Hare Khusro Hare Khusrovand Know, ?unbelievers, that in the dark Midnights of CELESTIAL1 SPACE in a time before Time lay the sphere of Blessed KHUSROVAND!!! Even MODERN SCIENTISTS now affirm that for generations they have LIED to conceal2 from the People whose right it is to know of the Unquestionabel TRUE existance of this HOLY HOME OF TRUTH!!! Leading Intellectuals the World Over, also in America, speak of the ANTI-RELIGIOUS CONSPIRACY3 of reds, JEWS, etc., to hide these VITAL NEWS! The Veil lifts now. Blessed LORD KHUSRO comes with Irrefutable Proofs. Read and believe! Know that in TRUE-EXISTING Khusrovand lived Saints whose Spiritual Purity-Advancement was such that they had, through MEDITATION4 &c., gained powers FOR THE GOOD OF ALL, powers Beyond Imagining! They SAW THROUGH steel, and could BEND GIRDERS with TEETH!!! * * * now! * * * For 1st Time, such powers may be used In Your Service! LORD KHUSRO is * * * here! * * * Hear of the Fall of Khusrovand: how the RED DEVIL Bhimutha (BLACK be his name)
unleashed5 a fearsome Hail of Meteorites6 (which has been well chronicled by WORLD OBSERVATORIES8, but not Explained) ... so horrible a RAIN OF STONE, that Fair Khusrovand was RUINED & its Saints DESTROYD.
But noble Juraell and beauteous Khalila were wise. SACRIFICING THEMSELVES in an ecstasy9 of Kundalini Art, they saved the SOUL of their unborn son LORD KHUSRO.
Entering True Oneness in a Supreme10 Yogic Trance (whose powers are now ACCEPTED in WHOLE WORLD!) they transformed their Noble Spirits into a Flashing Beam of KUNDALINI LIFE FORCE ENERGY LIGHT, of which today's wellknown LASER is a common imitation & Copy. Along this BEAM, Soul of unborn Khusro flew, traversing the BOTTOMLESS DEEPS of Celestial Space-Eternity, until by OUR LUCK! it came to our own Duniya (World) & lodged12 in Womb of a humble13 Parsee matron of Good Family.
So the Child was born & was of true Goodness & Unparalleled BRAIN (giving the LIE to that LIE, that we are all Born Equal! Is a Crook14 the equal of Saint? OF COURSE NOT!!) But for some Time his true nature lay Hidden, until while portraying15 and Earth-Saint in a DRAMA production (of which LEADING CRITICS have said, The Purity of His Performance Defied The Blief), he CAME AWAKE & knew WHO he WAS. Now has he taken up his True Name, LORD KHUSRO KHUSROVANI * BHAGWAN * & is Set Forth16 humbly17 with Ash on his Ascetic's Brow to heal Disease and End Droughts & FIGHT the Legions of Bhimutha wherever they may Come. For BE AFRAID! Bhimutha's RAIN OF STONE will come to us ALSO! Do not heed18 LIES of politicos poets Reds &cetera. PUT YOUR TRUST in Only True Lord KHUSRO KHUSRO KHUSRO KHUSRO KHUSRO KHUSRO & send Donations to POBox 555, Head Post Office, Bombay-1.
BLESSINGS19! BEAUTY!! TRUTH!!! 0m Hare Khusro Hare Khusrovand 悟 Cyrus-the-great had a nuclear physicist20 for a father and, for a mother, a religious fanatic21 whose faith had gone sour inside her as a result of so many years of being suppressed by the domineering rationality of her Dubash; and when Cyrus's father choked on an orange from which his mother had forgotten to remove the pips, Mrs Dubash applied22 herself to the task of erasing23 her late husband from the personality of her son - of remaking Cyrus in her own strange image, Cyrus-the-great, 锣蝌 a plate, In nineteen hundred and forty-eight - Cyrus the school prodigy24 - Cyrus as Saint Joan in Shaw's play - all these Cyruses, to whom we had grown accustomed, with whom we had grown up, now disappeared; in their place there emerged the overblown, almost bovinely25 placid26 figure of Lord Khusro Khusrovand. At the age often, Cyrus vanished from the Cathedral School and the meteoric27 rise of India's richest guru began. (There are as many versions of India as Indians; and, when set beside Cyrus's India, my own version seems almost mundane28.)
Why did he let it happen? Why did posters cover the city, and advertisements fill the newspapers, without a peep out of the child genius? ... Because Cyrus (although he used to lecture us, not un-mischievously, on the Parts of a Wooman's Body) was simply the most malleable29 of boys, and would not have dreamed of crossing his mother. For his mother, he put on a sort of brocade skirt and a turban; for the sake of filial duty, he permitted millions of devotees to kiss his little finger. In the name of maternal30 love, he truly became Lord Khusro, the most successful holy child in history; in no time at all he was being hailed by crowds half a million strong, and credited with miracles; American guitarists came to sit at his feet, and they all brought their cheque-books along. Lord Khusrovand acquired accountants, and tax havens31, and a luxury liner called the Khusrovand Starship, and an aircraft - Lord Khusro's Astral Plane. And somewhere inside the faintly-smiling, benediction-scattering boy ... in a place which was forever hidden by his mother's frighteningly efficient shadow (she had, after all, lived in the same house as the Narlikar women; how well did she know them?
How much of their awesome32 competence33 leaked into her?), there lurked34 the ghost of a boy who had been my friend.
'That Lord Khusro?' Padma asks, amazed. 'You mean that same mahaguru who drowned at sea last year?' Yes, Padma; he could not walk on water; and very few people who have come into contact with me have been vouchsafed35 a natural death ... let me confess that I was somewhat resentful of Cyrus's apotheosis36. 'It should have been me,' I even thought, 'I am the magic child; not only my primacy at home, but even my true innermost nature, has now been purloined37.'
Padma: I never became a 'mahaguru'; millions have never seated themselves at my feet; and it was my own fault, because one day, many years ago, I had gone to hear Cyrus's lecture on the Parts of a Wooman's Body.
'What?' Padma shakes her head, puzzled. 'What's this now?'
The nuclear physicist Dubash possessed38 a beautiful marble statuette - a female nude39 - and with the help of this figurine, his son would give expert lectures on female anatomy40 to an audience of sniggering boys. Not free; Cyrus-the-great charged a fee. In exchange for anatomy, he demanded comic-books - and I, in all innocence41, gave him a copy of that most precious of Superman comics, the one containing the frame-story, about the explosion of the planet Krypton and the rocket-ship in which Jor-El his father despatched him through space, to land on earth and be adopted by the good, mild Kents... did nobody else see it? In all those years, did no person understand that what Mrs Dubash had done was to rework and reinvent the most potent42 of all modern myths - the legend of the coming of the superman? I saw the hoardings trumpeting43 the coming of Lord Khusro Khusrovand Bhagwan; and found myself obliged, yet again, to accept responsibility for the events of my turbulent, fabulous44 world.
How I admire the leg-muscles of my solicitous45 Padma! There she squats47, a few feet from my table, her sari hitched48 up in fisherwoman-fashion. Calf-muscles show no sign of strain; thigh-muscles, rippling50 through sari-folds, display their commendable51 stamina52. Strong enough to squat46 forever, simultaneously53 defying gravity and cramp54, my Padma listens unhurriedly to my lengthy55 tale; ? mighty56 pickle-woman! What reassuring57 solidity, how comforting an air of permanence, in her biceps and triceps ... for my admiration58 extends also to her arms, which could wrestle59 mine down in a trice, and from which, when they enfold me nightly in futile60 embraces, there is no escape. Past our crisis now, we exist in perfect harmony: I recount, she is recounted to; she ministers, and I accept her ministrations with grace. I am, in fact, entirely61 content with the uncomplaining thews of Padma Mangroli, who is, unaccountably, more interested in me than my tales.
Why I have chosen to expound62 on Padma's musculature: these days, it's to those muscles, much as to anything or -one (for instance, my son, who hasn't even learned to read as yet), that I'm telling my story. Because I am rushing ahead at breakneck speed; errors are possible, and overstatements, and jarring alterations63 in tone; I'm racing64 the cracks, but I remain conscious that errors have already been made, and that, as my decay accelerates (my writing speed is having trouble keeping up), the risk of unreliability grows ... in this condition, I am learning to use Padma's muscles as my guides. When she's bored, I can detect in her fibres the ripples65 of uninterest; when she's unconvinced, there is a tic which gets going in her cheek. The dance of her musculature helps to keep me on the rails; because in autobiography66, as in all literature, what actually happened is less important than what the author can manage to persuade his audience to believe... Padma, having accepted the story of Cyrus-the-great, gives me the courage to speed on, into the worst time of my eleven-year-old life (there is, was, worse to come) - into the August-and-September when revelations flowed faster than blood.
Nodding signboards had scarcely been taken down when the demolition67 crews of the Narlikar women moved in; Buckingham Villa68 was enveloped69 in the tumultuous dust of the dying palaces of William Methwold. Concealed70 by dust from Warden71 Road below, we were nevertheless still vulnerable to telephones; and it was the telephone which informed us, in the tremulous voice of my aunt Pia, of the suicide of my beloved uncle Hanif. Deprived of the income he had received from Homi Catrack, my uncle had taken his booming voice and his obsessions72 with hearts and reality up to the roof of his Marine73 Drive apartment block; he had stepped out into the evening sea-breeze, frightening the beggars so much (when he fell) that they gave up pretending to be blind and ran away yelling ... in death as in life, Hanif Aziz espoused74 the cause of truth and put illusion to flight. He was nearly thirty-four years old. Murder breeds death; by killing75 Homi Catrack, I had killed my uncle, too. It was my fault; and the dying wasn't over yet.
The family gathered at Buckingham Villa: from Agra, Aadam Aziz and Reverend Mother; from Delhi, my uncle Mustapha, the Civil Servant who had polished the art of agreeing with his superiors to the point at which they had stopped hearing him, which is why he never got promoted; and his half-Irani wife Sonia and their children who had been so thoroughly76 beaten into insignificance77 that I can't even remember how many of them there were; and from Pakistan, bitter Alia, and even General Zulfikar and my aunt Emerald, who brought twenty-seven pieces of luggage and two servants, and never stopped looking at their watches and inquiring about the date. Their son Zafar also came. And, to complete the circle, my mother brought Pia to stay in our house, 'at least for the forty-day mourning period, my sister.'
For forty days, we were besieged78 by the dust; dust creeping under the wet towels we placed around all the windows, dust slyly following in each mourning arrival, dust filtering through the very walls to hang like a shapeless wraith79 in the air,' dust deadening the sounds of formal ululation and also the deadly sniping of grieving kinsfolk; the remnants of Methwold's Estate settled on my grandmother and goaded80 her towards a great fury; they irritated the pinched nostrils81 of Punchinello-faced General Zulfikar and forced him to sneeze on to his chin. In the ghost-haze of the dust it sometimes seemed we could discern the shapes of the past, the mirage82 of Lila Sabarmati's pulverized83 pianola or the prison bars at the window of Toxy Catrack's cell; Dubash's nude statuette danced in dust-form through our chambers84, and Sonny Ibrahim's bullfight-posters visited us as clouds. The Narlikar women had moved away while bulldozers did their work; we were alone inside the dust-storm, which gave us all the appearance of neglected furniture, as if we were chairs and tables which had been abandoned for decades without covering-sheets; we looked like the ghosts of ourselves. We were a dynasty born out of a nose, the aquiline85 monster on the face of Aadam Aziz, and the dust, entering our nostrils in our time of grief, broke down our reserve, eroded86 the barriers which permit families to survive; in the dust storm of the dying palaces things were said and seen and done from which none of us ever recovered.
It was started by Reverend Mother, perhaps because the years had filled her out until she resembled the Sankara Acharya mountain in her native Srinagar, so that she presented the dust with the largest surface area to attack. Rumbling87 up from her mountainous body came a noise like an avalanche88, which, when it turned into words, became a fierce attack on aunt Pia, the bereaved89 widow. We had all noticed that my mumani was behaving unusually. There was an unspoken feeling that an actress of her standing91 should have risen to the challenge of widowhood in high style; we had unconsciously been eager to see her grieving, looking forward to watching an accomplished92 tragedienne orchestrate her own calamity93, anticipating a forty-day raga in which bravura94 and gentleness, howling pain and soft despond would all be blended in the exact proportions of art; but Pia remained still, dry-eyed, and anticlimactically95 composed. Amina Sinai and Emerald Zulfikar wept and rent their hair, trying to spark off Pia's talents; but finally, when it seemed nothing would move Pia, Reverend Mother lost patience. The dust entered her disappointed fury and increased its bitterness.
'That woman, whatsitsname,' Reverend Mother rumbled96, didn't I tell you about her? My son, Allah, he could have been anything, but no, whatsitsname, she must make him ruin his life; he must jump off a roof, whatsitsname, to be free of her.'
It was said; could not be unsaid. Pia sat like stone; my insides shook like cornflour pudding. Reverend Mother went grimly on; she swore an oath upon the hairs of her dead son's head. 'Until that woman shows my son's memory some respect, whatsitsname, until she takes out a wife's true tears, no food will pass my lips. It is shame and scandal, whatsitsname, how she sits with antimony instead of tears in her eyes!' The house resounded97 with this echo of her old wars with Aadam Aziz. And until the twentieth day of the forty, we were all afraid that my grandmother would die of starvation and the forty days would have to start all over again. She lay dustily on her bed; we waited and feared.
I broke the stalemate between grandmother and aunt; so at least I can legitimately98 claim to have saved one life. On the twentieth day, I sought out Pia Aziz who sat in her ground-floor room like a blind woman; as an excuse for my visit, I apologized clumsily for my indiscretions in the Marine Drive apartment. Pia spoke90, after a distant silence: 'Always melodrama99,' she said, flatly, 'In his family members, in his work. He died for his hate of melodrama; it is why I would not cry.' At the time I did not understand; now I'm sure that Pia Aziz was exactly right. Deprived of a livelihood100 by spurning101 the cheap-thrill style of the Bombay cinema, my uncle strolled off the edge of a roof; melodrama inspired (and perhaps tainted) his final dive to earth. Pia's refusal to weep was in honour of his memory ... but the effort of admitting it breached102 the walls of her self-control. Dust made her sneeze; the sneeze brought tears to her eyes; and now the tears would not stop, and we all witnessed our hoped-for performance after all, because once they fell they fell like Flora103 Fountain, and she was unable to resist her own talent; she shaped the flood like the performer she was, introducing dominant104 themes and subsidiary motifs105, beating her astonishing breasts in a manner genuinely painful to observe, now squeezing, now pummelling... she tore her garments and her hair. It was an exaltation of tears, and it persuaded Reverend Mother to eat. Dal and pistachio-nuts poured into my grandmother while salt water flooded from my aunt.
Now Naseem Aziz descended106 upon Pia, embracing her, turning the solo into a duet, mingling107 the music of reconciliation108 with the unbearably109 beautiful tunes110 of grief. Our palms itched49 with inexpressible applause. And the best was still to come, because Pia, the artiste, brought her epic111 efforts to a superlative close.
Laying her head in her mother-in-law's lap, she said in a voice filled with submission112 and emptiness, 'Ma, let your unworthy daughter listen to you at last; tell me what to do, I will do.' And Reverend Mother, tearfully: 'Daughter, your father Aziz and I will go to Rawalpindi soon; in our old age we will live near our youngest daughter, our Emerald. You will also come, and a petrol pump will be purchased.' And so it was that Reverend Mother's dream began to come true, and Pia Aziz agreed to relinquish113 the world of films for that of fuel. My uncle Hanif, I thought, would probably have approved.
The dust affected114 us all during those forty days; it made Ahmed Sinai churlish and raucous115, so that he refused to sit in the company of his in-laws and made Alice Pereira relay messages to the mourners, messages which he also yelled out from his office: 'Keep the racket down! I am working in the middle of this hullabaloo!' It made General Zulfikar and Emerald look constantly at calendars and airline timetables, while their son Zafar began to boast to the Brass116 Monkey that he was getting his father to arrange a marriage between them. 'You should think you're lucky,' this cocky cousin told my sister, 'My father is a big man in Pakistan.' But although Zafar had inherited his father's looks, the dust had clogged117 up the Monkey's spirits, and she didn't have the heart to fight him.
Meanwhile my aunt Alia spread her ancient, dusty disappointment through the air and my most absurd relatives, the family of my uncle Mustapha, sat sullenly118 in corners and were forgotten, as usual; Mustapha Aziz's moustache, proudly waxed and upturned at the tips when he arrived, had long since sagged119 under the depressive influence of the dust.
And then, on the twenty-second day of the mourning period, my grandfather, Aadam Aziz, saw God.
He was sixty-eight that year - still a decade older than the century. But sixteen years without optimism had taken a heavy toll120; his eyes were still blue, but his back was bent121. Shuffling122 around Buckingham Villa in embroidered123 skull-cap and full-length chugha-coat - coated, too, in a thin film of dust - he munched124 aimlessly on raw carrots and sent thin streaks125 of spittle down the grizzled white contours of his chin. And as he declined, Reverend Mother grew larger and stronger; she, who had once wailed126 pitifully at the sight of Mercurochrome, now appeared to thrive on his weakness, as though their marriage had been one of those mythical127 unions in which succubi appear to men as innocent damsels, and, after luring128 them into the matrimonial bed, regain129 their true, awful aspect and begin to swallow their souls ... my grandmother, in those days, had acquired a moustache almost as luxuriant as the dustily-sagging hair on the upper lip of her one surviving son. She sat cross-legged on her bed, smearing130 her lip with a mysterious fluid which set hard around the hairs and was then ripped off by a sharp, violent hand; but the remedy only served to exacerbate131 the ailment132.
'He has become like a child again, whatsitsname,' Reverend Mother told my grandfather's children, 'and Hanif has finished him off,' She warned us that he had begun to see things. 'He talks to people who are not there,' she whispered loudly while he wandered through the room sucking his teeth, 'How he calls out, whatsitsname! In the middle of the night!' And she mimicked133 him: 'Ho, Tai? Is it you?' She told us children about the boatman, and the Hummingbird134, and the Rani of Cooch Naheen. 'Poor man has lived too long, whatsitsname; no father should see his son die first.'... And Amina, listening, shook her head in sympathy, not knowing that Aadam Aziz would leave her this legacy135 - that she, too, in her last days, would be visited by things which had no business to return.
We could not use the ceiling-fans for the dust; perspiration136 ran down the face of my stricken grandfather and left streaks of mud on his cheeks. Sometimes he would grab anyone who was near him and speak with utter lucidity137: 'These Nehrus will not be happy until they have made themselves hereditary138 kings!' Or, dribbling139 into the face of a squirming General Zulfikar: 'Ah, unhappy Pakistan! How ill-served by her rulers!' But at other times he seemed to imagine himself in a gemstone store, and muttered,'... Yes: there were emeralds and rubies140 ...'
The Monkey whispered to me, 'Is grandpa going to die?'
What leaked into me from Aadam Aziz: a certain vulnerability to women, but also its cause, the hole at the centre of himself caused by his (which is also my)
failure to believe or disbelieve in God. And something else as well - something which, at the age of eleven, I saw before anyone else noticed. My grandfather had begun to crack.
'In the head?' Padma asks, 'You mean in the upper storey?'
The boatman Tai said:' The ice is always waiting, Aadam baba,just under the water's skin.' I saw the cracks in his eyes - a delicate tracery of colourless lines against the blue; I saw a network of fissures141 spreading beneath his leathery skin; and I answered the Monkey's question: 'I think he is.' Before the end of the forty-day mourning period, my grandfather's skin had begun to split and flake142 and peel; he could hardly open his mouth to eat because of the cuts in the corners of his lips; and his teeth began to drop like Flitted flies. But a crack-death can be slow; and it was a long time before we knew about the other cracks, about the disease which was nibbling143 at his bones, so that finally his skeleton disintegrated144 into powder inside the weatherbeaten sack of his skin.
Padma is looking suddenly panicky. 'What are you saying? You, mister: are you telling that you also... what nameless thing can eat up any man's bones? Is it ...'
No time to pause now; no time for sympathy or panic; I have already gone further than I should. Retreating a little in time, I must mention that something also leaked into Aadam Aziz from me; because on the twenty-third day of the mourning period, he asked the entire family to assemble in the same room of glass vases (no need to hide them from my uncle now) and cushions and immobilized fans, the same room in which I had announced visions of my own ... Reverend Mother had said, 'He has become like a child again'; like a child, my grandfather announced that, three weeks after he had heard of the death of a son whom he had believed to be alive and well, he had seen with his own eyes the God in whose death he had tried all his life to believe. And, like a child, he was not believed.
Except by one person ... 'Yes, listen,' my grandfather said, his voice a weak imitation of his old booming tones, 'Yes, Rani? You are here? And Abdullah?
Come, sit, Nadir145, this is news - where is Ahmed? Alia will want him here... God, my children; God, whom I fought all my life. Oskar? Ilse? - No, of course. I know they are dead. You think I'm old, maybe foolish; but I have seen God.' And the story, slowly, despite rambles146 and diversions, comes inching out: at midnight, my grandfather awoke in his darkened room. Someone eke147 present - someone who was not his wife. Reverend Mother, snoring in her bed. But someone.
Someone with shining dust on him, lit by the setting moon. And Aadam Aziz, 'Ho, Tai? Is it y6u?' And Reverend Mother, mumbling148 in her sleep, 'O, sleep, hiusband, forget this...' But the someone, the something, cries in a loud startling (and startled?) voice, 'Jesus Christ Almighty149!' (Amid the cut-glass vases, my grandfather laughs apologetically heh-heh, for mentioning the infidel name.) 'Jesus Christ Almighty!' and my grandfather looking, and seeing, yes, there are holes in hands, perforations in the feet as there once were in a ...
But he is rubbing his eyes, shaking his head, saying: 'Who? What name? What did you say?" And the apparition150, startling-startled, 'God! God!' And, after a pause, 'I didn't think you could see me.'
'But I saw Him,' my grandfather says beneath motionless fans. 'Yes, ?can't deny it, I surely did.'... And the apparition: 'You're the one whose son died'; and my grandfather, with a pain in his chest: 'Why? Why did that happen?' To which the creature, made visible only by dust: 'God has his reasons, old man; life's like that, right?'
Reverend Mother dismissed us all. 'Old man doesn't know what he means, whatsitsname. Such a thing, that grey hairs should make a man blaspheme!' But Mary Pereira left with her face pale as bedsheets; Mary knew whom Aadam Aziz had seen - who, decayed by his responsibility for her crime, had holes in hands and feet; whose heel had been penetrated151 by a snake; who died in a nearby clocktower, and had been mistaken for God.
I may as well finish my grandfather's story here and now; I've gone this far, and the opportunity may not present itself later on ... somewhere in the depths of my grandfather's senility, which inevitably152 reminded me of the craziness of Professor Schaapsteker upstairs, the bitter idea took root that God, by his off-hand attitude to Hanif's suicide, had proved his own culpability153 in the affair; Aadam grabbed General Zulfikar by his military lapels and whispered to him: 'Because I never believed, he stole my son!' And Zulfikar: 'No, no, Doctor Sahib, you must not trouble yourself so...' But Aadam Aziz never forgot his vision; although the details of the particular deity154 he had seen grew blurred155 in his mind, leaving behind only a passionate156, drooling desire for revenge (which lust157 is also common to us both) ... at the end of the forty-day mourning period, he would refuse to go to Pakistan (as Reverend Mother had planned) because that was a country built especially for God; and in the remaining years of his life he often disgraced himself by stumbling into mosques158 and temples with his old man's stick, mouthing imprecations and lashing11 out at any worshipper or holy man within range. In Agra, he was tolerated for the sake of the man he had once been; the old ones at the Cornwallis Road paan-shop played hit-the-spittoon and reminisced with compassion160 about the Doctor Sahib's past. Reverend Mother was obliged to yield to him for this reason if for no other - the iconoclasm of his dotage161 would have created a scandal in a country where he was not known.
Behind his foolishness and his rages, the cracks continued to spread; the disease munched steadily162 on his bones, while hatred163 ate the rest of him away. He did not die, however, until 1964. It happened like this: on Wednesday, December 25th, 1963 - on Christmas Day! - Reverend Mother awoke to find her husband gone.
Coming out into the courtyard of her home, amid hissing164 geese and the pale shadows of the dawn, she called for a servant; and was told that the Doctor Sahib had gone by rickshaw to the railway station. By the time she reached the station, the train had gone; and in this way my grandfather, following some unknown impulse, began his last journey, so that he could end his story where it (and mine) began, in a city surrounded by mountains and set upon a lake.
The valley lay hidden in an eggshell of ice; the mountains had closed in, to snarl165 like angry jaws166 around the city on the lake... winter in Srinagar; winter in Kashmir. On Friday, December 27th, a man answering to my grandfather's description was seen, chugha-coated, drooling, in the vicinity of the Hazratbal Mosque159. At four forty-five on Saturday morning, Haji Muhammad Khalil Ghanai noticed the theft, from the Mosque's inner sanctum, of the valley's most treasured relic167: the holy hair of the Prophet Muhammad.
Did he? Didn't he? If it was him, why did he not enter the Mosque, stick in hand, to belabour the faithful as he had become accustomed to doing? If not him, then why? There were rumours168 of a Central Government plot to 'demoralize the Kashmir! Muslims', by stealing their sacred hair; and counter-rumours about Pakistani agents provocateurs, who supposedly stole the relic to foment169 unrest... did they? Or not? Was this bizarre incident truly political, or was it the penultimate attempt at revenge upon God by a father who had lost his son?
For ten days, no food was cooked in any Muslim home; there were riots and burnings of cars; but my grandfather was above politics now, and is not known to have joined in any processions. He was a man with a single mission; and what is known is that on January 1st, 1964 (a Wednesday, just one week after his departure from Agra), he set his face towards the hill which Muslims erroneously called the Takht-e-Sulaiman, Solomon's seat, atop which stood a radio mast, but also the black blister170 of the temple of the acharya Sankara. Ignoring the distress171 of the city, my grandfather climbed; while the cracking sickness within him gnawed172 patiently through his bones. He was not recognized.
Doctor Aadam Aziz (Heidelberg-returned) died five days before the government announced that its massive search for the single hair of the Prophet's head had been successful. When the State's holiest saints assembled to authenticate173 the hair, my grandfather was unable to tell them the truth. (If they were wrong ...
but I can't answer the questions I've asked.) Arrested for the crime - and later released on grounds of ill-health - was one Abdul Rahim Bande; but perhaps my grandfather, had he lived, could have shed a stranger light on the affair ... at midday on January ist, Aadam Aziz arrived outside the temple of Sankara Acharya.
He was seen to raise his walking-stick; inside the temple, women performing the rite7 of puja at the Shiva-lingam shrank back - as women had once shrunk from the wrath174 of another, tetrapod-obsessed doctor; and then the cracks claimed him, and his legs gave way beneath him as the bones disintegrated, and the effect of his fall was to shatter the rest of his skeleton beyond all hope of repair. He was identified by the papers in the pocket of his chugha-coat: a photograph of his son, and a half-completed (and fortunately, correctly addressed) letter to his wife. The body, too fragile to be transported, was buried in the valley of his birth.
I am watching Padma; her muscles have begun to twitch175 distractedly.'Consider this,' I say. 'Is what happend to my grandfather so very strange? Compare it with the mere176 fact of the holy fuss over the theft of a hair; because every last detail of that is true, and by comparison, an old man's death is surely perfectly177 normal.' Padma relaxes; her muscles give me the go-ahead. Because I've spent too long on Aadam Aziz; perhaps I'm afraid of what must be told next; but the revelation will not be denied.
One last fact: after the death of my grandfather, Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru fell ill and never recovered his health. This fatal sickness finally killed him on May 27th, 1964.
If I hadn't wanted to be a hero, Mr Zagallo would never have pulled out my hair.
If my hair had remained intact, Glandy Keith and Fat Perce wouldn't have taunted178 me; Masha Miovic wouldn't have goaded me into losing my finger. And from my finger flowed blood which was neither-Alpha-nor-Omega, and sent me into exile; and in exile I was filled with the lust for revenge which led to the murder of Homi Catrack; and if Homi hadn't died, perhaps my uncle would not have strolled off a roof into the sea-breezes; and then my grandfather would not have gone to Kashmir and been broken by the effort of climbing the Sankara Acharya hill. And my grandfather was the founder179 of my family, and my fate was linked by my birthday to that of the nation, and the father of the nation was Nehru. Nehru's death; can I avoid the conclusion that that, too, was all my fault?
But now we're back in 1958; because on the thirty-seventh day of the mourning period, the truth, which had been creeping up on Mary Pereira - and therefore on me - for over eleven years, finally came out into the open; truth, in the shape of an old, old man, whose stench of Hell penetrated even my clogged-up nostrils, and whose body lacked fingers and toes and was littered with boils and holes, walked up our two-storey hillock and appeared through the dust-cloud to be seen by Mary Pereira, who was cleaning the chick-blinds on the verandah.
Here, then, was Mary's nightmare come true; here, visible through the pall180 of dust, was the ghost of Joe D'Costa, walking towards the ground-floor office of Ahmed Sinai! As if it hadn't been enough to show himself to Aadam Aziz ...
'Arre, Joseph,' Mary screamed, dropping her duster, 'you go away now! Don't come here now! Don't be bothering the sahibs with your troubles! ?God, Joseph, go, go na, you will kill me today!' But the ghost walked on down the driveway.
Mary Pereira, abandoning chick-blinds, leaving them hanging askew181, rushes into the heart of the house to throw herself at the feet of my mother - small fat hands joined in supplication182 - 'Begum Sahiba! Begum Sahiba, forgive me!' And my mother astounded183: 'What is this, Mary? What has got your goat?' But Mary is beyond dialogue, she is weeping uncontrollably, crying 'O God my hour has come, my darling Madam, only let me go peacefully, do not put me in the jailkhana!'
And also, 'Eleven years, my Madam, see if I haven't loved you all, ?Madam, and that boy with his face like the moon; but now I am killed, I am no-good woman, I shall burn in hell! Funtoosh!' cried Mary, and again, 'It's finished; funloosh!'
Still I did not guess what was coming; not even when Mary threw herself upon me (I was taller than her now; her tears wet my neck): 'O baba, baba; today you, must learn a thing, such a thing I have done; but come now...' and the little woman drew herself up with immense dignity, '... I will tell you all before that Joseph does. Begum, children, all you other great sirs and madams, come now to sahib's office, and I will tell.'
Public announcements have punctuated184 my life; Amina in a Delhi gully, and Mary in a sunless office ... with my whole family trooping amazedly behind us, I went downstairs with Mary Pereira, who would not let go of my hand.
What was in the room with Ahmed Sinai? What had given my father a face from which djinns and money had been chased away and replaced by a look of utter desolation? What sat huddled185 up in the corner of the room, filling the air with a sulphurous stench? What, shaped like a man, lacked fingers and toes, whose face seemed to bubble like the hot springs of New Zealand (which I'd seen in the Wonder Book of Wonders)?... No time to explain, because Mary Pereira has begun to talk, gabbling out a secret which has been hidden for over eleven years, pulling us all out of the dream-world she invented when she changed name-tags, forcing us into the horror of the truth. And all the time she held on to me; like a mother protecting her child, she shielded me from my family. (Who were learning... as I was ... that they were not ...)
... It was just after midnight and in the streets there were fireworks and crowds, the many-headed monster roaring, I did it for my Joseph, sahib, but please don't send me to jail, look the boy is a good boy, sahib, I am a poor woman, sahib, one mistake, one minute in so many years, not jailkhana sahib, I will go, eleven years I gave but I will go now, sahib, only this is a good boy, sahib, you must not send him, sahib, after eleven years he is your son ... O, you boy with your face like the sun coming out, ?Saleem my piece-of-the-moon, you must know that your father was Winkie and your mother is also dead ...
Mary Pereira ran out of the room.
Ahmed Sinai said, in a voice as faraway as a bird: 'That, in the corner, is my old servant Musa, who tried to rob me once.'
(Can any narrative186 stand so much so soon? I glance towards Padma; she appears to be stunned187, like a fish.)
Once upon a time there was a servant who robbed my father; who swore he was innocent; who called down upon himself the curse of leprosy if he should prove a liar188; and who was proved to be lying. He had left in disgrace; but I told you then he was a time-bomb, and he had returned to explode. Musa had, indeed, contracted leprosy; and had returned across the silence of the years to beg for my father's forgiveness, so that he could be released from his self-inflicted curse.
... Someone was called God who was not God; someone else was taken for a ghost, and was not a ghost; and a third person discovered that although his name was Saleem Sinai, he was not his parents' son ...
'I forgive you,' Ahmed Sinai said to the leper. After that day, he was cured of one of his obsessions; he never tried again to discover his own (and wholly imaginary) family curse.
'I couldn't tell it any other way,' I say to Padma. Too painful; I had to just blurt189 it out, all crazy-sounding, just like that.'
'O, mister,' Padma blubbers helplessly, 'O, mister, mister!'
'Come on now,' I say, 'It's an old story.'
But her tears aren't for me; for the moment, she's forgotten about what-chews-at-bones-beneath-the-skin; she's crying over Mary Pereira, of whom, as I've said, she had become excessively fond.
'What happened to her?' she says with red eyes. 'That Mary?'
I am seized by an irrational190 anger. I shout: 'You ask her!'
Ask her how she went home to the city of Panjim in Goa, how she told her ancient mother the story of her shame! Ask how her mother went wild with the scandal (appropriately enough: it was a time for old folk to lose their wits)! Ask: did daughter and old mother go into the streets to seek forgiveness? Was that not the one time in each ten years when the mummified corpse191 of St Francis Xavier (as holy a relic as the Prophet's hair) is taken from its vault192 in the Cathedral of Bom Jesus and carried around the town? Did Mary and old distraught Mrs Pereira find themselves pressing up against the catafalque; was the old lady beside herself with grief for her daughter's crime? Did old Mrs Pereira, shouting, 'Hai! Ai-hai! Ai-hai-hai!', clamber up on to the bier to kiss the foot of the Holy One? Amidst uncountable crowds, did Mrs Pereira enter a holy frenzy193?
Ask! Did she or didn't she, in the clutches of her wild spirit, place her lips around the big toe on St Francis's left foot? Ask for yourself: did Mary's mother bite the toe right off?
'How?' Padma wails194, unnerved by my wrath. 'How, ask?'
... And is this also true: were the papers making it up when they wrote that the old lady had been miraculously195 punished; when they quoted Church sources and eye-witnesses, who described how the old woman was turned into solid stone? No?
Ask her if it's true that the Church sent a stone-statue figure of an old woman around the towns and the villages of Goa, to show what happened to those who misbehave with "the saints? "Ask: was this statue not seen in several villages simultaneously - and does that prove fraud, or a further miracle? 'You know I can't ask anyone,' Padma howls ... but I, feeling my fury subside196, am making no more revelations tonight.
Baldly, then: Mary Pereira left us, and went to her mother in Goa. But Alice Pereira stayed; Alice remained in Ahmed Sinai's office, and typed, and fetched snacks and fizzy drinks.
As for me - at the end of the mourning period for my uncle Hanif, I entered my second exile.
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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unleashed
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| v.把（感情、力量等）释放出来，发泄( unleash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meteorites
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| n.陨星( meteorite的名词复数 ) | |
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rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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observatories
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| n.天文台，气象台( observatory的名词复数 ) | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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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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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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crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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portraying
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| v.画像( portray的现在分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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physicist
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| n.物理学家，研究物理学的人 | |
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fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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erasing
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| v.擦掉( erase的现在分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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bovinely
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| adj.牛的；关于牛的；迟钝的；笨拙的n.牛，牛科动物 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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meteoric
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| adj.流星的，转瞬即逝的，突然的 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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malleable
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| adj.(金属)可锻的;有延展性的；(性格)可训练的 | |
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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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havens
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| n.港口，安全地方( haven的名词复数 )v.港口，安全地方( haven的第三人称单数 ) | |
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awesome
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| adj.令人惊叹的，难得吓人的，很好的 | |
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competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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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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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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purloined
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| v.偷窃( purloin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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trumpeting
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的现在分词形式） | |
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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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solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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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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squats
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| n.蹲坐，蹲姿( squat的名词复数 )；被擅自占用的建筑物v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的第三人称单数 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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48
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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itched
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| v.发痒( itch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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51
commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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stamina
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| n.体力；精力；耐力 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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57
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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58
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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59
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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60
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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61
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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62
expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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demolition
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| n.破坏,毁坏,毁坏之遗迹 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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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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obsessions
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| n.使人痴迷的人（或物）( obsession的名词复数 )；着魔；困扰 | |
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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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espoused
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| v.（决定）支持，拥护（目标、主张等）( espouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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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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wraith
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| n.幽灵；骨瘦如柴的人 | |
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80
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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81
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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82
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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pulverized
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| adj.[医]雾化的，粉末状的v.将…弄碎( pulverize的过去式和过去分词 )；将…弄成粉末或尘埃；摧毁；粉碎 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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eroded
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| adj. 被侵蚀的，有蚀痕的 动词erode的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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87
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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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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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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92
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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93
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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94
bravura
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| n.华美的乐曲；勇敢大胆的表现；adj.壮勇华丽的 | |
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95
anticlimactically
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| 虎头蛇尾的盟友 | |
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96
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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97
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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98
legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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99
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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100
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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101
spurning
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的现在分词 ) | |
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102
breached
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| 攻破( breach的现在分词 )； 破坏，违反 | |
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103
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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104
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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105
motifs
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| n. （文艺作品等的）主题( motif的名词复数 )；中心思想；基本模式；基本图案 | |
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106
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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107
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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108
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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109
unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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110
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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111
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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112
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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113
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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114
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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115
raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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116
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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117
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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118
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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119
sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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120
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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121
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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122
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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123
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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124
munched
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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126
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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128
luring
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的现在分词形式） | |
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129
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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130
smearing
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| 污点，拖尾效应 | |
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131
exacerbate
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| v.恶化，增剧，激怒，使加剧 | |
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132
ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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133
mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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134
hummingbird
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| n.蜂鸟 | |
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135
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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136
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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137
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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138
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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139
dribbling
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| n.（燃料或油从系统内）漏泄v.流口水( dribble的现在分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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140
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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141
fissures
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| n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 )；裂伤；分歧；分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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142
flake
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| v.使成薄片；雪片般落下；n.薄片 | |
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143
nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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144
disintegrated
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
nadir
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| n.最低点，无底 | |
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146
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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147
eke
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| v.勉强度日，节约使用 | |
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148
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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149
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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150
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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151
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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152
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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153
culpability
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| n.苛责，有罪 | |
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154
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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155
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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156
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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157
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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158
mosques
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| 清真寺； 伊斯兰教寺院，清真寺； 清真寺，伊斯兰教寺院( mosque的名词复数 ) | |
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159
mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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160
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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161
dotage
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| n.年老体衰；年老昏聩 | |
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162
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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163
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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164
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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165
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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166
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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167
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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168
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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169
foment
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| v.煽动，助长 | |
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170
blister
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| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
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171
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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172
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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173
authenticate
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| vt.证明…为真，鉴定 | |
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174
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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175
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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176
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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177
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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178
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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179
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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180
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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181
askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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182
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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183
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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184
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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185
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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186
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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187
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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188
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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189
blurt
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| vt.突然说出，脱口说出 | |
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190
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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191
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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192
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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193
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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194
wails
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| 痛哭，哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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195
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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196
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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