It turned out to be a sense so acute as to be capable of distinguishing the glutinous1 reek2 of hypocrisy3 behind the welcoming smile with which my spinster aunt Alia greeted us at the Karachi docks. Irremediably embittered4 by my father's years-ago defection into the arms of her sister, my headmistress aunt had acquired the heavy-footed corpulence of undimmed jealousy5; the thick dark hairs of her resentment6 sprouted7 through most of the pores of her skin. And perhaps she succeeded in deceiving my parents and Jamila with her spreading arms, her waddling9 run towards us, her cry of 'Ahmed bhai, at last! But better late than never!', her spider-like - and inevitably10 accepted - offers of hospitality; but I, who had spent much of my babyhood in the bitter mittens11 and soured pom-pom hats of her envy, who had been unknowingly infected with failure by the innocent-looking baby-things into which she had knitted her hatred12, and who, moreover, could clearly remember what it was like to be possessed13 by revenge-lust14, I, Saleem-the-drained, could smell the vengeful odours leaking out of her glands15. I was, however, powerless to protest; we were swept into the Datsun of her vengeance16 and driven away down Bunder Road to her house at Guru Mandir - like flies, only more foolish, because we celebrated17 our captivity18.
... But what a sense of smell it was! Most of us are conditioned, from the cradle onwards, into recognizing the narrowest possible spectrum19 of fragrances20; I, however, had been incapable22 of smelling a thing all my life, and was accordingly ignorant of all olfactory23 taboos24. As a result, I had a tendency not to feign25 innocence26 when someone broke wind - which landed me in a certain amount of parental27 trouble; more important, however, was my nasal freedom to inhale28 a very great deal more than the scents29 of purely30 physical origin with which the rest of the human race has chosen to be content. So, from the earliest days of my Pakistani adolescence31, I began to learn the secret aromas32 of the world, the heady but quick-fading perfume of new love, and also the deeper, longer-lasting pungency34 of hate. (It was not long after my arrival in the 'Land of the Pure'
that I discovered within myself the ultimate impurity35 of sister-love; and the slow burning fires of my aunt filled my nostrils36 from the start.) A nose will give you knowledge, but not power-over-events; my invasion of Pakistan, armed (if that's the right word) only with a new manifestation37 of my nasal inheritance, gave me the powers of sniffing38-out-the-truth, of smelling-what-was-in-the-air, of following trails; but not the only power an invader40 needs - the strength to conquer my foes42.
I won't deny it: I never forgave Karachi for not being Bombay. Set between the desert and bleakly43 saline creeks44 whose shores were littered with stunted45 mangroves, my new city seemed to possess an ugliness which eclipsed even my own; having grown too fast - its population had quadrupled since 1947 - it had acquired the misshapen lumpiness of a gigantic dwarf46. On my sixteenth birthday, I was given a Lambretta motor-scooter; riding the city streets on my windowless vehicle, I breathed in the fatalistic hopelessness of the slum dwellers47 and the smug defensiveness48 of the rich; I was sucked along the smell-trails of dispossession and also fanaticism49, lured50 down a long underworld corridor at whose end was the door to Tai Bibi, the oldest whore in the world ... but I'm running away with myself. At the heart of my Karachi was Alia Aziz's house, a large old building on Clayton Road (she must have wandered in it for years like a ghost with nobody to haunt), a place of shadows and yellowed paint, across which there fell, every afternoon, the long accusing shadow of the minaret52 of the local mosque53. Even when, years later in the magicians' ghetto54, I lived in another mosque's shade, a shade which was, at least for a time, a protective, unmenacing penumbra55, I never lost my Karachi-born view of mosque-shadows, in which, it seemed to me, I could sniff39 the narrow, clutching, accusative odour of my aunt. Who bided56 her time; but whose vengeance, when it came, was crushing.
It was, in those days, a city of mirages57; hewn from the desert, it had not wholly succeeded in destroying the desert's power. Oases58 shone in the tarmac of Elphinstone Street, caravanserais were glimpsed shimmering59 amongst the hovels around the black bridge, the Kala Pul. In the rainless city (whose only common factor with the city of my birth was that it, too, had started life as a fishing village), the hidden desert retained its ancient powers of apparition-mongering, with the result that Karachiites had only the slipperiest of grasps on reality, and were therefore willing to turn to their leaders for advice on what was real and what was not. Beset60 by illusionary sand-dunes and the ghosts of ancient kings, and also by the knowledge that the name of the faith upon which the city stood meant 'submission61', my new fellow-citizens exuded62 the flat boiled odours of acquiescence63, which were depressing to a nose which had smelt64 - at the very last, and however briefly65 - the highly-spiced nonconformity of Bombay.
Soon after our arrival - and, perhaps, oppressed by the mosque-shadowed air of the Clayton Road house - my father resolved to build us a new home. He bought a.
plot of land in the smartest of the 'societies', the new housing development zones; and on my sixteenth birthday, Saleem acquired more than a Lambretta - I learned the occult powers of umbilical cords.
What, pickled in brine, sat for sixteen years in my father's almirah, awaiting just such a day? What, floating like a water-snake in an old pickle-jar, accompanied us on our sea-journey and ended up buried in hard, barren Karachi-earth? What had once nourished life in a womb - what now infused earth with miraculous66 life, and gave birth to a split-level, American-style modern bungalow67?... Eschewing68 these cryptic69 questions, I explain that, on my sixteenth birthday, my family (including Alia aunty) assembled on our plot of Korangi Road earth; watched by the eyes of a team of labourers and the beard of a mullah, Ahmed handed Saleem a pickaxe; I drove it inaugurally into the ground. 'A new beginning,' Amina said, 'Inshallah, we shall all be new people now.' Spurred on by her noble and unattainable desire, a workman rapidly enlarged my hole; and now a pickle-jar was produced. Brine was discarded on the thirsty ground; and what-was-left-inside received the mullah's blessings70. After which, an umbilical cord - was it mine? Or Shiva's? - was implanted in the earth; and at once, a house began to grow. There were sweetmeats and soft drinks; the mullah, displaying remarkable71 hunger, consumed thirty-nine laddoos; and Ahmed Sinai did not once complain of the expense. The spirit of the buried cord inspired the workmen; but although the foundations were dug very deep, they would not prevent the house from falling down before we ever lived in it.
What I surmised72 about umbilical cords: although they possessed the power of growing houses, some were evidently better at the job than others. The city of Karachi proved my point; clearly constructed on top of entirely73 unsuitable cords, it was full of deformed74 houses, the stunted hunchback children of deficient75 lifelines, houses growing mysteriously blind, with no visible windows, houses which looked like radios or air-conditioners or jail-cells, crazy top-heavy edifices76 which fell over with monotonous77 regularity78, like drunks; a wild proliferation of mad houses, whose inadequacies as living quarters were exceeded only by their quite exceptional ugliness. The city obscured the desert; but either the cords, or the infertility79 of the soil, made it grow into something grotesque80.
Capable of smelling sadness and joy, of sniffing out intelligence and stupidity with my eyes closed, I arrived at Karachi, and adolescence - understanding, of course, that the subcontinent's new nations and I had all left childhood behind; that growing pains and strange awkward alterations82 of voice were in store for us all. Drainage censored84 my inner life; my sense of connection remained undrained.
Saleem invaded Pakistan armed only with a hypersensitive nose; but, worst of all, he invaded from the wrong direction! All successful conquests of that part of the world have begun in the north; all conquerors85 have come by land. Sailing ignorantly against the winds of history, I reached Karachi from the south-east, and by sea. What followed should not, I suppose, have surprised me.
With hindsight, the advantages of sweeping86 down from the north are self-evident.
From the north came the Umayyad generals, Hajjaj bin87 Yusuf and Muhammad bin Qasim; also the Ismailis. (Honeymoon Lodge88, where it is said Aly Khan sojourned with Rita Hayworth, overlooked our plot of umbilicized earth; rumour89 has it that the film-star created much scandal by wandering in the grounds dressed in a series of fabulous90, gauzy, Hollywood negligees.) O ineluctable superiority of northernness! From which direction did Mahmud of Ghazni descend91 upon these Indus plains, bringing with him a language boasting no fewer than three forms of the letter S? The inescapable answer: se, sin and swad were northern intruders. And Muhammad bin Sam Ghuri, who overthrew92 the Ghaznavids and established the Delhi Caliphate? Sam Ghuri's son, too, moved southwards on his progress.
And Tughlaq, and the Mughal Emperors ... but I've made my point. It remains93 only to add that ideas, as well as armies, swept south south south from the northern heights: the legend of Sikandar But-Shikan, the Iconoclast94 of Kashmir, who at the end of the fourteenth century destroyed every Hindu temple in the Valley (establishing a precedent95 for my grandfather), travelled down from the hills to the river-plains; and five hundred years later the mujahideen movement of Syed Ahmad Barilwi followed the well-trodden trail. Barilwi's ideas: self-denial, hatred-of-Hindus, holy war... philosophies as well as kings (to cut this short)
came from the opposite direction to me.
Saleem's parents said, 'We must all become new people'; in the land of the pure, purity became our ideal. But Saleem was forever tainted96 with Bombayness, his head was full of all sorts of religions apart from Allah's (like India's first Muslims, the mercantile Moplas of Malabar, I had lived in a country whose population of deities97 rivalled the numbers of its people, so that, in unconscious revolt against the claustrophobic throng98 of deities, my family had espoused99 the ethics100 of business, not faith); and his body was to show a marked preference for the impure101. Mopla-like, I was doomed102 to be a misfit; but, in the end, purity found me out, and even I, Saleem, was cleansed103 of my misdeeds.
After my sixteenth birthday, I studied history at my aunt Alia's college; but not even learning could make me feel a part of this country devoid105 of midnight children, in which my fellow-students took out processions to demand a stricter, more Islamic society -proving that they had contrived106 to become the antitheses107 of students everywhere else on earth, by demanding more-rules-not-less. My parents, however, were determined108 to put down roots; although Ayub Khan and Bhutto were forging an alliance with China (which had so recently been our enemy), Ahmed and Amina would listen to no criticisms of their new home; and my father bought a towel factory.
There was a new brilliance109 about my parents in those days; Amina had lost her guilt-fog, her verrucas seemed not to be playing up any more; while Ahmed, although still whitened, had felt the freeze of his loins thawing110 under the heat of his newfound love for his wife. On some mornings, Amina had toothmarks on her neck; she giggled111 uncontrollably at times, like a schoolgirl. 'You two, honestly,' her sister Alia said, 'Like honeymooners or I don't know what.' But I could smell what was hidden behind Alia's teeth; what stayed inside when the friendly words came out... Ahmed Sinai named his towels after his wife: Amina Brand.
'Who are these multi-multis? These Dawoods, Saigols, Haroons?' he cried gaily113, dismissing the richest families in the land. 'Who are Valikas or Zulfikars? I could eat them ten at a time. You wait!', he promised, 'In two years the whole world will be wiping itself on an Amina Brand cloth. The finest terry-cloth! The most modern machines! We shall make the whole world clean and dry; Dawoods and Zulfikars will beg to know my secret; and I will say, yes, the towels are high-quality; but the secret is not in the manufacturing; it was love that conquered all.' (I discerned, in my father's speech, the lingering effects of the optimism virus.)
Did Amina Brand conquer the world in the name of cleanliness (which is next to ...)? Did Valikas and Saigols come to ask Ahmed Sinai, 'God, we're stumped114, yaar, how'd you do it?' Did high-quality terry-cloth, in patterns devised by Ahmed himself - a little gaudy115, but never mind, they were born of love - wipe away the moist-ness of Pakistanis and export-markets alike? Did Russians Englishmen Americans wrap themselves in my mother's immortalized name? ... The story of Amina Brand must wait awhile; because the career of Jamila Singer is about to take off; the mosque-shadowed house on Clayton Road has been visited by Uncle Puffs116.
His real name was Major (Retired) Alauddin Latif; he had heard about my sister's voice from 'my darn good friend General Zulfikar; use to be with him in the Border Patrol Force back in '47.' He turned up at Alia Aziz's house shortly after Jamila's fifteenth birthday, beaming and bouncing, revealing a mouth filled with solid gold teeth. 'I'm a simple fellow,' he explained, 'like our illustrious President. I keep my cash where it's safe.' Like our illustrious President, the Major's head was perfectly117 spherical118; unlike Ayub Khan, Latif had left the Army and entered show-business. 'Pakistan's absolute number-one impresario119, old man,' he told my father. 'Nothing to it but organization; old Army habit, dies darn hard.' Major Latif had a proposition: he wanted to hear Jamila sing, 'And if she's two per cent as good as I'm told, my good sir, I'll make her famous! Oh, yes, overnight, certainly! Contacts: that's all it takes; contacts and organization; and yours truly Major (Retired) Latif has the lot.
Alauddin Latif,' he stressed, flashing goldly at Ahmed Sinai, 'Know the story? I just rub my jolly old lamp and out pops the genie120 bringing fame and fortune.
Your girl will be in darn good hands. Dam good.'
It is fortunate for Jamila Singer's legion of fans that Ahmed Sinai was a man in love with his wife; mellowed121 by his own happiness, he failed to eject Major Latif on the spot. I also believe today that my parents had already come to the conclusion that their daughter's gift was too extraordinary to keep to themselves; the sublime122 magic of her angel's voice had begun to teach them the inevitable123 imperatives124 of talent. But Ahmed and Amina had one concern. 'Our daughter,' Ahmed said - he was always the more old-fashioned of the two beneath the surface - 'is from a good family; but you want to put her on a stage in front of God knows how many strange men ... ?' The Major looked affronted125.
'Sir,' he said stiffly, 'you think I am not a man of sensibility? Got daughters myself, old man. Seven, thank God. Set up a little travel agency business for them; strictly126 over the telephone, though. Wouldn't dream of sitting them in an office-window. It's the biggest telephonic travel agency in the place, actually.
We send train-drivers to England, matter of fact; bus-wallahs, too. My point,'
he added hastily, 'is that your daughter would be given as much respect as mine.
More, actually; she's going to be a star!'
Major Latif's daughters - Sana and Rafia and five other -afias -were dubbed127, collectively, 'the Puffias' by the remaining Monkey in my sister; their father was nicknamed first Tather-Puffia' and then Uncle - a courtesy title - Puffs. He was as good as his word; in six months Jamila Singer was to have hit records, an army of admirers, everything; and all, as I'll explain in a moment, without revealing her face.
Uncle Puffs became a fixture128 in our lives; he visited the Clayton Road house most evenings, at what I used to think of as the cocktail129 hour, to sip130 pomegranate juice and ask Jamila to sing a little something. She, who was growing into the sweetest-natured of girls, always obliged ... afterwards he would clear his throat as if something had got stuck in it and begin to joke heartily131 with me about getting married. Twenty-four-carat grins blinded me as he, 'Time you took a wife, young man. Take my advice: pick a girl with good brains and bad teeth; you'll have got a friend and a safe-deposit box rolled into one!' Uncle Puffs' daughters, he claimed, all conformed to the above description ... I, embarrassed, smelling out that he was only half-joking, would cry, 'O, Uncle Puffs!' He knew his nick-name; quite liked it, even. Slapping my thigh132, he cried, 'Playing hard to get, eh? Darn right. O.K., my boy: you pick one of my girls, and I guarantee to have all her teeth pulled out; by the time you marry her she'll have a million-buck smile for a dowry!' Whereupon my mother usually contrived to change the subject; she wasn't keen on Uncle Puffs' idea, no matter how pricey the dentures ... on that first night, as so often afterwards, Jamila sang to Major Alauddin Latif. Her voice wafted133 out through the window and silenced the traffic; the birds stopped chattering134 and, at the hamburger shop across the street, the radio was switched off; the street was full of stationary135 people, and my sister's voice washed over them ... when she finished, we noticed that Uncle Puffs was crying.
'A jewel,' he said, honking136 into a handkerchief, 'Sir and Madam, your daughter is a jewel. I am humbled138, absolutely. Darn humbled. She has proved to me that a golden voice is preferable even to golden teeth.'
And when Jamila Singer's fame had reached the point at which she could no longer avoid giving a public concert, it was Uncle Puffs who started the rumour that she had been involved in a terrible, disfiguring car-crash; it was Major (Retired) Latif who devised her famous, all-concealing, white silk chadar, the curtain or veil, heavily embroidered139 in gold brocade-work and religious calligraphy140, behind which she sat demurely141 whenever she performed in public. The chadar of Jamila Singer was held up by two tireless, muscular figures, also (but more simply) veiled from head to foot - the official story was that they were her female attendants, but their sex was impossible to determine through their burqas; and at its very centre, the Major had cut a hole. Diameter: three inches. Circumference143: embroidered in finest gold thread. That was how the history of our family once again became the fate of a nation, because when Jamila sang with her lips pressed against the brocaded aperture144, Pakistan fell in love with a fifteen-year-old girl whom it only ever glimpsed through a gold-and-white perforated sheet.
The accident rumour set the final seal on her popularity; her concerts packed out the Bambino theatre in Karachi and filled the Shalimar-bagh in Lahore; her records constantly topped the sales charts. And as she became public property, 'Pakistan's Angel', 'The Voice of the Nation', the 'Bulbul-e-Din' or nightingale-of-the-faith, and began to receive one thousand and one firm proposals of marriage a week; as she became the whole country's favourite daughter and grew into an existence which threatened to overwhelm her place in our own family, so she fell prey145 to the twin viruses of fame, the first of which made her the victim of her own public image, because the accident-rumour obliged her to wear a gold-and-white burqa at all times, even in my aunt Alia's school, which she continued to attend; while the second virus subjected her to the exaggerations and simplifications of self which are the unavoidable side-effects of stardom, so that the blind and blinding devoutness146 and the right-or-wrong nationalism which had already begun to emerge in her now began to dominate her personality, to the exclusion147 of almost everything else. Publicity148 imprisoned149 her inside a gilded150 tent; and, being the new daughter-of-the-nation, her character began to owe more to the most strident aspects of the national persona than to the child-world of her Monkey years.
Jamila Singer's voice was on Voice-Of-Pakistan Radio constantly, so that in the villages of West and East Wings she came to seem like a superhuman being, incapable of being fatigued151, an angel who sang to her people through all the days and nights; while Ahmed Sinai, whose few remaining qualms153 about his daughter's career had been more than allayed154 by her enormous earnings155 (although he had once been a Delhi man, he was by now a true Bombay Muslim at heart, placing cash matters above most other things), became fond of telling my sister: 'You see, daughter: decency156, purity, art and good business sense can be one and the same things; your old father has been wise enough to work that out.' Jamila smiled sweetly and agreed ... she was growing out of scrawny tomboy youth into a slender, slant-eyed, golden-skinned beauty whose hair was nearly long enough to sit on; even her nose looked good. 'In my daughter,' Ahmed Sinai told Uncle Puffs proudly, 'it is my side of the family's noble features which have prevailed.' Uncle Puffs cast a quizzical, awkward glance at me and cleared his throat. 'Darn fine-looking girl, sir,' he told my father, 'Top-hole, by gum.'
The thunder of applause was never far from my sister's ears; at her first, now-legendary Bambino recital157 (we sat in seats provided by Uncle Puffs - 'Best darn seats in the house!' - beside his seven Puffias, all veiled ... Uncle Puffs dug me in the ribs158, 'Hey, boy -choose! Take your pick! Remember: the dowry!' and I blushed and stared hard at the stage), the cries of 'Wah! Wah!' were sometimes louder than Jamila's voice; and after the show we found Jamila back-stage drowning in a sea of flowers, so that we had to fight our way through the blossoming camphor garden of the nation's love, to find that she was almost fainting, not from fatigue152, but from the overpoweringly sweet perfume of adoration159 with which the blooms had filled the room. I, too, felt my head beginning to swim; until Uncle Puffs began to hurl160 flowers in great bushels from an open window - they were gathered by a crowd of fans - while he cried, 'Flowers arc fine, darn it, but even a national heroine needs air!'
There was applause, too, on the evening Jamila Singer (and family) was invited to President House to sing for the commander of pepper-pots. Ignoring reports in foreign magazines about embezzled161 money and Swiss bank accounts, we scrubbed ourselves until we shone; a family in the towel business is obliged to be spotlessly clean. Uncle Puffs gave his gold teeth an extra-careful polish; and in a large hall dominated by garlanded portraits of Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the founder162 of Pakistan, the Quaid-i-Azam, and of his assassinated163 friend and successor Liaquat Ali, a perforated sheet was held up and my sister sang.
Jamila's voice fell silent at last; the voice of gold braid succeeded her brocade-bordered song. 'Jamila daughter,' we heard, 'your voice will be a sword for purity; it will be a weapon with which we shall cleanse104 men's souls.'
President Ayub was, by his own admission, a simple soldier; he instilled164 in my sister the simple, soldierly virtues165 of faith-in-leaders and trust-in-God; and she, 'The President's will is the voice of my heart.' Through the hole in a perforated sheet, Jamila Singer dedicated166 herself to patriotism167; and the diwan-i-khas, the hall of this private audience, rang with applause, polite now, not the wild wah-wahing of the Bambino crowd, but the regimented approbation168 of braided gongs-and-pips and the delighted clapping of weepy parents. 'I say!'
Uncle Puffs whispered, 'Darn fine, eh?'
What I could smell, Jamila could sing. Truth beauty happiness pain: each had its separate fragrance21, and could be distinguished169 by my nose; each, in Jamila's performances, could find its ideal voice. My nose, her voice: they were exactly complementary gifts; but they were growing apart. While Jamila sang patriotic170 songs, my nose seemed to prefer to linger on the uglier smells which invaded it: the bitterness of Aunt Alia, the hard unchanging sunk of my fellow-students'
closed minds; so that while she rose into the clouds, I fell into the gutter171.
Looking back, however, I think I was already in love with her, long before I was told ... is there proof of Saleem's unspeakable sister-love? There is. Jamila Singer had one passion in common with the vanished Brass172 Monkey; she loved bread. Chapatis, parathas, tandoori nans? Yes, but. Well then: was yeast173 preferred? It was; my sister -despite patriotism - hankered constantly after leavened174 bread. And, in all Karachi, what was the only source of quality, yeasty loaves? Not a baker's; the best bread in the city was handed out through a hatch in an otherwise blind wall, every Thursday morning, by the sisters of the hidden order of Santa Ignacia. Each week, on my Lambretta scooter, I brought my sister the warm fresh loaves of nuns175. Despite long snaking queues; making light of the overspiced, hot, dung-laden odour of the narrow streets around the nunnery; ignoring all other calls upon my time, I fetched the bread. Criticism was entirely absent from my heart; never once did I ask my sister whether this last relic176 of her old flirtation177 with Christianity might not look rather bad in her new role of Bulbul of the Faith ...
Is it possible to trace the origins of unnatural178 love? Did Saleem, who had yearned179 after a place in the centre of history, become besotted with what he saw in his sister of his own hopes for life? Did much-mutilated no-longer-Snotnose, as broken a member of the Midnight Children's Conference as the knife-scarred beggar-girl Sundari, fall in love with the new wholeness of his sibling180? Once the Mubarak, the Blessed One, did I adore in my sister the fulfilment of my most private dreams? ... I shall say only that I was unaware181 of what had happened to me until, with a scooter between my sixteen-year-old thighs182, I began to follow the spoors of whores.
While Alia smouldered; during the early days of Amina Brand towels; amid the apotheosis183 of Jamila Singer; when a split-level house, rising by command of an umbilical cord, was still far from complete; in the time of the late-flowering love of my parents; surrounded by the somehow barren certitudes of the land of the pure, Saleem Sinai came to terms with himself. I will not say he was not sad; refusing to censor83 my past, I admit he was as sullen184, often as uncooperative, certainly as spotty as most boys of his age. His dreams, denied the children of midnight, became filled with nostalgia185 to the point of nausea186, so that he often woke up gagging with the heavy musk187 of regret overpowering his senses; there were nightmares of numbers marching one two three, and of a tightening188, throttling189 pair of prehensile190 knees ... but there was a new gift, and a Lambretta scooter, and (though still unconscious) a humble137, submissive love of his sister ... jerking my narrator's eyes away from the described past, I insist that Saleem, then-as-now, succeeded in turning his attention towards the as-yet-undescribed future. Escaping, whenever possible, from a residence in which the acrid191 fumes192 of his aunt's envy made life unbearable193, and also from a college filled with other equally dislikeable smells, I mounted my motorized steed and explored the olfactory avenues of my new city. And after we heard of my grandfather's death in Kashmir, I became even more determined to drown the past in the thick, bubbling scent-stew of the present... O dizzying early days before categorization! Formlessly, before I began to shape them, the fragrances poured into me: the mournful decaying fumes of animal faeces in the gardens of the Frere Road museum, the pustular body odours of young men in loose pajamas194 holding hands in Sadar evenings, the knife-sharpness of expectorated betel-nut and the bitter-sweet commingling195 of betel and opium196: 'rocket paans' were sniffed197 out in the hawker-crowded alleys198 between Elphin-stone Street and Victoria Road.
Camel-smells, car-smells, the gnat-like irritation199 of motor-rickshaw fumes, the aroma33 of contraband200 cigarettes and 'black-money', the competitive effluvia of the city's bus-drivers and the simple sweat of their sardine-crowded passengers.
(One bus-driver, in those days, was so incensed201 at being overtaken by his rival from another company - the nauseating202 odour of defeat poured from his glands - that he took his bus round to his opponent's house at night, hooted203 until the poor fellow emerged, and ran him down beneath wheels reeking204, like my aunt, of revenge.) Mosques205 poured over me the itr of devotion; I could smell the orotund206 emissions207 of power sent out by flag-waving Army motors; in the very hoardings of the cinemas I could discern the cheap tawdry perfumes of imported spaghetti Westerns and the most violent martial-arts films ever made. I was, for a time, like a drugged person, my head reeling beneath the complexities208 of smell; but then my overpowering desire for form asserted itself, and I survived.
Indo-Pakistani relations deteriorated209; the borders were closed, so that we could not go to Agra to mourn my grandfather; Reverend Mother's emigration to Pakistan was also somewhat delayed. In the meantime, Saleem was working towards a general theory of smell: classification procedures had begun. I saw this scientific approach as my own, personal obeisance210 to the spirit of my grandfather ... to begin with, I perfected my skill at distinguishing, until I could tell apart the infinite varieties of betel-nut and (with my eyes shut) the twelve different available brands of fizzy drink. (Long before the American commentator211 Herbert Feldman came to Karachi to deplore212 the existence of a dozen aerated213 waters in a city which had only three suppliers of bottled milk, I could sit blindfolded214 and tell Pakola from Hoffman's Mission, Citra Cola from Fanta. Feldman saw these drinks as a manifestation of capitalist imperialism215; I, sniffing out which was Canada Dry and which 7-Up, unerringly separating Pepsi from Coke, was more interested in passing their subtle olfactory test. Double Kola and Kola Kola, Perri Cola and Bubble Up were blindly indentified and named.) Only when I was sure of my mastery of physical scents did I move on to those other aromas which only I could smell: the perfumes of emotions and all the thousand and one drives which make us human: love and death, greed and humility216, have and have-not were labelled and placed in neat compartments217 of my mind.
Early attempts at ordering: I tried to classify smells by colour-boiling underwear and the printer's ink of the Daily Jang shared a quality of blueness, while old teak and fresh farts were both dark brown. Motor-cars and graveyards218 I jointly219 classified as grey ... there was, too, classification-by-weight: flyweight smells (paper), bantam odours (soap-fresh bodies, grass), welterweights (perspiration, queen-of-the-night); shahi-korma and bicycle-oil were light-heavy-weight in my system, while anger, patchouli, treachery and dung were among the heavyweight stinks220 of the earth. And I had a geometric system also: the roundness of joy and the angularity of ambition; I had elliptical smells, and also ovals and squares ... a lexicographer221 of the nose, I travelled Bunder Road and the P.E.C.H.S.; a lepidopterist, I snared222 whins like butterflies in the net of my nasal hairs. O wondrous223 voyages before the birth of philosophy!... Because soon I understood that my work must, if it was to have any value, acquire a moral dimension; that the only important divisions were the infinitely224 subtle gradations of good and evil smells. Having realized the crucial nature of morality, having sniffed out that smells could be sacred or profane225, I invented, in the isolation226 of my scooter-trips, the science of nasal ethics.
Sacred: purdah-veils, halal meat, muezzin's towers, prayer-mats; profane: Western records, pig-meat, alcohol. I understood now why mullahs (sacred)
refused to enter aeroplanes (profane) on the night before Id-ul-Fitr, not even willing to enter vehicles whose secret odour was the antithesis227 of godliness in order to make sure of seeing the new moon. I learned the olfactory incompatibility228 of Islam and socialism, and the inalienable opposition229 existing between the after-shave of Sind Club members and the poverty-reek of the street-sleeping beggars at the Club gates ... more and more, however, I became convinced of an ugly truth - namely that the sacred, or good, held little interest for me, even when such aromas surrounded my sister as she sang; while the pungency of the gutter seemed to possess a fatally irresistible230 attraction.
Besides, I was sixteen; things were stirring beneath my belt, behind my duck-white pants; and no city which locks women away is ever short of whores.
While Jamila sang of holiness and love-of-country, I explored profanity and lust. (I had money to burn; my father had become generous as well as loving.)
At the eternally unfinished Jinnah Mausoleum I picked up the women of the street. Other youths came here to seduce231 American girls away, taking them off to hotel rooms or swimming pools; I preferred to retain my independence and pay.
And eventually I nosed out the whore of whores, whose gifts were a mirror for my own. Her name was Tai Bibi, and she claimed to be five hundred and twelve.
But her smell! The richest spoor he, Saleem, had ever sniffed; he felt bewitched by something in it, some air of historic majesty232 ... he found himself saying to the toothless creature: 'I don't care about your age; the smell's the thing.'
('My God,' Padma interrupts, 'Such a thing - how could you?') Though she never hinted at any connection with a Kashmiri boatman, her name exerted the strongest of pulls; although she may have been humouring Saleem when she said, 'Boy, I am five hundred and twelve,' his sense of history was nevertheless aroused. Think of me what you like; I spent one hot, humid afternoon in a tenement233-room containing a flea-ridden mattress234 and a naked lightbulb and the oldest whore in the world.
What finally made Tai Bibi irresistible? What gift of control did she possess which put other whores to shame? What maddened the newly-sensitized nostrils of our Saleem? Padma: my ancient prostitute possessed a mastery over her glands so total that she could alter her bodily odours to match those of anyone on earth.
Eccrines and apoc-rines obeyed the instructions of her antiquated235 will; and although she said, 'Don't expect me to do it standing81 up; you couldn't pay enough for that,' her gifts of perfume were more than he could bear. (...
'Chhi-chhi,' Padma covers her ears, 'My God, such a dirty-filthy man, I never knew!' ...)
So there he was, this peculiar236 hideous237 youth, with an old hag who said, 'I won't stand up; my corns,' and then noticed that the mention of corns seemed to arouse him; whispering the secret of her eccrine-and-apocrine facility, she asked if he'd like her to imitate anyone's smells, he could describe and she could try, and by trial-and-error they could ... and at first he jerked away, No no no, but she coaxed238 him in her voice like crumpled239 paper, until because he was alone, out of the world and out of all time, alone with this impossible mythological240 old harridan241, he began to describe odours with all the perspicacity242 of his miraculous nose, and Tai Bibi began to imitate his descriptions, leaving him aghast as by trial-and-error she succeeded in reproducing the body odours of his mother his aunts, oho you like that do you little sahibzada, go on, stick your nose as close as you like, you're a funny fellow for sure ... until suddenly, by accident, yes, I swear I didn't make her do it, suddenly during trial-and-error the most unspeakable fragrance on earth wafts243 out of the cracked wrinkled leather-ancient body, and now he can't hide what she sees, oho, little sahibzada, what have I hit on now, you don't have to tell who she is but this one is the one for sure.
And Saleem, 'Shut up shut up -' But Tai Bibi with the relent-lessness of her cackling antiquity244 presses on, 'Oho yes, certainly, your lady-love, little sahibzada - who? Your cousin, maybe? Your sister...' Saleem's hand is tightening into a fist; the right hand, despite mutilated finger, contemplates245 violence...
and now Tai Bibi, 'My God yes! Your sister! Go on, hit me, you can't hide what's sitting there in the middle of your forehead! ...' And Saleem gathering246 up his clothes struggling into trousers Shut up old hag While she Yes go, go, but if you don't pay me I'll, I'll, you see what I don't do, and now rupees flying across the room floating down around five-hundred-and-twelve-year-old courtesan, Take take only shut your hideous face, while she Careful my princeling you're not so handsome yourself, dressed now and rushing from the tenement, Lambretta scooter waiting but urchins247 have urinated on the seat, he is driving away as fast as he can go, but the truth is going with him, and now Tai Bibi leaning out of a window shouts, 'Hey, bhaenchud! Hey, little sister-sleeper, where you running? What's true is true is true ...!'
You may legitimately248 ask: Did it happen in just this ... And surely she couldn't have been five hundred and ... but I swore to confess everything, and I insist that I learned the unspeakable secret of my love for Jamila Singer from the mouth and scent-glands of that most exceptional of whores.
'Our Mrs Braganza is right,' Padma is scolding me, 'She says there is nothing but dirt in the heads of the mens.' I ignore her; Mrs Braganza, and her sister Mrs Fernandes, will be dealt with in due course; for the moment, the latter must be content with the factory accounts while the former looks after my son. And while I, to recapture the rapt attention of my revolted Padma Bibi, recount a fairy-tale.
Once upon a time, in the far northern princedom of Kif, there lived a prince who had two beautiful daughters, a son of equally remarkable good looks, a brand-new Rolls-Royce motor car, and excellent political contacts. This prince, or Nawab, believed passionately249 in progress, which was why he had arranged the engagement of his elder daughter to the son of the prosperous and well-known General Zulfikar; for his younger daughter he had high hopes of a match with the son of the President himself. As for his motor-car, the first ever seen in his mountain-ringed valley, he loved it almost as much as his children; it grieved him that his subjects, who had become used to using the roads of Kif for purposes of social intercourse250, quarrels and games of hit-the-spittoon, refused to get out of its way. He issued a proclamation explaining that the car represented the future, and must be allowed to pass; the people ignored the notice, although it was pasted to shop-fronts and walls and even, it is said, to the sides of cows. The second notice was more peremptory251, ordering the citizenry to clear the highways when they heard the horn of the car; the Kifis, however, continued to smoke and spit and argue in the streets. The third notice, which was adorned252 with a gory253 drawing, said that the car would henceforth run down anybody who failed to obey its horn. The Kifis added new, more scandalous pictures to the one on the poster; and then the Nawab, who was a good man but not one of infinite patience, actually did as he threatened. When the famous singer Jamila arrived with her family and impresario to sing at her cousin's engagement ceremony, the car drove her without trouble from border to palace; and the Nawab said proudly, 'No trouble; the car is respected now. Progress has occurred.'
The Nawab's son Mutasim, who had travelled abroad and wore his hair in something called a 'beetle-cut', was a source of worry to his father; because although he was so good-looking that, whenever he travelled around Kif, girls with silver nose-jewellery fainted in the heat of his beauty, he seemed to take no interest in such matters, being content with his polo-ponies and the guitar on which he picked out strange Western songs. He wore bush-shirts on which musical notation254 and foreign street-signs jostled against the half-clad bodies of pink-skinned girls. But when Jamila Singer, concealed255 within a gold-brocaded burqa, arrived at the palace, Mutasim the Handsome - who owing to his foreign travels had never heard the rumours256 of her disfigurement - became obsessed257 with the idea of seeing her face; he fell head-over-heels with the glimpses of her demure142 eyes he saw through her perforated sheet.
In those days, the President of Pakistan had decreed an election; it was to take place on the day after the engagement ceremony, under a form of suffrage258 called Basic Democracy. The hundred million people of Pakistan had been divided up into a hundred and twenty thousand approximately equal parts, and each part was represented by one Basic Democrat259. The electoral college of one hundred and twenty thousand 'B.D.s' were to elect the President. In Kif, the 420 Basic Democrats260 included mullahs, road-sweepers, the Nawab's chauffeur261, numerous men who sharecropped hashish on the Nawab's estate, and other loyal citizens; the Nawab had invited all of these to his daughter's hennaing ceremony. He had, however, also been obliged to invite two real badmashes, the returning officers of the Combined Opposition Party. These badmashes quarrelled constantly amongst themselves, but the Nawab was courteous262 and welcoming. 'Tonight you are my honoured friends,' he told them, 'and tomorrow is another day.' The badmashes ate and drank as if they had never seen food before, but everybody - even Mutasim the Handsome, whose patience was shorter than his father's - was told to treat them well.
The Combined Opposition Party, you will not be surprised to hear, was a collection of rogues263 and scoundrels of the first water, united only in their determination to unseat the President and return to the bad old days in which civilians264, and not soldiers, lined their pockets from the public exchequer265; but for some reason they had acquired a formidable leader. This was Mistress Fatima Jinriah, the sister of the founder of the nation, a woman of such desiccated antiquity that the Nawab suspected she had died long ago and been stuffed by a master taxidermist - a notion supported by his son, who had seen a movie called El Cid in which a dead man led an army into battle ... but there she was nevertheless, goaded266 into electioneering by the President's failure to complete the marbling of her brother's mausoleum; a terrible foe41, above slander267 and suspicion. It was even said that her opposition to the President had shaken the people's faith in him - was he not, after all, the reincarnation of the great Islamic heroes of yesteryear? Of Muhammad bin Sam Ghuri, of Iltutmish and the Mughals? Even in Kif itself, the Nawab had noticed C.O.P. stickers appearing in curious places; someone had even had the cheek to affix268 one to the boot of the Rolls. 'Bad days,' the Nawab told his son. Mutasim replied, 'That's what elections get you - latrine cleaners and cheap tailors must vote to elect a ruler?'
But today was a day for happiness; in the zenana chambers270, women were patterning the Nawab's daughter's hands and feet with delicate traceries of henna; soon General Zulfikar and his son Zafar would arrive. The rulers of Kif put the election out of their heads, refusing to think of the crumbling271 figure of Fatima Jinnah, the mader-i-millat or mother of the nation who had so callously272 chosen to confuse her children's choosing.
In the quarters of Jamila Singer's party, too, happiness reigned273 supreme274. Her father, a towel-manufacturer who could not seem to relinquish275 the soft hand of his wife, cried, 'You see? Whose daughter is performing here? Is it a Haroon girl? A Valika woman? Is it a Dawood of Saigol wench? Like hell!' ... But his son Saleem, an unfortunate fellow with a face like a cartoon, seemed to be gripped by some deep malaise, perhaps overwhelmed by his presence at the scene of great historical events; he glanced towards his gifted sister with something in his eyes which looked like shame.
That afternoon, Mutasim the Handsome took Jamila's brother Saleem to one side and tried hard to make friends; he showed Saleem the peacocks imported from Rajasthan before Partition and the Nawab's precious collection of books of spells, from which he extracted such talismans276 and incantations as would help him rule with sagacity; and while Mutasim (who was not the most intelligent or cautious of youths) was escorting Saleem around the polo-field, he confessed that he had written out a love-charm on a piece of parchment, in the hope of pressing it against the hand of the famous Jamila Singer and making her fall in love. At this point Saleem acquired the air of a bad-tempered277 dog and tried to turn away; but Mutasim now begged to know what Jamila Singer really looked like.
Saleem, however, kept his silence; until Mutasim, in the grip of a wild obsession278, asked to be brought close enough to Jamila to press his charm against her hand. Now Saleem, whose sly look did not register on love-struck Mutasim, said, 'Give me the parchment'; and Mutasim, who, though expert in the geography of European cities, was innocent in things magical, yielded his charm to Saleem, thinking it would still work on his behalf, even if applied279 by another.
Evening approached at the palace; the convoy280 of cars bringing General and Begum Zulfikar, their son Zafar, and friends, approached, too. But now the wind changed, and began to blow from the north: a cold wind, and also an intoxicating281 one, because in the north of Kif were the best hashish fields in the land, and at this time of year the female plants were ripe and in heat. The air was filled with the perfume of the heady lust of the plants, and all who breathed it became doped to some extent. The vacuous282 beatitude of the plants affected283 the drivers in the convoy, which only reached the palace by great good fortune, having overturned a number of street-side barber-stalls and invaded at least one tea-shop, leaving the Kifis wondering whether the new horseless carriages, having stolen the streets, were now going to capture their homes as well.
The wind from the north entered the enormous and highly sensitive nose of Saleem, Jamila's brother, and made him so drowsy284 that he fell asleep in his room; so that he missed the events of an evening during which, he afterwards learned, the hashashin wind had transformed the behaviour of the guests at the engagement ceremony, making them giggle112 convulsively and gaze provocatively285 at one another through heavy-lidded eyes; braided Generals sat splay-legged on gilded chairs and dreamed of Paradise. The mehndi ceremony took place amid a sleepy contentment so profound that nobody noticed when the bridegroom relaxed so completely that he wet his pants; and even the quarrelling badmashes from the C.O.P. linked arms and sang a folk-song. And when Mutasim the Handsome, possessed by the lustiness of hashish-plants, attempted to plunge286 behind the great gold-and-silken sheet with its single hole, Major Alauddin Latif restrained him with beatific287 good humour, preventing him from seeing Jamila Singer's face without even bloodying288 his nose. The evening ended when all the guests fell asleep at their tables; but Jamila Singer was escorted to her rooms by a sleepily, beaming Latif.
At midnight, Saleem awoke to find that he still clutched the magical parchment of Mutasim the Handsome in his right hand; and since the wind from the north was still blowing gently through his room, he made up his mind to creep, in chappals and dressing-gown, through the darkened passages of the lovely palace, past all the accumulated debris289 of a decaying world, rusting290 suits of armour291 and ancient tapestries292 which provided centuries of food for the palace's one billion moths293, giant mahaseer trout294 swimming in glass seas, and a profusion295 of hunting trophies296 including a tarnished297 golden teetar-bird on a teak plinth which commemorated298 the day on which an earlier Nawab, in the company of Lord Curzon and party, had shot III, III teetars in a single day; he crept past the statues of dead birds into the zenana chambers where the women of the palace slept, and then, sniffing the air, he selected one door, turned the handle and went inside.
There was a giant bed with a floating mosquito-net caught in a stream of colourless light from the maddening, midnight moon; Saleem moved towards it, and then stopped, because he had seen, at the window, the figure of a man trying to climb into the room. Mutasim the Handsome, made shameless by his infatuation and the hashashin wind, had resolved to look at Jamila's face, no matter what the cost .. .And Saleem, invisible in the shadows of the room cried out: 'Hands up! Or I shoot!' Saleem was bluffing299; but Mutasim, whose hands were on the window sill, supporting his full weight, did not know that, and was placed in a quandary300: to hang on and be shot, or let go and fall? He attempted to argue back, 'You shouldn't be here yourself,' he said, 'I'll tell Amina Begum.' He had recognized the voice of his oppressor; but Saleem pointed301 out the weakness of his position, and Mutasim, pleading, 'Okay, only don't fire,' was permitted to descend the way he'd come. After that day, Mutasim persuaded his father to make a formal proposal of marriage to Jamila's parents; but she, who had been born and raised without love, retained her old hatred of all who claimed to love her, and turned him down. He left Kif and came to Karachi, but she would not entertain his importunate302 proposals; and eventually he joined the Army and became a martyr303 in the war of 1965.
The tragedy of Mutasim the Handsome, however, is only a subplot in our story; because now Saleem and his sister were alone, and she awakened304 by the exchange between the two youths, asked, 'Saleem? What is happening?'
Saleem approached his sister's bed; his hand sought hers; and parchment was pressed against skin. Only now did Saleem, his tongue loosened by the moon and the lust-drenched breeze, abandon all notions of purity and confess his own love to his open-mouthed sister.
There was a silence; then she cried, 'Oh, no, how can you -', but the magic of the parchment was doing battle with the strength of her hatred of love; so although her body grew stiff and jerky as a wrestler's, she listened to him explaining that there was no sin, he had worked it all out, and after all, they were not truly brother and sister; the blood in his veins305 was not the blood in hers; in the breeze of that insane night he attempted to undo306 all the knots which not even Mary Pereira's confession307 had succeeded in untying308; but even as he spoke309 he could hear his words sounding hollow, and realized that although what he was saying was the literal truth, there were other truths which had become more important because they had been sanctified by time; and although there was no need for shame or horror, he saw both emotions on her forehead, he smelt them on her skin, and, what was worse, he could feel and smell them in and upon himself. So, in the end, not even the magic parchment of Mutasim the Handsome was powerful enough to bring Saleem Sinai and Jamila Singer together; he left her room with bowed head, followed by her deer-startled eyes; and in time the effects of the spell faded altogether, and she took a dreadful revenge.
As he left the room the corridors of the palace were suddenly filled with the shriek310 of a newly-affianced princess, who had awoken from a dream of her wedding-night in which her marital311 bed had suddenly and unaccountably become awash in rancid yellow liquid; afterwards, she made inquiries312, and when she learned the prophetic truth of her dream, resolved never to reach puberty while Zafar was alive, so that she could stay in her palatial313 bedroom and avoid the foul-smelling horror of his weakness.
The next morning, the two badmashes of the Combined Opposition Party awoke to find themselves back in their own beds; but when they had dressed, they opened the door of their chamber269 to find two of the biggest soldiers in Pakistan outside it, standing peacefully with crossed rifles, barring the exit. The badmashes shouted and wheedled314, but the soldiers stayed in position until the polls were closed; then they quietly disappeared. The badmashes sought out the Nawab, finding him in his exceptional rose-garden; they waved their arms and raised their voices; travesty-of-justice was mentioned, and electoral-jiggery-pokery; also chicanery315; but the Nawab showed them thirteen new varieties of Kin8 rose, crossbred by himself. They ranted316 on - death-of-democracy, autocratic-tyranny - until he smiled gently, gently, and said, 'My friends, yesterday my daughter was betrothed317 to Zafar Zulfikar; soon, I hope, my other girl will wed51 our President's own dear son. Think, then - what dishonour318 for me, what scandal on my name, if even one vote were cast in Kif against my future relative! Friends, I am a man to whom honour is of concern; so stay in my house, eat, drink; only do not ask for what I cannot give.'
And we all lived happily ... at any rate, even without the traditional last-sentence fiction of fairy-tales, my story does indeed end in fantasy; because when Basic Democrats had done their duty, the newspapers - Jang, Dawn, Pakistan Times - announced a crushing victory for the President's Muslim League over the Mader-i-Millat's Combined Opposition Party; thus proving to me that I have been only the humblest of jugglers-with-facts; and that, in a country where the truth is what it is instructed to be, reality quite literally319 ceases to exist, so that everything becomes possible except what we are told is the case; and maybe this was the difference between my Indian childhood and Pakistani adolescence - that in the first I was beset by an infinity320 of alternative realities, while in the second I was adrift, disorientated, amid an equally infinite number of falsenesses, unrealities and lies.
A little bird whispers in my ear: 'Be fair! Nobody, no country, has a monopoly of untruth.' I accept the criticism; I know, I know. And, years later, the Widow knew. And Jamila: for whom what-had-been-sanctified-as-truth (by Time, by habit, by a grandmother's pronouncement, by lack of imagination, by a father's acquiescence) proved more believable than what she knew to be so.
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glutinous
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reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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hypocrisy
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embittered
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jealousy
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resentment
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sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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kin
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waddling
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inevitably
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mittens
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hatred
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possessed
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lust
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glands
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vengeance
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celebrated
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captivity
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spectrum
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fragrances
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fragrance
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incapable
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olfactory
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taboos
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feign
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innocence
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parental
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inhale
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scents
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purely
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adolescence
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aromas
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aroma
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pungency
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impurity
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nostrils
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manifestation
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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39
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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40
invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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41
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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42
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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43
bleakly
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| 无望地，阴郁地，苍凉地 | |
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44
creeks
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| n.小湾( creek的名词复数 )；小港；小河；小溪 | |
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45
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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46
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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47
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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48
defensiveness
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| 防御性 | |
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49
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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50
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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52
minaret
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| n.（回教寺院的）尖塔 | |
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53
mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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54
ghetto
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| n.少数民族聚居区，贫民区 | |
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55
penumbra
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| n.（日蚀）半影部 | |
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56
bided
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| v.等待，停留( bide的过去式 )；居住；等待；面临 | |
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57
mirages
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景( mirage的名词复数 ) | |
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58
oases
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲( oasis的名词复数 )；（困苦中）令人快慰的地方（或时刻）；乐土；乐事 | |
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59
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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60
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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61
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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62
exuded
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的过去式和过去分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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63
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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64
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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65
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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66
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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67
bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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68
eschewing
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| v.（尤指为道德或实际理由而）习惯性避开，回避( eschew的现在分词 ) | |
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69
cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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70
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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71
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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72
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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73
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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74
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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75
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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76
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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77
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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78
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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79
infertility
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| n.不肥沃，不毛；不育 | |
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80
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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81
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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82
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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83
censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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84
censored
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| 受审查的，被删剪的 | |
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85
conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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86
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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87
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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88
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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89
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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90
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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91
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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92
overthrew
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| overthrow的过去式 | |
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93
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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94
iconoclast
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| n.反对崇拜偶像者 | |
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95
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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96
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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97
deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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98
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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99
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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100
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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101
impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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102
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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103
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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105
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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106
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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107
antitheses
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| n.对照，对立的，对比法；对立( antithesis的名词复数 )；对立面；对照；对偶 | |
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108
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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109
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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110
thawing
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| n.熔化，融化v.（气候）解冻( thaw的现在分词 )；（态度、感情等）缓和；（冰、雪及冷冻食物）溶化；软化 | |
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111
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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113
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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114
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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115
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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116
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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117
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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118
spherical
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| adj.球形的；球面的 | |
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119
impresario
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| n.歌剧团的经理人；乐团指挥 | |
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120
genie
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| n.妖怪，神怪 | |
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121
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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122
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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123
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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124
imperatives
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| n.必要的事( imperative的名词复数 )；祈使语气；必须履行的责任 | |
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125
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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126
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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127
dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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128
fixture
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| n.固定设备；预定日期；比赛时间；定期存款 | |
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129
cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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130
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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131
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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132
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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133
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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135
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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136
honking
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| v.（使）发出雁叫似的声音，鸣（喇叭），按（喇叭）( honk的现在分词 ) | |
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137
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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138
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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139
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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140
calligraphy
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| n.书法 | |
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141
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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142
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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143
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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144
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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145
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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146
devoutness
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| 朝拜 | |
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147
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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148
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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149
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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151
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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152
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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153
qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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154
allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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156
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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157
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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158
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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159
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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160
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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161
embezzled
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|
| v.贪污，盗用（公款）( embezzle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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163
assassinated
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|
| v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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164
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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166
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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167
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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168
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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169
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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170
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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171
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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172
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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173
yeast
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| n.酵母；酵母片；泡沫；v.发酵；起泡沫 | |
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174
leavened
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| adj.加酵母的v.使（面团）发酵( leaven的过去式和过去分词 )；在…中掺入改变的因素 | |
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175
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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176
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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177
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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178
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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179
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180
sibling
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| n.同胞手足(指兄、弟、姐或妹) | |
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181
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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182
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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183
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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184
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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185
nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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186
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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187
musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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188
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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189
throttling
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| v.扼杀( throttle的现在分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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190
prehensile
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| adj.（足等）适于抓握的 | |
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191
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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192
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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193
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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194
pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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195
commingling
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| v.混合，掺和，合并( commingle的现在分词 ) | |
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196
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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197
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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198
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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199
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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200
contraband
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| n.违禁品，走私品 | |
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201
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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202
nauseating
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| adj.令人恶心的，使人厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的现在分词 ) | |
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203
hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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204
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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205
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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206
orotund
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| adj.宏亮的，宏壮的；浮夸的 | |
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207
emissions
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| 排放物( emission的名词复数 )； 散发物（尤指气体） | |
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208
complexities
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| 复杂性(complexity的名词复数)； 复杂的事物 | |
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209
deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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210
obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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211
commentator
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| n.注释者，解说者；实况广播评论员 | |
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212
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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213
aerated
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| v.使暴露于空气中，使充满气体( aerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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214
blindfolded
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| v.（尤指用布）挡住（某人）的视线( blindfold的过去式 )；蒙住（某人）的眼睛；使不理解；蒙骗 | |
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215
imperialism
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| n.帝国主义，帝国主义政策 | |
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216
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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217
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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218
graveyards
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| 墓地( graveyard的名词复数 )； 垃圾场； 废物堆积处； 收容所 | |
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219
jointly
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| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
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220
stinks
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| v.散发出恶臭( stink的第三人称单数 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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221
lexicographer
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| n.辞典编纂人 | |
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222
snared
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| v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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223
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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224
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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225
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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226
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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227
antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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228
incompatibility
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| n.不兼容 | |
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229
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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230
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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231
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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232
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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233
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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234
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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235
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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236
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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237
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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238
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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239
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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240
mythological
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| adj.神话的 | |
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241
harridan
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| n.恶妇；丑老大婆 | |
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242
perspicacity
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| n. 敏锐, 聪明, 洞察力 | |
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243
wafts
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| n.空中飘来的气味，一阵气味( waft的名词复数 )；摇转风扇v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的第三人称单数 ) | |
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244
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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245
contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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246
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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247
urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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248
legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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249
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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250
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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251
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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252
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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253
gory
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| adj.流血的；残酷的 | |
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254
notation
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| n.记号法，表示法，注释；[计算机]记法 | |
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255
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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256
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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257
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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258
suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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259
democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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260
democrats
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士( democrat的名词复数 ) | |
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261
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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262
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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263
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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264
civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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265
exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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266
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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267
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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268
affix
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| n.附件，附录 vt.附贴，盖(章)，签署 | |
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269
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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270
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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271
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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272
callously
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273
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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274
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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275
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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276
talismans
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| n.护身符( talisman的名词复数 )；驱邪物；有不可思议的力量之物；法宝 | |
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277
bad-tempered
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| adj.脾气坏的 | |
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278
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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279
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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280
convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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281
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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282
vacuous
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| adj.空的，漫散的，无聊的，愚蠢的 | |
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283
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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284
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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285
provocatively
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286
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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287
beatific
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| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
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288
bloodying
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| v.血污的( bloody的现在分词 )；流血的；屠杀的；残忍的 | |
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289
debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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290
rusting
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| n.生锈v.（使）生锈( rust的现在分词 ) | |
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291
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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292
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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293
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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294
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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295
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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296
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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297
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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298
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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299
bluffing
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| n. 威吓，唬人 动词bluff的现在分词形式 | |
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300
quandary
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| n.困惑，进迟两难之境 | |
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301
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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302
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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303
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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304
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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305
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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306
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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307
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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308
untying
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| untie的现在分词 | |
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309
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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310
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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311
marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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312
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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313
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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314
wheedled
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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315
chicanery
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| n.欺诈，欺骗 | |
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316
ranted
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的过去式和过去分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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317
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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318
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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319
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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320
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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