No! - But I must.
I don't want to tell it! - But I swore to tell it all. - No, I renounce1, not that, surely some things are better left...? - That won't wash; what can't be cured, must be endured! - But surely not the whispering walls, and treason, and snip2 snip, and the women with the bruised3 chests? - Especially those things. - But how can I, look at me, I'm tearing myself apart, can't even agree with myself, talking arguing like a wild fellow, cracking up, memory going, yes, memory plunging4 into chasms5 and being swallowed by the dark, only fragments remain, none of it makes sense any more! - But I mustn't presume to judge; must simply continue (having once begun) until the end; sense-and-nonsense is no longer (perhaps never was) for me to evaluate. - But the horror of it, I can't won't mustn't won't can't no! - Stop this; begin. - No! - Yes.
About the dream, then? I might be able to tell it as a dream. Yes, perhaps a nightmare: green and black the Widow's hair and clutching hand and children mmff and little balls and one-by-one and torn-in-half and little balls go flying flying green and black her hand is green her nails are black as black. - No dreams. Neither the time nor the place for. Facts, as remembered. To the best of one's ability. The way it was: Begin. - No choice? - None; when was there ever?
There are imperatives6, and logical-consequences, and inevitabilities, and recurrences9; there are things-done-to, and accidents, and bludgeonings-of-fate; when was there ever a choice? When options? When a decision freely-made, to be this or that or the other? No choice; begin. -Yes.
Listen: Endless night, days weeks months without the sun, or rather (because it's important to be precise) beneath a sun as cold as a stream-rinsed plate, a sun washing us in lunatic midnight light; I'm talking about the winter of 1975-6. In the winter, darkness; and also tuberculosis10.
Once, in a blue room overlooking the sea, beneath the pointing finger of a fisherman, I fought typhoid and was rescued by snake-poison; now, trapped in the dynastic webs of recurrence7 by my recognition of his sonship, our Aadam Sinai was also obliged to spend his early months battling the invisible snakes of a disease. The serpents of tuberculosis wound themselves around his neck and made him gasp11 for air ... but he was a child of ears and silence, and when he spluttered, there were no sounds; when he wheezed12, no raspings issued from his throat. In short, my son fell ill, and although his mother, Parvati or Laylah, went in search of the herbs of her magical gift - although infusions13 of herbs in well-boiled water were constantly administered, the wraith-like worms of tuberculosis refused to be driven away. I suspected, from the first, something darkly metaphorical14 in this illness - believing that, in those midnight months when the age of my connection-to-history overlapped15 with his, our private emergency was not unconnected with the larger, macrocosmic disease, under whose influence the sun had become as pallid16 and diseased as our son. Parvati-then (like Padma-now) dismissed these abstract ruminations, attacking as mere17 folly18 my growing obsession19 with light, in whose grip I began lighting20 little dia-lamps in the shack21 of my son's illness, filling our hut with candle-flames at noon ...
but I insist on the accuracy of my diagnosis22; 'I tell you,' I insisted then, 'while the Emergency lasts, he will never become well.'
Driven to distraction23 by her failure to cure that grave child who never cried, my Parvati-Laylah refused to believe my pessimistic theories; but she became vulnerable to every other cockeyed notion. When one of the older women in the colony of the magicians told her - as Resham Bibi might have - that the illness could not come out while the child remained dumb, Parvati seemed to find that plausible24. 'Sickness is a grief of the body,' she lectured me, 'It must be shaken off in tears and groans25.' That night, she returned to the hut clutching a little bundle of green powder, wrapped in newspaper and tied up with pale pink string, and told me that this was a preparation of such power that it would oblige even a stone to shriek26. When she administered the medicine the child's cheeks began to bulge27, as though his mouth were full of food; the long-suppressed sounds of his babyhood flooded up behind his lips, and he jammed his mouth shut in fury. It became clear that the infant was close to choking as he tried to swallow back the torrential vomit28 of pent-up sound which the green powder had stirred up; and this was when we realized that we were in the presence of one of the earth's most implacable wills. At the end of an hour during which my son turned first saffron, then saffron-and-green, and finally the colour of grass, I could not stand it any more and bellowed29, 'Woman, if the little fellow wants so much to stay quiet, we mustn't kill him for it!' I picked up Aadam to rock him, and felt his little body becoming rigid30, his knee-joints32 elbows neck were filling up with the held-back tumult33 of unexpressed sounds, and at last Parvati relented and prepared an antidote34 by mashing35 arrowroot and camomile in a tin bowl while muttering strange imprecations under her breath.
After that, nobody ever tried to make Aadam Sinai do anything he did not wish to do; we watched him battling against tuberculosis and tried to find reassurance37 in the idea that a will so steely would surely refuse to be defeated by any mere disease.
In those last days my wife Laylah or Parvati was also being gnawed39 by the interior moths40 of despair, because when she came towards me for comfort or warmth in the isolation41 of our sleeping hours, I still saw superimposed upon her features the horribly eroded42 physiognomy of Jamila Singer; and although I confessed to Parvati the secret of the spectre, consoling her by pointing out that at its present rate of decay it would have crumbled43 away entirely44 before long, she told me dolorously45 that spittoons and war had softened46 my brain, and despaired of her marriage which would, as it transpired47, never be consummated48; slowly, slowly there appeared on her lips the ominous49 pout50 of her grief... but what could I do? What solace51 could I offer - I, Saleem Snotnose, who had been reduced to poverty by the withdrawal52 of my family's protection, who had chosen (if it was a choice) to live by my olfactory53 gifts, earning a few paisa a day by sniffing55 out what people had eaten for dinner the previous day and which of them were in love; what consolation56 could I bring her, when I was already in the clutches of the cold hand of that lingering midnight, and could sniff54 finality in the air?
Saleem's nose (you can't have forgotten) could smell stranger things than horse-dung. The perfumes of emotions and ideas, the odour of how-things-were: all these were and are nosed out by me with ease. When the Constitution was altered to give the Prime Minister well-nigh-absolute powers, I smelted58 the ghosts of ancient empires in the air ... in that city which was littered with the phantoms59 of Slave Kings and Mughals, of Aurangzeb the merciless and the last, pink conquerors60, I inhaled61 once again the sharp aroma62 of despotism. It smelled like burning oily rags.
But even the nasally incompetent63 could have worked out that, during the winter of 1975-6, something smelled rotten in the capital; what alarmed me was a stranger, more personal stink64: the whiff of personal danger, in which I discerned the presence of a pair of treacherous65, retributive knees ... my first intimation that an ancient conflict, which began when a love-crazed virgin66 switched name-tags, was shortly to end in a frenzy67 of treason and snippings.
Perhaps, with such a warning pricking68 at my nostrils69, I should have fled - tipped off by a nose, I could have taken to my heels. But there were practical objections: where would I have gone? And, burdened by wife and son, how fast could I have moved? Nor must it be forgotten that I did flee once, and look where I ended up: in the Sundarbans, the jungle of phantasms and retribution, from which I only escaped by the skin of my teeth! ... At any rate, I did not run.
It probably didn't matter; Shiva - implacable, traitorous71, my enemy from our birth - would have found me in the end. Because although a nose is uniquely equipped for the purpose of sniffing-things-out, when it comes to action there's no denying the advantages of a pair of grasping, choking knees.
I shall permit myself one last, paradoxical observation on this subject: if, as I believe, it was at the house of the wailing73 women that I learned the answer to the question of purpose which had plagued me all my life, then by saving myself from that palace of annihilations I would also have denied myself this most precious of discoveries. To put it rather more philosophically74: every cloud has a silver lining75.
Saleem-and-Shiva, nose-and-knees ... we shared just three things: the moment (and its consequences) of our birth; the guilt76 of treachery; and our son, Aadam, our synthesis, unsmiling, grave, with omni-audient ears. Aadam Sinai was in many respects the exact opposite of Saleem. I, at my beginning, grew with vertiginous77 speed; Aadam, wrestling with the serpents of disease, scarcely grew at all.
Saleem wore an ingratiating smile from the start; Aadam had more dignity, and kept his grins to himself. Whereas Saleem had subjugated78 his will to the joint31 tyrannies of family and fate, Aadam fought ferociously79, refusing to yield even to the coercion80 of green powder. And while Saleem had been so determined81 to absorb the universe that he had been, for a time, unable to blink, Aadam preferred to keep his eyes firmly closed ... although when, every so often, he deigned82 to open them, I observed their colour, which was blue. Ice-blue, the blue of recurrence, the fateful blue of Kashmiri sky ... but there is no need to elaborate further.
We, the children of Independence, rushed wildly and too fast into our future; he, Emergency-born, will be is already more cautious, biding83 his time; but when he acts, he will be impossible to resist. Already, he is stronger, harder, more resolute84 than I: when he sleeps, his eyeballs are immobile beneath their lids.
Aadam Sinai, child of knees-and-nose, does not (as far as I can tell) surrender to dreams. How much was heard by those flapping ears which seemed, on occasion, to be burning with the heat of their knowledge? If he could have talked, would he have cautioned me against treason and bulldozers? In a country dominated by the twin multitudes of noises and smells, we could have been the perfect team; but my baby son rejected speech, and I failed to obey the dictates85 of my nose.
'Arre baap,' Padma cries, 'Just tell what happened, mister! What is so surprising if a baby does not make conversations?'
And again the rifts86 inside me: I can't. - You must. - Yes.
April 1976 found me still living in the colony or ghetto87 of the magicians; my son Aadam was still in the grip of a slow tuberculosis that seemed unresponsive to any form of treatment. I was full of forebodings (and thoughts of flight); but if any one man was the reason for my remaining in the ghetto, that man was Picture Singh.
Padma; Saleem threw in his lot with the magicians of Delhi partly out of a sense of fitness - a self-flagellant belief in the rectitude of his belated descent into poverty (I took with me, from my uncle's house, no more than two shirts, white, two pairs trousers, also white, onetee-shirt, decorated with pink guitars, and shoes, one pair, black); ' partly, I came out of loyalty89, having been bound by knots of gratitude90 to my rescuer, Parvati-the-witch; but I stayed - when, as a literate91 young man, I might at the very least have been a bank clerk or a night-school teacher of reading and writing - because, all my life, consciously or unconsciously, I have sought out fathers. Ahmed Sinai, Hanif Aziz, Sharpsticker sahib, General Zulfikar have all been pressed into service in the absence of William Methwold; Picture Singh was the last of this noble line.
And perhaps, in my dual92 lust93 for fathers and saving-the-country, I exaggerated Picture Singh; the horrifying94 possibility exists that I distorted him (and have distorted him again in these pages) into a dream-figment of my own imagination ... it is certainly true that whenever I inquired, 'When are you going to lead us, Pictureji - when will the great day come?', he, shuffling95 awkwardly, replied, 'Get such things out from your head, captain; I am a poor man from Rajasthan, and also the Most Charming Man In The World; don't make me anything else.' But I, urging him on, 'There is a precedent96 - there was Mian Abdullah, the Hummingbird97 ...' to which Picture, 'Captain, you got some crazy notions.'
During the early months of the Emergency, Picture Singh remained in the clutches of a gloomy silence reminiscent (once again!) of the great Boundlessness98 of Reverend Mother (which had also leaked into my son ...), and neglected to lecture his audiences in the highways and back-streets of the Old and New cities as, in the past, he had insisted on doing; but although he, 'This is a time for silence, captain', I remained convinced that one day, one millennial99 dawn at midnight's end, somehow, at the head of a great jooloos or procession of the dispossessed, perhaps playing his flute100 and wreathed in deadly snakes, it would be Picture Singh who led us towards the light ... but maybe he was never more than a snake-charmer; I do not deny the possibility. I say only that to me my last father, tall gaunt bearded, his hair swept back into a knot behind his neck, seemed the very avatar of Mian Abdullah; but perhaps it was all an illusion, born of my attempt to bind101 him to the threads of my history by an effort of sheer will. There have been illusions in my life; don't think I'm unaware102 of the fact. We are coming, however, to a time beyond illusions; having no option, I must at last set down, in black and white, the climax103 I have avoided all evening.
Scraps104 of memory: this is not how a climax should be written. A climax should surge towards its Himalayan peak; but I am left with shreds106, and must jerk towards my crisis like a puppet with broken strings107. This is not what I had planned; but perhaps the story you finish is never the one you begin. (Once, in a blue room, Ahmed Sinai improvised108 endings for fairy-tales whose original conclusions he had long ago forgotten; the Brass109 Monkey and I heard, down the years, all kinds of different versions of the journey of Sinbad, and of the adventures of Hatim Tai ... if I began again, would I, too, end in a different place?) Well then: I must content myself with shreds and scraps: as I wrote centuries ago, the trick is to fill in the gaps, guided by the few clues one is given. Most of what matters in our lives takes place in our absence; I must be guided by the memory of a once-glimpsed file with tell-tale initials; and by the other, remaining shards111 of the past, lingering in my ransacked112 memory-vaults like broken bottles on a beach ... Like scraps of memory, sheets of newsprint used to bowl through the magicians' colony in the silent midnight wind.
Wind-blown newspapers visited my shack to inform me that my uncle, Mustapha Aziz, had been the victim of unknown assassins; I neglected to shed a tear. But there were other pieces of information; and from these, I must build reality.
On one sheet of paper (smelling of turnips) I read that the Prime Minister of India went nowhere without her personal astrologer. In this fragment, I discerned more than turnip-whiffs; mysteriously, my nose recognized, once again, the scent88 of personal danger. What I am obliged to deduce from this warning aroma: soothsayers prophesied114 me; might not soothsayers have undone115 me at the end? Might not a Widow, obsessed116 with the stars, have learned from astrologers the secret potential of any children born at that long-ago midnight hour? And was that why a Civil Servant, expert in genealogies117, was asked to trace ... and why he looked at me strangely in the morning? Yes, you see, the scraps begin to fit together! Padma, does it not become clear? Indira is India and India is Indira ... but might she not have read her own father's letter to a midnight child, in which her own, sloganized centrality was denied; in which the role of mirror-of-the-nation was bestowed118 upon me? You see? You see? ... And there is more, there is even clearer proof, because here is another scrap105 of the Times of India, in which the Widow's own news agency Samachar quotes her when she speaks of her 'determination to combat the deep and widespread conspiracy119 which has been growing'. I tell you: she did not mean the Janata Morcha! No, the Emergency had a black part as well as a white, and here is the secret which has lain concealed120 for too long beneath the mask of those stifled121 days: the truest, deepest motive122 behind the declaration of a State of Emergency was the smashing, the pulverizing123, the irreversible discombobulation of the children of midnight.
(Whose Conference had, of course, been disbanded years before; but the mere possibility of our re-unification was enough to trigger off the red alert.)
Astrologers - I have no doubt - sounded the alarums; in a black folder124 labelled M.C.C., names were gathered from extant records; but there was more to it than that. There were also betrayals and confessions125; there were knees and a nose - a nose, and also knees.
Scraps, shreds, fragments: it seems to me that, immediately before 1 awoke with the scent of danger in my nostrils, I had dreamed that I was sleeping. I awoke, in this most unnerving of dreams, to find a stranger in my shack: a poetic-looking fellow with lank126 hair that wormed over his ears (but who was very thin on top). Yes: during my last sleep before what-has-to-be-described, I was visited by the shade of Nadir127 Khan, who was staring perplexedly at a silver spittoon, inlaid with lapis lazuli, asking absurdly, 'Did you steal this? - Because otherwise, you must be - is it possible? - my Mumtaz's little boy?' And when I confirmed, 'Yes, none other, I am he -,' the dream-spectre of Nadir-Qasim issued a warning: 'Hide. There is little time. Hide while you can.'
Nadir, who had hidden under my grandfather's carpet, came to advise me to do likewise; but too late, too late, because now I came properly awake, and smelled the scent of danger blaring like trumpets128 in my nose ... afraid without knowing why, I got to my feet; and is it my imagination or did Aadam Sinai open blue eyes to stare gravely into mine? Were my son's eyes also filled with alarm? Had flap-ears heard what a nose had sniffed129 out? Did father and son commune wordlessly in that instant before it all began? I must leave the question-marks hanging, unanswered; but what is certain is that Parvati, my Laylah Sinai, awoke also and asked, 'What's up, mister? What's got your goat?' - And I, without fully130 knowing the reason: 'Hide; stay in here and don't come out.'
Then I went outside.
It must have been morning, although the gloom of the endless midnight hung over the ghetto like a fog ... through the murky131 light of the Emergency, I saw children playing seven-tiles, and Picture Singh, with his umbrella folded under his left armpit, urinating against the walls of the Friday Mosque132; a tiny bald illusionist was practising driving knives through the neck of his ten-year-old apprentice133, and already a conjurer had found an audience, and was persuading large woollen balls to drop from the armpits of strangers; while in another corner of the ghetto, Chand Sahib the musician was practising his trumpet-playing, placing the ancient mouthpiece of a battered134 horn against his neck and playing it simply by exercising his throat-muscles ... there, over there, were the three contortionist triplets, balancing surahis of water on their heads as they returned to their huts from the colony's single stand-pipe ... in short, everything seemed in order. I began to chide135 myself for my dreams and nasal alarums; but then it started.
The vans and bulldozers came first, rumbling136 along the main road; they stopped opposite the ghetto of the magicians. A loudspeaker began to blare: 'Civic137 beautification programme ... authorized138 operation of Sanjay Youth Central Committee ... prepare instantly for evacuation to new site ... this slum is a public eyesore, can no longer be tolerated ... all persons will follow orders without dissent139.' And while a loudspeaker blared, there were figures descending140 from vans: a brightly-coloured tent was being hastily erected141, and there were camp beds and surgical142 equipment... and now from the vans there poured a stream of finely-dressed young ladies of high birth and foreign education, and then a second river of equally-well-dressed young men: volunteers, Sanjay Youth volunteers, doing their bit for society... but then I realized no, not volunteers, because all the men had the same curly hair and lips-like-women's-labia, and the elegant ladies were all identical, too, their features corresponding precisely143 to those of Sanjay's Menaka, whom news-scraps had described as a 'lanky144 beauty', and who had once modelled nighties for a mattress145 company ... standing146 in the chaos147 of the slum clearance148 programme, I was shown once again that the ruling dynasty of India had learned how to replicate149 itself; but then there was no time to think, the numberless labia-lips and lanky-beauties were seizing magicians and old beggars, people were being dragged towards the vans, and now a rumour151 spread through the colony of magicians: 'They are doing nasbandi - sterilization152 is being performed!' - And a second cry: 'Save your women and children!' - And a riot is beginning, children who were just now playing seven-tiles are hurling153 stones at the elegant invaders154, and here is Picture Singh rallying the magicians to his side, waving a furious umbrella, which had once been a creator of harmony but was now transmuted155 into a weapon, a flapping quixotic lance, and the magicians have become a defending army, Molotov cocktails156 are magically produced and hurled157, bricks are drawn158 out of conjurers' bags, the air is thick with yells and missiles and the elegant labia-lips and lanky-beauties are retreating before the harsh fury of the illusionists; and there goes Picture Singh, leading the assault against the tent of vasectomy ... Parvati or Laylah, disobeying orders, is at my side now, saying, 'My God, what are they - ', and at this moment a new and more formidable assault is unleashed159 upon the slum: troops are sent in against magicians, women and children.
Once, conjurers card-tricksters puppeteers160 and mesmerists marched triumphantly162 beside a conquering army; but all that is forgotten now, and Russian guns are trained on the inhabitants of the ghetto. What chance do Communist wizards have against socialist163 rifles? They, we, are running now, every which way, Parvati and I are separated as the soldiers charge, I lose sight of Picture Singh, there are rifle-butts beating pounding, I see one of the contortionist triplets fall beneath the fury of the guns, people are being pulled by the hair towards the waiting yawning vans; and I, too, am running, too late, looking over my shoulder, stumbling on Dalda-cans empty crates164 and the abandoned sacks of the terrified illusionists, and over my shoulder through the murky night of the Emergency I see that all of this has been a smoke-screen, a side-issue, because hurtling through the confusion of the riot comes a mythical165 figure, an incarnation of destiny and destruction: Major Shiva has joined the fray166, and he is looking only for me. Behind me, as I run, come the pumping knees of my doom167 ...
... The picture of a hovel comes into my mind: my son! And not only my son: a silver spittoon, inlaid with lapis lazuli! Somewhere in the confusion of the ghetto a child has been left alone ... somewhere a talisman168, guarded for so long, has been abandoned. The Friday Mosque watches impassively as I swerve169 duck run between the tilting170 shacks171, my feet leading me towards flap-eared son and spittoon ... but what chance did I have against those knees? The knees of the war hero are coming closer closer as I flee, the joints of my nemesis172 thundering towards me, and he leaps, the legs of the war hero fly through the air, closing like jaws173 around my neck, knees squeezing the breath out of my throat, I am falling twisting but the knees hold tight, and now a voice - the voice of treachery betrayal hate! -is saying, as knees rest on my chest and pin me down in the thick dust of the slum: 'So, little rich boy: we meet again. Salaam174.' I spluttered; Shiva smiled.
O shiny buttons on a traitor70's uniform! Winking175 blinking like silver ... why did he do it? Why did he, who had once led anarchistic176 apaches through the slums of Bombay, become the warlord of tyranny? Why did midnight's child betray the children of midnight, and take me to my fate? For love of violence, and the legitimizing glitter of buttons on uniforms? For the sake of his ancient antipathy177 towards me? Or - I find this most plausible - in exchange for immunity178 from the penalties imposed on the rest of us... yes, that must be it; O birthright-denying war hero! O mess-of-pottage-corrupted rival... But no, I must stop all this, and tell the story as simply as possible: while troops chased arrested dragged magicians from their ghetto, Major Shiva concentrated on me. I, too, was pulled roughly towards a van; while bulldozers moved forwards into the slum, a door was slammed shut... in the darkness I screamed, 'But my son! - And Parvati, where is she, my Laylah? - Picture Singh! Save me, Pictureji!' - But there were bulldozers now, and nobody heard me yelling.
Parvati-the-witch, by marrying me, fell victim to the curse of violent death that hangs over all my people... I do not know whether Shiva, having locked me in a blind dark van, went in search of her, or whether he left her to the bulldozers ... because now the machines of destruction were in their element, and the little hovels of the shanty-town were slipping sliding crazily beneath the force of the irresistible180 creatures, huts snapping like twigs181, the little paper parcels of the puppeteers and the magic baskets of the illusionists were being crushed into a pulp182; the city was being beautified, and if there were a few deaths, if a girl with eyes like saucers and a pout of grief upon her lips fell beneath the advancing juggernauts, well, what of it, an eyesore was being removed from the face of the ancient capital... and rumour has it that, during the death-throes of the ghetto of the magicians, a bearded giant wreathed in snakes (but this may be an exaggeration) ran - FULL-TILT! - through the wreckage183, ran wildly before the advancing bulldozers, clutching in his hand the handle of an irreparably-shattered umbrella, searching searching, as though his life depended on the search.
By the end of that day, the slum which clustered in the shadow of the Friday Mosque had vanished from the face of the earth; but not all the magicians were captured; not all of them were carted off to the barbed-wire camp called Khichripur, hotch-potch-town, on the far side of the Jamuna River; they never caught Picture Singh, and it is said that the day after the bulldozing of the magicians' ghetto, a new slum was reported in the heart of the city, hard by the New Delhi railway station. Bulldozers were rushed to the scene of the reported hovels; they found nothing. After that the existence of the moving slum of the escaped illusionists became a fact known to all the inhabitants of the city, but the wreckers never found it. It was reported at Mehrauli; but when vasectomists and troops went there, they found the Qutb Minar unbesmirched by the hovels of poverty.. Informers said it had appeared in the gardens of the Jantar Mantar, Jai Singh's Mughal observatory184; but the machines of destruction, rushing to the scene, found only parrots and sun-dials. Only after the end of the Emergency did the moving slum come to a standstill; but that must wait for later, because it is time to talk, at long last, and without losing control, about my captivity185 in the Widows' Hostel186 in Benares.
Once Resham Bibi had wailed187, 'Ai-o-ai-o!' - and she was right: I brought destruction down upon the ghetto of my saviours188; Major Shiva, acting189 no doubt upon the explicit190 instructions of the Widow, came to the colony to seize me; while the Widow's son arranged for his civic-beautification and vasectomy programmes to carry out a diversionary manoeuvre191. Yes, of course it was all planned that way; and (if I may say so) most efficiently192. What was achieved during the riot of the magicians: no less a feat38 than the unnoticed capture of the one person on earth who held the key to the location of every single one of the children of midnight - for had I not, night after night, tuned193 in to each and every one of them? Did I not carry, for all time, their names addresses faces in my mind? I will answer that question: I did. And I was captured.
Yes, of course it was all planned that way. Parvati-the-witch had told me all about my rival; is it likely that she would not have mentioned me to him? I will answer that question, too: it is not likely at all. So our war hero knew where, in the capital, lurked194 the one person his masters wanted most (not even my uncle Mustapha knew where I went after I left him; but Shiva knew!) - and, once he had turned traitor, bribed195, I have no doubt, by everything from promises of preferment to guarantees of personal safety, it was easy for him to deliver me into the hands of his mistress, the Madam, the Widow with the particoloured hair.
Shiva and Saleem, victor and victim; understand our rivalry196, and you will gain an understanding of the age in which you live. (The reverse of this statement is also true.)
I lost something else that day, besides my freedom: bulldozers swallowed a silver spittoon. Deprived of the last object connecting me to my more tangible197, historically-verifiable past, I was taken to Benares to face the consequences of my inner, midnight-given life.
Yes, that was where it happened, in the palace of the widows on the shores of the Ganges in the oldest living city in the world, the city which was already old when the Buddha198 was young, Kasi Benares Varanasi, City of Divine Light, home of the Prophetic Book, the horoscope of horoscopes, in which every life, past present future, is already recorded. The goddess Ganga streamed down to earth through Shiva's hair... Benares, the shrine199 to Shiva-the-god, was where I was brought by hero-Shiva to face my fate. In the home of horoscopes, I reached the moment prophesied in a rooftop room by Ramram Seth: 'soldiers will try him ...
tyrants200 will fry him!' the fortune-teller had chanted; well, there was no formal trial - Shiva-knees wrapped around my neck, and that was that - but I did smell, one winter's day, the odours of something frying in an iron skillet ...
Follow the river, past Scindia-ghat on which young gymnasts in white loincloths perform one-armed push-ups, past Manikarnika-ghat, the place of funerals, at which holy fire can be purchased from the keepers of the flame, past floating carcasses of dogs and cows - unfortunates for whom no fire was bought, past Brahmins under straw umbrellas at Dasashwamedh-ghat, dressed in saffron, dispensing201 blessings202 ... and now it becomes audible, a strange sound, like the baying of distant hounds... follow follow follow the sound, and it takes shape, you understand that it is a mighty203, ceaseless wailing, emanating204 from the blinded windows of a riverside palace: the Widows' Hostel! Once upon a time, it was a maharajah's residence; but India today is a modern country, and such places have been expropriated by the State. The palace is a home for bereaved205 women now; they, understanding that their true lives ended with the death of their husbands, but no longer permitted to seek the release of sati, come to the holy city to pass their worthless days in heartfelt ululations. In the palace of the widows lives a tribe of women whose chests are irremediably bruised by the power of their continual pummellings, whose hair it torn beyond repair, and whose voices are shredded206 by the constant, keening expressions of their grief.
It is a vast building, a labyrinth207 of tiny rooms on the upper storeys giving way to the great halls of lamentation208 below; and yes, that was where it happened, the Widow sucked me into the private heart of her terrible empire, I was locked away in a tiny upper room and the bereaved women brought me prison food. But I also had other visitors: the war hero invited two of his colleagues along, for purposes of conversation. In other words: I was encouraged to talk. By an ill-matched duo, one fat, one thin, whom I named Abbott-and-Costello because they never succeeded in making me laugh.
Here I record a merciful blank in my memory. Nothing can induce me to remember the conversational210 techniques of that humourless, uniformed pair; there is no chutney or pickle211 capable of unlocking the doors behind which I have locked those days! No, I have forgotten, I cannot will not say how they made me spill the beans - but I cannot escape the shameful212 heart of the matter, which is that despite absence-of-jokes and the generally unsympathetic manner of my two-headed inquisitor, I did most certainly talk. And more than talk: under the influence of their unnamable - forgotten - pressures, I became loquacious213 in the extreme.
What poured, blubbering, from my lips (and will not do so now): names addresses physical descriptions. Yes, I told them everything, I named all five hundred and seventy-eight (because Parvati, they informed me courteously214, was dead, and Shiva gone over to the enemy, and the five-hundred-and-eighty-first was doing the talking...) - forced into treachery by the treason of another, I betrayed the children of midnight. I, the Founder215 of the Conference, presided over its end, while Abbott-and-Costello, unsmilingly, interjected from time to time: 'Aha! Very good! Didn't know about her!' or, 'You are being most co-operative; this fellow is a new one on us!'
Such things happen. Statistics may set my arrest in context; although there is considerable disagreement about the number of 'political' prisoners taken during the Emergency, either thirty thousand or a quarter of a million persons certainly lost their freedom. The Widow said: 'It is only a small percentage of the population of India.' All sorts of things happen during an Emergency: trains run on time, black-money hoarders are frightened into paying taxes, even the weather is brought to heel, and bumper216 harvests are reaped; there is, I repeat, a white part as well as a black. But in the black part, I sat bar-fettered in a tiny room, on a straw palliasse which was the only article of furniture I was permitted, sharing my daily bowl of rice with cockroaches217 and ants. And as for the children of midnight - that fearsome conspiracy which had to be broken at all costs - that gang of cut-throat desperadoes before whom an astrology-ridden Prime Minister trembled in terror - the grotesque218 aberrational219 monsters of independence, for whom a modern nation-state could have neither time nor compassion220 - twenty-nine years old now, give or take a month or two, they were brought to the Widows' Hostel, between April and December they were rounded up, and their whispers began to fill the walls. The walls of my cell (paper-thin, peeling-plastered, bare) began to whisper, into one bad ear and one good ear, the consequences of my shameful confessions. A cucumber-nosed prisoner, festooned with iron rods and rings which made various natural functions impossible -walking, using the tin chamber221-pot, squatting222, sleeping - lay huddled224 against peeling plaster and whispered to a wail72.
It was the end; Saleem gave way to his grief. All my life, and through the greater part of these reminiscences, I have tried to keep my sorrows under lock and key, to prevent them from staining my sentences with their salty, maudlin225 fluidities; but no more. I was given no reason (until the Widow's Hand ...) for my incarceration226: but who, of all the thirty thousand or quarter of a million, was told why or wherefore? Who needed to be told? In the walls, I heard the muted voices of the midnight children: needing no further footnotes, I blubbered over peeling plaster.
What Saleem whispered to the wall between April and December 1976: ... Dear Children. How can I say this? What is there to say? My guilt my shame.
Although excuses are possible: I wasn't to blame about Shiva. And all manner of folk are being locked up, so why not us? And guilt is a complex matter, for are we not all, each of us in some sense responsible for - do we not get the leaders we deserve? But no such excuses are offered. I did it, I. Dear children: and my Parvati is dead. And my Jamila, vanished. And everyone. Vanishing seems to be yet another of those characteristics which recur8 throughout my history: Nadir Khan vanished from an underworld, leaving a note behind; Aadam Aziz vanished, too, before my grandmother got up to feed the geese; and where is Mary Pereira?
I, in a basket, disappeared; but Laylah or Parvati went phutt without the assistance of spells. And now here we are, disappeared-off-the-face-of-the-earth. The curse of vanishment, dear children, has evidently leaked into you. No, as to the question of guilt, I refuse absolutely to take the larger view; we are too close to what-is-happening, perspective is impossible, later perhaps analysts227 will say why and wherefore, will adduce underlying228 economic trends and political developments, but right now we're too close to the cinema-screen, the picture is breaking up into dots, only subjective229 judgments230 are possible. Subjectively231, then, I hang my head in shame.
Dear children: forgive. No, I do not expect you to forgive.
Politics, children: at the best of times a bad dirty business. We should have avoided it, I should never have dreamed of purpose, I am coming to the conclusion that privacy, the small individual lives of men, are preferable to all this inflated232 macrocosmic activity. But too late. Can't be helped. What can't be cured must be endured.
Good question, children: what must be endured? Why are we being amassed233 here like this, one by one, why are rods and rings hanging from our necks? And stranger confinements234 (if a whispering wall is to be believed): who-has-the-gift-of-levitation has been tied by the ankles to rings set in the floor, and a werewolf is obliged to wear a muzzle235; who-can-escape-through-mirrors must drink water through a hole in a lidded can, so that he cannot vanish through the reflective surface of the drink; and she-whose-looks-can-kill has her head in a sack, and the bewitching beauties of Baud are likewise bag-headed. One of us can eat metal; his head is jammed in a brace236, unlocked only at mealtimes ... what is being prepared for us? Something bad, children. I don't know what as yet, but it's coming. Children: we, too, must prepare.
Pass it on: some of us have escaped. I sniff absences through the walls. Good news, children! They cannot get us all. Soumitra, the time-traveller, for instance - O youthful folly! O stupid we, to disbelieve him so! - is not here; wandering, perhaps, in some happier time of his life, he has eluded237 search-parties for ever. No, do not envy him; although I, too, long on occasion to escape backwards238, perhaps to the time when I, the apple of the universal eye, made a triumphant161 tour as a baby of the palaces of William Mcthwold - O insidious239 nostalgia240 for times of greater possibility, before history, like a street behind the General Post Office in Delhi, narrowed down to this final full point! - but we are here now; such retrospection saps the spirit; rejoice, simply, that some of us are free! And some of us are dead. They told me about my Parvati. Across whose features, to the last, there fell the crumbling241 ghost-face of. No, we are no longer five hundred and eighty-one. Shivering in the December cold, how many of us sit walled-in and waiting? I ask my nose; it replies, four hundred and twenty, the number of trickery and fraud. Four hundred and twenty, imprisoned242 by widows; and there is one more, who struts243 booted around the Hostel - I smell his stink approaching receding244, the spoor of treachery! - Major Shiva, war hero, Shiva-of-the-knees, supervises our captivity. Will they be content with four hundred and twenty? Children: I don't know how long they'll wait.
... No, you're making fun of me, stop, do not joke. Why whence how-on-earth this good nature, this bonhomie in your passed-on whisperings? No, you must condemn245 me, out of hand and without appeal - do not torture me with your cheery greetings as one-by-one you are locked in cells; what kind of time or place is this for salaams246, namaskars, how-you-beens? - Children, don't you understand, they could do anything to us, anything - no, how can you say that, what do you mean with your what-could-they-do? Let me tell you, my friends, steel rods are painful when applied247 to the ankles; rifle-butts leave bruises248 on foreheads. What could they do? Live electric wires up your anuses, children; and that's not the only possibility, there is also hanging-by-the feet, and a candle - ah, the sweet romantic glow of candlelight! - is less than comfortable when applied, lit, to the skin! Stop it now, cease all this friendship, aren't you afraid! Don't you want to kick stamp trample249 me to smithereens? Why these constant whispered reminiscences, this nostalgia for old quarrels, for the war of ideas and things, why are you taunting250 me with your calmness, your normality, your powers of rising-above-the-crisis? Frankly251, I'm puzzled, children: how can you, aged209 twenty-nine, sit whispering flirtatiously to each other in your cells?
Goddamnit, this is not a social reunion! Children, children, I'm sorry. I admit openly I have not been myself of late. I have been a buddha, and a basketed ghost, and a would-be-saviour of the nation ... Saieem has been rushing down blind alleys252, has had considerable problems with reality, ever since a spittoon fell like a piece-of-the- ... pity me: I've even lost my spittoon. But I'mgoing wrong again, I wasn't intending to ask for pity, I was going to say that perhaps I see - it was I, not you, who failed to understand what is happening. Incredible, children: we, who could not talk for five minutes without disagreeing: we, who as children quarrelled fought divided distrusted broke apart, are suddenly together, united, as one! O wondrous253 irony254: the Widow, by bringing us here, to break us, has in fact brought us together! O self-fulfilling paranoia255 of tyrants ... because what can they do to us, now that we're all on the same side, no language-rivalries, no religious prejudices: after all, we are twenty-nine now, I should not be calling you children ... ! Yes, here is optimism, like a disease: one day she'll have to let us out and then, and then, wait and see, maybe we should form, I don't know, a new political party, yes, the Midnight Party, what chance do politics have against people who can multiply fishes and turn base metals into gold? Children, something is being born here, in this dark time of our captivity; let Widows do their worst; unity179 is invincibility256! Children: we've won! Too painful. Optimism, growing like a rose in a dung-heap: it hurts me to recall it. Enough: I forget the rest. - No! - No, very well, I remember ... What is worse than rods bar-fetters candles-against-the-skin? What beats nail-tearing and starvation? I reveal the Widow's finest, most delicate joke: instead of torturing us, she gave us hope. Which meant she had something - no, more than something: the finest thing of all! -to take away. And now, very soon now, I shall have to describe how she cut it off.
Ectomy (from, I suppose, the Greek): a cutting out. To which medical science adds a number of prefixes257: appendectomy tonsillectomy mastectomy tubectomy vasectomy testectomy hysterectomy. Saieem would like to donate one further item, free gratis258 and for nothing, to this catalogue of excisions; it is, however, a term which properly belongs to history, although medical science is, was involved: Sperectomy: the draining-out of hope.
On New Year's Day, I had a visitor. Creak of door, rustle259 of expensive chiffon.
The pattern: green and black. Her glasses, green, her shoes were black as black ... In newspaper articles this woman has been called 'a gorgeous girl with big, rolling hips260... she had run a jewellery boutique before she took up social work... during the Emergency she was, semi-ofncially, in charge of sterilization'. But I have my own name for her: she was the Widow's Hand. Which one by one and children mmff and tearing tearing little balls go ...
greenly-blackly, she sailed into my cell. Children: it begins. Prepare, children. United we stand. Let Widow's Hand do Widow's work but after, after ...
think of then. Now does not bear thinking about... and she, sweetly, reasonably, 'Basically, you see, it is all a question of God.'
(Are you listening, children? Pass it on.)
'The people of India,' the Widow's Hand explained, 'worship our Lady like a god.
Indians are only capable of worshipping one God.'
But I was brought up in Bombay, where Shiva Vishnu Ganesh Ahuramazda Allah and countless261 others had their flocks ... 'What about the pantheon,' I argued, 'the three hundred and thirty million gods of Hinduism alone? And Islam, and Bodhisattvas...?' And now the answer: 'Oh yes! My God, millions of gods, you are right! But all manifestations263 of the same OM. You are Muslim: you know what is OM ? Very well. For the masses, our Lady is a manifestation262 of the OM.'
There are four hundred and twenty of us; a mere 0.00007 per cent of the six-hundred-million strong population of India. Statistically264 insignificant265; even if we were considered as a percentage of the arrested thirty (or two hundred and fifty) thousand, we formed a mere 1.4 (or 0.168) per cent! But what I learned from the Widow's Hand is that those who would be gods fear no one so much as other potential deities266; and that, that and that only, is why we, the magical children of midnight, were hated feared destroyed by the Widow, who was not only Prime Minister of India but also aspired267 to be Devi, the Mother-goddess in her most terrible-aspect, possessor of the shakti of the gods, a multi-limbed divinity with a centre-parting and schizophrenic hair... And that was how I learned my meaning in the crumbling palace of the bruised-breasted women.
Who am I? Who were we? We were are shall be the gods you never had. But also something else; and to explain that, I must tell the difficult part at last.
All in a rush, then, because otherwise it will never come out, I tell you that on New Year's Day, 1977, I was told by a gorgeous girl with rolling hips that yes, they would be satisfied with four hundred and twenty, they had verified one hundred and thirty-nine dead, only a handful had escaped, so now it would begin, snip snip, there would be anaesthetic and count-to-ten, the numbers marching one two three, and I, whispering to the wall, Let them let them, while we live and stay together who can stand against us? ... And who led us, one-by-one, to the chamber in the cellar where, because we are not savages268, sir, air-conditioning units had been installed, and a table with a hanging lamp, and doctors nurses green and black, their robes were green their eyes were black... who, with knobbly irresistible knees, escorted me to the chamber of my undoing269? But you know, you can guess, there is only one war hero in this story, unable to argue with the venom270 of his knees I walked wherever he ordered... and then I was there, and a gorgeous girl with big rolling hips saying, 'After all, you can't complain, you won't deny that you once made assertions of Prophethood?', because they knew everything, Padma, everything everything, they put me down on the table and the mask coming down over my face and count-to-ten and numbers pounding seven eight nine...
Ten.
And 'Good God he's still conscious, be a good fellow, go on to twenty ...'
... Eighteen nineteen twen They were good doctors: they left nothing to chance. Not for us the simple vas- and tubectomies performed on the teeming271 nasses; because there was a chance, just a chance that such operations could be reversed ... ectomies were performed, but irreversibly: testicles were removed from sacs, and wombs vanished for ever.
Test- and hysterectomized, the children of midnight were denied the possibility of reproducing themselves ... but that was only a side-effect, because they were truly extraordinary doctors, and they drained us of more than that: hope, too, was excised272, and I don't know how it was done, because the numbers had marched over me, I was out for the count, and all I can tell you is that at the end of eighteen days on which the stupefying operations were carried out at a mean rate of 23.33 per day, we were not only missing little balls and inner sacs, but other things as well: in this respect, I came off better than most, because drainage-above had robbed me of my midnight-given telepathy, I had nothing to lose, the sensitivity of a nose cannot be drained away... but as for the rest of them, for all those who had come to the palace of the wailing widows with their magical gifts intact, the awakening273 from anaesthesia was cruel indeed, and whispering through the wall came the tale of their undoing, the tormented274 cry of children who had lost their magic: she had cut it out of us, gorgeously with wide rolling hips she had devised the operation of our annihilation, and now we were nothing, who were we, a mere 0.00007 per cent, now fishes could not be multiplied nor base metals transmuted; gone forever, the possibilities of flight and lycanthropy and the originally-one-thousand-and-one marvellous promises of a numinous275 midnight.
Drainage below: it was not a reversible operation.
Who were we? Broken promises; made to be broken.
And now I must tell you about the smell.
Yes, you must have all of it: however overblown, however Bombay-talkie-melodramatic, you must let it sink in, you must see! What Saleem smelled in the evening of January 18th, 1977: something frying in an iron skillet, soft unspeakable somethings spiced with turmeric coriander cumin and fenugreek ... the pungent276 inescapable fumes57 of what-had-been-excised, cooking over a low, slow fire.
When four-hundred-and-twenty suffered ectomies, an avenging277 Goddess ensured that certain ectomized parts were curried278 with onions and green chillies, and fed to the pie-dogs of Benares. (There were four hundred and twenty-one ectomies performed: because one of us, whom we called Narada or Markandaya, had the ability of changing sex; he, or she, had to be operated on twice.)
No, I can't prove it, not any of it. Evidence went up in smoke: some was fed to pie-dogs; and later, on March 20th, files were burned by a mother with particoloured hair and her beloved son.
But Padma knows what I can no longer do; Padma, who once, in her anger, cried out: 'But what use you, my God, as a lover?' That part, at least, can be verified: in the hovel of Picture Singh, I cursed myself with the lie of impotence; I cannot say I was not warned, because he told me: 'Anything could happen, captain.' It did.
Sometimes I feel a thousand years old: or (because I cannot, even now, abandon form), to be exact, a thousand and one.
The Widow's Hand had rolling hips and once owned a jewellery boutique. I began among jewels: in Kashmir, in 1915, there were rubies279 and diamonds. My great-grandparents ran a gemstone store. Form - once again, recurrence and shape! - no escape from it.
In the walls, the hopeless whispers of the stunned280 four-hundred-and-nineteen; while the four-hundred-and-twentieth gives vent110 -just once; one moment of ranting281 is permissible282 - to the following petulant283 question ... at the top of my voice, I shriek: 'What about him? Major Shiva, the traitor? Don't you care about him?' And the reply, from gorgeous-with-big-rolling-hips: 'The Major has undergone voluntary vasectomy.'
And now, in his sightless cell, Saleem begins to laugh, wholeheartedly, without stinting284: no, I was not laughing cruelly at my arch-rival, nor was I cynically285 translating the word 'voluntary' into another word; no, I was remembering stories told me by Parvati or Laylah, the legendary286 tales of the war hero's philandering287, of the legions of bastards289 swelling290 in the unectomied bellies291 of great ladies and whores; I laughed because Shiva, destroyer of the midnight children, had also fulfilled the other role lurking292 in his name, the function of Shiva-lingam, of Shiva-the-procreator, so that at this very moment, in the boudoirs and hovels of the nation, a new generation of children, begotten293 by midnight's darkest child, was being raised towards the future. Every Widow manages to forget something important.
Late in March 1977, I was unexpectedly released from the palace of the howling widows, and stood blinking like an owl36 in the sunlight, not knowing how what why. Afterwards, when I had remembered how to ask questions, I discovered that on January 18th (the very day of the end of snip-snip, and of substances fried in an iron skillet: what further proof would you like that we, the four hundred and twenty, were what the Widow feared most of all?) the Prime Minister had, to the astonishment294 of all, called a general election. (But now that you know about us, you may find it easier to understand her over-confidence.) But on that day, I knew nothing about her crushing defeat, nor about burning files; it was only later that I learned how the tattered295 hopes of the nation had been placed in the custody296 of an ancient dotard who ate pistachios and cashews and daily took a glass of 'his own water'. Urine-drinkers had come to power. The Janata Party, with one of its leaders trapped in a kidney-machine, did not seem to me (when I heard about it) to represent a new dawn; but maybe I'd managed to cure myself of the optimism virus at last - maybe others, with the disease still in their blood, felt otherwise. At any rate, I've had - I had had, on that March day - enough, more than enough of politics.
Four hundred and twenty stood blinking in the sunlight and tumult of the gullies of Benares; four hundred and twenty looked at one another and saw in each other's eyes the memory of their gelding, and then, unable to bear the sight, mumbled297 farewells and dispersed298, for the last time, into the healing privacy of the crowds.
What of Shiva? Major Shiva was placed under military detention299 by the new regime; but he did not remain there long, because he was permitted to receive one visit: Roshanara Shetty bribed coquetted wormed her way into his cell, the same Roshanara who had poured poison into his ears at Mahalaxmi Racecourse and who had since been driven crazy by a bastard288 son who refused to speak and did nothing he did not wish to do. The steel magnate's wife drew from her handbag the enormous German pistol owned by her husband, and shot the war hero through the heart. Death, as they say, was instantaneous.
The Major died without knowing that once, in a saffron-and-green nursing home amid the mythological300 chaos of an unforgettable midnight, a tiny distraught woman had changed baby-tags and denied him his birth-right, which was that hillock-top world cocooned301 in money and starched302 white clothes and things things things - a world he would dearly have loved to possess.
And Saleem? No longer connected to history, drained above-and-below, I made my way back to the capital, conscious that an age, which had begun on that long-ago midnight, had come to a sort of end. How I travelled: I waited beyond the platform at Benares or Varanaji station with nothing but a platform-ticket in my hand, and leaped on to the step of a first-class compartment303 as the mail-train pulled out heading west. And now, at last, I knew how it felt to clutch on for dead life, while particles of soot113 dust ash gritted304 in your eyes, and you were obliged to bang on the door and yell, 'Ohe, maharaj! Open up! Let me in, great sir, maharaj!' While inside, a voice uttered familiar words 'On' no account is anyone to open. Just fare-dodgers, that's all.'
In Delhi: Saleem asks questions. Have you seen where? Do you know if the magicians? Are you acquainted with Picture Singh? A postman with the memory of snake-charmers fading in his eyes points north. And, later, a black-tongued paan-wallah sends me back the way I came. Then, at last, the trail ceases meandering305; street-entertainers put me on the scent. A Dilli-dekho man with a peepshow machine, a mongoose-and-cobra trainer wearing a paper hat like a child's sailboat, a girl in a cinema box-office who retains her nostalgia for her childhood as a sorcerer's apprentice... like fishermen, they point with fingers. West west west, until at last Saleem arrives at the Shadipur bus depot306 on the western outskirts307 of the city. Hungry thirsty enfeebled sick, skipping weakly out of the paths of buses roaring in and out of the depot - gaily-painted buses, bearing inscriptions308 on their bonnets309 such as God Willing! and other mottoes, for instance Thank God! on their backsides - he comes to a huddle223 of ragged150 tents clustered under a concrete railway bridge, and sees, in the shadow of concrete, a snake-charming giant breaking into an enormous rotten-toothed smile, and, in his arms, wearing a tee-shirt decorated with pink guitars, a small boy of some twenty-one months, whose ears are the ears of elephants, whose eyes are wide as saucers and whose face is as serious as the grave.
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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snip
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| n.便宜货，廉价货，剪，剪断 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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chasms
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| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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imperatives
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| n.必要的事( imperative的名词复数 )；祈使语气；必须履行的责任 | |
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recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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recurrences
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| n.复发，反复，重现( recurrence的名词复数 ) | |
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tuberculosis
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| n.结核病，肺结核 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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wheezed
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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infusions
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| n.沏或泡成的浸液（如茶等）( infusion的名词复数 )；注入，注入物 | |
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metaphorical
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| a.隐喻的，比喻的 | |
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overlapped
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| _adj.重叠的v.部分重叠( overlap的过去式和过去分词 )；（物体）部份重叠；交叠；（时间上）部份重叠 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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24
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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25
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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26
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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27
bulge
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| n.突出，膨胀，激增；vt.突出，膨胀 | |
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28
vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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29
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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30
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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31
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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32
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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33
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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34
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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35
mashing
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| 捣碎 | |
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36
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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37
reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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38
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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39
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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40
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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41
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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42
eroded
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| adj. 被侵蚀的，有蚀痕的 动词erode的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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43
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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44
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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45
dolorously
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| adj. 悲伤的；痛苦的；悲哀的；阴沉的 | |
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46
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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47
transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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48
consummated
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| v.使结束( consummate的过去式和过去分词 )；使完美；完婚；（婚礼后的）圆房 | |
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49
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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50
pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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51
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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52
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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53
olfactory
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| adj.嗅觉的 | |
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54
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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55
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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56
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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57
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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58
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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59
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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60
conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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61
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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63
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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64
stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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65
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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66
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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67
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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68
pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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69
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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70
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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71
traitorous
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| adj. 叛国的, 不忠的, 背信弃义的 | |
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72
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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73
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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74
philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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75
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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76
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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77
vertiginous
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| adj.回旋的；引起头晕的 | |
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78
subjugated
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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80
coercion
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| n.强制，高压统治 | |
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81
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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82
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
biding
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| v.等待，停留( bide的现在分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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84
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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85
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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86
rifts
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| n.裂缝( rift的名词复数 )；裂隙；分裂；不和 | |
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87
ghetto
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| n.少数民族聚居区，贫民区 | |
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88
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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89
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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90
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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91
literate
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| n.学者；adj.精通文学的，受过教育的 | |
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92
dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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93
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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94
horrifying
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| a.令人震惊的，使人毛骨悚然的 | |
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95
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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96
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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97
hummingbird
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| n.蜂鸟 | |
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98
boundlessness
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| 海阔天空 | |
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99
millennial
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| 一千年的，千福年的 | |
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100
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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101
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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102
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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103
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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104
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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105
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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106
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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107
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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108
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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109
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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110
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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111
shards
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| n.（玻璃、金属或其他硬物的）尖利的碎片( shard的名词复数 ) | |
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112
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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113
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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114
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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116
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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117
genealogies
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| n.系谱，家系，宗谱( genealogy的名词复数 ) | |
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118
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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120
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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121
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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122
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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123
pulverizing
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| v.将…弄碎( pulverize的现在分词 )；将…弄成粉末或尘埃；摧毁；粉碎 | |
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124
folder
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| n.纸夹，文件夹 | |
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125
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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126
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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127
nadir
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| n.最低点，无底 | |
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128
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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129
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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130
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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131
murky
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|
| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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132
mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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133
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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134
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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135
chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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136
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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137
civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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138
authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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139
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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140
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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141
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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142
surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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143
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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144
lanky
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| adj.瘦长的 | |
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145
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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146
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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147
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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148
clearance
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|
| n.净空；许可(证)；清算；清除，清理 | |
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149
replicate
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| v.折叠，复制，模写；n.同样的样品；adj.转折的 | |
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150
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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151
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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152
sterilization
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| n.杀菌，绝育；灭菌 | |
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153
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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154
invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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155
transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
cocktails
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| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
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157
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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158
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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159
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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160
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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161
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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162
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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163
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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164
crates
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| n. 板条箱, 篓子, 旧汽车 vt. 装进纸条箱 | |
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165
mythical
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| adj.神话的；虚构的；想像的 | |
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166
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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167
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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168
talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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169
swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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170
tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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171
shacks
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| n.窝棚，简陋的小屋( shack的名词复数 ) | |
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172
nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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173
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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174
salaam
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| n.额手之礼，问安，敬礼；v.行额手礼 | |
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175
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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176
anarchistic
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| 无政府主义的 | |
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177
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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178
immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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179
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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180
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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181
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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182
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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183
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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184
observatory
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| n.天文台，气象台，瞭望台，观测台 | |
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185
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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186
hostel
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| n.（学生）宿舍，招待所 | |
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187
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188
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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189
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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190
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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191
manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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192
efficiently
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| adv.高效率地，有能力地 | |
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193
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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194
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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195
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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196
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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197
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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198
Buddha
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| n.佛；佛像；佛陀 | |
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199
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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200
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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201
dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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202
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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203
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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204
emanating
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的现在分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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205
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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206
shredded
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| shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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207
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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208
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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209
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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210
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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211
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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212
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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213
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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214
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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215
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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216
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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217
cockroaches
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| n.蟑螂( cockroach的名词复数 ) | |
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218
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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219
aberrational
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| 异常 | |
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220
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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221
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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222
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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223
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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224
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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225
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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226
incarceration
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| n.监禁，禁闭；钳闭 | |
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227
analysts
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| 分析家，化验员( analyst的名词复数 ) | |
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228
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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229
subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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230
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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231
subjectively
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| 主观地； 臆 | |
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232
inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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233
amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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234
confinements
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| 限制，被监禁( confinement的名词复数 )； 分娩 | |
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235
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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236
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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237
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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238
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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239
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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240
nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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241
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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242
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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243
struts
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| （框架的）支杆( strut的名词复数 )； 支柱； 趾高气扬的步态； （尤指跳舞或表演时）卖弄 | |
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244
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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245
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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246
salaams
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| （穆斯林的）额手礼，问安，敬礼( salaam的名词复数 ) | |
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247
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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248
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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249
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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250
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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251
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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252
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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253
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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254
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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255
paranoia
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| n.妄想狂，偏执狂；多疑症 | |
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256
invincibility
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| n.无敌，绝对不败 | |
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257
prefixes
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| n.前缀( prefix的名词复数 )；人名前的称谓；前置代号（置于前面的单词或字母、数字） | |
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258
gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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259
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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260
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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261
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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262
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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263
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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264
statistically
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| ad.根据统计数据来看，从统计学的观点来看 | |
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265
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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266
deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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267
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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268
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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269
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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270
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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271
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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272
excised
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| v.切除，删去( excise的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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273
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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274
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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275
numinous
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| adj.庄严的，神圣的 | |
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276
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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277
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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278
curried
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| adj.加了咖喱（或咖喱粉的），用咖哩粉调理的 | |
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279
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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280
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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281
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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282
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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283
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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284
stinting
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| v.限制，节省（stint的现在分词形式） | |
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285
cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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286
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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287
philandering
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| v.调戏，玩弄女性( philander的现在分词 ) | |
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288
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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289
bastards
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| 私生子( bastard的名词复数 )； 坏蛋； 讨厌的事物； 麻烦事 （认为别人走运或不幸时说）家伙 | |
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290
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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291
bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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292
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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293
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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294
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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295
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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296
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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297
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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298
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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299
detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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300
mythological
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| adj.神话的 | |
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301
cocooned
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| v.茧，蚕茧( cocoon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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302
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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303
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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304
gritted
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的过去式和过去分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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305
meandering
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| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
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306
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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307
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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308
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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309
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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