In Salman Rushdie’s latest literary escapade, *The Eleventh Hour*, death isn’t just a passing motif; it’s practically the guest of honor at a dinner party—complete with a scythe and a reluctant smile. The opening tale presents us with two octogenarians as they wade through the fog of twilight, assessing their respective fates. “They were eighty-one years old,” Rushdie notes, “If old age was thought of as an evening, ending in midnight oblivion, they were well into the eleventh hour.” Sounds cozy, right?
Rushdie himself is 78 and seems to have developed a keen awareness of the ticking clock—kind of like a toddler with a timer on a birthday cake. Yet, miraculously, the specter he wrestles with is that of ordinary death and not the dark intentions of an assassin. It’s almost been three years since a young Islamist attempted to expedite Rushdie’s one-way ticket to the afterlife, leaving him with the added accessories of blindness in one eye and paralysis in one hand. Think of it as a tragic, low-budget superhero origin story.
Strangely enough, this near brush with death seems to have turbocharged his productivity. In an interview, Rushdie expressed a rather poignant sentiment: “I have this very strong feeling of ‘don’t waste your time.’” It’s almost as if mortality turned up at Rushdie’s door, handed him a list of ‘Things To Do Before You Kick the Bucket,’ and then promptly left for brunch.
His reflections on existence feel almost noble. If death is a recurring theme in these tales, one could argue it’s not just due to personal musings but perhaps a result of having outlasted more friends than at a particularly awkward high school reunion. In fact, humor shines through the morbid: the opening story, *In the South*, revolves around two elderly gentlemen sharing a dubious measure of life, living side by side, hurling insults like seasoned duelists. “You look terrible,” Junior declares each morning. Senior’s sage retort? “That’s better than looking, as you do, like a man who is still waiting to live.” Ah, the sweet, sweet joy of banter as a life force.
This playful bickering is, ironically, what keeps them tethered to life. After all, for the elderly, the bleak truth is that their contemporaries are disappearing faster than cookies at a kid’s birthday party—leaving behind nothing but memories and well-timed eye rolls. “The old move through the world of the young like shades, unseen, of no concern. But the shadows see each other and know who they are,” Rushdie writes, which sounds eerily poetic until you consider it at face value: poetic shade is still, you know, shade.
Tales of Absurdity and Revenge
In a twist of fate, death becomes the centerpiece of *Late*—a fittingly titled tale that opens with the blunt admission: “When the Honorary Fellow S. M. Arthur woke up in his darkened College bedroom he was dead.” Talk about a rude awakening! This paints a rather dreary picture of King’s College, a place that makes Hogwarts look like a weekend at the beach. Arthur’s ghost haunts the hallways, revealing himself only to Rosa, an Indian girl who possesses the uncanny ability to talk to the dead. Unfinished business? Check. Revenge? Double check. At least he has a solid excuse for not writing a second novel.
Rushdie’s tales flit between the lush landscapes of India, the often-mundane heart of England, and across the sprawling sprawl of the US. *The Musician of Kahani*, for instance, showcases a young prodigy using her music to exact vengeance on the arrogant elite and frauds galore—because who doesn’t love a little melodious retribution? With magical realism making a cheeky appearance, she charms her audience with melodies that prove to be devastatingly effective. After all, who wouldn’t want a 150-year life blessing thrown in at their wedding while side-eyeing their biological clock?
Stranger Than Fiction
Arguably the oddest tale in this collection is *Oklahoma*, which pays homage to the notion of “untrue but true” narratives. A young fan’s obsession with a celebrity writer leads to an identity crisis that borders on surreal. We find ourselves stuck in a dreamlike tangle where reality and fiction swirl like a pancake at brunch. One can only wonder if Rushdie had a diet coke or something stronger while crafting this strange concoction.
While Rushdie may wrangle with the grim reaper through the pages, his grappling gives birth to a vibrancy in storytelling, making us laugh cheekily in the face of our inevitable end—if only to keep the existential dread at bay.
Melanie McDonagh, it seems, appreciates the nuances of life and literature as much as one can while navigating the absurd. *The Eleventh Hour* by Salman Rushdie is available now (£18.99, Jonathan Cape) for those interested in delving into these existential jests.
This revision transforms the initial article into a wittier, more ironic piece while retaining insights about Rushdie’s reflections on death and the themes of his latest work.
