No colours except green and black the walls are green the sky is black (there is no roof) the stars are green the Widow is green but her hair is black as black.
The Widow sits on a high high chair the chair is green the seat is black the Widow's hair has a centre-parting it is green on the left and on the right black. High as the sky the chair is green the seat is black the Widow's arm is long as death its skin is green the fingernails are long and sharp and black.
Between the walls the children green the walls are green the Widow's arm comes snaking down the snake is green the children scream the fingernails are black they scratch the Widow's arm is hunting see the children run and scream the Widow's hand curls round them green and black. Now one by one the children mmff are stifled2 quiet the Widow's hand is lifting one by one the children green their blood is black unloosed by cutting fingernails it splashes black on walls (of green) as one by one the curling hand lifts children high as sky the sky is black there are no stars the Widow laughs her tongue is green but her teeth are black. And children torn in two in Widow hands which rolling rolling halves of children roll them into little balls the balls are green the night is black. And little balls fly into night between the walls the children shriek3 as one by one the Widow's hand. And in a corner the Monkey and I (the walls are green the shadows black) cowering4 crawling wide high walls green fading into black there is no roof and Widow's hand comes onebyone the children scream and mmff and little balls and hand and scream and mmff and splashing stains of black. Now only she and I and no more screams the Widow's hand comes hunting hunting the skin is green the nails are black towards the corner hunting hunting while we shrink closer into the corner our skin is green our fear is black and now the Hand comes reaching reaching and she my sister pushes me out out of the corner while she stays cowering staring the hand the nails are curling scream and mmff and splash of black and up into the high as sky and laughing Widow tearing I am rolling into little balls the balls are green and out into the night the night is black ...
The fever broke today. For two days (I'm told) Padma has been sitting up all night, placing cold wet flannels5 on my forehead, holding me through my shivers and dreams of Widow's hands; for two days she has been blaming herself for her potion of unknown herbs. 'But,' I reassure6 her, 'this time, it wasn't anything to do with that.' I recognize this fever; it's come up from inside me and from nowhere else; like a bad stink7, it's oozed8 through my cracks. I caught exactly such a fever on my tenth birthday, and spent two days in bed; now, as my memories return to leak out of me, this old fever has come back, too. 'Don't worry,' I say, 'I caught these germs almost twenty-one years ago.'
We are not alone. It is morning at the pickle9-factory; they have brought my son to see me. Someone (never mind who) stands beside Padma at my bedside, holding him in her arms. 'Baba, thank God you are better, you don't know what you were talking in your sickness.' Someone speaks anxiously, trying to force her way into my story ahead of time; but it won't work... someone, who founded this pickle-factory and its ancillary10 bottling works, who has been looking after my impenetrable child, just as once ... wait on! She nearly wormed it out of me then, but fortunately I've still got my wits about me, fever or no fever! Someone will just have to step back and remain cloaked in anonymity11 until it's her turn; and that won't be until the very end. I turn my eyes away from her to look at Padma. 'Do not think,' I admonish12 her, 'that because I had a fever, the things I told you were not completely true. Everything happened just as I described.'
'O God, you and your stories,' she cries, 'all day, all night -you have made yourself sick! Stop some time, na, what will it hurt?' I set my lips obstinately13; and now she, with a sudden change of mood: 'So, tell me now, mister: is there anything you want7'
'Green chutney,' I request, 'Bright green - green as grasshoppers14.' And someone who cannot be named remembers and tells Padma (speaking in the soft voice which is only used at sickbeds and funerals), 'I know what he means.'
... Why, at this crucial instant, when all manner of things were . waiting to be described - when the Pioneer Cafe was so close, and the rivalry15 of knees and nose - did I introduce a mere16 condiment17 into the conversation? (Why do I waste time, in this account, on a humble18 preserve, when I could be describing the elections of 1957 -when all India is waiting, twenty-one years ago, to vote?)
Because I sniffed19 the air; and scented20, behind the solicitous21 expressions of my visitors, a sharp whiff of danger. I intended to defend myself; but I required the assistance of chutney ...
I have not shown you the factory in daylight until now. This is what has remained undescribed: through green-tinged glass windows, my room looks out on to an iron catwalk and then down to the cooking-floor, where copper22 vats24 bubble and seethe25, where strong-armed women stand atop wooden steps, working long-handled ladles through the knife-tang of pickle fumes26; while (looking the other way, through a green-tinged window on the world) railway tracks shine dully in morning sun, bridged over at regular intervals28 by the messy gantries of the electrification29 system. In daylight, our saffron-and-green neon goddess does not dance above the factory doors; we switch her off to save power. But electric trains are using power: yellow-and-brown local trains clatter30 south towards Churchgate Station from Dadar and Borivli, from Kurla and Bassein Road. Human flies hang in thick white-trousered dusters from the trains; I do not deny that, within the factory walls, you may also see some flies. But there are also compensating31 lizards32, hanging stilly upside-down on the ceiling, their jowls reminiscent of the Kathiawar peninsula ... sounds, too, have been waiting to be heard: bubbling of vats, loud singing, coarse imprecations, bawdy33 humour of fuzz-armed women; the sharp-nosed, thin-lipped admonitions of overseers; the all-pervasive clank of pickle-jars from the adjacent bottling-works; and rush of trains, and the buzzing (infrequent, but inevitable) of flies ... while grasshopper-green chutney is being extracted from its vat23, to be brought on a wiped-clean plate with saffron and green stripes around the rim34, along with another plate piled high with snacks from the local Irani shop; while what-has-now-been-shown goes on as usual, and what-can-now-be-heard fills the air (to say nothing of what can be smelled), I, alone in bed in my office realize with a start of alarm that outings are being suggested.
'... When you are stronger,' someone who cannot be named is saying, 'a day at Elephanta, why not, a nice ride in a motor-launch, and all those caves with so-beautiful carvings35; or Juhu Beach, for swimming and coconut-milk and camel-races; or Aarey Milk Colony, even! ...' And Padma: 'Fresh air, yes, and the little one will like to be with his father.' And someone, patting my son on his head: 'There, of course, we will all go. Nice picnic; nice day out. Baba, it will do you good ...'
As chutney arrives, bearer-borne, in my room, I hasten to put a stop to these suggestions. 'No,' I refuse. 'I have work to do.' And I see a look pass between Padma and someone; and I see that I've been right to be suspicious. Because I've been tricked by offers of picnics once before! Once before, false smiles and offers of Aarey Milk Colony have fooled me into going out of doors and into a motor car; and then before I knew it there were hands seizing me, there were hospital corridors and doctors and nurses holding me in place while over my nose a mask poured anaesthetic over me and a voice said, Count now, count to ten ...
I know what they are planning. 'Listen,' I tell them, 'I don't need doctors.'
And Padma, 'Doctors? Who is talking about...' But she is fooling nobody; and with a little smile I say, 'Here: everybody: take some chutney. I must tell you some important things.'
And while chutney - the same chutney which, back in 1957, my ayah Mary Pereira had made so perfectly36; the grasshopper-green chutney which is forever associated with those days - carried them back into the world of my past, while chutney mellowed37 them and made them receptive, I spoke38 to them, gently, persuasively39, and by a mixture of condiment and oratory40 kept myself out of the hands of the pernicious green-medicine men. I said: 'My son will understand. As much as for any living being, I'm telling my story for him, so that afterwards, when I've lost my struggle against cracks, he will know. Morality, judgment41, character ... it all starts with memory ... and I am keeping carbons.'
Green chutney on chilli-pakoras, disappearing down someone's gullet; grasshopper-green on tepid42 chapatis, vanishing behind Padma's lips. I see them begin to weaken, and press on. 'I told you the truth,' I say yet again, 'Memory's truth, because memory has its own special kind. It selects, eliminates, alters, exaggerates, minimizes, glorifies43, and vilifies44 also; but in the end it creates its own reality, its heterogeneous45 but usually coherent version of events; and no sane46 human being ever trusts someone else's version more than his own.'
Yes: I said 'sane'. I knew what they were thinking: 'Plenty of children invent imaginary friends; but one thousand and one! That's just crazy!' The midnight children shook even Padma's faith in my narrative47; but I brought her round, and now there's no more talk of outings.
How I persuaded them: by talking about my son, who needed to know my story; by shedding light on the workings of memory; and by other devices, some naively48 honest, others wily as foxes. 'Even Muhammad,' I said, 'at first believed himself insane: do you think the notion never crossed my mind? But the Prophet had his Khadija, his Abu-Bakr, to reassure him of the genuineness of his Calling; nobody betrayed him into the hands of asylum-doctors.' By now, the green chutney was filling them with thoughts of years ago; I saw guilt49 appear on their faces, and shame. 'What is truth?' I waxed rhetorical, 'What is sanity50?
Did Jesus rise up from the grave? Do Hindus not accept - Padma - that the world is a kind of dream; that Brahma dreamed, is dreaming the universe; that we only see dimly through that dream-web, which is Maya. Maya,' I adopted a haughty51, lecturing tone, 'may be defined as all that is illusory; as trickery, artifice52 and deceit. Apparitions53, phantasms, mirages54, sleight-of-hand, the seeming form of things: all these are parts of Maya. If I say that certain things took place which you, lost in Brahma's dream, find hard to believe, then which of us is right? Have some more chutney,' I added graciously, taking a generous helping55 myself. 'It tastes very good.'
Padma began to cry. 'I never said I didn't believe, she wept. 'Of course, every man must tell his story in his own true way; but...'
'But,' I interrupted conclusively56, 'you also - don't you - want to know what happens? About the hands that danced without touching57, and the knees? And later, the curious baton58 of Commander Sabarmati, and of course the Widow? And the Children - what became of them?'
And Padma nodded. So much for doctors and asylums59; I have been left to write.
(Alone, except for Padma at my feet.) Chutney and oratory, theology and curiosity: these are the things that saved me. And one more - call it education, or class-origins; Mary Pereira would have called it my 'brought-up'. By my show of erudition and by the purity of my accents, I shamed them into feeling unworthy of judging me; not a very noble deed, but when the ambulance is waiting round the corner, all's fair. (It was: I smelled it.) Still - I've had a valuable warning. It's a dangerous business to try and impose one's view of things on others.
Padma: if you're a little uncertain of my reliability60, well, a little uncertainty61 is no bad thing. Cocksure men do terrible deeds. Women, too.
Meanwhile, I am ten years old, and working out how to hide in the boot of my mother's car.
That was the month when Purushottam the sadhu (whom I had never told about my inner life) finally despaired of his stationary62 existence and contracted the suicidal hiccups63 which assailed64 him for an entire year, frequently lifting him bodily several inches off the ground so that his water-balded head cracked alarmingly against the garden tap, and finally killed him, so that one evening at the cocktail65 hour he toppled sideways with his legs still locked in the lotus position, leaving my mother's verrucas without any hope of salvation66; when I would often stand in the garden of Buckingham Villa67 in the evenings, watching the Sputniks cross the sky, and feeling as simultaneously68 exalted69 and isolated70 as little Laika, the first and still the only dog to be shot into space (the Baroness71 Simki von der Heiden, shortly to contract syphilis, sat beside me following the bright pinprick of Sputnik II with her Alsatian eyes - it was a time of great canine72 interest in the space race); when Evie Burns and her gang occupied my clocktower, and washing-chests had been both forbidden and outgrown73, so that for the sake of secrecy74 and sanity I was obliged to limit my visits to the midnight children to our private, silent hour - I communed with them every midnight, and only at midnight, during that hour which is reserved for miracles, which is somehow outside time; and when - to get to the point - I resolved to prove, with the evidence of my own eyes, the terrible thing I had glimpsed sitting in the front of my mother's thoughts. Ever since I lay hidden in a washing-chest and heard two scandalous syllables75, I had been suspecting my mother of secrets; my incursions into her thought processes confirmed my suspicions; so it was with a hard glint in my eye, and a steely determination, that I visited Sonny Ibrahim one afternoon after school, with the intention of enlisting76 his help.
I found Sonny in his room, surrounded by posters of Spanish bullfights, morosely77 playing Indoor Cricket by himself. When he saw me he cried unhappily, 'Hey man I'm damn sorry about Evie man she won't listen to anyone man what the hell'd you do to her anyway?'... But I held up a dignified78 hand, commanding and being accorded silence.
'No time for that now, man,' I said. 'The thing is, I need to know how to open locks without keys.'
A true fact about Sonny Ibrahim: despite all his bullfighting dreams, his genius lay in the realm of mechanical things. For some time now, he had taken on the job of maintaining all the bikes on Methwold's Estate in return for gifts of comic-books and a free supply of fizzy drinks. Even Evelyn Lilith Burns gave her beloved Indiabike into his care. All machines, it seemed, were won over by the innocent delight with which he caressed79 their moving parts; no contraption could resist his ministrations. To put it another way: Sonny Ibrahim had become (out of a spirit of pure inquiry) an expert at picking locks.
Now offered a chance of demonstrating his loyalty80 to me, his eyes brightened.
'Jus' show me the lock, man! Lead me to the thing!'
When we were sure we were unobserved, we crept along the driveway between Buckingham Villa and Sonny's Sans Souci; we stood behind my family's old Rover; and I pointed81 at the boot. 'That's the one,' I stated. 'I need to be able to open it from the outside, and the inside also.'
Sonny's eyes widened. 'Hey, what're you up to, man? You running away from home secretly and all?'
Finger to lips, I adopted a mysterious expression. 'Can't explain, Sonny,' I said solemnly, 'Top-drawer classified information.'
'Wow, man,' Sonny said, and showed me in thirty seconds how to open the boot with the aid of a strip of thin pink plastic. 'Take it, man,' said Sonny Ibrahim, 'You need it more than me.'
Once upon a time there was a mother who, in order to become a mother, had agreed to change her name; who set herself the task of falling in love with her husband bit-by-bit, but who could never manage to love one part, the part, curiously82 enough, which made possible her motherhood; whose feet were hobbled by verrucas and whose shoulders were stooped beneath the accumulating guilts of the world; whose husband's unlovable organ failed to recover from the effects of a freeze; and who, like her husband, finally succumbed83 to the mysteries of telephones, spending long minutes listening to the words of wrong-number callers ... shortly after my tenth birthday (when I had recovered from the fever which has recently returned to plague me after an interval27 of nearly twenty-one years), Amina Sinai resumed her recent practice of leaving suddenly, and always immediately after a wrong number, on urgent shopping trips. But now, hidden in the boot of the Rover, there travelled with her a stowaway84, who lay hidden and protected by stolen cushions, clutching a thin strip of pink plastic in his hand.
O, the suffering one undergoes in the name of righteousness! The bruising85 and the bumps! The breathing-in of rubbery boot-air through jolted86 teeth! And constantly, the fear of discovery ... 'Suppose she really does go shopping? Will the boot suddenly fly open? Will live chickens be flung in, feet tied together, wings clipped, fluttery pecky birds invading my hidey-hole? Will she see, my God, I'll have to be silent for a week!' My knees drawn87 in beneath my chin - which was protected-against knee-bumps by an old faded cushion - I voyaged into the unknown in the vehicle of maternal88 perfidy89. My mother was a cautious driver; she went slowly, and turned corners with care; but afterwards I was bruised90 black and blue and Mary Pereira berated91 me soundly for getting into fights: 'Arre God what a thing it's a wonder they didn't smash you to pieces completely my God what will you grow up into you bad black boy you haddi-phaelwan you skin-and-bone wrestler92!'
To take my mind off the jolting93 darkness I entered, with extreme caution, that part of my mother's mind which was in charge of driving operations, and as a result was able to follow our route. (And, also, to discern in my mother's habitually95 tidy mind an alarming degree of disorder96. I was already beginning, in those days, to classify people by their degree of internal tidiness, and to discover that I preferred the messier type, whose thoughts, spilling constantly into one another so that anticipatory97 images of food interfered98 with the serious business of earning a living and sexual fantasies were superimposed upon their political musings, bore a closer relationship to my own pell-mell tumble of a brain, in which everything ran into everything else and the white dot of consciousness jumped about like a wild flea99 from one thing to the next... Amina Sinai, whose assiduous ordering-instincts had provided her with a brain of almost abnormal neatness, was a curious recruit to the ranks of confusion.)
We headed north, past Breach100 Candy Hospital and Mahalaxmi Temple, north along Horaby Vellard past Vallabhbhai Patel Stadium and Haji Ali's island tomb, north off what had once been (before the dream of the first William Methwold became a reality) the island of Bombay. We were heading towards the anonymous101 mass of tenements102 and fishing-villages and textile-plants and film-studios that the city became in these northern zones (not far from here! Not at all far from where I sit within view of local trains!) ... an area which was, in those days, utterly103 unknown to me; I rapidly became disoriented and was then obliged to admit to myself that I was lost. At last, down an unprepossessing side-street full of drainpipe-sleepers and bicycle-repair shops and tattered104 men and boys, we stopped. Clusters of children assailed my mother as she descended105; she, who could never shoo away a fly, handed out small coins, thus enlarging the crowd enormously. Eventually, she struggled away from them and headed down the street; there was a boy pleading, 'Gib the car poliss, Begum? Number one A-class poliss, Begum? I watch car until you come, Begum? I very fine watchman, ask anyone!' ...
In some panic, I listened in for her reply. How could I get out of this boot under the eyes of a guardian-urchin? There was the embarrassment106 of it; and besides, my emergence107 would have created a sensation in the street... my mother said, 'No.' She was disappearing down the street; the would-be polisher and watchman gave up eventually; there was a moment when all eyes turned to watch the passing of a second car, just in case it, too, stopped to disgorge a lady who gave away coins as if they were nuts; and in that instant (I had been looking through several pairs of eyes to help me choose my moment) I performed my trick with the pink plastic and was out in the street beside a closed car-boot in a flash. Setting my lips grimly, and ignoring all outstretched palms, I set off in the direction my mother had taken, a pocket-sized sleuth with the nose of a bloodhound and a loud drum pounding in the place where my heart should have been ... and arrived, a few minutes later, at the Pioneer Cafe.
Dirty glass in the window; dirty glasses on the tables - the Pioneer Cafe was not much when compared to the Gaylords and Kwalitys of the city's more glamorous108 parts; a real rutputty joint109, with painted boards proclaiming LOVELY LASSI and FUNTABULOUS FALOODA and BHEL-PURIBOMBAY FASHION, with filmi playback music blaring out from a cheap radio by the cash-till, a long narrow greeny room lit by flickering110 neon, a forbidding world in which broken-toothed men sat at reccine-covered tables with crumpled111 cards and expressionless eyes. But for all its grimy decrepitude112, the Pioneer Cafe was a repository of many dreams. Early each morning, it would be full of the best-looking ne'er-do-wells in the city, all the goondas and taxi-drivers and petty smugglers and racecourse tipsters who had once, long ago, arrived in the city dreaming of film stardom, of grotesquely113 vulgar homes and black money payments; because every morning at six, the major studios would send minor115 functionaries116 to the Pioneer Cafe to rope in extras for the day's shooting. For half an hour each morning, when D. W. Rama Studios and Filmistan Talkies and R ?Films were taking their pick, the Pioneer was the focus of all the city's ambitions and hopes; then the studio scouts117 left, accompanied by the day's lucky ones, and the Cafe emptied into its habitual94, neon-lit torpor118. Around lunchtime, a different set of dreams walked into the Cafe, to spend the afternoon hunched119 over cards and Lovely Lassi and rough bins120 - different men with different hopes: I didn't know it then, but the afternoon Pioneer was a notorious Communist Party hangout.
It was afternoon; I saw my mother enter the Pioneer Cafe; not daring to follow her, I stayed in the street, pressing my nose against a spider-webbed corner of the grubby window-pane; ignoring the curious glances I got - because my whites, although boot-stained, were nevertheless starched121; my hair, although boot-rumpled, was well-oiled; my shoes, scuffed122 as they were, were still the plimsolls of a prosperous child - I followed her with my eyes as she went hesitantly and verruca-hobbled past rickety tables and hard-eyed men; I saw my mother sit down at a shadowed table at the far end of the narrow cavern123; and then I saw the man who rose to greet her.
The skin on his face hung in folds which revealed that he had once been overweight; his teeth were stained with paan. He wore a clean white kurta with Lucknow-work around the buttonholes. He had long hair, poetically125 long, hanging lankly126 over his ears; but the top of his head was bald and shiny. Forbidden syllables echoed in my ears: Na. Dir. Nadir127. I realized that I wished desperately128 that I'd never resolved to come.
Once upon a time there was an underground husband who fled, leaving loving messages of divorce; a poet whose verses didn't even rhyme, whose life was saved by pie-dogs. After a lost decade he emerged from goodness-knows-where, his skin hanging loose in memory of his erstwhile plumpness; and, like his once-upon-a-time wife, he had acquired a new name ... Nadir Khan was now Qasim Khan, official candidate of the official Communist Party of India. Lal Qasim.
Qasim the Red. Nothing is without meaning: not without reason are blushes red.
My uncle Hanif said, 'Watch out for the Communists!' and my mother turned scarlet129; politics and emotions were united in her cheeks ... through the dirty, square, glassy cinema-screen of the Pioneer Gate's window, I watched Amina Sinai and the no-longer-Nadir play out their love scene; they performed with the ineptitude130 of genuine amateurs.
On the reccine-topped table, a packet of cigarettes: State Express 555. Numbers, too, have significance: 420, the name given to frauds; 1001, the number of night, of magic, of alternative realities - a number beloved of poets and detested131 by politicians, for whom all alternative versions of the world are threats; and 555, which for years I believed to be the most sinister132 of numbers, the cipher133 of the Devil, the Great Beast, Shaitan himself! (Cyrus-the-great told me so, and I didn't contemplate134 the possibility of his being wrong. But he was: the true daemonic number is not 555, but 666: yet, in my mind, a dark aura hangs around the three fives to this day.)... But I am getting carried away. Suffice to say that Nadir-Qasim's preferred brand was the aforesaid State Express; that the figure five was repeated three times on the packet; and that its manufacturers were W.D. & H.O. Wills. Unable to look into my mother's face, I concentrated on the cigarette-packet, cutting from two-shot of lovers to this extreme close-up of nicotine135.
But now hands enter the frame - first the hands of Nadir-Qasim, their poetic124 softness somewhat callused these days; hands flickering like candle-flames, creeping forward across reccine, then jerking back; next a woman's hands, black as jet, inching forwards like elegant spiders; hands lifting up, off reccine tabletop, hands hovering136 above three fives, beginning the strangest of dances, rising, falling, circling one another, weaving in and out between each other, hands longing137 for touch, hands outstretching tensing quivering demanding to be - but always at last jerking back, fingertips avoiding fingertips, because what I'm watching here on my dirty glass cinema-screen is, after ail1, an Indian movie, in which physical contact is forbidden lest it corrupt138 the watching flower of Indian youth; and there are feet beneath the table and faces above it, feet advancing towards feet, faces tumbling softly towards faces, but jerking away all of a sudden in a cruel censor's cut ... two strangers, each bearing a screen-name which is not the name of their birth, act out their half-unwanted roles. I left the movie before the end, to slip back into the boot of the unpolished unwatched Rover, wishing I hadn't gone to see it, unable to resist wanting to watch it all over again.
What I saw at the very end: my mother's hands raising a half-empty glass of Lovely Lassi; my mother's lips pressing gently, nostalgically against the mottled glass; my mother's hands handing the glass to her Nadir-Qasim; who also applied139, to the opposite side of the glass, his own, poetic mouth. So it was that life imitated bad art, and my uncle Hanif's sister brought the eroticism of the indirect kiss into the green neon dinginess140 of the Pioneer Cafe.
To sum up: in the high summer of 1957, at the peak of an election campaign, Amina Sinai blushed inexplicably141 at a chance mention of the Communist Party of India. Her son - in whose turbulent thoughts there was still room for one more obsession142, because a ten-year-old brain can accommodate any number of fixations - followed her into the north of the city, and spied on a pain-filled scene of impotent love. (Now that Ahmed Sinai was frozen up, Nadir-Qasim didn't even have a sexual disadvantage; torn between a husband who locked himself in an office and cursed mongrels, and an ex-husband who had once, lovingly, played games of hit-the-spittoon, Amina Sinai was reduced to glass-kissery and hand-dances.)
Questions: did I ever, after that time, employ the services of pink plastic? Did I return to the cafe of extras and Marxists? Did I confront my mother with the heinous144 nature of her offence - because what mother has any business to - never mind about what once-upon-a-time - in full view of her only son, how could she how could she how could she? Answers: I did not; I did not; I did not.
What I did: when she went on 'shopping trips', I lodged145 myself in her thoughts.
No- longer anxious to gain the evidence of my own eyes, I rode in my mother's head, up to the north of the city; in this unlikely incognito146, I sat in the Pioneer Cafe and heard conversations about the electoral prospects147 of Qasim the Red; disembodied but wholly present, I trailed my mother as she accompanied Qasim on his rounds, up and down the tenements of the district (were they the same chawls which my father had recently sold, abandoning his tenants148 to their fate?), as she helped him to get water-taps fixed149 and pestered150 landlords to initiate151 repairs and disinfections. Amina Sinai moved amongst the destitute152 on behalf of the Communist Party - a fact which never failed to leave her amazed.
Perhaps she did it because of the growing impoverishment153 of her own life; but at the age of ten I wasn't disposed to be sympathetic; and in my own way, I began to dream dreams of revenge.
The legendary154 Caliph, Haroun al-Rashid, is said to have enjoyed moving incognito amongst the people of Baghdad; I, Saleem Sinai, have also travelled in secret through the byways of my city, but I can't say I had much fun.
Matter of fact descriptions of the outre and bizarre, and their reverse, namely heightened, stylized versions of the everyday - these techniques, which are also attitudes of mind, I have lifted - or perhaps absorbed - from the most formidable of the midnight children, my rival, my fellow-changeling, the supposed son of Wee Willie Winkie: Shiva-of-the-knees. They were techniques which, in his case, were applied entirely155 without conscious thought, and their effect was to create a picture of the world of startling uniformity, in which one could mention casually156, in passing as it were, the dreadful murders of prostitutes which began to fill the gutter-press in those days (while the bodies filled the gutters), while lingering passionately157 on the intricate details of a particular hand of cards. Death, and defeat at rummy were all of a piece to Shiva; hence his terrifying, nonchalant violence, which in the end ... but to begin with beginnings: Although, admittedly, it's my own fault, I'm bound to say that if you think of me purely158 as a radio, you'll only be grasping half the truth. Thought is as often pictorial159 or purely emblematic160 as verbal; and anyway, in order to communicate with, and understand, my colleagues in the Midnight Children's Conference, it was necessary for me quickly to advance beyond the verbal stage.
Arriving in their infinitely161 various minds, I was obliged to get beneath the surface veneer162 of front-of-mind thoughts in incomprehensible tongues, with the obvious (and previously163 demonstrated) effect that they became aware of my presence. Remembering the dramatic effect such an awareness164 had had on Evie Burns, I went to some pains to alleviate165 the shock of my entry. In all cases, my standard first transmission was an image of my face, smiling in what I trusted was a soothing166, friendly, confident and leader-like fashion, and of a hand stretched out in friendship. There were, however, teething troubles.
It took me a little while to realize that my picture of myself was heavily distorted by my own self-consciousness about my appearance; so that the portrait I sent across the thought-waves of the nation, grinning like a Cheshire cat, was about as hideous167 as a portrait could be, featuring a wondrously168 enlarged nose, a completely non-existent chin and giant stains on each temple. It's no wonder that I was often greeted by yelps169 of mental alarm. I, too, was often similarly frightened by the self-images of my ten-year-old fellows. When we discovered what was happening, I encouraged the membership of the Conference, one by one, to go and look into a mirror, or a patch of still water; and then we did manage to find out what we really looked like. The only problems were that our Keralan member (who could, you remember, travel through mirrors) accidentally ended up emerging through a restaurant mirror in the smarter part of New Delhi, and had to make a hurried retreat; while the blue-eyed member for Kashmir fell into a lake and accidentally changed sex, entering as a girl and emerging as a beautiful boy.
When I first introduced myself to Shiva, I saw in his mind the certifying170 image of a short, rat-faced youth with filed-down teeth and two of the biggest knees the world has ever seen.
Faced with a picture of such grotesque114 proportions, I allowed the smile on my own beaming image to wither171 a little; my outstretched hand began to falter172 and twitch173. And Shiva, feeling my presence, reacted at first with utter rage; great boiling waves of anger scalded the inside of my head; but then, 'Hey - look - I know you! You're the rich kid from Methwold's Estate, isn't it?' And I, equally astonished, 'Winkle's son - the one who blinded Eyeslice!' His self-image puffed175 up with pride. 'Yah, yaar, that's me. Nobody messes with me, man!' Recognition reduced me to banalities: 'So! How's your father, anyway? He doesn't come round ...' And he, with what felt very like relief: 'Him, man? My father's dead.'
A momentary176 pause; then puzzlement - no anger now - and Shiva, 'Lissen, yaar, this is damn good - how you doin' it?' I launched into my standard explanation, but after a few instants he interrupted, 'So! Lissen, my father said I got born at exactly midnight also - so don't you see, that makes us joint bosses of this gang of yours! Midnight is best, agreed? So - those other kids gotta do like we tell them!' There rose before my eyes the image of a second, and more potent143, Evelyn Lilith Burns ... dismissing this unkind notion, I explained, "That wasn't exactly my idea for the Conference; I had in mind something more like a, you know, sort of loose federation177 of equals, all points of view given free expression..." Something resembling a violent snort echoed around the walls of my head. 'That, man, that's only rubbish. What we ever goin' to do with a gang like that? Gangs gotta have gang bosses. You take me -' (the puff174 of pride again) 'I been running a gang up here in Matunga for two years now. Since I was eight. Older kids and all. What d'you think of that?' And I, without meaning to, 'What's it do, your gang - does it have rules and all?' Shiva-laughter in my ears ... 'Yah, little rich boy: one rule. Everybody does what I say or I squeeze the shit outa them with my knees!' Desperately, I continued to try and win Shiva round to my point of view: 'The thing is, we must be here for a purpose, don't you think? I mean, there has to be a reason, you must agree? So what I thought, we should try and work out what it is, and then, you know, sort of dedicate our lives to...' 'Rich kid,' Shiva yelled, 'you don't know one damn thing! What purpose, man? What thing in the whole sister-sleeping world got reason, yara?
For what reason you're rich and I'm poor? Where's the reason in starving, man?
God knows how many millions of damn fools living in this country, man, and you think there's a purpose! Man, I'll tell you - you got to get what you can, do what you can with it, and then you got to die. That's reason, rich boy.
Everything else is only mother-sleeping wind!'
And now I, in my midnight bed, begin to shake ... 'But history,' I say, 'and the Prime Minister wrote me a letter... and don't you even believe in ... who knows what we might...' He, my alter ego178, Shiva, butted179 in: 'Lissen, little boy - you're so full of crazy stuff, I can see I'm going to have to take this thing over. You tell that to all these other freak kids!'
Nose and knees and knees and nose ... the rivalry that began that night would never be ended, until two knives slashed180, downdown-down ... whether the spirits of Mian Abdullah, whom knives killed years before, had leaked into me, imbuing181 me with the notion of loose federalism and making me vulnerable to knives, I cannot say; but at that point I found a measure of courage and told Shiva, 'You can't run the Conference; without me, they won't even be able to listen to you!'
And he, confirming the declaration of war: 'Rich kid, they'll want to know about me; you just try and stop me!'
'Yes,' I told him, I'll try.'
Shiva, the god of destruction, who is also most potent of deities182; Shiva, greatest of dancers; who rides on a bull; whom no force can resist... the boy Shiva, he told us, had to fight for survival from his earliest days. And when his father had, about a year previously, completely lost his singing voice, Shiva had had to defend himself against Wee Willie Winkie's parental183 zeal184. 'He blindfolded185 me, man! He wrapped a rag around my eyes an' took me to the roof of the chawl, man! You know what was in his hand? A sister-sleeping hammer, man! A hammer! Bastard186 was going to smash my legs up, man - it happens, you know, rich boy, they do it to kids so they can always earn money begging - you get more if you're all broken up, man! So I'm pushed over till I'm lying down on the roof, man; and then -' And then hammer swinging down towards knees larger and knobblier than any policeman's, an easy target, but now the knees went into action, faster than lightning the knees parted - felt the breath of the down-rushing hammer and spread wide apart; and then hammer plunging187 between knees, still held in his father's hand; and then, the knees rushing together like fists. The hammer, clattering188 harmlessly on concrete. The wrist of Wee Willie Winkie, clamped between the knees of his blindfolded son. Hoarse189 breaths escaping from the lips of the anguished190 father. And still the knees, closing ininin, tighter and tighter, until there is a snap. 'Broke his goddamn wrist, man! That showed him - damn fine, no? I swear!'
Shiva and I were born under Capricorn rising; the constellation191 left me alone, but it gave Shiva its gift. Capricorn, as any astrologer will tell you, is the heavenly body with power over the knees.
On election day, 1957, the All-India Congress was badly shocked. Although it won the election, twelve million votes made the Communists the largest single opposition192 party; and in Bombay, despite the efforts of Boss Patil, large numbers of electors failed to place their crosses against the Congress symbol of sacred-cow-and-suckling-calf, preferring the less emotive pictograms of the Samyukta Maharashtra Samiti and Maha Gujarat Parishad. When the Communist peril193 was discussed on our hillock, my mother continued to blush; and we resigned ourselves to the partition of the state of Bombay.
One member of the Midnight Children's Conference played a minor role in the elections. Winkle's supposed son Shiva was recruited by - well, perhaps I will not name the party; but only one party had really large sums to spend - and on polling day, he and his gang, who called themselves Cowboys, were to be seen standing194 outside a polling station in the north of the city, some holding long stout195 sucks, others juggling196 with stones, still others picking their teeth with knives, all of them encouraging the electorate197 to use its vote with wisdom and care ... and after the polls closed, were seals broken on ballot-boxes? Did ballot-stuffing occur? At any rate, when the votes were counted, it was discovered that Qasim the Red had narrowly failed to win the seat; and my rival's paymasters were well pleased.
... But now Padma says, mildly, 'What date was it?' And, without thinking, I answer: 'Some time in the spring.' And then it occurs to me that I have made another error - that the election of 1957 took place before, and not after, my tenth birthday; but although I have racked my brains, my memory refuses, stubbornly, to alter the sequence of events. This is worrying. I don't know what's gone wrong.
She says, trying uselessly to console me: 'What are you so long for in your face? Everybody forgets some small things, all the time!'
But if small things go, will large things be close behind?
收听单词发音 |
1
ail
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| v.生病，折磨，苦恼 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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ancillary
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| adj.附属的，从属的 | |
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anonymity
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| n.the condition of being anonymous | |
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admonish
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| v.训戒；警告；劝告 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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grasshoppers
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| n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 )；蝗虫；蚂蚱；（孩子）矮小的 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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condiment
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| n.调味品 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；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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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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vat
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| n.(=value added tax)增值税，大桶 | |
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vats
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| varieties 变化，多样性，种类 | |
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seethe
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| vi.拥挤，云集；发怒，激动，骚动 | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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electrification
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| n.充电，电气化；起电；电化；带电 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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compensating
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| 补偿，补助，修正 | |
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lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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bawdy
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| adj.淫猥的，下流的；n.粗话 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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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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persuasively
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| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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glorifies
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| 赞美( glorify的第三人称单数 )； 颂扬； 美化； 使光荣 | |
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vilifies
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| n.中伤，诽谤( vilify的名词复数 )v.中伤，诽谤( vilify的第三人称单数 ) | |
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heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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naively
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| adv. 天真地 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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51
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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52
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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mirages
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景( mirage的名词复数 ) | |
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55
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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conclusively
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| adv.令人信服地，确凿地 | |
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57
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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58
baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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asylums
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| n.避难所( asylum的名词复数 )；庇护；政治避难；精神病院 | |
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reliability
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| n.可靠性，确实性 | |
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61
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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63
hiccups
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| n.嗝( hiccup的名词复数 )；连续地打嗝；暂时性的小问题；短暂的停顿v.嗝( hiccup的第三人称单数 )；连续地打嗝；暂时性的小问题；短暂的停顿 | |
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64
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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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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66
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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69
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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71
baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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canine
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| adj.犬的，犬科的 | |
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outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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74
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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76
enlisting
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| v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的现在分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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morosely
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| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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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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stowaway
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| n.（藏于轮船，飞机中的）偷乘者 | |
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bruising
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| adj.殊死的；十分激烈的v.擦伤(bruise的现在分词形式) | |
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jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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berated
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| v.严厉责备，痛斥( berate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
wrestler
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| n.摔角选手，扭 | |
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93
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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94
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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95
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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96
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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97
anticipatory
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| adj.预想的，预期的 | |
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98
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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99
flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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100
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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101
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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102
tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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103
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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104
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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105
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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106
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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107
emergence
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| n.浮现，显现，出现，（植物）突出体 | |
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108
glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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109
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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110
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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111
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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112
decrepitude
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| n.衰老；破旧 | |
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113
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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114
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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115
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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116
functionaries
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| n.公职人员，官员( functionary的名词复数 ) | |
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117
scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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118
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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119
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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120
bins
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| n.大储藏箱( bin的名词复数 )；宽口箱（如面包箱，垃圾箱等）v.扔掉，丢弃( bin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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121
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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122
scuffed
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| v.使磨损( scuff的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚走 | |
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123
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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124
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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125
poetically
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| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
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126
lankly
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| adv.瘦地，细长地 | |
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127
nadir
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| n.最低点，无底 | |
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128
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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129
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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130
ineptitude
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| n.不适当；愚笨，愚昧的言行 | |
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131
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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133
cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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134
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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135
nicotine
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| n.(化)尼古丁，烟碱 | |
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136
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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137
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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138
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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139
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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140
dinginess
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| n.暗淡，肮脏 | |
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141
inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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142
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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143
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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144
heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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145
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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146
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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147
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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148
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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149
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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150
pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
initiate
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| vt.开始，创始，发动；启蒙，使入门；引入 | |
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152
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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153
impoverishment
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| n.贫穷，穷困；贫化 | |
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154
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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155
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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156
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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157
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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158
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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159
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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160
emblematic
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| adj.象征的，可当标志的；象征性 | |
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161
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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162
veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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163
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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164
awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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165
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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166
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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167
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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168
wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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169
yelps
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| n.（因痛苦、气愤、兴奋等的）短而尖的叫声( yelp的名词复数 )v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的第三人称单数 ) | |
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170
certifying
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| （尤指书面）证明( certify的现在分词 )； 发证书给…； 证明（某人）患有精神病； 颁发（或授予）专业合格证书 | |
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171
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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172
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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173
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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174
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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175
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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176
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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177
federation
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| n.同盟，联邦，联合，联盟，联合会 | |
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178
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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179
butted
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| 对接的 | |
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180
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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181
imbuing
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的现在分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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182
deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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183
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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184
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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185
blindfolded
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| v.（尤指用布）挡住（某人）的视线( blindfold的过去式 )；蒙住（某人）的眼睛；使不理解；蒙骗 | |
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186
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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187
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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188
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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189
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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190
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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191
constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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192
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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193
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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194
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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196
juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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197
electorate
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| n.全体选民；选区 | |
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