Enough high-minded comment has been passed on the Salman Rushdie-Imran Khan slugfest, sparked off by Rushdie’s speech at the India Today Conclave.
So it’s time to lower the tone now. After all, how long can we be expected to keep our faces frozen in pious expression when all we really want to do is giggle into our Rieslings at the sight of two of the world’s most celebrated middle-aged rakes slugging it out in public?
Witness the audience reaction at the venue while Rushdie spoke. Primed to arrive with their serious we-can-read-without-moving-our-lips expressions, at first — except for a few nervous titters — no one quite knew how to respond when Rushdie began his volley against the ageing Lothario from across the border.
But soon Mr CEO in the middle reaches of the audience stopped glancing at the Nasdaq website on his Blackberry when he realised that instead of another boring speech by the jhola types, he’d landed himself a seat at a sparkling after-dinner address at a tasteful Hacienda in Juhu.
His beaming glance at his wife conveyed “See, aren’t you glad we came here instead of the Malhotra farmhouse?”
Rushdie’s mischievous school-boy chortle as he did his Jerry number on a lumbering and absent Tom or Im the Dim ought to have alerted his audience. Not for nothing is he known as the thinking woman’s pin-up in households from Manhattan to London.
His mission was diabolical: to demolish the opponents of free-speech, of course, but also to convey to people that even while freedom, liberty and equality were principles worth dying for, you didn’t have to forego a sense of fun in this pursuit. “Loosen up” was the sub-text of his delivery.
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Unfortunately for him, his audience, who by now had realised that Conclaves could be things of beauty and joys forever, took this message a little too literally.
As the floor was thrown open for audience questions, Mr Punjab da puttar rose a bit unsteadily and spoke his mind. “How you date such beautiful women,” he asked, “even taller than you?” After all, here was a man who clearly didn’t do as many pushups at the gym as he, obviously hadn’t experienced the torture of a hair-transplant yet and didn’t even look like he quaffed Power shakes and raw eggs. What was his secret yaar? Surely writing some book-shook couldn’t be enough?
Rushdie’s retort, “what can I say — I’m just so irresistible”, ought to have been a swift reprisal that people had missed the point of his address: you can (and must) have fun at such events. But please don’t leave your brains at home!
But the audience had sex on its mind. After all, so many alpha-males (swashbuckling Aatish Taseer too) jostling for their attention in one evening had their testosterone on high alert.
After the mandatory questions about freedom and censorship, it was back to business. Mr Haryanvi, who had been sleeping till now, stood up even as his wife tried to tug at his hem. “Are you threatened by Imran?” he asked thinking that Rushdie’s diatribe against the fast bowler was about rivalry over some English model-type.
While a certain Mrs G in the front row made a mental note that she must not invite Rushdie and Imran to her next party together. Perhaps just Aatish would do.
Malavika Sangghvi is a Mumbai-based writer
malavikasangghvi@hotmail.com