Umeed [whose name means 'Hope'], a nine-year-old child of Islamic parents who have converted from Hinduism, is confronted

on Juhu Beach in Bombay by Piloo Doodhwala, a distant wealthy relative who is still Hindu:

Piloo smiled his deadly, glittering smile and continued to beckon. And your goodname, please? I told him my name. Umeed, he repeated. Hop. That is good. All persons should be having hop, ewen when their situation is hopliss. He fell into a period of contemplation, munching on a morsel of dried bummelo; then spoke again, waving a piece of the fish in his hand. Bombay duck, he smiled. You know what is it? You know that this bombil phish declined to help Lord Rama to build the bridge to Lanka, phor purpose of rescuing Lady Sita? And therephore he squeezed it tighttight and crushed all its bones, so now it is boneless wonder? No, how can you know, for you are conwerts. This word lead to much shaking of the head, and many more mouthfuls of the fish, before he renewed his harangue. Conwert, he said. You know what is it? I will tell. Religious conwersion, it is like getting on a train. Afterwards, only the train itself is where you are belonging. Not departure platform, not arriwal platform. In both these places you are totally despised. Such is conwert. It is your goodfather's phorefather. I opened my mouth; he indicated that I should close it. Seen and not heard, he stated. Keep your trap shut is best policy. He munched on mango. When man conwerts, he mused, it is like powver cut. Load shedding. He is shedding, you see?, the Load of Human Destiny in a basically cowvardly way. Phundamentally an unserious phashion. In doing so he detaches himself from the history of his race, isn't it? Like pulling out a plug, okay? And then the toaster will not work.
Salman Rushdie, The Ground Beneath Her Feet (Toronto: Rnadom House, 199), pp. 69-70.