Salman Rushdie

May I know it, sir, flitting the pages of your life to our astonishment That you married, Finding loves, strange meetings and altering them, First, Clarissa Luard With whom your son Zafar, Again, for the second time Marianne Wiggins, Again, the third Elizabeth West With whom the son Milan To be passed over to Padma Lakshmi And as thus the serial ran on to breakdowns? A controversialist, as they were, Shaw, Orwell and Lawrence, Similar the case with him, But a writer standing in defiance Of freedom of speech and expression, Liberty of it, Even daring the fanatics and fundamentalists; A writer dreaming the midnight’s children, The partition people and their aspirations, Tryst with destiny and the attainment. A husband of four wives, Quitting one by one, Coming, staying and going out, He has the memories and remembrances of his own To relate to in his memoirs If he wants to write and picture them As for their portrayals And apart from, he still to make a run. As a lover, he too quite unfaithful in his love As he loved and left, Not sticking to anyone for a longer relationship, Not taking anyone permanently; A false romantic in essence, Promising and betraying his Valentines, The red roses he could never keep with him, Plucked and got pricked And smelt and threw them away, Is it called good relationship?