soliloquy climaxed in such a torrent of obscenities that the beedi-smokers sat up for the first time and commenced animatedly to compare Pimple's vocabulary with that of the infamous bandit queen Phoolan Devi whose oaths could melt rifle barrels and turn journalists' pencils to rubber in a trice.

Exit Pimple, weeping, censored, a scrap on a cutting-room floor. Rhinestones fell from her navel as she went, mirroring her tears. . . in the matter of Farishta's halitosis she was not, however, altogether wrong; if anything, she had a little understated the case. Gibreel's exhalations, those ochre clouds of sulphur and brimstone, had always given him -- when taken together with his pronounced widow's peak and crowblack hair -- an air more saturnine than haloed, in spite of his archangelic name. It was said after he disappeared that he ought to have been easy to find, all it took was a halfway decent nose . . . and one week after he took off, an exit more tragic than Pimple Billimoria's did much to intensify the devilish odour that was beginning to attach itself to that forsolong sweet-smelling name. You could .say that he had stepped out of the screen into the world, and in life, unlike the cinema, people know it if you stink.

_We are creatures of air, Our roots in dreams And clouds, reborn In flight. Goodbye_. The enigmatic note discovered by the police in Gibreel Farishta's penthouse, located on the top floor of the Everest Vilas skyscraper on Malabar Hill, the highest home in the highest building on the highest ground in the city, one of those double-vista apartments from which you could look this way across the evening necklace of Marine Drive or that way out to Scandal Point and the sea, permitted the newspaper headlines to prolong their cacophonies. FARISHTA DIVES UNDERGROUND, opined _Blitz_ in somewhat macabre fashion, while Busybee in _The Daily_ preferred GIBREEL FLIES coop. Many photographs were published of that fabled residence in which French interior decorators bearing letters of commendation from Reza Pahlevi for the work they had done at Persepolis had spent a million dollars recreating at this exalted altitude the effect of a Bedouin tent. Another illusion unmade by his absence; GIBREEL STRIKES CAMP, the headlines yelled, but had he gone up or down or sideways? No one knew. In that metropolis of tongues and whispers, not even the sharpest ears heard anything reliable. But Mrs. Rekha Merchant, reading all the papers, listening to all the radio broadcasts, staying glued to the Doordarshan TV programmes, gleaned something from Farishta's message, heard a note that eluded everyone else, and took her two daughters and one son for a walk on the roof of her high-rise home. Its name was Everest Vilas.

His neighbour; as a matter of fact, from the apartment directly beneath his own. His neighbour and his friend; why should I say any more? Of course the scandal-pointed malice-magazines of the city filled their columns with hint innuendo and nudge, but that's no reason for sinking to their level. Why tarnish her reputation now?

Who was she? Rich, certainly, but then Everest Vilas was not exactly a tenement in Kurla, eh? Married, yessir, thirteen years, with a husband big in ball-bearings. Independent, her carpet and antique showrooms thriving at their prime Colaba sites. She called her carpets _klims_ and _kleens_ and the ancient artefacts were _anti-queues_. Yes, and she was beautiful, beautiful in the hard, glossy manner of those rarefied occupants of the city's sky-homes, her bones skin posture all bearing witness to her long divorce from the impoverished, heavy, pullulating earth. Everyone agreed she had a strong personality, drank _like a fish_ from Lalique crystal and hung her hat _shameless_ on a Chola Natraj and knew what she wanted and how to get it, fast. The husband was a mouse with money and a good squash wrist. Rekha Merchant read Gibreel Farishta's farewell note in the newspapers, wrote a letter of her own, gathered her children, summoned the elevator, and rose heavenward (one storey) to meet her chosen fate.

"Many years ago," her letter read, "I married out of cowardice. Now, finally, I'm doing something brave." She left a newspaper on her bed with Gibreel's message circled in red and heavily underscored -- three harsh lines, one of them ripping the page in fury. So naturally the bitch-journals went to town and it was all LOVELY"S LOVELORN LEAP, and BROKEN-HEARTED BEAUTY TAKES LAST DIVE. But:

Perhaps she, too, had the rebirth bug, and Gibreel, not understanding the terrible power of metaphor, had recommended flight. _To be born again,first you have to_ and she was a creature of the sky, she drank Lalique champagne, she lived on Everest, and one of her fellow-Olympians had flown; and if he could, then she, too, could be winged, and rooted in dreams.

She didn't make it. The lala who was employed as gatekeeper of the Everest Vilas compound offered the world his blunt testimony. "I was walking, here here, in the compound only, when there came a thud, _tharaap_. I turned. It was the body of the oldest daughter. Her skull was completely crushed. I looked up and saw the boy falling, and after him the younger girl. What to say, they almost hit me where I stood. I put my hand on my mouth and came to them. The young girl was whining softly. Then I looked up a further time and the Begum was coming. Her sari was floating out like a big balloon and all her hair was loose. I took my eyes away from her because she was fallIng and it was not respectful to look up inside her clothes."

Rekha and her children fell from Everest; no survivors. The whispers blamed Gibreel. Let's leave it at that for the moment.

Oh: don't forget: he saw her after she died. He saw her several times. It was a long time before people understood how sick the great man was. Gibreel, the star. Gibreel, who vanquished the Nameless Ailment. Gibreel, who feared sleep.

After he departed the ubiquitous images of his face began to rot. On the gigantic, luridly coloured hoardings from which he had watched over the populace, his lazy eyelids started flaking and crumbling, drooping further and further until his irises looked like two moons sliced by clouds, or by the soft knives of his long lashes. Finally the eyelids fell off, giving a wild, bulging look to his painted eyes. Outside the picture palaces of Bombay, mammoth cardboard effigies of Gibreel were seen to decay and list. Dangling limply on their sustaining scaffolds, they lost arms, withered, snapped at the neck. His portraits on the covers of movie magazines acquired the pallor of death, a nullity about the eye, a hollowness. At last his images simply faded off the printed page, so that the shiny covers of _Celebrity_ and _Society_ and _Illustrated Weekly_ went blank at the bookstalls and their publishers fired the printers and blamed the quality of the ink. Even on the silver screen itself, high above his worshippers in the dark, that supposedly immortal physiognomy began to putrefy, blister and bleach; projectors jammed unaccountably every time he passed through the gate, his films ground to a halt, and the lamp-heat of the malfunctioning projectors burned his celluloid memory away: a star gone supernova, with the consuming fire spreading outwards, as was fitting, from his lips.

It was the death of God. Or something very like it; for had not that outsize face, suspended over its devotees in the artificial cinematic night, shone like that of some supernal Entity that had its being at least halfway between the mortal and the divine? More than halfway, many would have argued, for Gibreel had spent the greater part of his unique career incarnating, with absolute conviction, the countless deities of the subcontinent in the popular genre movies known as "theologicals". It was part of the magic of his persona that he succeeded in crossing religious boundaries without giving offence. Blue-skinned as Krishna he danced, flute in hand, amongst the beauteous gopis and their udder-heavy cows; with upturned palms, serene, he meditated (as Gautama) upon humanity's suffering beneath a studio-rickety bodhi-tree. On those infrequent occasions when he descended from the heavens he never went too far, playing, for example, both the Grand Mughal and his famously wily minister in the classic _Akbar and Birbal_. For over a decade and a half he had represented, to hundreds of millions of believers in that country in which, to this day, the human population outnumbers the divine by less than three to one, the most acceptable, and instantly recognizable, face of the Supreme. For many of his fans, the boundary separating the performer and his roles had longago ceased to exist.

The fans, yes, and? How about Gibreel?

That face. In real life, reduced to life-size, set amongst ordinary mortals, it stood revealed as oddly un-starry. Those low-slung eyelids could give him an exhausted look. There was, too, something coarse about the nose, the mouth was too well fleshed to be strong, the ears were long-lobed like young, knurled jackfruit. The most profane of faces, the most sensual of faces. In which, of late, it had been possible to make out the seams mined by his recent, near-fatal illness. And yet, in spite of profanity and debilitation, this was a face inextricably mixed up with holiness, perfection, grace: God stuff. No accounting for tastes, that's all. At any rate, you'll agree that for such an actor (for any actor, maybe, even for Chamcha, but most of all for him) to have a bee in his bonnet about avatars, like much-metamorphosed Vishnu, was not so very surprising. Rebirth: that's God stuff, too.

Or, but, then again . . . not always. There are secular reincarnations, too. Gibreel Farishta had been born Ismail Najmuddin in Poona, British Poona at the empire's fag-end, long before the Pune of Rajneesh etc. (Pune, Vadodara, Mumbai; even towns can take stage names nowadays.) Ismail after the child involved in the sacrifice of Ibrahim, and Najmuddin, _star of the faith_; he'd given up quite a name when he took the angel's.

Afterwards, when the aircraft _Bostan_ was in the grip of the hijackers, and the passengers, fearing for their futures, were regressing into their pasts, Gibreel confided to Saladin Chamcha that his choice of pseudonym had been his way of making a homage to the memory of his dead mother, "my mummyji, Spoono, my one and only Mamo, because who else was it who started the whole angel business, her personal angel, she called me, _farishta_, because apparently I was too damn sweet, believe it or not, I was good as goddamn gold."

Poona couldn't hold him; he was taken in his infancy to the bitch-city, his first migration; his father got a job amongst the fleet-footed inspirers of future wheelchair quartets, the lunch-porters or dabbawallas of Bombay. And Ismail the farishta followed, at thirteen, in his father's footsteps.

Gibreel, captive aboard AI-420, sank into forgivable rhapsodies, fixing Chamcha with his glittering eye, explicating the mysteries of the runners' coding system, black swastika red circle yellow slash dot, running in his mind's eye the entire relay from home to office desk, that improbable system by which two thousand dabbawallas delivered, each day, over one hundred thousand lunch-pails, and on a bad day, Spoono, maybe fifteen got mislaid, we were illiterate, mostly, but the signs were our secret tongue.

_Bostan_ circled London, gunmen patrolling the gangways, and the lights in the passenger cabins had been switched off, but Gibreel's energy illuminated the gloom. On the grubby movie screen on which, earlier in the journey, the inflight inevitability of Walter Matthau had stumbled lugubriously into the aerial ubiquity of Goldie Hawn, there were shadows moving, projected by the nostalgia of the hostages, and the most sharply defined of them was this spindly adolescent, Ismail Najmuddin, mummy's angel in a Gandhi cap, running tiffins across the town. The young dabbawalla skipped nimbly through the shadow-crowd, because he was used to such conditions, think, Spoono, picture, thirty-forty tiffins in a long wooden tray on your head, and when the local train stops you have maybe one minute to push on or off, and then running in the streets, flat out, yaar, with the trucks buses scooters cycles and what-all, one-two, one-two, lunch, lunch, the dabbas must get through, and in the monsoon running down the railway line when the train broke down, or waist-deep in water in some flooded street, and there were gangs, Salad baba, truly, organized gangs of dabba-stealers, it's a hungry city, baby, what to tell you, but we could handle them, we were everywhere, knew everything, what thieves could escape our eyes and ears, we never went to any policia, we looked after our own.

At night father and son would return exhausted to their shack by the airport runway at Santacruz and when Ismail's mother saw him approaching, illuminated by the green red yellow of the departing jet-planes, she would say that simply to lay eyes on him made all her dreams come true, which was the first indication that there was something peculiar about Gibreel, because from the beginning, it seemed, he could fulfil people's most secret desires without having any idea of how he did it. His father Najmuddin Senior never seemed to mind that his wife had eyes only for her son, that the boy's feet received nightly pressings while the father's went unstroked. A son is a blessing and a blessing requires the gratitude of the blest.

Naima Najmuddin died. A bus hit her and that was that, Gibreel wasn't around to answer her prayers for life. Neither father nor son ever spoke of grief. Silently, as though it were customary and expected, they buried their sadness beneath extra work, engaging in an inarticulate contest, who could carry the most dabbas on his head, who could acquire the most new contracts per month, who could run faster, as though the greater labour would indicate the greater love. When he saw his father at night, the knotted veins bulging in his neck and at his temples, Ismail Najmuddin would understand how much the older man had resented him, and how important it was for the father to defeat the son and regain, thereby, his usurped primacy in the affections of his dead wife. Once he realized this, the youth eased off, but his father's zeal remained unrelenting, and pretty soon he was getting promotion, no longer a mere runner but one of the organizing muqaddams. When Gibreel was nineteen, Najmuddin Senior became a member of the lunch-runners' guild, the Bombay Tiffin Carriers' Association, and when Gibreel was twenty, his father was dead, stopped in his tracks by a stroke that almost blew him apart. "He just ran himself into the ground," said the guild's General Secretary, Babasaheb Mhatre himself. "That poor bastard, he just ran out of steam." But the orphan knew better. He knew that his father had finally run hard enough and long enough to wear down the frontiers between the worlds, he had run clear out of his skin and into the arms of his wife, to whom he had proved, once and for all, the superiority of his love. Some migrants are happy to depart.

Babasaheb Mhatre sat in a blue office behind a green door above a labyrinthine bazaar, an awesome figure, buddha-fat, one of the great moving forces of the metropolis, possessing the occult gift of remaining absolutely still, never shifting from his room, and yet being everywhere important and meeting everyone who mattered in Bombay. The day after young Ismail's father ran across the border to see Naima, the Babasaheb summoned the young man into his presence. "So? Upset or what?" The reply, with downcast eyes: ji, thank you, Babaji, I am okay. "Shut your face," said Babasaheb Mhatre. "From today you live with me." Butbut, Babaji ... "But me no buts. Already I have informed my goodwife. I have spoken." Please excuse Babaji but how what why? "I have _spoken_."

Gibreel Farishta was never told why the Babasaheb had decided to take pity on him and pluck him from the futurelessness of the streets, but after a while he began to have an idea. Mrs. Mhatre was a thin woman, like a pencil beside the rubbery Babasaheb, but she was filled so full of mother-love that she should have been fat like a potato. When the Baba came home she put sweets into his mouth with her own hands, and at nights the newcomer to the household could hear the great General Secretary of the B T C A protesting, Let me go, wife, I can undress myself. At breakfast she spoon-fed Mhatre with large helpings of malt, and before he went to work she brushed his hair. They were a childless couple, and young Najmuddin understood that the Babasaheb wanted him to share the load. Oddly enough, however, the Begum did not treat the young man as a child. "You see, he is a grown fellow," she told her husband when poor Mhatre pleaded, "Give the boy the blasted spoon of malt." Yes, a grown fellow, "we must make a man of him, husband, no babying for him." "Then damn it to hell," the Babasaheb exploded, "why do you do it to me?" Mrs. Mhatre burst into tears. "But you are everything to me," she wept, "you are my father, my lover, my baby too. You are my lord and my suckling child. If I displease you then I have no life."

Babasaheb Mhatre, accepting defeat, swallowed the tablespoon of malt.

He was a kindly man, which he disguised with insults and noise. To console the orphaned youth he would speak to him, in the blue office, about the philosophy of rebirth, convincing him that his parents were already being scheduled for re-entry somewhere, unless of course their lives had been so holy that they had attained the final grace. So it was Mhatre who started Farishta off on the whole reincarnation business, and not just reincarnation. The Babasaheb was an amateur psychic, a tapper of table-legs and a bringer of spirits into glasses. "But I gave that up," he told his protégé, with many suitably melodramatic inflections, gestures, frowns, "after I got the fright of my bloody life."

Once (Mhatre recounted) the glass had been visited by the most co-operative of spirits, such a too-friendly fellow, see, so I thought to ask him some big questions. _Is there a God_, and that glass which had been running round like a mouse or so just stopped dead, middle of table, not a twitch, completely phutt, kaput. So, then, okay, I said, if you won't answer that try this one instead, and I came right out with it, _Is there a Devil_. After that the glass -- baprebap! -- began to shake -- catch your ears! -- slowslow at first, then faster--faster, like a jelly, until it jumped! -- ai-hai! -- up from the table, into the air, fell down on its side, and -- o-ho! -- into a thousand and one pieces, smashed. Believe don't believe, Babasaheb Mhatre told his charge, but thenandthere I learned my lesson: don't meddle, Mhatre, in what you do not comprehend.

This story had a profound effect on the consciousness of the young listener, because even before his mother's death he had become convinced of the existence of the supernatural world. Sometimes when he looked around him, especially in the afternoon heat when the air turned glutinous, the visible world, its features and inhabitants and things, seemed to be sticking up through the atmosphere like a profusion of hot icebergs, and he had the idea that everything continued down below the surface of the soupy air: people, motor-cars, dogs, movie billboards, trees, nine-tenths of their reality concealed from his eyes. He would blink, and the illusion would fade, but the sense of it never left him. He grew up believing in God, angels, demons, afreets, djinns, as matter-of-factly as if they were bullock-carts or lamp-posts, and it struck him as a failure in his own sight that he had never seen a ghost. He would dream of discovering a magic optometrist from whom he would purchase a pair of greentinged spectacles which would correct his regrettable myopia, and after that he would be able to see through the dense, blinding air to the fabulous world beneath.

From his mother Naima Najmuddin he heard a great many stories of the Prophet, and if inaccuracies had crept into her versions he wasn't interested in knowing what they were. "What a man!" he thought. "What angel would not wish to speak to him?" Sometimes, though, he caught himself in the act of forming blasphemous thoughts, for example when without meaning to, as he drifted off to sleep in his cot at the Mhatre residence, his somnolent fancy began to compare his own condition with that of the Prophet at the time when, having been orphaned and short of funds, he made a great success of his job as the business manager of the wealthy widow Khadija, and ended up marrying her as well. As he slipped into sleep he saw himself sitting on a rose-strewn dais, simpering shyly beneath the sari-pallu which he had placed demurely over his face, while his new husband, Babasaheb Mhatre, reached lovingly towards him to remove the fabric, and gaze at his features in a mirror placed in his lap. This dream of marrying the Babasaheb brought him awake, flushing hotly for shame, and after that he began to worry about the impurity in his make-up that could create such terrible visions.

Mostly, however, his religious faith was a low-key thing, a part of him that required no more special attention than any other. When Babasaheb Mhatre took him into his home it confirmed to the young man that he was not alone in the world, that something was taking care of him, so he was not entirely surprised when the Babasaheb called him into the blue office on the morning of his twenty-first birthday and sacked him without even being prepared to listen to an appeal.

"You're fired," Mhatre emphasized, beaming. "Cashiered, had your chips. Dis-_miss_."

"But, uncle,"

"Shut your face."

Then the Babasaheb gave the orphan the greatest present of his life, informing him that a meeting had been arranged for him at the studios of the legendary film magnate Mr. D. W. Rama; an audition. "It is for appearance only," the Babasaheb said. "Rama is my good friend and we have discussed. A small part to begin, then it is up to you. Now get out of my sight and stop pulling such humble faces, it does not suit."

"But, uncle,"

"Boy like you is too damn goodlooking to carry tiffins on his head all his life. Get gone now, go, be a homosexual movie actor. I fired you five minutes back."

"But, uncle,"

"I have spoken. Thank your lucky stars."

He became Gibreel Farishta, but for four years he did not become a star, serving his apprenticeship in a succession of minor knockabout comic parts. He remained calm, unhurried, as though he could see the future, and his apparent lack of ambition made him something of an outsider in that most self-seeking of industries. He was thought to be stupid or arrogant or both. And throughout the four wilderness years he failed to kiss a single woman on the mouth.

On-screen, he played the fall guy, the idiot who loves the beauty and can't see that she wouldn't go for him in a thousand years, the funny uncle, the poor relation, the village idiot, the servant, the incompetent crook, none of them the type of part that ever rates a love scene. Women kicked him, slapped him, teased him, laughed at him, but never, on celluloid, looked at him or sang to him or danced around him with cinematic love in their eyes. Off-screen, he lived alone in two empty rooms near the studios and tried to imagine what women looked like without clothes on. To get his mind off the subject of love and desire, he studied, becoming an omnivorous autodidact, devouring the metamorphic myths of Greece and Rome, the avatars of Jupiter, the boy who became a flower, the spider-woman, Circe, everything; and the theosophy of Annie Besant, and unified field theory, and the incident of the Satanic verses in the early career of the Prophet, and the politics of Muhammad's harem after his return to Mecca in triumph; and the surrealism of the newspapers, in which butterflies could fly into young girls' mouths, asking to be consumed, and children were born with no faces, and young boys dreamed in impossible detail of earlier incarnations, for instance in a golden fortress filled with precious stones. He filled himself up with God knows what, but he could not deny, in the small hours of his insomniac nights, that he was full of something that had never been used, that he did not know how to begin to use, that is, love. In his dreams he was tormented by women of unbearable sweetness and beauty, so he preferred to stay awake and force himself to rehearse some part of his general knowledge in order to blot out the tragic feeling of being endowed with a larger-than-usual capacity for love, without a single person on earth to offer it to.

His big break arrived with the coming of the theological movies. Once the formula of making films based on the puranas, and adding the usual mixture of songs, dances, funny uncles etc., had paid off, every god in the pantheon got his or her chance to be a star. When D. W. Rama scheduled a production based on the story of Ganesh, none of the leading box-office names of the time were willing to spend an entire movie concealed inside an elephant's head. Gibreel jumped at the chance. That was his first hit, _Ganpati Baba_, and suddenly he was a superstar, but only with the trunk and ears on. After six movies playing the elephantheaded god he was permitted to remove the thick, pendulous, grey mask and put on, instead, a long, hairy tail, in order to play Hanuman the monkey king in a sequence of adventure movies that owed more to a certain cheap television series emanating from Hong Kong than it did to the Ramayana. This series proved so popular that monkey-tails became de rigueur for the city's young bucks at the kind of parties frequented by convent girls known as "firecrackers" because of their readiness to go off with a bang.

After Hanuman there was no stopping Gibreel, and his phenomenal success deepened his belief in a guardian angel. But it also led to a more regrettable development.

(I see that I must, after all, spill poor Rekha's beans.)

Even before he replaced false head with fake tail he had become irresistibly attractive to women. The seductions of his fame had grown so great that several of these young ladies asked him if he would keep the Ganesh-mask on while they made love, but he refused out of respect for the dignity of the god. Owing to the innocence of his upbringing he could not at that time differentiate between quantity and quality and accordingly felt the need to make up for lost time. He had so many sexual partners that it was not uncommon for him to forget their names even before they had left his room. Not only did he become a philanderer of the worst type, but he also learned the arts of dissimulation, because a man who plays gods must be above reproach. So skilfully did he conceal his life of scandal and debauch that his old patron, Babasaheb Mhatre, lying on his deathbed a decade after he sent a young dabbawalla out into the world of illusion, black-money and lust, begged him to get married to prove he was a man. "God-sake, mister," the Babasaheb pleaded, "when I told you back then to go and be a homo I never thought you would take me seriously, there is a limit to respecting one's elders, after all." Gibreel threw up his hands and swore that he was no such disgraceful thing, and that when the right girl came along he would of course undergo nuptials with a will. "What you waiting? Some goddess from heaven? Greta Garbo, Gracekali, who?" cried the old man, coughing blood, but Gibreel left him with the enigma of a smile that allowed him to die without having his mind set entirely at rest.

The avalanche of sex in which Gibreel Farishta was trapped managed to bury his greatest talent so deep that it might easily have been lost forever, his talent, that is, for loving genuinely, deeply and without holding back, the rare and delicate gift which he had never been able to employ. By the time of his illness he had all but forgotten the anguish he used to experience owing to his longing for love, which had twisted and turned in him like a sorcerer's knife. Now, at the end of each gymnastic night, he slept easily and long, as if he had never been plagued by dream-women, as if he had never hoped to lose his heart.

"Your trouble," Rekha Merchant told him when she materialized out of the clouds, "is everybody always forgave you, God knows why, you always got let off, you got away with murder. Nobody ever held you responsible for what you did." He couldn't argue. "God's gift," she screamed at him, "God knows where you thought you were from, jumped-up type from the gutter, God knows what diseases you brought."

But that was what women did, he thought in those days, they were the vessels into which he could pour himself, and when he moved on, they would understand that it was his nature, and forgive. And it was true that nobody blamed him for leaving, for his thousand and one pieces of thoughtlessness, how many abortions, Rekha demanded in the cloud-hole, how many broken hearts. In all those years he was the beneficiary of the infinite generosity of women, but he was its victim, too, because their forgiveness made possible the deepest and sweetest corruption of all, namely the idea that he was doing nothing wrong.

Rekha: she entered his life when he bought the penthouse at Everest Vilas and she offered, as a neighbour and businesswoman, to show him her carpets and antiques. Her husband was at a world-wide congress of ball-bearings manufacturers in Gothenburg, Sweden, and in his absence she invited Gibreel into her apartment of stone lattices from Jaisalmer and carved wooden handrails from Kcralan palaces and a stone Mughal chhatri or cupola turned into a whirlpool bath; while she poured him French champagne she leaned against marbled walls and felt the cool veins of the stone against her back. When he sipped the champagne she teased him, surely gods should not partake of alcohol, and he answered with a line he had once read in an interview with the Aga Khan, O, you know, this champagne is only for outward show, the moment it touches my lips it turns to water. After that it didn't take long for her to touch his lips and deliquesce into his arms. By the time her children returned from school with the ayah she was immaculately dressed and coiffed, and sat with him in the drawing-room, revealing the secrets of the carpet business, confessing that art silk stood for artificial not artistic, telling him not to be fooled by her brochure in which a rug was seductively described as being made of wool plucked from the throats of baby lambs, which means, you see, only _low-grade wool_, advertising, what to do, this is how it is.

He did not love her, was not faithful to her, forgot her birthdays, failed to return her phone calls, turned up when it was most inconvenient owing to the presence in her home of dinner guests from the world of the ball-bearing, and like everyone else she forgave him. But her forgiveness was not the silent, mousy let-off he got from the others. Rekha complained like crazy, she gave him hell, she bawled him out and cursed him for a useless lafanga and haramzada and salah and even, in extremis, for being guilty of the impossible feat of fucking the sister he did not have. She spared him nothing, accusing him of being a creature of surfaces, like a movie screen, and then she went ahead and forgave him anyway and allowed him to unhook her blouse. Gibreel could not resist the operatic forgiveness of Rekha Merchant, which was all the more moving on account of the flaw in her own position, her infidelity to the ball-bearing king, which Gibreel forbore to mention, taking his verbal beatings like a man. So that whereas the pardons he got from the rest of his women left him cold and he forgot them the moment they were uttered, he kept coming back to Rekha, so that she could abuse him and then console him as only she knew how.

Then he almost died.

He was filming at Kanya Kumari, standing on the very tip of Asia, taking part in a fight scene set at the point on Cape Comorin where it seems that three oceans are truly smashing into one another. Three sets of waves rolled in from the west east south and collided in a mighty clapping of watery hands just as Gibreel took a punch on the jaw, perfect timing, and he passed out on the spot, falling backwards into tri-oceanic spume. He did not get up.

To begin with everybody blamed the giant English stunt-man Eustace Brown, who had delivered the punch. He protested vehemently. Was he not the same fellow who had performed opposite Chief Minister N. T. Rama Rao in his many theological movie roles? Had he not perfected the art of making the old man look good in combat without hurting him? Had he ever complained that NTR never pulled his punches, so that he, Eustace, invariably ended up black and blue, having been beaten stupid by a little old guy whom he could've eaten for breakfast, on _toast_, and had he ever, even once, lost his temper? Well, then? How could anyone think he would hurt the immortal Gibreel? -- They fired him anyway and the police put him in the lock-up, just in case.

But it was not the punch that had flattened Gibreel. After the star had been flown into Bombay's Breach Candy Hospital in an Air Force jet made available for the purpose; after exhaustive tests had come up with almost nothing; and while he lay unconscious, dying, with a blood-count that had fallen from his normal fifteen to a murderous four point two, a hospital spokesman faced the national press on Breach Candy's wide white steps. "It is a freak mystery," he gave out. "Call it, if you so please, an act of God."

Gibreel Farishta had begun to haemorrhage all over his insides for no apparent reason, and was quite simply bleeding to death inside his skin. At the worst moment the blood began to seep out through his rectum and penis, and it seemed that at any moment it might burst torrentially through his nose and ears and out of the corners of his eyes. For seven days he bled, and received transfusions, and every clotting agent known to medical science, including a concentrated form of rat poison, and although the treatment resulted in a marginal improvement the doctors gave him up for lost.

The whole of India was at Gibreel's bedside. His condition was the lead item on every radio bulletin, it was the subject of hourly news-flashes on the national television network, and the crowd that gathered in Warden Road was so large that the police had to disperse it with lathi-charges and tear-gas, which they used even though every one of the half-million mourners was already tearful and wailing. The Prime Minister cancelled her appointments and flew to visit him. Her son the airline pilot sat in Farishta's bedroom, holding the actor's hand. A mood of apprehension settled over the nation, because if God had unleashed such an act of retribution against his most celebrated incarnation, what did he have in store for the rest of the country? If Gibreel died, could India be far behind? In the mosques and temples of the nation, packed congregations prayed, not only for the life of the dying actor, but for the future, for themselves.

Who did not visit Gibreel in hospital? Who never wrote, made no telephone call, despatched no flowers, sent in no tiffins of delicious home cooking? While many lovers shamelessly sent him get-well cards and lamb pasandas, who, loving him most of all, kept herself to herself, unsuspected by her ball--bearing of a husband? Rekha Merchant placed iron around her heart, and went through the motions of her daily life, playing with her children, chit-chatting with her husband, acting as his hostess when required, and never, not once, revealed the bleak devastation of her soul.

He recovered.

The recovery was as mysterious as the illness, and as rapid. It, too, was called (by hospital, journalists, friends) an act of the Supreme. A national holiday was declared; fireworks were set off up and down the land. But when Gibreel regained his strength, it became clear that he had changed, and to a startling degree, because he had lost his faith.

On the day he was discharged from hospital he went under police escort through the immense crowd that had gathered to celebrate its own deliverance as well as his, climbed into his Mercedes and told the driver to give all the pursuing vehicles the slip, which took seven hours and fifty-one minutes, and by the end of the manoeuvre he had worked out what had to be done. He got out of the limousine at the Taj hotel and without looking left or right went directly into the great dining-room with its buffet table groaning under the weight of forbidden foods, and he loaded his plate with all of it, the pork sausages from Wiltshire and the cured York hams and the rashers of bacon from godknowswhere; with the gammon steaks of his unbelief and the pig's trotters of secularism; and then, standing there in the middle of the hall, while photographers popped up from nowhere, he began to eat as fast as possible, stuffing the dead pigs into his face so rapidly that bacon rashers hung out of the sides of his mouth.

During his illness he had spent every minute of consciousness calling upon God, every second of every minute. Ya Allah whose servant lies bleeding do not abandon me now after watching oven me so long. Ya Allah show me some sign, some small mark of your favour, that I may find in myself the strength to cure my ills. O God most beneficent most merciful, be with me in this my time of need, my most grievous need. Then it occurred to him that he was being punished, and for a time that made it possible to suffer the pain, but after a time he got angry. Enough, God, his unspoken words demanded, why must I die when I have not killed, are you vengeance or are you love? The anger with God carried him through another day, but then it faded, and in its place there came a terrible emptiness, an isolation, as he realized he was talking to _thin air_, that there was nobody there at all, and then he felt more foolish than ever in his life, and he began to plead into the emptiness, ya Allah, just be there, damn it, just be. But he felt nothing, nothing nothing, and then one day he found that he no longer needed there to be anything to feel. On that day of metamorphosis the illness changed and his recovery began. And to prove to himself the non-existence of God, he now stood in the dining-hall of the city's most famous hotel, with pigs falling out of his face.

He looked up from his plate to find a woman watching him. Her hair was so fair that it was almost white, and her skin possessed the colour and translucency of mountain ice. She laughed at him and turned away.

"Don't you get it?" he shouted after her, spewing sausage fragments from the corners of his mouth. "No thunderbolt. That's the point."

She came back to stand in front of him. "You're alive," she told him. "You got your life back. _That's_ the point."

He told Rekha: the moment she turned around and started walking back I fell in love with her. Alleluia Cone, climber of mountains, vanquisher of Everest, blonde yahudan, ice queen. Her challenge, _change your life, or did you get it back for nothing_, I couldn't resist.

"You and your reincarnation junk," Rekha cajoled him. "Such a nonsense head. You come out of hospital, back through death's door, and it goes to your head, crazy boy, at once you must have some escapade thing, and there she is, hey presto, the blonde mame. Don't think I don't know what you're like, Gibbo, so what now, you want me to forgive you or what?"

No need, he said. He left Rekha's apartment (its mistress wept, face-down, on the floor); and never entered it again.

Three days after he met her with his mouth full of unclean meat Allie got into an aeroplane and left. Three days out of time behind a do-not-disturb sign, but in the end they agreed that the world was real, what was possible was possible and what was impossible was im--, brief encounter, ships that pass, love in a transit lounge. After she left, Gibreel rested, tried to shut his ears to her challenge, resolved to get his life back to normal. Just because he'd lost his belief it didn't mean he couldn't do his job, and in spite of the scandal of the ham-eating photographs, the first scandal ever to attach itself to his name, he signed movie contracts and went back to work.

And then, one morning, a wheelchair stood empty and he had gone. A bearded passenger, one Ismail Najmuddin, boarded Flight AI-420 to London. The 747 was named after one of the gardens of Paradise, not Gulistan but _Bostan_. "To be born again," Gibrecl Farishta said to Saladin Chamcha much later, "first you have to die. Me, I only half-expired, but I did it on two occasions, hospital and plane, so it adds up, it counts. And now, Spoono my friend, here I stand before you in Proper London, Vilayet, regenerated, a new man with a new life. Spoono, is this not a bloody fine thing?"

Why did he leave?

Because of her, the challenge of her, the newness, the fierceness of the two of them together, the inexorability of an impossible thing that was insisting on its right to become.

And, or, maybe: because after he ate the pigs the retribution began, a nocturnal retribution, a punishment of dreams.

Once the flight to London had taken off, thanks to his magic trick of crossing two pairs of fingers on each hand and rotating his thumbs, the narrow, fortyish fellow who sat in a non-smoking window seat watching the city of his birth fall away from him like old snakeskin allowed a relieved expression to pass briefly across his face. This face was handsome in a somewhat sour, patrician fashion, with long, thick, downturned lips like those of a disgusted turbot, and thin eyebrows arching sharply over eyes that watched the world with a kind of alert contempt. Mr. Saladin Chamcha had constructed this face with care -- it had taken him several years to get it just right -- and for many more years now he had thought of it simply as _his own_ -- indeed, he had forgotten what he had looked like before it. Furthermore, he had shaped himself a voice to go with the face, a voice whose languid, almost lazy vowels contrasted disconcertingly with the sawn--off abruptness of the consonants. The combination of face and voice was a potent one; but, during his recent visit to his home town, his first such visit in fifteen years (the exact period, I should observe, of Gibreel Farishta's film stardom), there had been strange and worrying developments. It was unfortunately the case that his voice (the first to go) and, subsequently, his face itself, had begun to let him down.

It started -- Chamcha, allowing fingers and thumbs to relax and hoping, in some embarrassment, that his last remaining superstition had gone unobserved by his fellow-passengers, closed his eyes and remembered with a delicate shudder of horror -- on his flight east some weeks ago. He had fallen into a torpid sleep, high above the desert sands of the Persian Gulf, and been visited in a dream by a bizarre stranger, a man with a glass skin, who rapped his knuckles mournfully against the thin, brittle membrane covering his entire body and begged Saladin to help him, to release him from the prison of his skin. Chamcha picked up a stone and began to batter at the glass. At once a latticework of blood oozed up through the cracked surface of the stranger's body, and when Chamcha tried to pick off the broken shards the other began to scream, because chunks of his flesh were coming away with the glass. At this point an air stewardess bent over the sleeping Chamcha and demanded, with the pitiless hospitality of her tribe: _Something to drink, sir? A drink?_, and Saladin, emerging from the dream, found his speech unaccountably metamorphosed into the Bombay lilt he had so diligently (and so long ago!) unmade. "Achha, means what?" he mumbled. "Alcoholic beverage or what?" And, when the stewardess reassured him, whatever you wish, sir, all beverages are gratis, he heard, once again, his traitor voice: "So, okay, bibi, give one whiskysoda only."

What a nasty surprise! He had come awake with a jolt, and sat stiffly in his chair, ignoring alcohol and peanuts. How had the past bubbled up, in transmogrified vowels and vocab? What next? Would he take to putting coconut-oil in his hair? Would he take to squeezing his nostrils between thumb and forefinger, blowing noisily and drawing forth a glutinous silver arc of muck? Would he become a devotee of professional wrestling? What further, diabolic humiliations were in store? He should have known it was a mistake to _go home_, after so long, how could it be other than a regression; it was an unnatural journey; a denial of time; a revolt against history; the whole thing was bound to be a disaster.

_I'm not myself_, he thought as a faint fluttering feeling began in the vicinity of his heart. But what does that mean, anyway, he added bitterly. After all, "les acteurs ne sont pas des gens", as the great ham Frederick had explained in _Les Enfants du Paradis_. Masks beneath masks until suddenly the bare bloodless skull.

The seatbelt light came on, the captain's voice warned of air turbulence, they dropped in and out of air pockets. The desert lurched about beneath them and the migrant labourer who had boarded at Qatar clutched at his giant transistor radio and began to retch. Chamcha noticed that the man had not fastened his belt, and pulled himself together, bringing his voice back to its haughtiest English pitch. "Look here, why don't you. . ." he indicated, but the sick man, between bursts of heaving into the paper bag which Saladin had handed him just in time, shook his head, shrugged, replied: "Sahib, for what? If Allah wishes me to die, I shall die. If he does not, I shall not. Then of what use is the safety?"

Damn you, India, Saladin Chamcha cursed silently, sinking back into his seat. To hell with you, I escaped your clutches long ago, you won't get your hooks into me again, you cannot drag me back.

Once upon a time -- _it was and it was not so_, as the old stories used to say, _it happened and it never did_ -- maybe, then, or maybe not, a ten-year-old boy from Scandal Point in Bombay found a wallet lying in the Street outside his home. He was on the way home from school, having just descended from the school bus on which he had been obliged to sit squashed between the adhesive sweatiness of boys in shorts and be deafened by their noise, and because even in those days he was a person who recoiled from raucousness, jostling and the perspiration of strangers he was feeling faintly nauseated by the long, bumpy ride home. However, when he saw the black leather billfold lying at his feet, the nausea vanished, and he bent down excitedly and grabbed, -- opened, -- and found, to his delight, that it was full of cash, -- and not merely rupees, but real money, negotiable on black markets and international exchanges, -- pounds! Pounds sterling, from Proper London in the fabled country of Vilayet across the black water and far away. Dazzled by the thick wad of foreign currency, the boy raised his eyes to make sure he had not been observed, and for a moment it seemed to him that a rainbow had arched down to him from the heavens, a rainbow like an angel's breath, like an answered prayer, coming to an end in the very spot on which he stood. His fingers trembled as they reached into the wallet, towards the fabulous hoard.

"Give it." It seemed to him in later life that his father had been spying on him throughout his childhood, and even though Changez Chamchawala was a big man, a giant even, to say nothing of his wealth and public standing, he still always had the lightness of foot and also the inclination to sneak up behind his son and spoil whatever he was doing, whipping the young Salahuddin's bedsheet off at night to reveal the shameful penis in the clutching, red hand. And he could smell money from a hundred and one miles away, even through the stink of chemicals and fertilizer that always hung around him owing to his being the country's largest manufacturer of agricultural sprays and fluids and artificial dung. Changez Chamchawala, philanthropist, philanderer, living legend, leading light of the nationalist movement, sprang from the gateway of his home to pluck a bulging wallet from his son's frustrated hand. "Tch tch," he admonished, pocketing the pounds sterling, "you should not pick things up from the street. The ground is dirty, and money is dirtier, anyway."

On a shelf of Changez Chamchawala's teak-lined study, beside a ten-volume set of the Richard Burton translation of the Arabian Nights, which was being slowly devoured by mildew and bookworm owing to the deep-seated prejudice against books which led Changez to own thousands of the pernicious things in order to humiliate them by leaving them to rot unread, there stood a magic lamp, a brightly polished copper--and--brass avatar of Aladdin's very own genie-container: a lamp begging to be rubbed. But Changez neither rubbed it nor permitted it to be rubbed by, for example, his son. "One day," he assured the boy, "you'll have it for yourself. Then rub and rub as much as you like and see what doesn't come to you. Just now, but, it is mine." The promise of the magic lamp infected Master Salahuddin with the notion that one day his troubles would end and his innermost desires would be gratified, and all he had to do was wait it out; but then there was the incident of the wallet, when the magic of a rainbow had worked for him, not for his father but for him, and Changez Chamchawala had stolen the crock of gold. After that the son became convinced that his father would smother all his hopes unless he got away, and from that moment he became desperate to leave, to escape, to place oceans between the great man and himself.

Salahuddin Chamchawala had understood by his thirteenth year that he was destined for that cool Vilayet full of the crisp promises of pounds sterling at which the magic billfold had hinted, and he grew increasingly impatient of that Bombay of dust, vulgarity, policemen in shorts, transvestites, movie fanzines, pavement sleepers and the rumoured singing whores of Grant Road who had begun as devotees of the Yellamma cult in Karnataka but ended up here as dancers in the more prosaic temples of the flesh. He was fed up of textile factories and local trains and all the confusion and superabundance of the place, and longed for that dream-Vilayet of poise and moderation that had come to obsess him by night and day. His favourite playground rhymes were those that yearned for foreign cities: kitchy--con kitchy-ki kitchy-con stanty-eye kitchy-ople kitchy-cople kitchyCon-stanti-nople. And his favourite game was the version ofgrandmother's footsteps in which, when he was it, he would turn his back on upcreeping playmates to gabble out, like a mantra, like a spell, the six letters of his dream--city, _ellowen deeowen_. In his secret heart, he crept silently up on London, letter by letter, just as his friends crept up to him. _Ellowen deeowen London_.

The mutation of Salahuddin Chamchawala into Saladin Chamcha began, it will be seen, in old Bombay, long before he got close enough to hear the lions of Trafalgar roar. When the England cricket team played India at the Brabourne Stadium, he prayed for an England victory, for the game's creators to defeat the local upstarts, for the proper order of things to be maintained. (But the games were invariably drawn, owing to the featherbed somnolence of the Brabourne Stadium wicket; the great issue, creator versus imitator, colonizer against colonized, had perforce to remain unresolved.)

In his thirteenth year he was old enough to play on the rocks at Scandal Point without having to be watched over by his ayah, Kasturba. And one day (it was so, it was not so), he strolled out of the house, that ample, crumbling, salt-caked building in the Parsi style, all columns and shutters and little balconies, and through the garden that was his father's pride and joy and which in a certain evening light could give the impression of being infinite (and which was also enigmatic, an unsolved riddle, because nobody, not his father, not the gardener, could tell him the names of most of the plants and trees), and out through the main gateway, a grandiose folly, a reproduction of the Roman triumphal arch of Septimius Severus, and across the wild insanity of the street, and over the sea wall, and so at last on to the broad expanse of shiny black rocks with their little shrimpy pools. Christian girls giggled in frocks, men with furled umbrellas stood silent and fixed upon the blue horizon. In a hollow of black stone Salahuddin saw a man in a dhoti bending over a pool. Their eyes met, and the man beckoned him with a single finger which he then laid across his lips. _Shh_, and the mystery of rock-pools drew the boy towards the stranger. He was a creature of bone. Spectacles framed in what might have been ivory. His finger curling, curling, like a baited hook, come. When Salahuddin came down the other grasped him, put a hand around his mouth and forced his young hand between old and fleshless legs, to feel the fleshbone there. The dhoti open to the winds. Salahuddin had never known how to fight; he did what he was forced to do, and then the other simply turned away from him and let him go.

After that Salahuddin never went to the rocks at Scandal Point; nor did he tell anyone what had happened, knowing the neurasthenic crises it would unleash in his mother and suspecting that his father would say it was his own fault. It seemed to him that everything loathsome, everything he had come to revile about his home town, had come together in the stranger's bony embrace, and now that he had escaped that evil skeleton he must also escape Bombay, or die. He began to concentrate fiercely upon this idea, to fix his will upon it at all times, eating shitting sleeping, convincing himself that he could make the miracle happen even without his father's lamp to help him out. He dreamed of flying out of his bedroom window to discover that there, below him, was -- not Bombay -- but Proper London itself, Bigben Nelsonscolumn Lordstavern Bloodytower Queen. But as he floated out over the great metropolis he felt himself beginning to lose height, and no matter how hard he struggled kicked swam-in-air he continued to spiral slowly downwards to earth, then faster, then faster still, until he was screaming headfirst down towards the city, Saintpauls, Puddinglane, Threadneedlestreet, zeroing in on London like a bomb.

o o o

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