How
often, we fascinate, the illusions tiptoed into our life, ruled over harsh
reality. We sense comfort for a while, get lost into the pages of fiction,
Authors take us into realm where jinn exist, they fly, some of them slither on
the turf like snake. After reading Salman Rushdie, we run on the same old
ground and his protagonist that amorphous creature flashes, his shadow inhibit
into our sentience. Author’s world deliver us a cocoon, entwined into time of
strangeness, we inherit his element. In the fast spinning wheel of realty we
teeter on glimpses and his phrases.
- Ankita Chauhan