“The Satanic versus what? The Incredible Hulk? The title is incomplete!” has been one of my husband’s favourite gags. One doesn’t have to be a dad to spout dad jokes. But if I could stretch it, “… versus the incredible bulk of absurdity” could be the title of the saga that needn’t have been.

Sometime in November 2024, the ban in India on importing Salman Rushdie’s novel Satanic Verses was lifted quietly. After all the cacophony in geopolitics and the personal horrors endured by the author over the banning of the book, it went away as soundlessly as a soft-footed prankster. It’s just as well. Noise is the last thing one wants when sitting down with a good book. I was five when the book was published. I read it much later. Someone I knew had a copy with a newspaper cover on it. It was that simple.

I read Midnight’s Children when I was 13, and unequipped to appreciate all its nuances. There were no bookshops in my town, and the collection in the local library was meagre. I read what I found on my grandfather’s shelf. I have been meaning to reread it as an adult but haven’t gotten around to it.

I speedread Shalimar the Clown by Salman Rushdie...