Even as the news of the stabbing of Sal-man Rushdie broke some weeks ago, my mind’s eye reverted to the early 1990s, when a family friend handed a copy of Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses. Going through it left me perplexed. This was no Sartre, Dostoevsky or Kundera, disabusing the reader of any moral simplicity he would have been prone to indulge. The sweep of the author’s imagination at display, weaving in magic realism to profane—in Rushdie’s view satire and provoke—the Prophet Muhammad, the nascent Islamic community he founded down to the members of his household and the Quran itself—-left many of the readers shocked.