The Satanic Verses

Mirza Saeed saw Mishal, who was being supported by two of the village men, because she was no longer strong enough to stand up by herself. Ayesha was beside her, and Saeed had the idea that the prophetess had somehow stepped out of the dying woman, that all the brightness of Mishal had hopped out of her body and taken this mythological shape, leaving a husk behind to die. Then he was angry with himself for allowing Ayesha's supernaturalism to infect him, too.

The villagers of Titlipur had agreed to follow Ayesha after a long discussion in which they had asked her not to take part. Their common sense told them that it would be foolish to turn back when they had come so far and were in sight of their first goal; but the new doubts in their minds sapped their strength. It was as if they were emerging from some Shangri-La of Ayesha's making, because now that they were simply walking behind her rather than following her in the true sense, they seemed to age and sicken with every step they took. By the time they saw the sea they were a lame, tottering, rheumy, feverish, red-eyed bunch, and Mirza Saeed wondered how many of them would manage the final few yards to the water's edge.

The butterflies were with them, high over their heads.

‘What now, Ayesha?’ Saeed called out to her, filled with the horrible notion that his beloved wife might die here under the hoofs of ponies for rent and beneath the eyes of sugarcane-juice vendors. ‘You have brought us all to the edges of extinction, but here is an unquestionable fact: the sea. Where is your angel now?’

She climbed up, with the villagers’ help, on to an unused thela lying next to a soft-drink stall, and didn't answer Saeed until she could look down at him from her new perch. ‘Gibreel says the sea is like our souls. When we open them, we can move through into wisdom. If we can open our hearts, we can open the sea.’

‘Partition was quite a disaster here on land,’ he taunted her. ‘Quite a few guys died, you might remember. You think it will be different in the water?’

‘Shh,’ said Ayesha suddenly. ‘The angel's almost here.’

It was, on the face of it, surprising that after all the attention the march had received the crowd at the beach was no better than moderate; but the authorities had taken many precautions, closing roads, diverting traffic; so there were perhaps two hundred gawpers on the beach. Nothing to worry about.

What was strange was that the spectators did not see the butterflies, or what they did next. But Mirza Saeed clearly observed the great glowing cloud fly out over the sea; pause; hover; and form itself into the shape of a colossal being, a radiant giant constructed wholly of tiny beating wings, stretching from horizon to horizon, filling the sky.

‘The angel!’ Ayesha called to the pilgrims. ‘Now you see! He's been with us all the way. Do you believe me now?’ Mirza Saeed saw absolute faith return to the pilgrims. ‘Yes,’ they wept, begging her forgiveness. ‘Gibreel! Gibreel! Ya Allah.’

Mirza Saeed made his last effort. ‘Clouds take many shapes,’ he shouted. ‘Elephants, film stars, anything. Look, it's changing even now.’ But nobody paid any attention to him; they were watching, full of amazement, as the butterflies dived into the sea.

The villagers were shouting and dancing for joy. ‘The parting! The parting!’ they cried. Bystanders called out to Mirza Saeed: ‘Hey, mister, what are they getting so fired up about? We can't see anything going on.’

Ayesha had begun to walk towards the water, and Mishal was being dragged along by her two helpers. Saeed ran to her and began to struggle with the village men. ‘Let go of my wife. At once! Damn you! I am your zamindar. Release her; remove your filthy hands!’ But Mishal whispered: ‘They won't. Go away, Saeed. You are closed. The sea only opens for those who are open.’

‘Mishal!’ he screamed, but her feet were already wet.

Once Ayesha had entered the water the villagers began to run. Those who could not leapt upon the backs of those who could. Holding their babies, the mothers of Titlipur rushed into the sea; grandsons bore their grandmothers on their shoulders and rushed into the waves. Within minutes the entire village was in the water, splashing about, falling over, getting up, moving steadily forwards, towards the horizon, never looking back to shore. Mirza Saeed was in the water, too. ‘Come back,’ he beseeched his wife. ‘Nothing is happening; come back.’

At the water's edge stood Mrs Qureishi, Osman, the Sarpanch, Sri Srinivas. Mishal's mother was sobbing operatically: ‘O my baby, my baby. What will become?’ Osman said: ‘When it becomes clear that miracles don't happen, they will turn back.’

‘And the butterflies?’ Srinivas asked him, querulously. ‘What were they? An accident?’

It dawned on them that the villagers were not coming back. ‘They must be nearly out of their depth,’ the Sarpanch said. ‘How many of them can swim?’ asked blubbering Mrs. Qureishi. ‘Swim?’ shouted Srinivas. ‘Since when can village folk swim?’ They were all screaming at one another as if they were miles apart, jumping from foot to foot, their bodies willing them to enter the water, to do something. They looked as if they were dancing on a fire. The incharge of the police squad that had been sent down for crowd control purposes came up as Saeed came ru

‘What is befalling?’ the officer asked. ‘What is the agitation?’

‘Stop them,’ Mirza Saeed panted, pointing out to sea.

‘Are they miscreants?’ the policeman asked.

‘They are going to die,’ Saeed replied.

It was too late. The villagers, whose heads could be seen bobbing about in the distance, had reached the edge of the underwater shelf. Almost all together, making no visible attempt to save themselves, they dropped beneath the water's surface. In moments, every one of the Ayesha Pilgrims had sunk out of sight.

None of them reappeared. Not a single gasping head or thrashing arm.

Saeed, Osman, Srinivas, the Sarpanch, and even fat Mrs. Qureishi ran into the water, shrieking: ‘God have mercy; come on, everybody, help.’

Human beings in danger of drowning struggle against the water. It is against human nature simply to walk forwards meekly until the sea swallows you up. But Ayesha, Mishal Akhtar and the villagers of Titlipur subsided below sea-level; and were never seen again.

Mrs. Qureishi was pulled to shore by policemen, her face blue, her lungs full of water, and needed the kiss of life. Osman, Srinivas and the Sarpanch were dragged out soon afterwards. Only Mirza Saeed Akhtar continued to dive, further and further out to sea, staying under for longer and longer periods; until he, too, was rescued from the Arabian Sea, spent, sick and fainting. The pilgrimage was over.

Mirza Saeed awoke in a hospital ward to find a CID man by his bedside. The authorities were considering the feasibility of charging the survivors of the Ayesha expedition with attempted illegal emigration, and detectives had been instructed to get down their stories before they had had a chance to confer.

This was the testimony of the Sarpanch of Titlipur, Muhammad Din: ‘Just when my strength had failed and I thought I would surely die there in the water, I saw it with my own eyes; I saw the sea divide, like hair being combed; and they were all there, far away, walking away from me. She was there also, my wife, Khadija, whom I loved.’

This is what Osman the bullock-boy told the detectives, who had been badly shaken by the Sarpanch's deposition: ‘At first I was in great fear of drowning myself Still, I was searching searching, mainly for her, Ayesha, whom I knew from before her alteration. And just at the last, I saw it happen, the marvellous thing. The water opened, and I saw them go along the ocean-floor, among the dying fish.’