Welcome aboard the Mayflower, he greets them, seizing their hands as they pass by his seat, the terrified uncomprehending peasants from remote inland villages on their way to desert kingdoms, the perspiration sprinkled young executives in cheap suits, the frowning chaperones of a veiled young bride fainting in a pink gharana with too much gold braid, the unwary young student on his way to a miserable four years in an English boarding school, and the children. There are children everywhere, children running in the aisles imitating the aircraft to the dismay of the cabin staff; or standing up on their seats grave-eyed and motionless, showing more than an adult understanding of the importance of this momentous day; or screaming like strapped-down lunatics at their fastened seatbelts; children dressed in spectacularly lumpy woolen jumpers in functional gray and navy blue, their very garments proclaiming their alienation from the new homes they have never seen, trumpeting the difficulty they will have adjusting to life in those lightless northern climes.
Salman Rushdie, “The Ground Beneath Her Feet”, 1999
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