Excerpts from Salman Rushdie's "The Eleventh Hour"

Published by Random House on Tuesday, the renowned writer Salman Rushdie unveils a poignant new suite of stories. This marks his first fictional work since the 2022 assault that nearly claimed his life. Through these narratives, Rushdie delves into encounters with spectral figures and the inexorable flow of time.

Below is an excerpt from the collection.

Junior's day of misfortune commenced like countless others—with the oppressive warmth shimmering in the air, the day's bright rays beating down, and the city's ceaseless vehicular ebb and flow. Distant prayer chants mingled with cheap cinematic tunes emanating from a downstairs source, accompanied by a dance number flickering across a neighbor's television. Nearby, the cry of a child and a mother's sharp tone disrupted the air, while a cacophony of bicycles and the aroma of robust coffee filled the senses. The verdant flash of a bird in a tree heightened the morning scene.

Residing in a sea-green structure along a foliage-lined pathway, just a stone's throw from Elliot's Beach, Senior and Junior began their morning routine. The youthful gatherings at the beach eluded these seniors, as did the fisherfolk's nightly fastidiousness. For the elderly, rituals awaited no sunset. Shielding their eyes from the penetrating sunbeams, the two old men lumbered onto their balconies simultaneously, much like figures in a story languishing in predetermined fates, helpless against random serendipities.

Instantly, they engaged in familiar discourse—a ritualistic exchange reminiscent of the rhythmic duels heard at Carnatic music festivals. "We must appreciate our southern heritage," Junior mused, yawning. "Inhabitants of the southern city of our southern continent. Praise be to our warm and leisurely nature, contrary to our northern counterparts, those chilly fish."

Senior, scratching lazily, retorted, "First, the concept of 'south' is purely a consensus-driven construct. Had mankind perceived the earth differently, we'd be northerners. The cosmos recognizes no directions, just as dogs don't. Furthermore, you exaggerate your warmth and sensuality, traits questionable at best, though your slowness is undeniable."

Their banter was a habitual clash, akin to ancient contenders tied together—a metaphorical bond formed by their surname. This shared appellation, diminished to its initial to mitigate discomfort, was unseen yet binding. Their similarities extended to physical features and habits—both were slender with weak eyesight and had reluctantly embraced dentures after years of dental pride. This unspeakable name wove their destinies together.

Despite their shared designation, they did not share a birthday. A mere seventeen days separated their entries into the world, a fact lost to time but immortalized in their nicknames—Senior and Junior. Forever, V. Senior and V. Junior, their identities cemented in lifelong rivalry. Approaching eighty-two years, they lingered in life's twilight, symbolic of the penultimate eleventh hour.

As was customary, Junior remarked on Senior's appearance, "You embody a man biding time for life's curtain call."

Senior replied, adhering to their usual repartee, "It's preferable to being someone plainly awaiting life’s commencement."