Midnight's Children (76 page)

We, the children of Independence, rushed wildly and too fast into our future; he, Emergency-born, will be is already more cautious, biding his time; but when he acts, he will be impossible to resist. Already, he is stronger, harder, more resolute 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 dictates of my nose.

“Arré baap,” Padma cries, “Just tell what happened, mister! What is so surprising if a baby does not make conversations?”

And again the rifts inside me: I can’t.—You must.—Yes.

April 1976 found me still living in the colony or ghetto 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, one tee-shirt, decorated with pink guitars, and shoes, one pair, black); partly, I came out of loyalty, having been bound by knots of gratitude to my rescuer, Parvati-the-witch; but I stayed—when, as a literate 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 dual lust for fathers and saving-the-country, I exaggerated Picture Singh; the horrifying 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, shuffling 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 precedent—there was Mian Abdullah, the Hummingbird …” 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 soundlessness 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 millennial dawn at midnight’s end, somehow, at the head of a great jooloos or procession of the dispossessed, perhaps playing his flute 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 bind 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 unaware 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 climax I have avoided all evening.

Scraps of memory: this is not how a climax should be written. A climax should surge towards its Himalayan peak; but I am left with shreds, and must jerk towards my crisis like a puppet with broken strings. 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 improvised endings for fairy-tales whose original conclusions he had long ago forgotten; the Brass 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 shards of the past, lingering in my ransacked 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 scent of personal danger. What I am obliged to deduce from this warning aroma: soothsayers prophesied me; might not soothsayers have undone me at the end? Might not a Widow, obsessed 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 genealogies, 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 bestowed upon me? You see? You
see?
… And there is more, there is even clearer proof, because here is another scrap 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 conspiracy 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 concealed for too long beneath the mask of those stifled days: the truest, deepest motive behind the declaration of a State of Emergency was the smashing, the pulverizing, the irreversible discombobulation of the children of midnight. (Whose Conference had, of course, been disbanded years before; but the mere possibility of our reunification was enough to trigger off the red alert.)

Astrologers—I have no doubt—sounded the alarums; in a black folder labelled
M.C.C
., names were gathered from extant records; but there was more to it than that. There were also betrayals and confessions; there were knees and a nose—a nose, and also knees.

Scraps, shreds, fragments: it seems to me that, immediately before I 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 lank 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 Nadir 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-specter 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 trumpets 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 sniffed 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 fully 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 murky 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 Mosque; a tiny bald illusionist was practicing driving knives through the neck of his ten-year-old apprentice, 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 practicing his trumpet-playing, placing the ancient mouthpiece of a battered 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 to be in order. I began to chide myself for my dreams and nasal alarums; but then it started.

The vans and bulldozers came first, rumbling along the main road; they stopped opposite the ghetto of the magicians. A loudspeaker began to blare: “Civic beautification program … authorized 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 dissent.” And while a loudspeaker blared, there were figures descending from vans: a brightly-colored tent was being hastily erected, and there were camp beds and surgical 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 precisely to those of Sanjay’s Menaka, whom news-scraps had described as a “lanky beauty,” and who had once modeled nighties for a mattress company … standing in the chaos of the slum clearance program, I was shown once again that the ruling dynasty of India had learned how to replicate 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 rumor spread through the colony of magicians: “They are doing nasbandi—sterilization 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 hurling stones at the elegant invaders, 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 transmuted into a weapon, a flapping quixotic lance, and the magicians have become a defending army, Molotov cocktails are magically produced and hurled, bricks are drawn 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 unleashed upon the slum: troops are sent in against magicians, women and children.

Once, conjurers card-tricksters puppeteers and mesmerists marched triumphantly 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 socialist 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 crates 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 mythical figure, an incarnation of destiny and destruction: Major Shiva has joined the fray, and he is looking only for me. Behind me, as I run, come the pumping knees of my doom …

… 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 talisman, guarded for so long, has been abandoned. The Friday Mosque watches impassively as I swerve duck run between the tilting shacks, 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 nemesis thundering towards me, and he leaps, the legs of the war hero fly through the air, closing like jaws 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, Salaam.” I spluttered; Shiva smiled.

O shiny buttons on a traitor’s uniform! Winking blinking like silver … why did he do it? Why did he, who had once led anarchistic 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 antipathy towards me? Or—I find this most plausible—in exchange for immunity 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.