The fishermen were here first. Before Mountbatten's ticktock, before monsters and public announcements; when underworld marriages were still unimagined and spittoons were unknown; earlier than Mercurochrome; longer ago than lady wrestlers who held up perfor-ated sheets; and back and back, beyond Dalhousie and Elphinstone, before the East India Company built its Fort, before the first William Methwold; at the dawn of time, when Bombay was a dumbbell-shaped island tapering1, at the centre, to a narrow shining strand2 beyond which could be seen the finest and largest natural harbour in Asia, when Mazagaon and Worli, Matunga and Mahim, Salsette and Colaba were islands, too - in short, before reclamation3, before tetrapods and sunken piles turned the Seven Isles4 into a long peninsula like an outstretched, grasping hand, reaching westward5 into the Arabian Sea; in this primeval world before clocktowers, the fishermen - who were called Kolis - sailed in Arab dhows, spreading red sails against the setting sun. They caught pomfret and crabs6, and made fish-lovers of us all. (Or most of us. Padma has succumbed7 to their piscine sorceries; but in our house, we were infected with the alienness of Kashmiri blood, with the icy reserve of Kashmiri sky, and remained meateaters to a man.)
There were also coconuts8 and rice. And, above it all, the benign10 presiding influence of the goddess Mumbadevi, whose name -Mumbadevi, Mumbabai, Mumbai - may well have become the city's. But then, the Portuguese11 named the place Bom Bahia for its harbour, and not for the goddess of the pomfret folk ... the Portuguese were the first invaders12, using the harbour to shelter their merchant ships and their men-of-war; but then, one day in 1633, and East Indian Company Officer named Methwold saw a vision. This vision - a dream of a British Bombay, fortified13, defending India's West against all comers -was a notion of such force that it set time in motion. History churned ahead; Methwold died; and in 1660, Charles II of England was betrothed14 to Catharine of the Portuguese House of Braganza - that same Catharine who would, all her life, play second fiddle15 to orange-selling Nell. But she has this consolation16 - that it was her marriage dowry which brought Bombay into British hands, perhaps in a green tin trunk, and brought Methwold's vision a step closer to reality. After that, it wasn't long until September 21st, 1668, when the Company at last got its hands on the island ... and then off they went, with their Fort and land-reclamation, and before you could blink there was a city here, Bombay, of which the old tune17 sang: Prima in Indis, Gateway18 to India, Star of the East With her face to the West.
Our Bombay, Padma! It was very different then, there were no night-clubs or pickle19 factories or Oberoi-Sheraton Hotels or movie studios; but the city grew at breakneck speed, acquiring a cathedral and an equestrian20 statue of the Mahratta warrior-king Sivaji which (we used to think) came to life at night and galloped21 awesomely22 through the city streets - right along Marine23 Drive! On Chowpatty sands! Past the great houses on Malabar Hill, round Kemp's Corner, giddily along the sea to Scandal Point! And yes, why not, on and on, down my very own Warden24 Road, right alongside the segregated25 swimming pools of Breach26 Candy, right up to huge Mahalaxmi Temple and the old Willingd on Club ...
Throughout my childhood, whenever bad times came to Bombay, some insomniac28 nightwalker would report that he had seen the statue moving; disasters, in the city of my youth, danced to the occult music of a horse's grey, stone hooves.
And where are they now, the first inhabitants? Coconuts have done best of all.
Coconuts are still' beheaded daily on Chowpatty beach; while on Juhu beach, under the languid gaze of film stars at the Sun'n'Sand hotel, small boys still shin up coconut9 palms and bring down the bearded fruit. Coconuts even have their own festival, Coconut Day, which was celebrated29 a few days before my synchronistic birth. You may feel reassured30 about coconuts. Rice has not been so lucky; rice-paddies lie under concrete now; tenements31 tower where once rice wallowed within sight of the sea. But still, in the city, we are great rice-eaters. Patna rice, Basmati, Kashmiri rice travels to the metropolis32 daily; so the original, ur-rice has left its mark upon us all, and cannot be said to have died in vain. AS for Mumbadevi - she's not so popular these days, having been replaced by elephant-headed Ganesh in the people's affections. The calendar of festivals reveals her decline: Ganesh - 'Ganpati Baba' - has his day of Ganesh Chaturthi, when huge processions are 'taken out' and march to Chowpatty bearing plaster effigies33 of the god, which they hurl34 into the sea. Ganesh's day is a rain-making ceremony, it makes the monsoon35 possible, and it, too, was celebrated in the days before my arrival at the end of the ticktock countdown - but where is Mumbadevi's day? It is not on the calendar. Where the prayers of pomfret folk, the devotions of crab-catchers? ... Of all the first inhabitants, the Koli fishermen have come off worst of all. Squashed now into a tiny village in the thumb of the handlike peninsula, they have admittedly given their name to a district - Colaba. But follow Colaba Causeway to its tip - past cheap clothes shops and Irani restaurants and the second-rate flats of teachers journalists and clerks - and you'll find them, trapped between the naval37 base and the sea.
And sometimes Koli women, their hands stinking38 of pomfret guts39 and crabmeat, jostle arrogantly40 to the head of a Colaba bus-queue, with their crimson41 (or purple) saris hitched42 brazenly44 up between their legs, and a smarting glint of old defeats and dispossessions in their bulging45 and somewhat fishy46 eyes. A fort, and afterwards a city, took their land; pile-drivers stole (tetrapods would steal) pieces of their sea. But there are still Arab dhows, every evening, spreading their sails against the sunset... in August 1947, the British, having ended the dominion47 of fishing-nets, coconuts, rice and Mumbadevi, were about to depart themselves; no dominion is everlasting48.
And on June 19th, two weeks after their arrival by Frontier Mail, my parents entered into a curious bargain with one such departing Englishman. His name was William Methwold.
The road to Methwold's Estate (we are entering my kingdom now, coming into the heart of my childhood; a little lump has appeared in my throat) turns off Warden Road between a bus-stop and a little row of shops. Chimalker's Toyshop; Reader's Paradise; the Chimanbhoy Fatbhoy jewellery store; and, above all, Bombelli's the Confectioners, with their Marquis cake, their One Yard of Chocolates! Names to conjure49 with; but there's no time now. Past the saluting50 cardboard bellboy of the Band Box Laundry, the road leads us home. In those days the pink skyscraper51 of the Narlikar women (hideous53 echo of Srinagar's radio mast!) had not even been thought of; the road mounted a low hillock, no higher than a two-storey building; it curved round to face the sea, to look down on Breach Candy Swimming Club, where pink people could swim in a pool the shape of British India without fear of rubbing up against a black skin; and there, arranged nobly around a little roundabout, were the palaces of William Methwold, on which hung signs that would - thanks to me - reappear many years later, signs bearing two words; just two, but they lured54 my unwitting parents into Methwold's peculiar55 game: FOR SALE.
Methwold's Estate: four identical houses built in a style befitting their original residents (conquerors' houses! Roman mansions56; three-storey homes of gods standing57 on a two-storey Olympus, a stunted58 Kailash!) -large, durable59 mansions with red gabled roofs and turret60 towers in each corner, ivory-white corner towers wearing pointy red-tiled hats (towers, fit to lock princesses in!)
- houses with verandahs, with servants' quarters reached by spiral iron staircases hidden at the back - houses which their owner, William Methwold, had named majestically61 after the palaces of Europe: Versailles Villa36, Buckingham Villa, Escorial Villa and Sans Souci. Bougainvillaea crept across them; goldfish swam in pale blue pools; cacti62 grew in rock-gardens; tiny touch-me-not plants huddled63 beneath tamarind trees; there were butterflies and roses and cane64 chairs on the lawns. And on that day in the middle of June, Mr Methwold sold his empty palaces for ridiculously little - but there were conditions. So now, without more ado, I present him to you, complete with the centre-parting in Ms hair ...
a six-foot Titan, this Methwold, his face the pink of roses and eternal youth.
He had a head of thick black brilliantined hair, parted in the centre. We shall speak again of this centre-parting, whose ramrod precision made Methwold irresistible65 to women, who felt unable to prevent themselves wanting to rumple66 it up ... Methwold's hair, parted in the middle, has a lot to do with my beginnings. It was one of those hairlines along which history and sexuality moved. Like tightrope-walkers. (But despite everything, not even I, who never saw him, never laid eyes on languid gleaming teeth or devastatingly67 combed hair, am incapable68 of bearing him any grudge69.)
And his nose? What did that look like? Prominent? Yes, it must have been, the legacy70 of a patrician71 French grandmother - from Bergerac! - whose blood ran aquamarinely in his veins72 and darkened his courtly charm with something crueller, some sweet murderous shade of absinthe.
Methwold's Estate was sold on two conditions: that the houses be bought complete with every last thing in them, that the entire contents be retained by the new owners; and that the actual transfer should not take place until midnight on August I5th.
'Everything?' Amina Sinai asked. 'I can't even throw away a spoon? Allah, that lampshade ... I can't get rid of one comb?'
'Lock, stock and barrel,' Methwold said, 'Those are my terms. A whim73, Mr Sinai ... you'll permit a departing colonial his little game? We don't have much left to do, we British, except to play our games.'
'Listen now, listen, Amina,' Ahmed is saying later on, 'You want to stay in this hotel room for ever? It's a fantastic price; fantastic, absolutely. And what can he do after he's transferred the deeds? Then you can throw out any lampshade you like. It's less than two months ...'
'You'll take a cocktail74 in the garden?' Methwold is saying, 'Six o'clock every evening. Cocktail hour. Never varied75 in twenty years.'
'But my God, the paint... and the cupboards are full of old clothes, janum...
we'll have to live out of suitcases, there's nowhere to put one suit!'
'Bad business, Mr Sinai,' Methwold sips76 his Scotch77 amid cacti and roses, 'Never seen the like. Hundreds of years of decent government, then suddenly, up and off. You'll admit we weren't all bad: built your roads. Schools, railway trains, parliamentary system, all worthwhile things. Taj Mahal was falling down until an Englishman bothered to see to it. And now, suddenly, independence. Seventy days to get out. I'm dead against it myself, but what's to be done?'
'... And look at the stains on the carpets, janum; for two months we must live like those Britishers? You've looked in the bathrooms? No water near the pot. I never believed, but it's true, my God, they wipe their bottoms with paper only! ...'
'Tell me, Mr Methwold,' Ahmed Sinai's voice has changed, in the presence of an Englishman it has become a hideous mockery of an Oxford78 drawl, 'why insist on the delay? Quick sale is best business, after all. Get the thing buttoned up.'
'... And pictures of old Englishwomen everywhere, baba! No place to hang my own father's photo on the wall! ...'
'It seems, Mr Sinai,' Mr Methwold is refilling the glasses as the sun dives towards the Arabian Sea behind the Breach Candy pool, 'that beneath this stiff English exterior79 lurks80 a mind with a very Indian lust81 for allegory.'
'And drinking so much, janum ... that's not good.'
'I'm not sure - Mr Methwold, ah - what exactly you mean by ...'
'... Oh, you know: after a fashion, I'm transferring power, too. Got a sort of itch43 to do it at the same time the Raj does. As I said: a game. Humour me, won't you, Sinai? After all: the price, you've admitted, isn't bad.'
'Has his brain gone raw, janum? What do you think: is it safe to do bargains if he's loony?'
'Now listen, wife,' Ahmed Sinai is saying, 'this has gone on long enough. Mr Methwold is a fine man; a person of breeding; a man of honour; I will not have his name... And besides, the other purchasers aren't making so much noise, I'm sure... Anyway, I have told him yes, so there's an end to it.'
'Have a cracker,' Mr Methwold is saying, proffering82 a plate, 'Go on, Mr S., do.
Yes, a curious affair. Never seen anything like it. My old tenants83 - old India hands, the lot - suddenly, up and off. Bad show. Lost their stomachs for India.
Overnight. Puzzling to a simple fellow like me. Seemed like they washed their hands - didn't want to take a scrap52 with them. "Let it go," they said. Fresh start back home. Not short of a shilling, none of them, you understand, but still, Rum. Leaving me holding the baby. Then I had my notion.'
'... Yes, decide, decide,' Amina is saying spiritedly, 'I am sitting here like a lump with a baby, what have I to do with it? I must live in a stranger's house with this child growing, so what? ... Oh, what things you make me do ...'
'Don't cry,' Ahmed is saying now, flapping about the hotel room, 'It's a good house. You know you like the house. And two months... less than two... what, is it kicking? Let me feel... Where? Here?'
'There,' Amina says, wiping her nose, 'Such a good big kick.'
'My notion,' Mr Methwold explains, staring at the setting sun, 'is to stage my own transfer of assets. Leave behind everything you see? Select suitable persons - such as yourself, Mr Sinai! - hand everything over absolutely intact: in tiptop working order. Look around you: everything's in fine fettle, don't you agree? Tickety-boo, we used to say. Or, as you say in Hindustani: Sabkuch ticktock hai. Everything's just fine.'
'Nice people are buying the houses,' Ahmed offers Amina his handkerchief, 'nice new neighbours ... that Mr Homi Catrack in Versailles Villa, Parsee chap, but a racehorse-owner. Produces films and all. And the Ibrahims in Sans Souci, Nussie Ibrahim is having a baby, too, you can be friends... and the old man Ibrahim, with so-big sisal farms in Africa. Good family.'
'... And afterwards I can do what I like with the house ... ?'
'Yes, afterwards, naturally, he'll be gone ...'
'... It's all worked out excellently,' William Methwold says. 'Did you know my ancestor was the chap who had the idea of building this whole city? Sort of Raffles84 of Bombay. As his descendant, at this important juncture85, I feel the, I don't know, need to play my part. Yes, excellently... when d'you move in? Say the word and I'll move off to the Taj Hotel. Tomorrow? Excellent. Sabkuch ticktock hai.'
These were the people amongst whom I spent my childhood: Mr Homi Catrack, film magnate and racehorse-owner, with his idiot daughter Toxy who had to be locked up with her nurse, Bi-Appah, the most fearsome woman I ever knew; also the Ibrahims in Sans Souci, old man Ibrahim Ibrahim with his goatee and sisal, his sons Ismail and Ishaq, and IsmaiPs tiny flustery hapless wife Nussie, whom we always called Nussie-the-duck on account of her waddling86 gait, and in whose womb my friend Sonny was growing, even now, getting closer and closer to his misadventure with a pair of gynaecological forceps ... Escorial Villa was divided into flats. On the ground floor lived the Dubashes, he a physicist87 who would become a leading light at the Trombay nuclear research base, she a cipher88 beneath whose blankness a true religious fanaticism89 lay concealed90 - but I'll let it lie, mentioning only that they were the parents of Cyrus (who would not be conceived for a few months yet), my first mentor91, who played girls' parts in school plays and was known as Cyrus-the-great. Above them was my father's friend Dr Narlikar, who had bought a flat here too ... he was as black as my mother; had the ability of glowing brightly whenever he became excited or aroused; hated children, even though he brought us into the world; and would unleash92 upon the city, when he died, that tribe of women who could do anything and in whose path no obstacle could stand. And, finally, on the top floor, were Commander Sabarmati and Lila - Sabarmati who was one of the highest flyers in the Navy, and his wife with her expensive tastes; he hadn't been able to believe his luck in getting her a home so cheaply. They had two sons, aged93 eighteen months and four months, who would grow up to be slow and boisterous94 and to be nicknamed Eyeslice and Hairoil; and they didn't know (how could they?) that I would destroy their lives ... Selected by William Methwold, these people who would form the centre of my world moved into the Estate and tolerated the curious whims95 of the Englishman - because the price, after all, was right.
... There are thirty days to go to the transfer of power and Lila Sabarmati is on the telephone, 'How can you stand it, Nussie? In every room here there are talking budgies, and in the almirahs I find moth-eaten dresses and used brassieres!' ... And Nussie is telling Amina, 'Goldfish, Allah, I can't stand the creatures, but Methwold sahib comes himself to feed... and there are half-empty pots of Bovril he says I can't throw... it's mad, Amina sister, what are we doing like this?'... And old man Ibrahim is refusing to switch on the ceiling fan in his bedroom, muttering, 'That machine will fall - it will slice my head off in the night - how long can something so heavy stick on a ceiling?'... and Homi Catrack who is something of an ascetic96 is obliged to lie on a large soft mattress97, he is suffering from backache and sleeplessness98 and the dark rings of inbreeding around his eyes are being circled by the whorls of insomnia27, and his bearer tells him, 'No wonder the foreign sahibs have all gone away, sahib, they must by dying to get some sleep.' But they are all sticking it out; and there are advantages as well as problems. Listen to Lila Sabarmati ('That one - too beautiful to be good,' my mother said)... 'A pianola, Amina sister! And it works! All day I'm sitting sitting, playing God knows what-all! "Pale Hands I Loved Beside The Shalimar"... such fun, too much, you just push the pedals!'... And Ahmed Sinai finds a cocktail cabinet in Buckingham Villa (which was Methwold's own house before it was ours); he is discovering the delights of fine Scotch whisky and cries, 'So what? Mr Methwold is a little eccentric, that's all - can we not humour him? With our ancient civilization, can we not be as civilized99 as he?'... and he drains his glass at one go.
Advantages and disadvantages: 'All these dogs to look after, Nussie sister,'
Lila Sabarmati complains. 'I hate dogs, completely. And my little choochie cat, cho chweet she is I swear, terrified absolutely!' ... And Dr Narlikar, glowing with pique100, 'Above my bed! Pictures of children, Sinai brother! I am telling you: fat! Pink! Three! Is that fair?'... But now there are twenty days to go, things are settling down, the sharp edges of things are getting blurred101, so they have all failed to notice what is happening: the Estate, Methwold's Estate, is changing them. Every evening at six they are out in their gardens, celebrating the cocktail hour, and when William Methwold comes to call they slip effortlessly into their imitation Oxford drawls; and they are learning, about ceiling fans and gas cookers and the correct diet for budgerigars, and Methwold, supervising their transformation102, is mumbling103 under his breath. Listen carefully: what's he saying? Yes, that's it. 'Sabkuch ticktock hai,' mumbles105 William Methwold. All is well.
When the Bombay edition of the Times of India, searching for a catchy106 human-interest angle to the forthcoming Independence celebrations, announced that it would award a prize to any Bombay mother who could arrange to give birth to a child at the precise instant of the birth of the new nation, Amina Sinai, who had just awoken from a mysterious dream of flypaper, became glued to newsprint. Newsprint was thrust beneath Ahmed Sinai's nose; and Amina's finger, jabbing triumphantly108 at the page, punctuated109 the utter certainty of her voice.
'See, janum?' Amina announced. 'That's going to be me.'
There rose, before their eyes, a vision of bold headlines declaring 'A Charming Pose of Baby Sinai - the Child of this Glorious Hour!' - a vision of A-1 top-quality front-page jumbo-sized baby-snaps; but Ahmed began to argue, 'Think of the odds110 against it, Begum,' until she set her mouth into a clamp of obstinacy111 and reiterated112, 'But me no buts; it's me all right; I just know it for sure. Don't ask me how.'
And although Ahmed repeated his wife's prophecy to William Methwold, as a cocktail-hour joke, Amina remained unshaken, even when Methwold laughed, 'Woman's intuition - splendid thing, Mrs S.! But really, you can scarcely expect us to...' Even under the pressure of the peeved113 gaze of her neighbour Nussie-the-duck, who was also pregnant, and had also read the Times of India, Amina stuck to her guns, because Ramram's prediction had sunk deep into her heart.
To tell the truth, as Amina's pregnancy114 progressed, she had found the words of the fortune-teller pressing more and more heavily down upon her. shoulders, her head, her swelling116 balloon, so that as she became trapped in a web of worries about giving birth to a child with two heads she somehow escaped the subtle magic of Methwold's Estate, remaining uninfected by cocktail-hours, budgerigars, pianolas and English accents ... At first, then, there was something equivocal about her certainty that she would win the Time's prize, because she had convinced herself that if this part of the fortune-teller's prognostications were fulfilled, it proved that the rest would be just as accurate, whatever their meaning might be. So it was not in tones of unadulterated pride and anticipation117 that my mother said, 'Never mind intuition, Mr Methwold. This is guaranteed fact.'
To herself she added: 'And this, too: I'm going to have a son. But he'll need plenty of looking after, or else.'
It seems to me that, running deep in the veins of my mother, perhaps deeper than she knew, the supernatural conceits118 of Naseem Aziz had begun to influence her thoughts and behaviour - those conceits which persuaded Reverend Mother that aeroplanes were inventions of the devil, and that cameras could steal your soul, and that ghosts were as obvious a part of reality as Paradise, and that it was nothing less than a sin to place certain sanctified ears between one's thumb and forefinger119, were now whispering in her daughter's darkling head. 'Even if we're sitting in the middle of all this English garbage,' my mother was beginning to think, 'this is still India, and people like Ramram Seth know what they know.'
In this way the scepticism of her beloved father was replaced by the credulity of my grandmother; and, at the same time, the adventurous120 spark which Amina had inherited from Doctor Aziz was being snuffed out by another, and equally heavy, weight.
By the time the rains came at the end of June, the foetus was fully104 formed inside her womb. Knees and nose were present; and as many heads as would grow were already in position. What had been (at the beginning) no bigger than a full stop had expanded into a comma, a word, a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter; now it was bursting into more complex developments, becoming, one might say, a book -perhaps an encyclopaedia121 - even a whole language ... which is to say that the lump in the middle of my mother grew so large, and became so heavy, that while Warden Road at the foot of our two-storey hillock became flooded with dirty yellow rainwater and stranded122 buses began to rust107 and children swam in the liquid road and newspapers sank soggily beneath the surface, Amina found herself in a circular first-floor tower room, scarcely able to move beneath the weight of her leaden balloon.
Endless rain. Water seeping123 in under windows in which stained-glass tulips danced along leaded panes124. Towels, jammed against window-frames, soaked up water until they became heavy, saturated125, useless. The sea: grey and ponderous126 and stretching out to meet the rainclouds at a narrowed horizon. Rain drumming against my mother's ears, adding to the confusion of fortune-teller and maternal127 credulity and the dislocating presence of strangers' possessions, making her imagine all manner of strange things. Trapped beneath her growing child, Amina pictured herself as a convicted murderer in Mughal times, when death by crushing beneath a boulder128 had been a common punishment ... and in the years to come, whenever she looked back at that time which was the end of the time before she became a mother, that time in which the ticktock of countdown calendars was rushing everyone towards August 15th, she would say: 'I don't know about any of that. To me, it was like time had come to a complete stop. The baby in my stomach stopped the clocks. I'm sure of that. Don't laugh: you remember the clocktower at the end of the hill? I'm telling you, after that monsoon it never worked again.'
... And Musa, my father's old servant, who had accompanied the couple to Bombay, went off to tell the other servants, in the kitchens of the red-tiled palaces, in the servants' quarters at the backs of Versailles and Escorial and Sans Souci: 'It's going to be a real ten-rupee baby; yes, sir! A whopper of a ten-chip pomfret, wait and see!' The servants were pleased; because a birth is a fine thing and a good big baby is best of all ...
... And Amina whose belly129 had stopped the clocks sat immobilized in a room in a tower and told her husband, 'Put your hand there and feel him ... there, did you feel? ... such a big strong boy; our little piece-of-the-moon.'
Not until the rains ended, and Amina became so heavy that two manservants had to make a chair with their hands to lift her, did Wee Willie Winkie return to sing in the circus-ring between the four houses; and only then did Amina realize that she had not one, but two serious rivals (two that she knew of) for the Times of India's prize, and that, prophecy or no prophecy, it was going to be a vey close-run finish.
'Wee Willie Winkie is my name; to sing for my supper is my fame!' Ex-conjurers and peepshow-men and singers ... even before I was born, the mould was set.
Entertainers would orchestrate my life.
'I hope you are com-for-table! ... Or are you come-for-tea? Oh, joke-joke, ladies and ladahs, let me see you laugh now!'
Talldarkhandsome, a clown with an accordion130, he stood in the circus-ring. In the gardens of Buckingham Villa, my father's big toe strolled (with its nine colleagues) beside and beneath the centre-parting of William Methwold...
sandalled, bulbous, a toe unaware131 of its coming doom132. And Wee Willie Winkie (whose real name we never knew) cracked jokes and sang. From a first-floor verandah, Amina watched and listened; and from the neighbouring verandah, felt the prick133 of the envious134 competitive gaze of Nussie-the-duck.
... While I, at my desk, feel the sting of Padma's impatience135. (I wish, at times, for a more discerning audience, someone who would understand the need for rhythm, pacing, the subtle introduction of minor136 chords which will later rise, swell115, seize the melody; who would know, for instance, that although baby-weight and monsoons137 have silenced the clock on the Estate clocktower, the steady beat of Mountbatten's ticktock is still there, soft but inexorable, and that it's only a matter of time before it fills our ears with its metronomic, drumming music.) Padma says: 'I don't want to know about this Winkie now; days and nights I've waited and still you won't get to being born!' But I counsel patience; everything in its proper place, I admonish138 my dung-lotus, because Winkie, too, has his purpose and his place, here he is now teasing the pregnant ladies on their verandahs, pausing from singing to say, 'You've heard about the prize, ladies? Me, too. My Vanita will have her time soon, soon-soon; maybe she and not you will have her picture in the paper!'... and Amina is frowning, and Methwold is smiling (is that a forced smile? Why?) beneath his centre-parting, and my father's lip is jutting139 judiciously140 as his big toe strolls and he says, 'That's a cheeky fellow; he goes too far.' But now Methwold in what looks very like embarrassment141 - even guilt142! -reproves Ahmed Sinai, 'Nonsense, old chap. The tradition of the fool, you know. Licensed143 to provoke and tease. Important social safety-valve.' And my father, shrugging, 'Hm.' But he's a clever type, this Winkie, because he's pouring oil on the waters now, saying, 'A birth is a fine thing; two births are two fine! Too fine, madams, joke, you see?' And a switch of mood as he introduces a dramatic notion, an overpowering, crucial thought: 'Ladies, gentlemen, how can you feel comfortable here, in the middle of Mr Methwold sahib's long past? I tell you: it must be strange; not real; but now it is a new place here, ladies, ladahs, and no new place is real until it has seen a birth. The first birth will make you feel at home.' After which, a song: 'Daisy, Daisy ...' And Mr Methwold, joining in, but still there's something dark staining his brow ...
... And here's the point: yes, it is guilt, because our Winkie may be clever and funny but he's not clever enough, and now it's time to reveal the first secret of the centre-parting of William Methwold, because it has dripped down to stain his face: one day, long before ticktock and lockstockandbarrel sales, Mr Methwold invited Winkie and his Vanita to sing for him, privately144, in what is now my parents' main reception room; and after a while he said, 'Look here, Wee Willie, do me a favour, man: I need this prescription145 filling, terrible headaches, take it to Kemp's Corner and get the chemist to give you the pills, the servants are all down with colds.' Winkie, being a poor man, said Yes sahib at once sahib and left; and then Vanita was alone with the centre-parting, feeling it exert a pull on her fingers that was impossible to resist, and as Methwold sat immobile in a cane chair, wearing a lightweight cream suit with a single rose in the lapel, she found herself approaching him, fingers outstretched, felt fingers touching146 hair; found centre-parting; and began to rumple it up.
So that now, nine months later, Wee Willie Winkie joked about his wife's imminent147 baby and a stain appeared on an Englishman's forehead.
'So?' Padma says. 'So what do I care about this Winkie and his.wife whom you haven't even told me about?'
Some people are never satisfied; but Padma will be, soon.
And now she's about to get even more frustrated148; because, pulling away in a long rising spiral from the events at Methwold's Estate -away from goldfish and dogs and baby contests and centre-partings, away from big toes and tiled roofs - I am flying across the city which is fresh and clean in the aftermath of the rains; leaving Ahmed and Amina to the songs of Wee Willie Winkie, I'm winging towards the Old Fort district, past Flora149 Fountain, and arriving at a large building filled with dim fustian150 light and the perfume of swinging censers because here, in St Thomas's Cathedral, Miss Mary Pereira is learning about the colour of God.
'Blue,' the young priest said earnestly. 'All available evidence, my daughter, suggests that Our Lord Christ Jesus was the most beauteous crystal shade of pale sky blue.'
The little woman behind the wooden latticed window of the confessional fell silent for a moment. An anxious, cogitating152 silence. Then: 'But how, Father?
People are not blue. No people are blue in the whole big world!'
Bewilderment of little woman, matched by perplexity of the priest ... because this is not how she's supposed to react. The Bishop153 had said, 'Problems with recent converts ... when they ask about colour they're almost always that ...
important to build bridges, my son. Remember,' thus spake the Bishop, 'God is love; and the Hindu love-god, Krishna, is always depicted154 with blue skin. Tell them blue; it will be a sort of bridge between the faiths; gently does it, you follow; and besides blue is a neutral sort of colour, avoids the usual Colour problems, gets you away from black and white: yes, on the whole I'm sure it's the one to choose.' Even bishops155 can be wrong, the young father is thinking, but meanwhile he's in quite a spot, because the little woman is clearly getting into a state, has begun issuing a severe reprimand through the wooden grille: 'What type of answer is blue, Father, how to believe such a thing? You should write to Holy Father Pope in Rome, he will surely put you straight; but one does not have to be Pope to know that the mens are not ever blue!' The young father closes his eyes; breathes deeply; counter-attacks. 'Skins have been dyed blue,' he stumbles. 'The Picts; the blue Arab nomads156; with the benefits of education, my daughter, you would see...' But now a violent snort echoes in the confessional.
'What, Father? You are comparing Our Lord to junglee wild men? ?Lord, I must catch my ears for shame!'... And there is more, much more, while the young father whose stomach is giving him hell suddenly has the inspiration that there is something more important lurking157 behind this blue business, and asks the question; whereupon tirade158 gives way to tears, and the young father says panickily, 'Come, come, surely the Divine Radiance of Our Lord is not a matter of mere159 pigment160?' ... And a voice through the flooding salt water: 'Yes, Father, you're not so bad after all; I told him just that, exactly that very thing only, but he said many rude words and would not listen ...' So there it is, him has entered the story, and now it all tumbles out, and Miss Mary Pereira, tiny virginal distraught, makes a confession151 which gives us a crucial clue about her motives161 when, on the night of my birth, she made the last and most important contribution to the entire history of twentieth-century India from the time of my grandfather's nose-bump until the time of my adulthood162.
Mary Pereira's confession: like every Mary she had her Joseph. Joseph D'Costa, an orderly at a Pedder Road clinic called Dr Narlikar's Nursing Home ('Oho!'
Padma sees a connection at last), where she worked as a midwife. Things had been very good at first; he had taken her for cups of tea or lassi or falooda and told her sweet things. He had eyes like road-drills, hard and full of ratatat, but he spoke163 softly and well. Mary, tiny, plump, virginal, had revelled164 in his attentions; but now everything had changed.
'Suddenly suddenly he's sniffing165 the air all the time. In a funny way, nose high up. I ask, "You got a cold or what, Joe?" But he says no; no, he says, he's sniffing the wind from the north. But I tell him, Joe, in Bombay the wind comes off the sea, from the west, Joe...' In a fragile voice Mary Pereira describes the ensuing rage of Joseph D'Costa, who told her, 'You don't know nothing, Mary, the air comes from the north now, and it's full of dying. This independence is for the rich only; the poor are being made to kill each other like flies. In Punjab, in Bengal. Riots riots, poor against poor. It's in the wind.'
And Mary: 'You talking crazy, Joe, why you worrying with those so-bad things? We can live quietly still, no?'
'Never mind, you don't know one thing.'
'But Joseph, even if it's true about the killing166, they're Hindu and Muslim people only; why get good Christian167 folk mixed up in their fight? Those ones have killed each other for ever and ever.'
'You and your Christ. You can't get it into your head that that's the white people's religion? Leave white gods for white men. Just now our own people are dying. We got to fight back; show the people who to fight instead of each other, you see?'
And Mary, 'That's why I asked about colour, Father ... and I told Joseph, I told and told, fighting is bad, leave off these wild ideas; but then he stops talking with me, and starts hanging about with dangerous types, and there are rumours168 starting up about him, Father, how he's throwing bricks at big cars apparently169, and burning bottles also, he's going crazy, Father, they say he helps to burn buses and blow up trams, and I don't know what. What to do, Father, I tell my sister about it all. My sister Alice, a good girl really, Father. I said: "That Joe, he lives near a slaughterhouse, maybe that's the smell that got into his nose and muddled170 him all up." So Alice went to find him, "I will talk for you," she says; but then, ?God what is happening to the world ... I tell you truly, Father... ?baba...' And the floods are drowning her words, her secrets are leaking saltily out of her eyes, because Alice came back to say that in her opinion Mary was the one to blame, for haranguing171 Joseph until he wanted no more of her, instead of giving him support in his patriotic172 cause of awakening173 the people. Alice was younger than Mary; and prettier; and after that there were more rumours, Alice-and-Joseph stories, and Mary came to her wits' end.
That one,' Mary said, 'What does she know about this politics-politics? Only to get her nails into my Joseph she will repeat any rubbish he talks, like one stupid mynah bird. I swear, Father ...'
'Careful, daughter. You are close to blasphemy174 ..." 'No, Father, I swear to God, I don't know what I won't do to get me back that man. Yes: in spite of... never mind what he... ai-o-ai-ooo!'
Salt water washes the confessional floor.,. and now, is there a new dilemma175 for the young father? Is he, despite the agonies of an unsettled stomach, weighing in invisible scales the sanctity of the confessional against the danger to civilized society of a man like Joseph D'Costa? Will he, in fact, ask Mary for her Joseph's address, and then reveal ... In short, would this bishop-ridden, stomach-churned young father have behaved like, or unlike, Montgomery Clift in I Confess? (Watching it some years ago at the New Empire cinema, I couldn't decide.) - But no; once again, I must stifle176 my baseless suspicions.
What happened to Joseph would probably have happened anyway And in all likelihood the young father's only relevance177 to my history is that he was the first outsider to hear about Joseph D'Costa's virulent178 hatred179 of the rich, and of Mary Pereira's desperate grief.
Tomorrow I'll have a bath and shave; I am going to put on a brand new kurta, shining and starched180, and pajamas181 to match. I'll wear mirrorworked slippers182 curling up at the toes, my hair will be neatly183 brushed (though not parted in the centre), my teeth gleaming... in a phrase, I'll look my best. ('Thank God' from pouting184 Padma.)
Tomorrow, at last, there will be an end to stories which I (not having been present at their birth) have to drag out of the whirling recesses185 of my mind; because the metronome musk186 of Mountbatten's countdown calendar can be ignored no longer. At Methwold's Estate, old Musa is still ticking like a time-bomb; but he can't be heard, because another sound is swelling now, deafening187, insistent188; the sound of seconds passing, of an approaching, inevitable189 midnight.
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1
tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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reclamation
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| n.开垦；改造；（废料等的）回收 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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crabs
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| n.蟹( crab的名词复数 )；阴虱寄生病；蟹肉v.捕蟹( crab的第三人称单数 ) | |
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succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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coconuts
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| n.椰子( coconut的名词复数 )；椰肉，椰果 | |
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coconut
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| n.椰子 | |
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benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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awesomely
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| 赫然 | |
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marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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segregated
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| 分开的； 被隔离的 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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insomniac
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| n.失眠症患者 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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effigies
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| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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monsoon
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| n.季雨，季风，大雨 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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arrogantly
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| adv.傲慢地 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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42
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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43
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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brazenly
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| adv.厚颜无耻地；厚脸皮地肆无忌惮地 | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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46
fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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48
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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49
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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50
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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51
skyscraper
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| n.摩天大楼 | |
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52
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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53
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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54
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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55
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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56
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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57
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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58
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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59
durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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60
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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61
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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62
cacti
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| n.（复）仙人掌 | |
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63
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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64
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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66
rumple
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；n.褶纹，皱褶 | |
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67
devastatingly
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| adv. 破坏性地，毁灭性地，极其 | |
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68
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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73
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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76
sips
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| n.小口喝，一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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77
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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78
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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79
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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80
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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81
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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82
proffering
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的现在分词 ) | |
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83
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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84
raffles
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| n.抽彩售物( raffle的名词复数 )v.以抽彩方式售（物）( raffle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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85
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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86
waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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physicist
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| n.物理学家，研究物理学的人 | |
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cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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92
unleash
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| vt.发泄，发出；解带子放开 | |
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93
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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98
sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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99
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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100
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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101
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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102
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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103
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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104
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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105
mumbles
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| 含糊的话或声音，咕哝( mumble的名词复数 ) | |
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106
catchy
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| adj.易记住的，诡诈的，易使人上当的 | |
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107
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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108
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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109
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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110
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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111
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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112
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
peeved
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| adj.恼怒的，不高兴的v.（使）气恼，（使）焦躁，（使）愤怒( peeve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
pregnancy
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| n.怀孕，怀孕期 | |
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115
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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116
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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117
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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118
conceits
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| 高傲( conceit的名词复数 )； 自以为； 巧妙的词语； 别出心裁的比喻 | |
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119
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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120
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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121
encyclopaedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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122
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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123
seeping
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| v.（液体）渗( seep的现在分词 )；渗透；渗出；漏出 | |
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124
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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125
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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126
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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127
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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128
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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129
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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130
accordion
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| n.手风琴；adj.可折叠的 | |
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131
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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132
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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133
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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134
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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135
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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136
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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137
monsoons
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| n.（南亚、尤指印度洋的）季风( monsoon的名词复数 )；（与季风相伴的）雨季；（南亚地区的）雨季 | |
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138
admonish
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| v.训戒；警告；劝告 | |
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139
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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140
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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141
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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142
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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143
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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144
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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145
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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146
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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147
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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148
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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149
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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150
fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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151
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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152
cogitating
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| v.认真思考，深思熟虑( cogitate的现在分词 ) | |
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153
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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154
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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155
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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156
nomads
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| n.游牧部落的一员( nomad的名词复数 )；流浪者；游牧生活；流浪生活 | |
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157
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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158
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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159
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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160
pigment
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| n.天然色素，干粉颜料 | |
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161
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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162
adulthood
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| n.成年，成人期 | |
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163
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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164
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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165
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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166
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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167
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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168
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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169
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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170
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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171
haranguing
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的现在分词 ) | |
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172
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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173
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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174
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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175
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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176
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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177
relevance
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| n.中肯，适当，关联，相关性 | |
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178
virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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179
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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180
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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181
pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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182
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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183
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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184
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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185
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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186
musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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187
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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188
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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189
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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