No shadow of a doubt: an acceleration1 is taking place. Rip crunch2 crack - while road surfaces split in the awesome3 heat, I, too, am being hurried towards disintegration4. What-gnaws-on-bones (which, as I have been regularly obliged to explain to the too many women around me, is far beyond the powers of medicine men to discern, much less to cure) will not be denied for long; and still so much remains5 to be told ... Uncle Mustapha is growing inside me, and the pout6 of Parvati-the-witch; a certain lock of hero's hair is waiting in the wings; and also a labour of thirteen days, and history as an analogue7 of a prime minister's hair-style; there is to be treason, and fare-dodging, and the scent8 (wafting on breezes heavy with the ululations of widows) of something frying in an iron skillet ... so that I, too, am forced to accelerate, to make a wild dash for the finishing line; before memory cracks beyond hope of re-assembly, I must breast the tape. (Although already, already there are fadings, and gaps; it will be necessary to improvise9 on occasion.)
Twenty-six pickle-jars stand gravely on a shelf; twenty-six special blends, each with its identifying label, neatly10 inscribed11 with familiar phrases: 'Movements Performed by Pepperpots', for instance, or 'Alpha and Omega', or 'Commander Sabarmati's Baton12'. Twenty-six rattle13 eloquently14 when local trains go yellow-and-browning past; on my desk, five empty jars tinkle15 urgently, reminding me of my uncompleted task. But now I cannot linger over empty pickle-jars; the night is for words, and green chutney must wait its turn.
... Padma is wistful: 'O, mister, how lovely Kashmir must be in August, when here it is hot like a chilli!' I am obliged to reprove my plump-yet-muscled companion, whose attention has been wandering; and to observe that our Padma Bibi, long-suffering tolerant consoling, is beginning to behave exactly like a traditional Indian wife. (And I, with my distances and self-absorption, like a husband?) Of late, in spite of my stoic16 fatalism about the spreading cracks, I have smelled, on Padma's breath, the dream of an alternative (but impossible)
future; ignoring the implacable finalities of inner fissures17, she has begun to exude18 the bitter-sweet fragrance19 of hope-for-marriage. My dung-lotus, who remained impervious20 for so long to the sneer-lipped barbs21 hurled22 by our workforce23 of downy-forearmed women; who placed her cohabitation with me outside and above all codes of social propriety24, has seemingly succumbed25 to a desire for legitimacy26... in short, although she has not said a word on the subject, she is waiting for me to make an honest woman of her. The perfume of her sad hopefulness permeates27 her most innocently solicitous28 remarks - even at this very moment, as she, 'Hey, mister, why not - finish your writery and then take rest; go to Kashmir, sit quietly for some time - and maybe you will take your Padma also, and she can look after ...?' Behind this burgeoning30 dream of a Kashmir! holiday (which was once also the dream of Jehangir, the Mughal Emperor; of poor forgotten Ilse Lubin; and, perhaps, of Christ himself), I nose out the presence of another dream; but neither this nor that can be fulfilled. Because now the cracks, the cracks and always the cracks are narrowing my future towards its single inescapable fullpoint; and even Padma must take a back seat if I'm to finish my tales.
Today, the papers are talking about the supposed political rebirth of Mrs.
Indira Gandhi; but when I returned to India, concealed31 in a wicker basket, 'The Madam' was basking32 in the fullness of her glory. Today, perhaps, we are already forgetting, sinking willingly into the insidious33 clouds of amnesia34; but I remember, and will set down, how I - how she - how it happened that - no, I can't say it, I must tell it in the proper order, until there is no option but to reveal ... On December 16th, 1971, I tumbled out of a basket into an India in which Mrs. Gandhi's New Congress Party held a more-than-two-thirds majority in the National Assembly.
In the basket of invisibility, a sense of unfairness turned into anger; and something else besides - transformed by rage, I had also been overwhelmed by an agonizing35 feeling of sympathy for the country which was not only my twin-in-birth but also joined to me (so to speak) at the hip36, so that what happened to either of us, happened to us both. If I, snot-nosed stain-faced etcetera, had had a hard time of it, then so had she, my subcontinental twin sister; and now that I had given myself the right to choose a better future, I was resolved that the nation should share it, too. I think that when I tumbled out into dust, shadow and amused cheers, I had already decided37 to save the country.
(But there are cracks and gaps ... had I, by then, begun to see that my love for Jamila Singer had been, in a sense, a mistake? Had I already understood how I had simply transferred on to her shoulders the adoration38 which I now perceived to be a vaulting39, all-encompassing love of country? When was it that I realized that my truly-incestuous feelings were for my true birth-sister, India herself, and not for that trollop of a crooner who had so callously40 shed me, like a used snake-skin, and dropped me into the metaphorical41 waste-basket of Army life? When when when? ... Admitting defeat, I am forced to record that I cannot remember for sure.)
... Saleem sat blinking in the dust in the shadow of the mosque42. A giant was standing43 over him, grinning hugely, asking, 'Achha, captain, have a good trip?'
And Parvati, with huge excited eyes, pouring water from a lotah into his cracked, salty mouth ... Feeling! The icy touch of water kept cool in earthenware44 surahis, the cracked soreness of parched-raw lips, silver-and-lapis clenched45 in a fist ... 'I can feel!' Saleem cried to the good-natured crowd.
It was the time of afternoon called the chaya, when the shadow of the tall red-brick-and-marble Friday Mosque fell across the higgledy shacks46 of the slum clustered at its feet, that slum whose ramshackle tin roofs created such a swelter of heat that it was insupportable to be inside the fragile shacks except during the chaya and at night ... but now conjurers and contortionists and jugglers and fakirs had gathered in the shade around the solitary48 stand-pipe to greet the new arrival. 'I can feel!' I cried, and then Picture Singh, 'Okay, captain - tell us, how it feels? - to be born again, falling like baby out of Parvati's basket?' I could smell amazement49 on Picture Singh; he was clearly astounded50 by Parvati's trick, but, like a true professional, would not dream of asking her how she had achieved it. In this way Parvati-the-witch, who had used her limitless powers to spirit me to safety, escaped discovery; and also because, as I later discovered, the ghetto51 of the magicians disbelieved, with the absolute certainty of illusionists-by-trade, in the possibility of magic. So Picture Singh told me, with amazement, 'I swear, captain - you were so light in there, like a baby!' - But he never dreamed that my weightlessness had been anything more than a trick.
'Listen, baby sahib,' Picture Singh was crying, 'What do you say, baby-captain?
Must I put you over my shoulder and make you belch53?' - And now Parvati, tolerantly: 'That one, baba, always making joke shoke.' She was smiling radiantly at everyone in sight ... but there followed an inauspicious event. A woman's voice began to wail54 at the back of the cluster of magicians: 'Ai-o-ai-o! Ai-o-o!' The crowd parted in surprise and an old woman burst through it and rushed at Saleem; I was required to defend myself against a brandished55 frying pan, until Picture Singh, alarmed, seized her by pan-waving arm and bellowed56, 'Hey, capteena, why so much noise?' And the old woman, obstinately57: 'Ai-o-ai-o!'
'Resham Bibi,' Parvati said, crossly, 'You got ants in your brain?' And Picture Singh, 'We got a guest, capteena - what'll he do with your shouting? Arre, be quiet, Resham, this captain is known to our Parvati personal! Don't be coming crying in front of him!'
'Ai-o-ai-o! Bad luck is come! You go to foreign places and bring it here! Ai-oooo!'
Disturbed visages of magicians stared from Resham Bibi to me -because although they were a people who denied the supernatural, they were artistes, and like all performers had an implicit58 faith in luck, good-luck-and-bad-luck, luck ...
'Yourself you said,' Resham Bibi wailed59, 'this man is born twice, and not even from woman! Now comes desolation, pestilence60 and death. I am old and so I know.
Arre baba,' she turned plaintively61 to face me, 'Have pity only; go now - go go quick!' There was a murmur62 - 'It is true, Resham Bibi knows the old stories' - but then Picture Singh became angry. 'The captain is my honoured guest,' he said, 'He stays in my hut as long as he wishes, for short or for long. What are you all talking? This is no place for fables63.'
Saleem Sinai's first sojourn64 at the magicians' ghetto lasted only a matter of days; but during that short time, a number of things happened to allay65 the fears which had been raised by ai-o-ai-o. The plain, unadorned truth is that, in those days, the ghetto illusionists and other artistes began to hit new peaks of achievement - jugglers managed to keep one thousand and one balls in the air at a time, and a fakir's as-yet-untrained protegee strayed on to a bed of hot coals, only to stroll across it unconcerned, as though she had acquired her mentor66's gifts by osmosis; I was told that the rope-trick had been successfully performed. Also, the police failed to make their monthly raid on the ghetto, which had not happened within living memory; and the camp received a constant stream of visitors, the servants of the rich, requesting the professional services of one or more of the colony at this or that gala evening's entertainment ... it seemed, in fact, as though Resham Bibi had got things the wrong way round, and I rapidly became very popular in the ghetto. I was dubbed67 Saleem Kismeti, Lucky Saleem; Parvati was congratulated on having brought me to the slum. And finally Picture Singh brought Resham Bibi to apologize.
'Pol'gize,' Resham said toothlessly and fled; Picture Singh added, 'It is hard for the old ones; their brains go raw and remember upside down. Captain, here everyone is saying you are our luck; but will you go from us soon?' - And Parvati, staring dumbly with saucer eyes which begged no no no; but I was obliged to answer in the affirmative.
Saleem, today, is certain that he answered, 'Yes'; that on the selfsame morning, still dressed in shapeless robe, still inseparable from a silver spittoon, he walked away, without looking back at a girl who followed him with eyes moistened with accusations68; that, strolling hastily past practising jugglers and sweetmeat-stalls which filled his nostrils69 with the temptations of rasgullas, past barbers offering shaves for ten paisa, past the derelict maunderings of crones and the American-accented caterwauls of shoe-shine boys who importuned70 bus-loads of Japanese tourists in identical blue suits and incongruous saffron turbans which had been tied around their heads by obsequiously72 mischievous73 guides, past the towering flight of stairs to the Friday Mosque, past vendors74 of notions and itr-essences and plaster-of-Paris replicas76 of the Qutb Minar and painted toy horses and fluttering unslaughtered chickens, past invitations to cockfights and empty-eyed games of cards, he emerged from the ghetto of the illusionists and found himself on Faiz Bazar, facing the infinitely-extending walls of a Red Fort from whose ramparts a prime minister had once announced independence, and in whose shadow a woman had been met by a peepshow-merchant, a Dilli-dekho man who had taken her into narrowing lanes to hear her son's future foretold78 amongst mongeese and vultures and broken men with leaves bandaged around their arms; that, to be brief, he turned to his right and walked away from the Old City towards the roseate palaces built by pink-skinned conquerors79 long ago: abandoning my saviours80, I went into New Delhi on foot.
Why? Why, ungratefully spurning81 the nostalgic grief of Parvati-the-witch, did I set my face against the old and journey into newness? Why, when for so many years I had found her my staunchest ally in the nocturnal congresses of my mind, did I leave her so lightly in the morning? Fighting past fissured82 blanks, I am able to remember two reasons; but am unable to say which was paramount83, or if a third ... firstly, at any rate, I had been taking stock. Saleem, analysing his prospects84, had had no option but to admit to himself that they were not good. I was passport-less; in law an illegal immigrant (having once been a legal emigrant); P.O. W. camps were waiting for me everywhere. And even after setting aside my status as defeated-soldier-on-the-run, the list of my disadvantages remained formidable: I had neither funds nor a change of clothes; nor qualifications - having neither completed my education nor distinguished85 myself in that part of it which I had undergone; how was I to embark86 on my ambitious project of nation-saving without a roof over my head or a family to protect support assist ... it struck me like a thunderclap that I was wrong; that here, in this very city, I had relatives - and not only relatives, but influential87 ones! My uncle Mustapha Aziz, a senior Civil Servant, who when last heard of had been number two in his Department; what better patron than he for my Messianic ambitions? Under his roof, I could acquire contacts as well as new clothes; under his auspices88, I would seek preferment in the Administration, and, as I studied the realities of government, would certainly find the keys of national salvation89; and I would have the ears of Ministers, I would perhaps be on first-name terms with the great ...! It was in the clutches of this magnificent fantasy that I told Parvati-the-witch, 'I must be off; great matters are afoot!'
And, seeing the hurt in her suddenly-inflamed cheeks, consoled her: 'I will come and see you often. Often often.' But she was not consoled ... high-mindedness, then, was one motive90 for abandoning those who had helped me; but was there not something meaner, lowlier, more personal? There was. Parvati had drawn91 me secretly aside behind a tin-and-cratewood shack47; where cockroaches92 spawned93, where rats made love, where flies gorged94 themselves on pie-dog dung, she clutched me by the wrist and became incandescent95 of eye and sibilant of tongue; hidden in the putrid96 underbelly of the ghetto, she confessed that I was not the first of the midnight children to have crossed her path! And now there was a story of a Dacca procession, and magicians marching alongside heroes; there was Parvati looking up at a tank, and there were Parvati-eyes alighting on a pair of gigantic, prehensile97 knees... knees bulging98 proudly through starched-pressed uniform; there was Parvati crying, 'O you! O you ...' and then the unspeakable name, the name of my guilt99, of someone who should have led my life but for a crime in a nursing home; Parvati and Shiva, Shiva and Parvati, fated to meet by the divine destiny of their names, were united in the moment of victory. 'A hero, man!' she hissed100 proudly behind the shack. They will make him a big officer and all!' And now what was produced from a fold of her ragged101 attire102?
What once grew proudly on a hero's head and now nestled against a sorceress's breasts? 'I asked and he gave,' said Parvati-the-witch, and showed me a lock of his hair.
Did I run from that lock of fateful hair? Did Saleem, fearing a reunion with his alter ego103, whom he had so-long-ago banned from the councils of the night, flee back into the bosom104 of that family whose comforts had been denied the war-hero?
Was it high-mindedness or guilt? I can no longer say; I set down only what I remember, namely that Parvati-the-witch whispered, 'Maybe he will come when he has time; and then we will be three!' And another, repeated phrase: 'Midnight's children, yaar ... that's something, no?' Parvati-the-witch reminded me of things I had tried to put out of my mind; and I walked away from her, to the home of Mustapha Aziz.
Of my last miserable105 contact with the brutal106 intimacies107 of family life, only fragments remain; however, since it must all be set down and subsequently pickled, I shall attempt to piece together an account ... to begin with, then, let me report that my Uncle Mustapha lived in a commodiously108 anonymous109 Civil Service bungalow110 set in a tidy Civil Service garden just off Rajpath in the heart of Lutyens's city; I walked along what-had-once-been-Kingsway, breathing in the numberless perfumes of the street, which blew out of State Handicraft Emporia arid111 the exhaust-pipes of auto-rickshaws; the aromas112 of banyan113 and deodar mingled114 with the ghostly scents115 of long-gone viceroys and mem-sahibs in gloves, and also with the rather more strident bodily odours of gaudy116 rich begums and tramps. Here was the giant election scoreboard around which (during the first battle-for-power between Indira and Morarji Desai) crowds had thronged117, awaiting the results, asking eagerly: 'Is it a boy or a girl?' ...
amid ancient and modern, between India Gate and the Secretariat buildings, my thoughts teeming118 with vanished (Mughal and British) empires and also with my own history - because this was the city of the public announcement, of many-headed monsters and a hand, falling from the sky - I marched resolutely120 onwards, smelling, like everything else in sight, to high heaven. And at last, having turned left towards Dupleix Road, I arrived at an anonymous garden with a low wall and a hedge; in a corner of which I saw a signboard waving in the breeze, just as once signboards had flowered in the gardens of Methwold's Estate; but this echo of the past told a different story. Not FOR SALE, with its three ominous121 vowels122 and four fateful consonants123; the wooden flower of my uncle's garden proclaimed strangely: Mr Mustapha Aziz and Fly.
Not knowing that the last word was my uncle's habitual124, desiccated abbreviation of the throbbingly emotional noun 'family', I was thrown into confusion by the nodding signboard; after I had stayed in his household for a very short time, however, it began to seem entirely125 fitting, because the family of Mustapha Aziz was indeed as crushed, as insect-like, as insignificant126 as that mythically127 truncated128 Fly.
With what words was I greeted when, a little nervously129, I rang a doorbell, filled with hopes of beginning a new career? What face appeared behind the wire-netted outer door and scowled130 in angry surprise? Padma: I was greeted by Uncle Mustapha's wife, by my mad aunt Sonia, with the exclamation131; 'Ptui! Allah! How the fellow stinks132!'
And although I, ingratiatingly, 'Hullo, Sonia Aunty darling,' grinned sheepishly at this wire-netting-shaded vision of my aunt's wrinkling Irani beauty, she went on, 'Saleem, is it? Yes, I remember you. Nasty little brat133 you were. Always thought you were growing up to be God or what. And why? Some stupid letter the P.M.'s fifteenth assistant under-secretary must have sent you.' In that first meeting I should have been able to foresee the destruction of my plans; I should have smelled, on my mad aunt, the implacable odours of Civil Service jealousy134, which would thwart135 all my attempts to gain a place in the world. I had been sent a letter, and she never had; it made us enemies for life. But there was a door, opening; there were whiffs of clean clothes and shower-baths; and I, grateful for small mercies, failed to examine the deadly perfumes of my aunt.
My uncle Mustapha Aziz, whose once-proudly-waxed moustache had never recovered from the paralysing dust-storm of the destruction of Methwold's Estate, had been passed over for the headship of his Department no less than forty-seven times, and had at last found consolation136 for his inadequacies in thrashing his children, in ranting137 nightly about how he was clearly the victim of anti-Muslim prejudice, in a contradictory138 but absolute loyalty139 to the government of the day, and in an obsession140 with genealogies141 which was his only hobby and whose intensity142 was greater even than my father Ahmed Sinai's long-ago desire to prove himself descended143 from Mughal emperors. In the first of these consolations144 he was willingly joined by his wife, the half-Irani would-be-socialite Sonia (nee Khosrovani), who had been driven certifiably insane by a life in which she had been required to begin 'being a chamcha' (literally a spoon, but idiomatically145 a flatterer) to forty-seven separate and successive wives of number-ones whom she had previously146 alienated147 by her manner of colossal148 condescension149 when they had been the wives of number-threes; under the joint150 batterings of my uncle and aunt, my cousins had by now been beaten into so thorough a pulp151 that I am unable to recall their number, sexes, proportions or features; their personalities152, of course, had long since ceased to exist. In the home of Uncle Mustapha, I sat silently amongst my pulverized153 cousins listening to his nightly soliloquies which contradicted themselves constantly, veering154 wildly between his resentment155 of not having been promoted and his blind lap-dog devotion to every one of the Prime Minister's acts. If Indira Gandhi had asked him to commit suicide, Mustapha Aziz would have ascribed it to anti-Muslim bigotry156 but also defended the statesmanship of the request, and, naturally, performed the task without daring (or even wishing) to demur157.
As for genealogies: Uncle Mustapha spent all his spare time filling giant log-books with spider-like family trees, eternally researching into and immortalizing the bizarre lineages of the greatest families in the land; but one day during my stay my aunt Sonia heard about a rishi from Hardwar who was reputedly three hundred and ninety-five years old and had memorized the genealogies of every single Brahmin clan158 in the country. 'Even in that,' she screeched159 at my uncle, 'you end up being number two!' The existence of the Hardwar rishi completed her descent into insanity160, so that her violence towards her children increased to the point at which we lived in daily expectation of murder, and in the end my uncle Mustapha was forced to have her locked away, because her excesses were embarrassing him in his work.
This, then, was the family to which I had come. Their presence in Delhi came to seem, in my eyes, like a desecration161 of my own past; in a city which, for me, was forever possessed162 by the ghosts of the young Ahmed and Amina, this terrible Fly was crawling upon sacred soil.
But what can never be proved for certain is that, in the years ahead, my uncle's genealogical obsession would be placed at the service of a government which was falling increasingly beneath the twin spells of power and astrology; so that what happened at the Widows' Hostel163 might never have happened without his help ... but no, I have been a traitor164, too; I do not condemn165; all I am saying is that I once saw, amongst his genealogical log-books, a black leather folder166 labelled TOP SECRET, and titled PROJECT M.C.C.
The end is near, and cannot be escaped much longer; but while the Indira sarkar, like her father's administration, consults daily with purveyors of occult lore167; while Benarsi seers help to shape the history of India, I must digress into painful, personal recollections; because it was at Uncle Mustapha's that I learned, for certain, about the deaths of my family in the war of '65; and also about the disappearance168, just a few days before my arrival, of the famous Pakistani singer Jamila Singer.
... When mad aunt Sonia heard that I had fought on the wrong side in the war, she refused to feed me (we were at dinner), and screeched, 'God, you have a cheek, you know that? Don't you have a brain to think with? You come to a Senior Civil Servant's house - an escaped war criminal, Allah! You want to lose your uncle his job? You want to put us all out on the street? Catch your ears for shame, boy! Go - go, get out, or better, we should call the police and hand you over just now! Go, be a prisoner of war, why should we care, you are not even our departed sister's true-born son ...'
Thunderbolts, one after the other: Saleem fears for his safety, and simultaneously169 learns the inescapable truth about his mother's death, and also that his position is weaker than he thought, because in this part of his family the act of acceptance has not been made; Sonia, knowing what Mary Pereira confessed, is capable of anything! ...
And I, feebly, 'My mother? Departed?' And now Uncle Mustapha, perhaps feeling that his wife has gone too far, says reluctantly, 'Never mind, Saleem, of course you must stay - he must, wife, what else to do? - and poor fellow doesn't even know ..." Then they told me.
It occurred to me, in the heart of that crazy Fly, that I owed the dead a number of mourning periods; after I learned of the demise170 of my mother and father and aunts Alia and Pia and Emerald, of cousin Zafar and his Kifi princess, of Reverend Mother and my distant relative Zohra and her husband, I resolved to spend the next four hundred days in mourning, as was right and proper: ten mourning periods, of forty days each. And then, and then, there was the matter of Jamila Singer ...
She had heard about my disappearance in the turmoil171 of the war in Bangladesh; she, who always showed her love when it was too late, had perhaps been driven a little crazy by the news. Jamila, the Voice of Pakistan, Bulbul-of-the-Faith, had spoken out against the new rulers of truncated, moth-eaten, war-divided Pakistan; while Mr Bhutto was telling the U.N. Security Council, 'We will build a new Pakistan! A better Pakistan! My country hearkens for me!', my sister was reviling173 him in public; she, purest of the pure, most patriotic174 of patriots175, turned rebel when she heard about my death. (That, at least, is how I see it; all I heard from my uncle were the bald facts; he had heard them through diplomatic channels, which do not go in for psychological theorizing.) Two days after her tirade176 against the perpetrators of the war, my sister had vanished off the face of the earth. Uncle Mustapha tried to speak gently: 'Very bad things are happening over there, Saleem; people disappearing all the time; we must fear the worst.'
No! No no no! Padma: he was wrong! Jamila did not disappear into the clutches of the State; because that same night, I dreamed that she, in the shadows of darkness and the secrecy177 of a simple veil, not the instantly recognizable gold-brocade tent of Uncle Puffs178 but a common black burqa, fled by air from the capital city; and here she is, arriving in Karachi, unquestioned unarrested free, she is taking a taxi into the depths of the city, and now there is a high wall with bolted doors and a hatch through which, once, long ago, I received bread, the leavened179 bread of my sister's weakness, she is asking to be let in, nuns180 are opening doors as she cries sanctuary181, yes, there she is, safely inside, doors being bolted behind her, exchanging one kind of invisibility for another, there is another Reverend Mother now, as Jamila Singer who once, as the Brass182 Monkey, flirted183 with Christianity, finds safety shelter peace in the midst of the hidden order of Santa Ignacia ... yes, she is there, safe, not vanished, not in the grip of police who kick beat starve, but at rest, not in an unmarked grave by the side of the Indus, but alive, baking bread, singing sweetly to the secret nuns; I know, I know, I know. How do I know? A brother knows; that's all.
Responsibility, assaulting me yet again: because there is no way out of it - Jamila's fall was, as usual, all my fault.
I lived in the home of Mr Mustapha Aziz for four hundred and twenty days ...
Saleem was in belated mourning for his dead; but do not think for one moment that my ears were closed! Don't assume I didn't hear what was being said around me, the repeated quarrels between uncle and aunt (which may have helped him decide to consign184 her to the insane asylum): Sonia Aziz yelling, 'That bhangi - that dirty-filthy fellow, not even your nephew, I don't know what's got into you, we should throw him out on his ear!' And Mustapha, quietly, replying: 'Poor chap is stricken with grief, so how can we, you just have to look to see, he is not quite right in the head, has suffered many bad things.' Not quite right in the head! That was tremendous, coming from them - from that family beside which a tribe of gibbering cannibals would have seemed calm and civilized185! Why did I put up with it? Because I was a man with a dream. But for four hundred and twenty days, it was a dream which failed to come true.
Droopy-moustachioed, tall-but-stooped, an eternal number-two: my Uncle Mustapha was not my Uncle Hanif. He was the head of the family now, the only one of his generation to survive the holocaust186 of 1965; but he gave me no help at all ... I bearded him in his genealogy-filled study one bitter evening and explained - with proper solemnity and humble187 but resolute119 gestures - my historic mission to rescue the nation from her fate; but he sighed deeply and said, 'Listen, Saleem, what would you have me do? I keep you in my house; you eat my bread and do nothing - but that is all right, you are from my dead sister's house, and I must look after - so stay, rest, get well in yourself; then let us see. You want a clerkship or so, maybe it can be fixed188; but leave these dreams of God-knows-what. Our country is in safe hands. Already Indiraji is making radical189 reforms - land reforms, tax structures, education, birth control - you can leave it to her and her sarkar.' Patronizing me, Padma! As if I were a foolish child! O the shame of it, the humiliating shame of being condescended190 to by dolts191! At every turn I am thwarted192; a prophet in the wilderness193, like Maslama, like ibn Sinan! No matter how I try, the desert is my lot. O vile194 unhelpfulness of lickspittle uncles! O fettering195 of ambitions by second-best toadying196 relatives! My uncle's rejection197 of my pleas for preferment had one grave effect: the more he praised his Indira, the more deeply I detested198 her. He was, in fact, preparing me for my return to the magicians' ghetto, and for ... for her ... the Widow.
Jealousy: that was it. The great jealousy of my mad aunt Sonia, dripping like poison into my uncle's ears, prevented him from doing a single thing to get me started on my chosen career. The great are eternally at the mercy of tiny men.
And also: tiny madwomen.
On the four hundred and eighteenth day of my stay, there was a change in the atmosphere of the madhouse. Someone came to dinner: someone with a plump stomach, a tapering199 head covered with oily .curls and a mouth as fleshy as a woman's labia. I thought I recognized him from newspaper photographs. Turning to one of my sexless ageless faceless cousins, I inquired with interest, 'Isn't it, you know, Sanjay Gandhi?' But the pulverized creature was too annihilated200 to be capable of replying ... was it wasn't it? I did not, at that time, know what I now set down: that certain high-ups in that extraordinary government (and also certain unelected sons of prime ministers) had acquired the power of replicating201 themselves ... a few years later, there would be gangs of Sanjays all over India! No wonder that incredible dynasty wanted to impose birth control on the rest of us ... so maybe it was, maybe it wasn't; but someone disappeared into my uncle's study with Mustapha Aziz; and that night - I sneaked202 a look - there was a locked black leather folder saying TOP SECRET and also PROJECT M.C.C.; and the next morning my uncle was looking at me differently, with fear almost, or with that special look of loathing203 which Civil Servants reserve for those who fall into official disfavour. I should have known then what was in store for me; but everything is simple with hindsight. Hindsight comes to me now, too late, now that I am finally consigned204 to the peripheries205 of history, now that the connections between my life and the nation's have broken for good and all ... to avoid my uncle's inexplicable206 gaze, I went out into the garden; and saw Parvati-the-witch.
She was squatting207 on the pavement with the basket of invisibility by her side; when she saw me her eyes brightened with reproach. 'You said you'd come, but you never, so I,' she stuttered. I bowed my head. 'I have been in mourning,' I said, lamely208, and she, 'But still you could have - my God, Saleem, you don't know, in our colony I can't tell anyone about my real magic, never, not even Picture Singh who is like a father, I must bottle it and bottle it, because they don't believe in such things, and I thought, Here is Saleem come, now at last I will have one friend, we can talk, we can be together, we have both been, and known, and arre how to say it, Saleem, you don't care, you got what you wanted and went off just like that, I am nothing to you, I know ...'
That night my mad aunt Sonia, herself only days away from confinement209 in a strait-jacket (it got into the papers, a small piece on an inside page; my uncle's Department must have been annoyed), had one of the fierce inspirations of the profoundly insane and burst into the bedroom into which, half an hour earlier, someone-with-saucer-eyes had climbed through a ground-floor window; she found me in bed with Parvati-the-witch, and after that my Uncle Mustapha lost interest in sheltering me, saying, 'You were born from bhangis, you will remain a dirty type all your life'; on the four hundred and twentieth day after my arrival, I left my uncle's house, deprived of family ties, returned at last to that true inheritance of poverty and destitution210 of which I had been cheated for so long by the crime of Mary Pereira. Parvati-the-witch was waiting for me on the pavement; I did not tell her that there was a sense in which I'd been glad of the interruption, because as I kissed her in the dark of that illicit211 midnight I had seen her face changing, becoming the face of a forbidden love; the ghostly features of Jamila Singer replaced these of the witch-girl; Jamila who was (I know it!) safely hidden in a Karachi nunnery was suddenly also here, except that she had undergone a dark, transformation212. She had begun to rot, the dread213! . pustules and cankers of forbidden love were spreading across her face; just as once the ghost of Joe D'Costa had rotted in the grip of the occult leprosy of guilt, so now the rancid flowers of incest blossomed on my sister's phantasmal features, and I couldn't do it, couldn't kiss touch look upon that intolerable spectral214 face, I had been on the verge215 of jerking away with a cry of desperate nostalgia216 and shame when Sonia Aziz burst in upon us with electric light and screams.
And as for Mustapha, well, my indiscretion with Parvati may also have been, in his eyes, no more than a useful pretext217 for getting rid of me; but that must remain in doubt, because the black folder was locked - all I have to go on is a look in his eye, a smell of fear, three initials on a label - because afterwards, when everything was finished, a fallen lady and her labia-lipped son spent two days behind locked doors, burning files; and how can we know whether-or-not one of them was labelled M.C.C.?
I didn't want to stay, anyway. Family: an overrated idea. Don't think I was sad! Never for a moment imagine that lumps arose in my throat at my expulsion from the last gracious home open to me! I tell you - I was in fine spirits when I left... maybe there is something unnatural218 about me, some fundamental lack of emotional response; but my thoughts have always aspired219 to higher things. Hence my resilience. Hit me: I bounce back. (But no resistance is of any use against the cracks.)
To sum up: forsaking220 my earlier, naive221 hopes of preferment in public service, I returned to the magicians' slum and the chaya of the Friday Mosque. Like Gautama, the first and true Buddha222, I left my life and comfort and went like a beggar into the world. The date was February 23rd, 1973; coal-mines and the wheat market were being nationalized, the price of oil had begun to spiral up up up, would quadruple in a year, and in the Communist Party of India, the split between Dange's Moscow faction223 and Namboodiripad's C.P.I.(M.) had become unbridgeable; and I, Saleem Sinai, like India, was twenty-five years, six months and eight days old.
The magicians were Communists, almost to a man. That's right: reds! Insurrectionists, public menaces, the scum of the earth - a community of the godless living blasphemously224 in the very shadow of the house of God! Shameless, what's more; innocently scarlet225; born with the bloody226 taint52 upon their souk! And let me say at once that no sooner had I discovered this than I, who had been raised in India's other true faith, which we may term Businessism, and who had abandoned-been-abandoned-by its practitioners227, felt instantly and comfortingly at home. A renegade Businessist, I began zealously228 to turn red and then redder, as surely and completely as my father had once turned white, so that now my mission of saving-the-country could be seen in a new light; more revolutionary methodologies suggested themselves. Down with the rule of unco-operative box-wallah uncles and their beloved leaders! Full of thoughts of direct-communication-with-the-masses, I settled into the magicians' colony, scraping a living by amusing foreign and native tourists with the marvellous perspicacities of my nose, which enabled me to smell out their simple, touristy secrets. Picture Singh asked me to share his shack. I slept on tattered229 sackcloth amongst baskets sibilant with snakes; but I did not mind, just as I found myself capable of tolerating hunger thirst mosquitoes and (in the beginning) the bitter cold of a Delhi winter. This Picture Singh, the Most Charming Man In The World, was also the ghetto's unquestioned chieftain; squabbles and problems were resolved beneath the shade of his ubiquitous and enormous black umbrella; and I, who could read and write as well as smell, became a sort of aide-de-camp to this monumental man who invariably added a lecture on socialism to his serpentine230 performances, and who was famous in the main streets and alleys231 of the city for more than his snake-charmer's skills. I can say, with utter certainty, that Picture Singh was the greatest man I ever met.
One afternoon during the chaya, the ghetto was visited by another copy of that labia-lipped youth whom I'd seen at my Uncle Mustapha's. Standing on the steps of the mosque, he unfurled a banner which was then held up by two assistants. It read: ABOLISH POVERTY, and bore the cow-suckling-calf symbol of the Indira Congress. His face looked remarkably232 like a plump calf's face, and he unleashed233 a typhoon of halitosis when he spoke172. 'Brothers-O! Sisters-O! What does Congress say to you? This: that all men are created equal!' He got no further; the crowd recoiled234 from his breath of bullock dung under a hot sun, and Picture Singh began to guffaw235. 'O ha ha, captain, too good, sir!' And labia-lips, foolishly: 'Okay, you, brother, won't you share the joke?' Picture Singh shook his head, clutched his sides: 'O speech, captain! Absolute master speech!' His laughter rolled out from beneath his umbrella to infect the crowd until all of us were rolling on the ground, laughing, crushing ants, getting covered in dust, and the Congress mooncalf's voice rose in panic: 'What is this? This fellow doesn't think we are equals? What a low impression he must have - ' but now Picture Singh, umbrella-over-head, was striding away towards his hut. Labia-lips, in relief, continued his speech ... but not for long, because Picture returned, carrying under his left arm a small circular lidded basket and under his right armpit a wooden flute236. He placed the basket on the step beside the Congress-wallah's feet; removed the lid; raised flute to lips. Amid renewed laughter, the young politico leaped nineteen inches into the air as a king cobra swayed sleepily up from its home ... Labia-lips is crying: 'What are you doing?
Trying to kill me to death?' And Picture Singh, ignoring him, his umbrella furled now, plays on, more and more furiously, and the snake uncoils, faster faster Picture Singh plays until the flute's music fills every cranny of the slum and threatens to scale the walls of the mosque, and at last the great snake, hanging in the air, supported only by the enchantment237 of the tune71, stands nine feet long out of the basket and dances on its tail... Picture Singh relents. Nagaraj subsides238 into coils. The Most Charming Man In The World offers the flute to the Congress youth: 'Okay, captain,' Picture Singh says agreeably, 'you give it a try.' But labia-lips: 'Man, you know I couldn't do it!' Whereupon Picture Singh seizes the cobra just below the head, opens his own mouth wide wide wide, displaying an heroic wreckage239 of teeth and gums; winking240 left-eyed at the Congress youth, he inserts the snake's tongue-flicking head into his hideously241 yawning orifice! A full minute passes before Picture Singh returns the cobra to its basket. Very kindly242, he tells the youth: 'You see, captain, here is the truth of the business: some persons are better, others are less. But it may be nice for you to think otherwise.'
Watching this scene, Saleem Sinai learned that Picture Singh and the magicians were people whose hold on reality was absolute; they gripped it so powerfully that they could bend it every which way in the service of their arts, but they never forgot what it was.
The problems of the magicians' ghetto were the problems of the Communist movement in India; within the confines of the colony could be found, in miniature, the many divisions and dissensions which racked the Party in the country. Picture Singh, I hasten to add, was above it all; the patriarch of the ghetto, he was the possessor of an umbrella whose shade could restore harmony to the squabbling factions243; but the disputes which were brought into the shelter of the snake-charmer's umbrella were becoming more and more bitter, as the prestidigitators, the pullers of rabbits from hats, aligned244 themselves firmly behind Mr Dange's Moscow-line official C.P.I., which supported Mrs Gandhi throughout the Emergency; the contortionists, however, began to lean more towards the left and the slanting245 intricacies of the Chinese-oriented wing.
Fire-eaters and sword-swallowers applauded the guerrilla tactics of the Naxalite movement; while mesmerists and walkers-on-hot-coals espoused246 Namboodiripad's manifesto247 (neither Muscovite nor Pekinese) and deplored248 the Naxa-lites'
violence. There were Trotskyist tendencies amongst card-sharpers, and even a Communism-through-the-ballot-box movement amongst the moderate members of the ventriloquist section. I had entered a milieu249 in which, while religious and regionalist bigotry were wholly absent, our ancient national gift for fissiparousness had found new outlets250. Picture Singh told me, sorrowfully, that during the 1971 general election a bizarre murder had resulted from the quarrel between a Naxalite fire-eater and a Moscow-line conjurer who, incensed251 by the former's views, had attempted to draw a pistol from his magic hat; but no sooner had the weapon been produced than the supporter of Ho Chi Minh had scorched252 his opponent to death in a burst of terrifying flame.
Under his umbrella, Picture Singh spoke of a socialism which owed nothing to foreign influences. 'Listen, captains,' he told warring ventriloquists and puppeteers253, 'will you go to your villages and talk about Stalins and Maos? Will Bihari or Tamil peasants care about the killing254 of Trotsky?' The chaya of his magical umbrella cooled the most intemperate255 of the wizards; and had the effect, on me, of convincing me that one day soon the snake-charmer Picture Singh would follow in the footsteps of Mian Abdullah so many years ago; that, like the legendary256 Hummingbird257, he would leave the ghetto to shape the future by the sheer force of his will; and that, unlike my grandfather's hero, he would not be stopped until he, and his cause, had won the day ... but, but. Always a but but.
What happened, happened. We all know that.
Before I return to telling the story of my private life, I should like it to be known that it was Picture Singh who revealed to me that the country's corrupt258, 'black' economy had grown as large as the official, 'white' variety, which he did by showing me a newspaper photograph of Mrs Gandhi. Her hair, parted in the centre, was snow-white on one side and blackasnight on the other, so that, depending on which profile she presented, she resembled either a stoat or an ermine. Recurrence259 of the centre-parting in history; and also, economy as an analogue of a Prime Ministerial hair-style ... I owe these important perceptions to the Most Charming Man In The World. Picture Singh it was who told me that Mishra, the railway minister, was also the officially-appointed minister for bribery260, through whom the biggest deals in the black economy were cleared, and who arranged for pay-offs to appropriate ministers and officials; without Picture Singh, I might never have known about the poll-fixing in the state elections in Kashmir. He was no lover of democracy, however: 'God damn this election business, captain,' he told me, 'Whenever they come, something bad happens; and our countrymen behave like clowns.' I, in the grip of my fever-for-revolution, failed to take issue with my mentor.
There were, of course, a few exceptions to the ghetto's rules: one or two conjurers retained their Hindu faith and, in politics, espoused the Hindusectarian Jana Sangh party or the notorious Ananda Marg extremists; there were even Swatantra voters amongst the jugglers. Non-politically speaking, the old lady Resham Bibi was one of the few members of the community who remained an incurable261 fantasist, believing (for instance) in the superstition262 which forbade women to climb mango trees, because a mango tree which had once borne the weight of a woman would bear sour fruit for ever more ... and there was the strange fakir named Chishti Khan, whose face was so smooth and lustrous263 that nobody knew whether he was nineteen or ninety, and who had surrounded his shack with a fabulous264 creation of bamboo-sticks and scraps265 of brightly-coloured paper, so that his home looked like a miniature, multi-coloured replica75 of the nearby Red Fort. Only when you passed through its castellated gateway266 did you realize that behind the meticulously267 hyperbolic fa9ade of bamboo-and-paper crenellations and ravelins hid a tin-and-card board hovel like all the rest. Chishti Khan had committed the ultimate solecism of permitting his illusionist expertise268 to infect his real life; he was not popular in the ghetto. The magicians kept their distance, lest they become diseased by his dreams.
So you will understand why Parvati-the-witch, the possessor of truly wondrous269 powers, had kept them secret all her life; the secret of her midnight-given gifts would not have been easily forgiven by a community which had constantly denied such possibilities.
On the blind side of the Friday Mosque, where the magicians were out of sight, and the only danger was from scavengers-after-scrap, from searchers-for-abandoned crates270 or hunters-for-corrugated-tin... that was where Parvati-the-witch, eager as mustard, showed me what she could do. In a humble shalwar-kameez constructed from the ruins of a dozen others, midnight's sorceress performed for me with the verve and enthusiasm of a child. Saucer-eye, rope-like pony-tail, fine full red lips ... I would never have resisted her for so long if not for the face, the sick decaying eyes nose lips of... There seemed at first to be no limits to Parvati's abilities. (But there were.) Well, then: were demons271 conjured272? Did djinns appear, offering riches and overseas travel on levitating273 rugs? Were frogs turned into princes, and did stones metamorphose into jewels? Was there selling-of-souls, and raising of the dead? Not a bit of it; the magic which Parvati-the-witch performed for me - the only magic she was ever willing to perform - was of the type known as 'white'. It was as though the Brahmins' 'Secret Book', the Atharva-Veda, had revealed all its secrets to her; she could cure disease and counter poisons (to prove this, she permitted snakes to bite her, and fought the venom274 with a strange ritual, involving praying to the snake-god Takshasa, drinking water infused with the goodness of the Krimuka tree and the powers of old, boiled garments, and reciting a spell: Garudamand, the eagle, drank of poison, but it was powerless; in a like manner have I deflected275 its power, as an arrow is deflected) - she could cure sores and consecrate276 talismans277 - she knew the sraktya charm and the Rite29 of the Tree. And all this, in a series of extraordinary night-time displays, she revealed to me beneath the walls of the Mosque - but still she was not happy.
As ever, I am obliged to accept responsibility; the scent of mourn-fulness which hung around Parvati-the-witch was my creation. Because she was twenty-five years old, and wanted more from me than my willingness to be her audience; God knows why, but she wanted me in her bed - or, to be precise, to lie with her on the lengdi of sackcloth which served her for a bed in the hovel she shared with a family of contortionist triplets from Kerala, three girls who were orphans278 just like her - just like myself.
What she did for me: under the power of her magic, hair began to grow where none had grown since Mr Zagallo pulled too hard; her wizardry caused the birthmarks on my face to fade under the healing applications of herbal poultices; it seemed that even the bandiness of my legs was diminishing under her care. (She could do nothing, however, for my one bad ear; there is no magic on earth strong enough to wipe out the legacies279 of one's parents.) But no matter how much she did for me, I was unable to do for her the thing she desired most; because although we lay down together beneath the walk on the blind side of the Mosque, the moonlight showed me her night-time face turning, always turning into that of my distant, vanished sister... no, not my sister... into the putrid, vilely280 disfigured face of Jamila Singer. Parvati anointed her body with unguent281 oils imbued282 with erotic charm; she combed her hair a thousand times with a comb made from aphrodisiac deer-bones; and (I do not doubt it) in my absence she must have tried all manner of lovers' sorceries; but I was in the grip of an older bewitchment, and could not, it seemed, be released; I was doomed283 to find the faces of women who loved me turning into the features of... but you know whose crumbling284 features appeared, filling my nostrils with their unholy stench.
'Poor girl,' Padma sighs, and I agree; but until the Widow drained me of past present future, I remained under the Monkey's spell.
When Parvati-the-witch finally admitted failure, her face developed, over-night, an alarming and pronounced pout. She fell asleep in the hut of the contortionist orphans and awoke with her full lips stuck in a protruding285 attitude of unutterably sensuous286 pique287. Orphaned288 triplets told her, giggling289 worriedly, what had happened to her face; she tried spiritedly to pull her features back into position, but neither muscles nor wizardry managed to restore her to her former self; at last, resigning herself to her tragedy, Parvati gave in, so that Resham Bibi told anyone who would listen: 'That poor girl - a god must have blown on her when she was making a face.'
(That year, incidentally, the chic77 ladies of the cities were all wearing just such an expression with erotic deliberation; the haughty290 mannequins in the Eleganza - '73 fashion show all pouted291 as they walked their catwalks. In the awful poverty of the magicians' slum, pouting292 Parvati-the-witch was in the height of facial fashion.)
The magicians devoted293 much of their energies to the problem of making Parvati smile again. Taking time off from their work, and also from the more mundane294 chores of reconstructing tin-and-cardboard huts which had fallen down in a high wind, or killing rats, they performed their most difficult tricks for her pleasure; but the pout remained in place. Resham Bibi made a green tea which smelted295 of camphor and forced it down Parvati's gullet. The tea had the effect of constipating her so thoroughly296 that she was not seen defecating behind her hovel for nine weeks. Two young jugglers conceived the notion that she might have begun grieving for her deceased father all over again, and applied297 themselves to the task of drawing his portrait on a shred298 of old tarpaulin299, which they hung above her sackcloth mat. Triplets made jokes, and Picture Singh, greatly distressed300, made cobras tie themselves in knots; but none of it worked, because if Parvati's thwarted love was beyond her own powers to cure, what hope could the others have had? The power of Parvati's pout created, in the ghetto, a nameless sense of unease, which all the magicians' animosity towards the unknown could not entirely dispel301.
And then Resham Bibi hit upon an idea. 'Fools that we are,' she told Picture Singh, 'we don't see what is under our noses. The poor girl is twenty-five, baba - almost an old woman! She is pining for a husband!' Picture Singh was impressed. 'Resham Bibi,' he told her approvingly, 'your brain is not yet dead.'
After that, Picture Singh applied himself to the task of finding Parvati a suitable young man; many of the younger men in the ghetto were coaxed302 bullied303 threatened. A number of candidates were produced; but Parvati rejected them all.
On the night when she told Bismillah Khan, the most promising304 fire-eater in the colony, to go somewhere else with his breath of hot chillies, even Picture Singh despaired. That night, he said to me, 'Captain, that girl is a trial and a grief to me; she is your good friend, you got any ideas?' Then an idea occurred to him, an idea which had had to wait until he became desperate because even Picture Singh was affected305 by considerations of class - automatically thinking of me as 'too good' for Parvati, because of my supposedly 'higher' birth, the ageing Communist had not thought until now that I might be ... 'Tell me one thing, captain,' Picture Singh asked shyly, 'you are planning to be married some day?'
Saleem Sinai felt panic rising up inside himself.
'Hey, listen, captain, you like the girl, hey?' - And I, unable to deny it, 'Of course.' And now Picture Singh, grinning from ear to ear, while snakes hissed in baskets: 'Lake her a lot, captain? A lot lot?' But I was thinking of Jamila's face in the night; and made a desperate decision: 'Pictureji, I can't marry her.' And now he, frowning: 'Are you maybe married already, captain? Got wife-children waiting somewhere?' Nothing for it now; I, quietly, shamefully306, said: 'I can't marry anyone, Pictureji. I can't have children.'
The silence in the shack was punctuated307 by sibilant snakes and the calls of wild dogs in the night.
'You're telling truth, captain? Is a medical fact?'
'Yes'
'Because one must not lie about such things, captain. To lie about one's manhood is bad, bad luck. Anything could happen, captain.
And I, wishing upon myself the curse of Nadir308 Khan, which was also the curse of my uncle Hanif Aziz and, during the freeze and its long aftermath, of my father Ahmed Sinai, was goaded309 into lying even more angrily: 'I tell you,' Saleem cried, 'it ,s true, and that s that!'
Then, captain,' Pictureji said tragically310, smacking311 wrist against forehead, 'God knows what to do with that poor girl.'
收听单词发音 |
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acceleration
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crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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awesome
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| adj.令人惊叹的，难得吓人的，很好的 | |
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disintegration
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remains
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pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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analogue
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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improvise
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neatly
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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baton
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rattle
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eloquently
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tinkle
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stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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fissures
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exude
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fragrance
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impervious
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barbs
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hurled
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workforce
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propriety
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succumbed
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legitimacy
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permeates
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solicitous
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burgeoning
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| adj.迅速成长的，迅速发展的v.发芽，抽枝( burgeon的现在分词 )；迅速发展；发（芽），抽（枝） | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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32
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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33
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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34
amnesia
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| n.健忘症，健忘 | |
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35
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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36
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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37
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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38
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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39
vaulting
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| n.（天花板或屋顶的）拱形结构 | |
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40
callously
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41
metaphorical
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| a.隐喻的，比喻的 | |
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42
mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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43
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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44
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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45
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
shacks
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| n.窝棚，简陋的小屋( shack的名词复数 ) | |
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47
shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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48
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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49
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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50
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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51
ghetto
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| n.少数民族聚居区，贫民区 | |
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52
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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53
belch
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| v.打嗝，喷出 | |
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54
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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55
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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56
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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57
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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58
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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59
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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61
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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62
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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63
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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64
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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65
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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66
mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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67
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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68
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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69
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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70
importuned
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| v.纠缠，向（某人）不断要求( importune的过去式和过去分词 )；（妓女）拉（客） | |
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71
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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72
obsequiously
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73
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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74
vendors
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| n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 )；小贩；（房屋等的）卖主；卖方 | |
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75
replica
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| n.复制品 | |
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76
replicas
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| n.复制品( replica的名词复数 ) | |
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77
chic
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| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
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78
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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80
saviours
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| n.救助者( saviour的名词复数 )；救星；救世主；耶稣基督 | |
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81
spurning
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的现在分词 ) | |
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82
fissured
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| adj.裂缝的v.裂开( fissure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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84
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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85
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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86
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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87
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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88
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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89
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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90
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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91
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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92
cockroaches
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| n.蟑螂( cockroach的名词复数 ) | |
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93
spawned
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| （鱼、蛙等）大量产（卵）( spawn的过去式和过去分词 )； 大量生产 | |
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94
gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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95
incandescent
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| adj.遇热发光的， 白炽的，感情强烈的 | |
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96
putrid
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| adj.腐臭的；有毒的；已腐烂的；卑劣的 | |
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97
prehensile
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| adj.（足等）适于抓握的 | |
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98
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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99
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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100
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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101
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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102
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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103
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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104
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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105
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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106
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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107
intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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108
commodiously
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| adv.宽阔地，方便地 | |
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109
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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110
bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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111
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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112
aromas
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| n.芳香( aroma的名词复数 )；气味；风味；韵味 | |
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113
banyan
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| n.菩提树，榕树 | |
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114
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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115
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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116
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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117
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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119
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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120
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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121
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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122
vowels
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| n.元音，元音字母( vowel的名词复数 ) | |
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123
consonants
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| n.辅音，子音( consonant的名词复数 )；辅音字母 | |
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124
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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125
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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126
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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127
mythically
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| adv.想像地，虚构地 | |
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128
truncated
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| adj.切去顶端的，缩短了的，被删节的v.截面的( truncate的过去式和过去分词 )；截头的；缩短了的；截去顶端或末端 | |
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129
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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130
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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132
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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133
brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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134
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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135
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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136
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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137
ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；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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138
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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139
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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140
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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141
genealogies
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| n.系谱，家系，宗谱( genealogy的名词复数 ) | |
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142
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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143
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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144
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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145
idiomatically
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| adv.符合语言习惯地；使用惯用语句，惯用地 | |
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146
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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147
alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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148
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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149
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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150
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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151
pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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152
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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153
pulverized
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| adj.[医]雾化的，粉末状的v.将…弄碎( pulverize的过去式和过去分词 )；将…弄成粉末或尘埃；摧毁；粉碎 | |
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154
veering
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| n.改变的；犹豫的；顺时针方向转向；特指使船尾转向上风来改变航向v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的现在分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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155
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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156
bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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157
demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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158
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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159
screeched
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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160
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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161
desecration
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| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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162
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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163
hostel
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| n.（学生）宿舍，招待所 | |
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164
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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165
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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166
folder
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| n.纸夹，文件夹 | |
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167
lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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168
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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169
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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170
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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171
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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172
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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173
reviling
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的现在分词 ) | |
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174
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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175
patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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176
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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177
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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178
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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179
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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180
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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181
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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182
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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183
flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
consign
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| vt.寄售（货品），托运，交托，委托 | |
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185
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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186
holocaust
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| n.大破坏；大屠杀 | |
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187
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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188
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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189
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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190
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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191
dolts
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| n.笨蛋，傻瓜( dolt的名词复数 ) | |
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192
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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193
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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194
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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195
fettering
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的现在分词 ) | |
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196
toadying
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| v.拍马，谄媚( toady的现在分词 ) | |
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197
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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198
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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199
tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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200
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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201
replicating
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| 复制( replicate的现在分词 )； 重复； 再造； 再生 | |
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202
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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203
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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204
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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205
peripheries
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| n.外围( periphery的名词复数 )；边缘；周围 | |
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206
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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207
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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208
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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209
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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210
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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211
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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212
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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213
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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214
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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215
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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216
nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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217
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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218
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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219
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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220
forsaking
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| 放弃( forsake的现在分词 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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221
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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222
Buddha
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| n.佛；佛像；佛陀 | |
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223
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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224
blasphemously
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225
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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226
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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227
practitioners
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| n.习艺者，实习者( practitioner的名词复数 )；从业者（尤指医师） | |
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228
zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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229
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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230
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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231
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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232
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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233
unleashed
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| v.把（感情、力量等）释放出来，发泄( unleash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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234
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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235
guffaw
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| n.哄笑；突然的大笑 | |
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236
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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237
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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238
subsides
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的第三人称单数 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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239
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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240
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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241
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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242
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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243
factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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244
aligned
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| adj.对齐的，均衡的 | |
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245
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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246
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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247
manifesto
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| n.宣言，声明 | |
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248
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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249
milieu
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| n.环境；出身背景；(个人所处的)社会环境 | |
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250
outlets
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| n.出口( outlet的名词复数 )；经销店；插座；廉价经销店 | |
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251
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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252
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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253
puppeteers
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| n.操纵木偶的人，操纵傀儡( puppeteer的名词复数 ) | |
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254
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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255
intemperate
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| adj.无节制的，放纵的 | |
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256
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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257
hummingbird
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| n.蜂鸟 | |
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258
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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259
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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260
bribery
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| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
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261
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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262
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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263
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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264
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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265
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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266
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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267
meticulously
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| adv.过细地，异常细致地；无微不至；精心 | |
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268
expertise
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| n.专门知识(或技能等)，专长 | |
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269
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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270
crates
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| n. 板条箱, 篓子, 旧汽车 vt. 装进纸条箱 | |
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271
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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272
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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273
levitating
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| v.（使）升空，（使）漂浮( levitate的现在分词 ) | |
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274
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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275
deflected
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| 偏离的 | |
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276
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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277
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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278
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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279
legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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280
vilely
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| adv.讨厌地，卑劣地 | |
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281
unguent
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| n.（药）膏；润滑剂；滑油 | |
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282
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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283
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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284
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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285
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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286
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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287
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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288
orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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289
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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290
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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291
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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292
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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293
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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294
mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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295
smelted
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| v.熔炼，提炼（矿石）( smelt的过去式和过去分词 )；合演( costar的过去式和过去分词 )；闻到；嗅出 | |
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296
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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297
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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298
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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299
tarpaulin
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| n.涂油防水布，防水衣，防水帽 | |
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300
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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301
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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302
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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303
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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304
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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305
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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306
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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307
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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308
nadir
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| n.最低点，无底 | |
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309
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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310
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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311
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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