From ayah to Widow, I've been the sort of person to whom things have been done; but Saleem Sinai, perennial1 victim, persists in seeing himself as protagonist2.
Despite Mary's crime; setting aside typhoid and snake-venom; dismissing two accidents, in washing-chest and circus-ring (when Sonny Ibrahim, master lock-breaker, permitted my budding horns of temples to invade his forcep-hollows, and through this combination unlocked the door to the midnight children); disregarding the effects of Evie's push and my mother's infidelity; in spite of losing my hair to the bitter violence of Emil Zagallo and my finger to the lip-licking goads4 of Masha Miovic; setting my face against all indications to the contrary, I shall now amplify5, in the manner and with the proper solemnity of a man of science, my claim to a place at the centre of things.
'... Your life, which will be, in a sense, the mirror of our own,' the Prime Minister wrote, obliging me scientifically to face the question: In what sense?
How, in what terms, may the career of a single . individual be said to impinge on the fate of a nation? I must answer in adverbs and hyphens: I was linked to history both literally6 and metaphorically8, both actively9 and passively, in what our (admirably modern) scientists might term 'modes of connection' composed of dualistically-combined configurations10' of the two pairs of opposed adverbs given above. This is why hyphens are necessary: ac'tively-literally, passively-metaphorically, actively-metaphorically and pas-sively-literally, I was inextricably entwined with my world.
Sensing Padma's unscientific bewilderment, I revert11 to the inexactitudes of common speech: By the combination of'active' and 'literal' I mean, of course, all actions of mine which directly - literally -affected13, or altered the course of, seminal14 historical events, for instance the manner in which I provided the language marchers with their battle-cry. The union of 'passive' and 'metaphorical7' encompasses15 all socio-political trends and events which, merely by existing, affected me metaphorically - for example, by reading between the lines of the episode entitled 'The Fisherman's Pointing Finger', you will perceive the unavoidable connection between the infant state's attempts at rushing towards full-sized adulthood17 and my own early, explosive efforts at growth ... Next, 'passive' and 'literal', when hyphenated, cover all moments at which national events had a direct bearing upon the lives of myself and my family - under this heading you should file the freezing of my father's assets, and also the explosion at Walkeshwar Reservoir, which unleased the great cat invasion. And finally there is the 'mode' of the 'active-metaphorical', which groups together those occasions on which things done by or to me were mirrored in the macrocosm of public affairs, and my private existence was shown to be symbolically18 at one with history. The mutilation of my middle finger was a case in point, because when I was detached from my fingertip and blood (neither Alpha nor Omega) rushed out in fountains, a similar thing happened to history, and all sorts of everywhichthing began pouring out all over us; but because history operates on a grander scale than any individual, it took a good deal longer to stitch it back together and mop up the mess.
'Passive-metaphorical', 'passive-literal', 'active-metaphorical': the Midnight Children's Conference was all three; but it never became what I most wanted it to be; we never operated in the first, most significant of the 'modes of connection'. The 'active-literal' passed us by.
Transformation19 without end: nine-fingered Saleem has been brought to the doorway20 of the Breach21 Candy Hospital by a squat22 blonde nurse whose face is frozen into a smile of terrifying insincerity. He is blinking in the hot glare of the outside world, trying to focus on two swimming shadow-shapes coming towards him out of the sun; 'See?' the nurse coos, 'See who's come to get you, then?' And Saleem realizes that something terrible has gone wrong with the world, because his mother and father, who should have come to collect him, have apparently23 been transformed en route into his ayah Mary Pereira and his Uncle Hanif.
Hanif Aziz boomed like the horns of ships in the harbour and smelted25 like an old tobacco factory. I loved him dearly, for his laughter, his unshaven chin, his air of having been put together rather loosely, his lack of co-ordination which made his every movement fraught26 with risk. (When he visited Buckingham Villa27 my mother hid the cut-glass vases.) Adults never trusted him to behave with proper decorum ('Watch out for the Communists!' he bellowed28, and they blushed), which was a bond between himself and all children - other people's children, since he and Pia were childless. Uncle Hanif who would one day, without warning, take a walk off the roof of his home.
... He wallops me in the back, toppling me forwards into Mary's arms. 'Hey, little wrestler29! You look fine!' But Mary, hastily, 'But so thin, Jesus! They haven't been feeding you properly? You want cornflour pudding? Banana mashed30 with milk? Did they give you chips?' ... while Saleem is looking round at this new world in which everything seems to be going too fast; his voice, when it comes, sounds high-pitched, as though somebody had speeded it up: 'Amma-Abba?'
he asks. The Monkey?' And Hanif booms, 'Yes, tickety-boo! The boy is really ship-shape! Come on phaelwan: a ride in my Packard, okay?' And talking at the same time is Mary Pereira, 'Chocolate cake,' she is promising31, 'laddoos, pista-ki-lauz, meat samosas32, kulfi. So thin you got, baba, the wind will blow you away.' The Packard is driving away; it is failing to turn off Warden33 Road, up the two-storey hillock; and Saleem, 'Hanif mamu, where are we ...' No time to get it out; Hanif roars, 'Your Pia aunty is waiting! My God, you see if we don't have a number one good time!' His voice drops conspiratorially34: 'Lots,' he says darkly, 'of fun.' And Mary: 'Arre baba yes! Such steak! And green chutney!' ...
'Not the dark one,' I say, captured at last; relief appears on the cheeks of my captors. 'No no no,' Mary babbles35, 'light green, baba. Just like you like.' And, 'Pale green!' Hanif is bellowing36, 'My God, green like grasshoppers37!'
All too fast... we are at Kemp's Corner now, cars rushing around like bullets ... but one thing is unchanged. On Ids billboard38, the Kolynos Kid is grinning, the eternal pixie grin of the boy in the green chlorophyll cap, the lunatic grin of the timeless Kid, who endlessly squeezes an inexhaustible tube of toothpaste on to a bright green brush: Keep Teeth Kleen And Keep Teeth Brite, Keep Teeth Kolynos Super White! ... and you may wish to think of me, too, as an involuntary Kolynos Kid, squeezing crises and transformations39 out of a bottomless tube, extruding40 time on to my metaphorical toothbrush; clean, white time with green chlorophyll in the stripes.
This, then, was the beginning of my first exile. (There will be a second, and a third.) I bore it uncomplainingly. I had guessed, of course, that there was one question I must never ask; that I had been loaned out, like a comic-book from the Scandal Point Second Hand Library, for some indefinite period; and that when my parents wanted me back, they would send for me. When, or even if: because I blamed myself not a little for my banishment41. Had I not inflicted42 upon myself one more deformity to add to bandylegs cucumbernose horn-temples staincheeks?
Was it not possible that my mutilated finger had been (as my announcement of my voices had nearly been), for my long-suffering parents, the last straw? That I was no longer a good business risk, no longer worth the investment of their love and protection? ... I decided43 to reward my uncle and aunt for their kindness in taking in so wretched a creature as myself, to play the model nephew and await events. There were times when I wished that the Monkey would come and see me, or even call me on the phone; but dwelling44 on such matters only punctured45 the balloon of my equanimity46, so I did my best to put them out of my mind. Besides, living with Hanif and Pia Aziz turned out to be exactly what my uncle had promised: lots of fun.
They made all the fuss of me that children expect, and accept graciously, from childless adults. Their flat overlooking Marine47 Drive wasn't large, but there was a balcony from which I could drop monkey-nut shells on to the heads of passing pedestrians48; there was no spare bedroom, but I was offered a deliciously soft white sofa with green stripes (an early proof of my transformation into the Kolynos Kid); ayah Mary, who had apparently followed me into exile, slept on the floor by my side. By day, she filled my stomach with the promised cakes and sweetmeats (paid for, I now believe, by my mother); I should have grown immensely fat, except that I had begun once again to grow in other directions, and at the end of the year of accelerated history (when I was only eleven and a half) I had actually attained49 my full adult height, as if someone had grasped me by the folds of my puppy-fat and squeezed them harder than any toothpaste-tube, so that inches shot out of me under the pressure. Saved from obesity50 by the Kolynos effect, I basked51 in my uncle and aunt's delight at having a child around the house. When I spilt 7-Up on the carpet or sneezed into my dinner, the worst my uncle would say was 'Hai-yo! Black man!' in his booming steamship's voice, spoiling the effect by grinning hugely. Meanwhile, my aunty Pia was becoming the next in the long series of women who have bewitched and finally undone52 me good and proper.
(I should mention that, while I stayed in the Marine Drive apartment, my testicles, forsaking53 the protection of pelvic bone, decided prematurely54 and without warning to drop into their little sacs. This event, too, played its part in what followed.)
My mumani - my aunty - the divine Pia Aziz: to live with her was to exist in the hot sticky heart of a Bombay talkie. In those days, my uncle's career in the cinema had entered a dizzy decline, and, for such is the way of the world, Pia's star had gone into decline along with his. In her presence, however, thoughts of failure were impossible. Deprived of film roles, Pia had turned her life into a feature picture, in which I was cast in an increasing number of bit-parts. I was the Faithful Body-Servant: Pia in petticoats, soft hips24 rounding towards my desperately-averted eyes, giggling56 while her eyes, bright with antimony, flashed imperiously - 'Come on, boy, what are you shy for, holds these pleats in my sari while I fold.' I was her Trusted Confidant, too. While my uncle sat on chlorophyll-striped sofa pounding out scripts which nobody would ever film, I listened to the nostalgic soliloquy of my aunt, trying to keep my eyes away from two impossible orbs57, spherical58 as melons, golden as mangoes: I refer, you will have guessed, to the adorable breasts of Pia mumani. While she, sitting on her bed, one arm flung across her brow, declaimed: 'Boy, you know, I am great actress; I have interpreted several major roles! But look, what fate will do! Once, boy, goodness knows who would beg absolutely to come to this flat; once the reporters of Filmfare and Screen Goddess would pay black-money to get inside! Yes, and dancing, and I was well-known at Venice restaurant - all of those great jazzmen came to sit at my feet, yes, even that Braz. Boy, after Lovers of Kashmir, who was a bigger star? Not Poppy; not Vyjayantimala; not one person!' And I, nodding emphatically, no-naturally-nobody, while her wondrous59 skin-wrapped melons heaved and ... With a dramatic cry, she went on: 'But even then, in the time of our world-beating fame, every picture a golden jubilee60 movie, this uncle of yours wants to live in a two-room flat like a clerk! So I make no fuss; I am not like some of your cheap-type actresses; I live simply and ask for no Cadillacs or air-conditioners or Dunlopillo beds from England; no swimming pools shaped like bikinis like that Roxy Vishwanatham's! Here, like a wife of the masses, I have stayed; here, now, I am rotting! Rotting, absolutely.
But I know this: my face is my fortune; after that, what riches do I need?' And I, anxiously agreeing: 'Mumani, none; none at all.' She shrieked61 wildly; even my slap-deafened ear was penetrated63. 'Yes, of course, you also want me to be poor! All the world wants Pia to be in rags! Even that one, your uncle, writing his boring-boring scripts! ?my God, I tell him, put in dances, or exotic locations! Make your villains65 villainous, why not, make heroes like men! But he says, no, all that is rubbish, he sees that now - although once he was not so proud! Now he must write about ordinary people and social problems! And I say, yes, Hanif, do that, that is good; but put in a little comedy routine, a little dance for your Pia to do, and tragedy and drama also; that is what the Public is wanting!'
Her eyes were brimming with tears. 'So you know what he is writing now? About ...' she looked as if her heart would break '... the Ordinary Life of a Pickle66 Factory!'
'Shh, mumani, shh,' I beg, 'Hanif mamu will hear!'
'Let him hear!' she stormed, weeping copiously67 now; 'Let his mother hear also, in Agra; they will make me die for shame!'
Reverend Mother had never liked her actress daughter-in-law. I overheard her once telling my mother: 'To marry an actress, whatsits-name, my son has made his bed in the gutter68, soon, whatsitsname, she will be making him drink alcohol and also eat some pig.' Eventually, she accepted the inevitability69 of the match with bad grace; but she took to writing improving epistles to Pia. 'Listen, daughter,' she wrote, 'don't do this actressy thing. Why to do such shameless behaviour? Work, yes, you girls have modern ideas, but to dance naked on the screen! When for a small sum only you could acquire the concession70 on a good petrol pump. From my own pocket I would get it for you in two minutes. Sit in an office, hire attendants; that is proper work.' None of us ever knew whence Reverend Mother acquired her dream of petrol pumps, which would be the growing obsession71 of her old age; but she bombarded Pia with it, to the actress's disgust.
'Why that woman doesn't ask me to be shorthand typist?' Pia wailed72 to Hanif and Mary and me at breakfast. 'Why not taxi-driver, or handloom weaver73? I tell you, this pumpery-shumpery makes me wild.'
My uncle quivered (for once in his life) on the edge of anger. "There is a child present,' he said, 'and she is your mother; show her respect.'
'Respect she can have,' Pia flounced from the room, 'but she wants gas' ... And my most-treasured bit-part of all was played out when during Pia and Hanif's regular card-games with friends, I was promoted to occupy the sacred place of the son she never had. (Child of an unknown union, I have had more mothers than most mothers have children; giving birth to parents has been one of my stranger talents - a form of reverse fertility beyond the control of contraception, and even of the Widow herself.) In the company of visitors, Pia Aziz would cry: 'Look, friends, here's my own crown prince! The jewel in my ring! The pearl in my necklace!' And she would draw me towards her, cradling my head so that my nose was pushed down against her chest and nestled wonderfully between the soft pillows of her indescribable ... unable to cope with such delights, I pulled my head away. But I was her slave; and I know now why she permitted herself such familiarity with me. Prematurely testicled, growing rapidly, I nevertheless wore (fraudulently) the badge of sexual innocence74: Saleem Sinai, during his sojourn75 at his uncle's home, was still in shorts. Bare knees proved my childishness to Pia; deceived by ankle-socks, she held my face against her breasts while her sitar-perfect voice whispered in my good ear: 'Child, child, don't fear; your clouds will soon roll by.'
For my uncle, as well as my histrionic aunt, I acted out (with growing polish)
the part of the surrogate son. Hanif Aziz was to be found during the day on the striped sofa, pencil and exercise book in hand, writing his pickle epic76. He wore his usual lungi wound loosely around his waist and fastened with an enormous safety-pin; his legs protruded77 hairily from its folds. His fingernails bore the stains of a lifetime of Gold Flakes78; his toenails seemed similarly discoloured.
I imagined him smoking cigarettes with his toes. Highly impressed by the vision, I asked him if he could, in fact, perform this feat55; and without a word, he inserted Gold Flake79 between big toe and its sidekick and wound himself into bizarre contortions80. I clapped wildly, but he seemed to be in some pain for the rest of the day.
I ministered to his needs as a good son should, emptying ashtrays81, sharpening pencils, bringing water to drink; while he, who after his fabulist beginnings had remembered that he was his father's son and dedicated82 himself against everything which smacked83 of the unreal, scribbled84 out his ill-fated screenplay.
'Sonny Jim,' he informed me, 'this damn country has been dreaming for five thousand years. It's about time it started waking up.' Hanif was fond of railing against princes and demons85, gods and heroes, against, in fact, the entire iconography of the Bombay film; in the temple of illusions, he had become the high priest of reality; while I, conscious of my miraculous87 nature, which involved me beyond all mitigation in the (Hanif-despised) myth-life of India, bit my lip and didn't know where to look.
Hanif Aziz, the only realistic writer working in the Bombay film industry, was writing the story of a pickle-factory created, run and worked in entirely88 by women. There were long scenes describing the formation of a trade union; there were detailed89 descriptions of the pickling process. He would quiz Mary Pereira about recipes; they would discuss, for hours, the perfect blend of lemon, lime and garam masala. It is ironic90 that this arch-disciple of naturalism should have been so skilful91 (if unconscious) a prophet of his own family's fortunes; in the indirect kisses of the Lovers of Kashmir he foretold92 my mother and her Nadir-Qasim's meetings at the Pioneer Cafe; and in his unfilmed chutney scenario93, too, there lurked94 a prophecy of deadly accuracy.
He besieged95 Homi Catrack with scripts. Catrack produced none of them; they sat in the small Marine Drive apartment, covering every available surface, so that you had to pick them off the toilet seat before you could lift it; but Catrack (out of charity? Or for another, soon-to-be-revealed reason?) paid my uncle a studio salary. That was how they survived, Hanif and Pia, on the largess of the man who would, in time, become the second human being to be murdered by mushrooming Saleem.
Homi Catrack begged him, 'Maybe just one love scene?' And Pia, 'What do you think, village people are going to give their rupees to see women pickling Alfonsos?' But Hanif, obdurately96: 'This is a film about work, not kissing. And nobody pickles97 Alfonsos. You must use mangoes with bigger stones.'
The ghost of Joe D'Costa did not, so far as I know, follow Mary Pereira into exile; however, his absence only served to increase her anxiety. She began, in these Marine Drive days, to fear that he would become visible to others besides herself, and reveal, during her absence, the awful secrets of what happened at Dr Narlikar's Nursing Home on Independence night. So each morning she left the apartment in a state of jelly-like worry, arriving at Buckingham Villa in near-collapse; only when she found that Joe had remained both invisible and silent did she relax. But after she returned to Marine Drive, laden98 with samosas and cakes and chutneys, her anxiety began to mount once again ... but 玎 I had resolved (having troubles enough of my Own) to keep out of all heads except the Children's, I did not understand why.
Panic attracts panic; on her journeys, sitting in jam-packed buses (the trams had just been discontinued), Mary heard all sorts of rumours99 and tittle-tattle, which she relayed to me as matters of absolute fact. According to Mary, the country was in the grip of a sort of supernatural invasion. 'Yes, baba, they say in Kurukshetra an old Sikh woman woke up in her hut and saw the old-time war of the Kurus and Pandavas happening right outside! It was in the papers and all, she pointed100 to the place where she saw the chariots of Arjun and Kama, and there were truly wheel-marks in the mud! Baap-re-baap, such so-bad things: at Gwalior they have seen the ghost of the Rani of Jhansi; rakshasas have been seen many-headed like Ravana, doing things to women and pulling down trees with one finger. I am good Christian101 woman, baba; but it gives me fright when they tell that the tomb of Lord Jesus is found in Kashmir. On the tombstones are carved two pierced feet and a local fisherwoman has sworn she saw them bleeding - real blood, God save us! - on Good Friday ... what is happening, baba, why these old things can't stay dead and not plague honest folk?' And I, wide-eyed, listening; and although my uncle Hanif roared with laughter, I remain, today, half-convinced that in that time of accelerated events and diseased hours the past of India rose up to confound her present; the new-born, secular102 state was being given an awesome103 reminder104 of its fabulous105 antiquity106, in which democracy and votes for women were irrelevant107... so that people were seized by atavistic longings108, and forgetting the new myth of freedom reverted109 to their old ways, their old regionalist loyalties110 and prejudices, and the body politic16 began to crack. As I said: lop off just one ringer-tip and you never know what fountains of confusion you will unleash111.
'And cows, baba, have been vanishing into thin air; poof! and in the villages, the peasants must starve.'
It was at this time that I, too, was possessed112 by a strange demon86; but in order that you may understand me properly, I must begin my account of the episode on an innocent evening, when Hanif and Pia Aziz had a group of friends round for cards.
My aunty was prone113 to exaggerate; because although Filmfare and Screen Goddess were absent, my uncle's house was a popular place. On card-evenings, it would burst at the seams with jazzmen gossiping about quarrels and reviews in American magazines, and singers who carried throat-sprays in their handbags, and members of the Uday Shankar dance-troupe, which was trying to form a new style of dance by fusing Western ballet with bharatanatyam; there were musicians who had been signed up to perform in the All-India Radio music festival, the Sangeet Sammelan; there were painters who argued violently amongst each other. The air was thick with political, and other, chatter114. 'As a matter of fact, I am the only artist in India who paints with a genuine sense of ideological115 commitment!'
- 'O, it's too bad about Ferdy, he'll never get another band after this' - 'Menon? Don't talk to me about Krishna. I knew him when he had principles. I, myself, have never abandoned ...''... One, Hanif yaar, why we don't see Lal Qasim here these days?' And my uncle, looking anxiously towards me: 'Shh ...
what Qasim? I don't know any person by that name.'
... And mingling116 with the hubbub117 in the apartment, there was the evening colour and noise of Marine Drive: promenaders with dogs, buying chambeli and channa from hawkers; the cries of beggars and bhcl-puri vendors118; and the lights coming on in a great arcing necklace, round and up to Malabar Hill ... I stood on the balcony with Mary Pereira, turning my bad ear to her whispered rumours, the city at my back and the crowding, chatting card-schools before my eyes. And one day, amongst the card-players, I recognized the sunken-eyed, ascetic119 form of Mr Homi Catrack. Who greeted me with embarrassed heartiness120: 'Hi there, young chap! Doing fine? Of course, of course you are!'
My uncle Hanif played rummy dedicatedly121; but he was in the thrall122 of a curious obsession - namely, that he was determined123 never to lay down a hand until he completed a thirteen-card sequence in hearts. Always hearts; all the hearts, and nothing but the hearts would do. In his quest for this unattainable perfection, my uncle would discard perfectly124 good threes-of-a-kind, and whole sequences of spades clubs diamonds, to the raucous125 amusement of his friends. I heard the renowned126 shehnai-player Ustad Changez Khan (who dyed his hair, so mat on hot evenings the tops of his ears were discoloured by running black fluid) tell my uncle: 'Come on, mister; leave this heart business, and just play like the rest of us fellows.' My uncle confronted temptation; then boomed above the din3, 'No, dammit, go to the devil and leave me to my game!' He played cards like a fool; but I, who had never seen such singleness of purpose, felt like clapping.
One of the regulars at Hanif Aziz's legendary127 card-evenings was a Times of India staff photographer, who was full of sharp tales and scurrilous128 stories. My uncle introduced me to him: 'Here's the fellow who put you on the front page, Saleem.
Here is Kalidas Gupta. A terrible photographer; a really badmaash type. Don't talk to him too long; he'll make your head spin with scandal!' Kalidas had a head of silver hair and a nose like an eagle. I thought he was wonderful. 'Do you really know scandals?' I asked him; but all he said was, 'Son, if I told, they would make your ears burn.' But he never found out that the evil genius, the eminence129 grise behind the greatest scandal the city had ever known was none other than Saleem Snotnose ... I mustn't race ahead. The affair of the curious baton130 of Commander Sabarmati must be recounted in its proper place. Effects must not (despite the tergiversatory nature of time in 1958) be permitted to precede causes.
I was alone on the balcony. Mary Pereira was in the kitchen helping131 Pia to prepare sandwiches and cheese-pakoras; Hanif Aziz was immersed in his search for the thirteen hearts; and now Mr Homi Catrack came out to stand beside me.
'Breath of fresh air,' he said. 'Yes, sir,' I replied. 'So,' he exhaled132 deeply.
'So, so. Life is treating you good? Excellent little fellow. Let me shake you by the hand.' Ten-year-old hand is swallowed up by film magnate's fist (the left hand; the mutilated right hand hangs innocently by my side) ... and now a shock.
Left palm feels paper being thrust into it - sinister133 paper, inserted by dexterous134 fist! Catrack's grip tightens135; his voice becomes low, but also cobra-like, sibilant; inaudible in the room with the green-striped sofa, his words penetrate64 my one good ear: 'Give this to your aunty. Secretly secretly.
Can do? And keep mum; or I'll send the police to cut your tongue out.' And now, loud and cheery. 'Good! Glad to see you in such high spirits!' Homi Catrack is patting me on the head; and moving back to his game.
Threatened by policemen, I have remained silent for two decades; but no longer.
Now, everything has to come out.
The card-school broke up early: 'The boy has to sleep,' Pia was whispering, 'Tomorrow he goes to school again.' I found no opportunity of being alone with my aunt; I was tucked up on my sofa with the note still clutched in my left fist. Mary was asleep on the floor ... I decided to feign136 a nightmare.
(Deviousness did not come unnaturally137 to me.) Unfortunately, however, I was so tired that I fell asleep; and, in the event, there was no need to pretend: because I dreamed the murder of my classmate Jimmy Kapadia.
... We are playing football in the main stairwell at school, on red tiles, slipping sliding. A black cross set in the blood-red tiles. Mr Crusoe at the head of the stairs: 'Mustn't slide down the banisters boys that cross is where one boy fell.'Jimmy plays football on the cross. 'The cross is lies,' Jimmy says, 'They tell you lies to spoil your fun.' His mother calls up on the telephone. 'Don't play Jimmy your bad heart.' The bell. The telephone, replaced, and now the bell ... Ink-pellets stain the classroom air. Fat Perce and Glandy Keith have fun. Jimmy wants a pencil, prods138 me in the ribs139. 'Hey man, you got a pencil, give. Two ticks, man.' I give. Zagallo enters. Zagallo's hand is up for silence: look at my hair growing on his palm! Zagallo in pointy tin-soldier hat ... I must have my pencil back. Stretching out my finger giving Jimmy a poke140.
'Sir, please look sir, Jimmy fell!' 'Sir I saw sir Snotnose poked141!' 'Snotnose shot Kapadia, sir!' 'Don't play Jimmy your bad heart!' 'You be quiet,' Zagallo cries, 'Jongle feelth, shut up.'
Jimmy in a bundle on the floor. 'Sir sir please sir will they put up a cross?'
He borrowed a pencil, I poked, he fell. His father is a taxi-driver. Now the taxi drives into class; a dhobi-bundle is put on the back seat, out goes Jimmy.
Ding, a bell. Jimmy's father puts down the taxi flag. Jimmy's father looks at me: 'Snotnose, you'll have to pay the fare.' 'But please sir haven't got the money sir.' Arid142 Zagallo: 'We'll put it on your bill.' See my hair on Zagallo's hand. Flames are pouring from Zagallo's eyes. 'Five hundred meelion, what's one death?' Jimmy is dead; five hundred million still alive. I start counting: one two three. Numbers march over Jimmy's grave. One million two million three million four. Who cares if anyone, anyone dies. One hundred million and one two three. Numbers march through the classroom now. Crushing pounding two hundred million three four five. Five hundred million still alive. And only one of me ...
... In the dark of the night, I awoke from the dream of Jimmy Kapadia's death which became the dream of annihilation-by-numbers, yelling howling screaming, but still with the paper in my fist; and a door flew open, to reveal my uncle Hanif and aunt Pia. Mary Pereira tried to comfort me, but Pia was imperious, she was a divine swirl143 of petticoats and dupatta, she cradled me in her arms: 'Never mind! My diamond, never mind now!' And Uncle Hanif, sleepily: 'Hey, phaelwan! It's okay now; come on, you come with us; bring the boy, Pia!' And now I'm safely in Pia's arms; 'Just for tonight, my pearl, you can sleep with us!' - and there I am, nestling between aunt and uncle, huddling144 against my mumani's perfumed curves.
Imagine, if you can, my sudden joy; imagine with what speed the nightmare fled from my thoughts, as I nestled against my extraordinary aunt's petticoats! As she re-arranged herself, to get comfortable, and one golden melon caressed145 my cheek! As Pia's hand sought out mine and grasped it firmly ... now I discharged my duty. When my aunt's hand wrapped itself around mine, paper passed from palm to palm. I felt her stiffen147, silently; then, although I snuggled up closer closer closer, she was lost to me; she was reading in the dark, and the stiffness of her body was increasing; and then suddenly I knew that I had been tricked, that Catrack was my enemy; and only the threat of policemen prevented me from telling my uncle.
(At school, the next day, I was told of Jimmy Kapadia's tragic148 death, suddenly at home, of a heart seizure149. Is it possible to kill a human being by dreaming his death? My mother always said so; and, in that case, Jimmy Kapadia was my first murder victim. Homi Catrack was to be the next.)
When I returned from my first day back at school, having basked in the unusual sheepishness of Fat Perce and Glandy Keith ('Lissen, yaar, how did we know your finger was in the ... hey, man, we got free tickets for a picture tomorrow, you want to come?') and my equally unexpected popularity ('No more Zagallo! Solid, man! You really lost your hair for something good!'), aunty Pia was out. I sat quietly with uncle Hanif while, in the kitchen, Mary Pereira prepared dinner. It was a peaceful little family scene; but the peace was shattered, abruptly150, by the crash of a slamming door. Hanif dropped his pencil as Pia, having slammed the front door, flung open the living-room door with equal force. Then he boomed cheerfully, 'So, wife: what's the drama?' ... But Pia was not to be defused.
'Scribble,' she said, her hand slicing air, 'Allah, don't stop for me! So much talent, a person cannot go to the pot in this house without finding your genius.
Are you happy, husband? We are making much money? God is good to you?' Still Hanif remained cheerful. 'Come Pia, our little guest is here. Sit, have tea ...'
Actress Pia froze in an attitude of disbelief. 'O God! Such a family I have come to! My life is in ruins, and you offer tea; your mother offers petrol! All is madness ...' And uncle Hanif, frowning now: 'Pia, the boy ...'A shriek62. 'Ahaaa! The boy - but the boy has suffered; he is suffering now; he knows what it is to lose, to feel forlorn! I, too, have been abandoned: I am great actress, and here I sit surrounded by tales of bicycle-postmen and donkey-cart drivers! What do you know of a woman's grief? Sit, sit, let some fat rich Parsee film-producer give you charity, never mind that your wife wears paste jewels and no new saris for two years; a woman's back is broad, but, beloved husband, you have made my days into deserts! Go, ignore me now, just leave me in peace to jump from the window! I will go into the bedroom now,' she concluded, 'and if you hear no more from me it is because my heart is broken and I am dead.' More doors slammed: it was a terrific exit.
Uncle Hanif broke a pencil, absent-mindedly, into two halves. He shook his head wonderingly: 'What's got into her?' But I knew. I, bearer of secrets, threatened by policemen, I knew and bit my lip. Because, trapped as I was in the crisis of the marriage of my uncle and aunt, I had broken my recently-made rule and entered Pia's head; I had seen her visit to Homi Catrack and knew that, for years now, she had been his fancy-woman; I had heard him telling her that he had tired of her charms, and there was somebody else now; and I, who would have hated him enough just for seducing151 my beloved aunt, found myself hating him twice as passionately152 for doing her the dishonour153 of discarding her.
'Go to her,' my uncle was saying, 'Maybe you can cheer her up.'
The boy Saleem moves through repeatedly-slammed doors to the sanctum of his tragic aunt; and enters, to find her loveliest of bodies splayed out in wondrous abandon across the marital154 bed -where, only last night, bodies nestled against bodies - where paper passed from hand .to hand ... a hand flutters at her heart; her chest heaves; and the boy Saleem stammers155, 'Aunt, ?aunt, I'm sorry.'
A banshee-wail from the bed. Tragedienne's arms, flying outwards156 towards me.
'Hai! Hai, hai! Ai-hai-hai!' Needing no further invitation, I fly towards those arms; I fling myself between them, to lie atop my mourning aunt. The arms close around me, tightertighter, nails digging through my school-white shirt, but I don't care! - Because something has started twitching157 below my S-buckled belt.
Aunty Pia thrashes about beneath me in her despair and I thrash with her, remembering to keep my right hand clear of the action. I hold it stiffly out above the fray158. One-handed, I begin to caress146 her, not knowing what I'm doing, I'm only ten years old and still in shorts, but I'm crying because she's crying, and the room is full of the noise - and on the bed as two bodies thrash, two bodies begin to acquire a kind of rhythm, unnameable unthinkable, hips pushing up towards me, while she yells, '? ?God, ?God, O!' And maybe I am yelling too, I can't say, something is taking over from grief here, while my uncle snaps pencils on a striped sofa, something getting stronger, as she writhes159 and twists beneath me, and at last in the grip of a strength greater than my strength I am bringing down my right hand, I have forgotten my finger, and when it touches her breast, wound presses against skin ...
'Yaaaouuuu!' I scream with the pain; and my aunt, snapping out of the macabre160 spell of those few moments, pushes me off her and delivers a resounding161 wallop to my face. Fortunately, it is the left cheek; there is no danger of damage to my remaining good ear. 'Badmaash!' my aunty screams, 'A family of maniacs162 and perverts163, woeis me, what woman ever suffered so badly?'
There is a cough in the doorway. I am standing164 up now, shivering with pain. Pia is standing, too, her hair dripping off her head like tears. Mary Pereira is in the doorway, coughing, scarlet165 confusion all over her skin, holding a brown paper parcel in her hands.
'See, baba, what I have forgotten,' she finally manages to say, 'You are a big man now: look, your mother has sent you two pairs of nice, white long trousers.'
After I got so indiscreetly carried away while trying to cheer up my aunt, it became difficult foi me to remain in the apartment on Marine Drive. Long intense telephone calls were made regularly during the next few days; Hanif persuading someone, while Pia gesticulated, that perhaps now, after five weeks ... and one evening after I got back from school, my mother picked me up in our old Rover, and my first exile came to an end.
Neither during our drive home, nor at any other time, was I given any explanation for my exile. I decided, therefore, that I would not make it my business to ask. I was wearing long pants now; I was, therefore, a man, and must bear my troubles accordingly. I told my mother: 'The finger is not so bad. Hanif mamu has taught me to hold the pen differently, so I can write okay.' She seemed to be concentrating very hard on the road. 'It was a nice holiday,' I added, politely. 'Thank you for sending me.'
'O child,' she burst out, 'with your face like the sun coming out, what can I tell you? Be good with your father; he is not happy these days.' I said I would try to be good; she seemed to lose control of the wheel and we passed dangerously near a bus. 'What a world,' she said after a time, 'Terrible things happen and you don't know how.'
'I know,' I agreed, 'Ayah has been telling me.' My mother looked at me fearfully, then glared at Mary in the back seat. 'You black woman,' she cried, 'what have you been saying?' I explained about Mary's stories of miraculous events, but the dire12 rumours seemed to calm my mother down. 'What do you know,'
she sighed, 'You are only a child.'
What do I know, Amma? I know about the Pioneer Cafe! Suddenly, as we drove home, I was filled once again with my recent lust166 for revenge upon my perfidious167 mother, a lust which had faded in the brilliant glare of my exile, but which now returned and was united with my new-born loathing168 of Homi Catrack. This two-headed lust was the demon which possessed me, and drove me into doing the worst thing I ever did ... 'Everything will be all right,' my mother was saying, 'You just wait and see.' Yes, mother.
It occurs to me that I have said nothing, in this entire piece, about the Midnight Children's Conference; but then, to tell the truth, they didn't seem very important to me in those days. I had other things on my mind.
收听单词发音 |
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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protagonist
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| n.(思想观念的)倡导者；主角，主人公 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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goads
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| n.赶牲口的尖棒( goad的名词复数 )v.刺激( goad的第三人称单数 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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amplify
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| vt.放大，增强；详述，详加解说 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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metaphorical
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| a.隐喻的，比喻的 | |
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metaphorically
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| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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configurations
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| n.[化学]结构( configuration的名词复数 )；构造；（计算机的）配置；构形（原子在分子中的相对空间位置） | |
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revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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seminal
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| adj.影响深远的；种子的 | |
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encompasses
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| v.围绕( encompass的第三人称单数 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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adulthood
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| n.成年，成人期 | |
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symbolically
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| ad.象征地，象征性地 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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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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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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smelted
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| v.熔炼，提炼（矿石）( smelt的过去式和过去分词 )；合演( costar的过去式和过去分词 )；闻到；嗅出 | |
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fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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wrestler
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| n.摔角选手，扭 | |
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mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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samosas
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| n.萨莫萨三角饺( samosa的名词复数 ) | |
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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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conspiratorially
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babbles
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| n.胡言乱语( babble的名词复数 )；听不清的声音；乱哄哄的说话声v.喋喋不休( babble的第三人称单数 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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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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billboard
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| n.布告板，揭示栏，广告牌 | |
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transformations
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| n.变化( transformation的名词复数 )；转换；转换；变换 | |
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extruding
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| v.挤压出( extrude的现在分词 )；挤压成；突出；伸出 | |
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banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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punctured
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| v.在（某物）上穿孔( puncture的过去式和过去分词 )；刺穿（某物）；削弱（某人的傲气、信心等）；泄某人的气 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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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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pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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49
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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obesity
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| n.肥胖，肥大 | |
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51
basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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53
forsaking
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| 放弃( forsake的现在分词 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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54
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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55
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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57
orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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spherical
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| adj.球形的；球面的 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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60
jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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61
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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63
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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66
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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inevitability
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| n.必然性 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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flake
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| v.使成薄片；雪片般落下；n.薄片 | |
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contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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ashtrays
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| 烟灰缸( ashtray的名词复数 ) | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scenario
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| n.剧本，脚本；概要 | |
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94
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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95
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
obdurately
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| adv.顽固地，执拗地 | |
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97
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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98
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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99
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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100
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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101
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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102
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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103
awesome
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| adj.令人惊叹的，难得吓人的，很好的 | |
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104
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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105
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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106
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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107
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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108
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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109
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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110
loyalties
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| n.忠诚( loyalty的名词复数 )；忠心；忠于…感情；要忠于…的强烈感情 | |
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111
unleash
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| vt.发泄，发出；解带子放开 | |
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112
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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113
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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114
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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115
ideological
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| a.意识形态的 | |
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116
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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117
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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118
vendors
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| n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 )；小贩；（房屋等的）卖主；卖方 | |
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119
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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120
heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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121
dedicatedly
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| 忠心赤胆 | |
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122
thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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123
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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124
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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125
raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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126
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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127
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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128
scurrilous
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| adj.下流的，恶意诽谤的 | |
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129
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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130
baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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131
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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132
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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133
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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134
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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135
tightens
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| 收紧( tighten的第三人称单数 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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136
feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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137
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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138
prods
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| n.刺，戳( prod的名词复数 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳v.刺，戳( prod的第三人称单数 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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139
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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140
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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141
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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142
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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143
swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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144
huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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145
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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147
stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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148
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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149
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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150
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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151
seducing
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| 诱奸( seduce的现在分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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152
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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153
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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154
marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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155
stammers
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| n.口吃，结巴( stammer的名词复数 )v.结巴地说出( stammer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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156
outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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157
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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158
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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159
writhes
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的第三人称单数 ) | |
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160
macabre
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| adj.骇人的，可怖的 | |
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161
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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162
maniacs
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| n.疯子（maniac的复数形式） | |
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163
perverts
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| n.性变态者( pervert的名词复数 )v.滥用( pervert的第三人称单数 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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164
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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165
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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166
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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167
perfidious
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| adj.不忠的，背信弃义的 | |
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168
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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