Midnight's Children (35 page)

“Get out!” screams Evie Burns. Hands lifted to forehead. I bicycling, wet-eyed, diving ininin: to where Evie stands in the doorway of a clapboard bedroom holding a, holding a something sharp and glinty with red dripping off it, in the doorway of a, my God and on the bed a woman, who, in a pink, my God, and Evie with the, and red staining the pink, and a man coming, my God, and no no no no no …

“
GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT
!” Bewildered children watch as Evie screams, language march forgotten, but suddenly remembered again, because Evie has grabbed the back of the Monkey’s bike
WHAT’RE YOU DOING EVIE
as she pushes it
THERE GET OUT YA BUM THERE GET OUT TO HELL
!—She’s pushed me hard-as-hard, and I losing control hurtling down the slope round the end of the U-bend downdown,
MY GOD THE MARCH
past Bank Box Laundry, past Noor Ville and Laxmi Vilas,
AAAAA
and down into the mouth of the march, heads feet bodies, the waves of the march parting as I arrive, yelling blue murder, crashing into history on a runaway, young-girl’s bike.

Hands grabbing handlebars as I slow down in the impassioned throng. Smiles filled with good teeth surround me. They are not friendly smiles. “Look look, a little laad-sahib comes down to join us from the big rich hill!” In Marathi which I hardly understand, it’s my worst subject at school, and the smiles asking, “You want to join S.M.S., little princeling?” And I, just about knowing what’s being said, but dazed into telling the truth, shake my head No. And the smiles, “Oho! The young nawab does not like our tongue! What does he like?” And another smile, “Maybe Gujarati! You speak Gujarati, my lord?” But my Gujarati was as bad as my Marathi; I only knew one thing in the marshy tongue of Kathiawar; and the smiles, urging, and the fingers, prodding, “Speak, little master! Speak some Gujarati!”—so I told them what I knew, a rhyme I’d learned from Glandy Keith Colaco at school, which he used when he was bullying Gujarati boys, a rhyme designed to make fun of the speech rhythms of the language:

How are you?—I am well!—I’ll take a stick and thrash you to hell!
A nonsense; a nothing; nine words of emptiness … but when I’d recited them, the smiles began to laugh; and then voices near me and then further and further away began to take up my chant,
HOW ARE YOU? I AM WELL
!, and they lost interest in me, “Go go with your bicycle, masterji,” they scoffed,
I’LL TAKE A STICK AND THRASH YOU TO HELL
, I fled away up the hillock as my chant rushed forward and back, up to the front and down to the back of the two-day-long procession, becoming, as it went, a song of war.

That afternoon, the head of the procession of the Samyukta Maharashtra Samiti collided at Kemp’s Corner, with the head of a Maha Gujarat Parishad demonstration; S.M.S. voices chanted “Soo ché? Saru ché!” and M.G.P. throats were opened in fury; under the posters of the Air-India rajah and of the Kolynos Kid, the two parties fell upon one another with no little zeal, and to the tune of my little rhyme the first of the language riots got under way, fifteen killed, over three hundred wounded.

In this way I became directly responsible for triggering off the violence which ended with the partition of the state of Bombay, as a result of which the city became the capital of Maharashtra—so at least I was on the winning side.

What was it in Evie’s head? Crime or dream? I never found out; but I had learned something else: when you go deep inside someone’s head,
they can feel you in there.

Evelyn Lilith Burns didn’t want much to do with me after that day; but, strangely enough, I was cured of her. (Women have always been the ones to change my life: Mary Pereira, Evie Burns, Jamila Singer, Parvati-the-witch must answer for who I am; and the Widow, who I’m keeping for the end; and after the end, Padma, my goddess of dung. Women have fixed me all right, but perhaps they were never central—perhaps the place which they should have filled, the hole in the center of me which was my inheritance from my grandfather Aadam Aziz, was occupied for too long by my voices. Or perhaps—one must consider all possibilities—they always made me a little afraid.)

“O
H MISTER, WHAT
to say? Everything is my own poor fault!” Padma is back. And, now that I have recovered from the poison and am at my desk again, is too overwrought to be silent. Over and over, my returned lotus castigates herself, beats her heavy breasts, wails at the top of her voice. (In my fragile condition, this is fairly distressing; but I don’t blame her for anything.)

“Only believe, mister, how much I have your well-being at heart! What creatures we are, we women, never for one moment at peace when our men lie sick and low … I am so happy you are well, you don’t know!”

Padma’s story (given in her own words, and read back to her for eye-rolling, high-wailing, mammary-thumping confirmation): “It was my own foolish pride and vanity, Saleem baba, from which cause I did run from you, although the job here is good, and you so much needing a looker-after! But in a short time only I was dying to return.

“So then I thought, how to go back to this man who will not love me and only does some foolish writery? (Forgive, Saleem baba, but I must tell it truly. And love, to us women, is the greatest thing of all.)

“So I have been to a holy man, who taught me what I must do. Then with my few pice I have taken a bus into the country to dig for herbs, with which your manhood could be awakened from its sleep … imagine, mister, I have spoken magic with these words: ‘Herb thou hast been uprooted by Bulls!’ Then I have ground herbs in water and milk and said, ‘Thou potent and lusty herb! Plant which Varuna had dug up for him by Gandharva! Give my Mr. Saleem thy power. Give heat like that of Fire of Indra. Like the male antelope, O herb, thou hast all the force that Is, thou hast powers of Indra, and the lusty force of beasts.’

“With this preparation I returned to find you alone as always and as always with your nose in paper. But jealousy, I swear, I have put behind me; it sits on the face and makes it old. O God forgive me, quietly I put the preparation in your food! … And then, hai-hai, may Heaven forgive me, but I am a simple woman, if holy men tell me, how should I argue? … But now at least you are better, thanks be to God, and maybe you will not be angry.”

Under the influence of Padma’s potion, I became delirious for a week. My dung-lotus swears (through much-gnashed teeth) that I was stiff as a board, with bubbles around my mouth. There was also a fever. In my delirium I babbled about snakes; but I know that Padma is no serpent, and never meant me harm.

“This love, mister,” Padma is wailing, “It will drive a woman to craziness.”

I repeat: I don’t blame Padma. At the feet of the Western Ghats, she searched for the herbs of virility,
mucuna pruritus
and the root of
feronia elephantum;
who knows what she found? Who knows what, mashed with milk and mingled with my food, flung my innards into that state of “churning” from which, as all students of Hindu cosmology will know, Indra created matter, by stirring the primal soup in his own great milk-churn? Never mind. It was a noble attempt; but I am beyond regeneration—the Widow has done for me. Not even the real
mucuna
could have put an end to my incapacity;
feronia
would never have engendered in me the “lusty force of beasts.”

Still, I am at my table once again; once again Padma sits at my feet, urging me on. I am balanced once more—the base of my isosceles triangle is secure. I hover at the apex, above present and past, and feel fluency returning to my pen.

A kind of magic has been worked, then; and Padma’s excursion in search of love-potions has connected me briefly with that world of ancient learning and sorcerers’ lore so despised by most of us nowadays; but (despite stomach-cramps and fever and frothings at the mouth) I’m glad of its irruption into my last days, because to contemplate it is to regain a little, lost sense of proportion.

Think of this: history, in my version, entered a new phase on August 15th, 1947—but in another version, that inescapable date is no more than one fleeting instant in the Age of Darkness, Kali-Yuga, in which the cow of morality has been reduced to standing, teeteringly, on a single leg! Kali-Yuga—the losing throw in our national dice-game; the worst of everything; the age when property gives a man rank, when wealth is equated with virtue, when passion becomes the sole bond between men and women, when falsehood brings success (is it any wonder, in such a time, that I too have been confused about good and evil?) … began on Friday, February 18th, 3102
B.C
.; and will last a mere 432,000 years! Already feeling somewhat dwarfed, I should add nevertheless that the Age of Darkness is only the fourth phase of the present Maha-Yuga cycle which is, in total, ten times as long; and when you consider that it takes a thousand Maha-Yugas to make just one Day of Brahma, you’ll see what I mean about proportion.

A little humility at this point (when I’m trembling on the brink of introducing the Children) does not, I feel, come amiss.

Padma shifts her weight, embarrassed. “What are you talking?” she asks, reddening a little. “That is brahmin’s talk; what’s it to do with me?”

… Born and raised in the Muslim tradition, I find myself overwhelmed all of a sudden by an older learning; while here beside me is my Padma, whose return I had so earnestly desired … my Padma! The Lotus Goddess; the One Who Possesses Dung; who is Honey-Like, and Made of Gold; whose sons are Moisture and Mud …

“You must be fevered still,” she expostulates, giggling. “How made of gold, mister? And you know I have no chil …”

… Padma, who along with the yaksa genii, who represent the sacred treasure of the earth, and the sacred rivers, Ganga Yamuna Sarasvati, and the tree goddesses, is one of the Guardians of Life, beguiling and comforting mortal men while they pass through the dream-web of Maya … Padma, the Lotus calyx, which grew out of Vishnu’s navel, and from which Brahma himself was born; Padma the Source, the mother of Time! …

“Hey,” she is sounding worried now, “let me feel your forehead!”

… And where, in this scheme of things, am I? Am I (beguiled and comforted by her return) merely mortal—or something more? Such as—yes, why not—mammoth-trunked, Ganesh-nosed as I am—perhaps, the Elephant. Who, like Sin the moon, controls the waters, bringing the gift of rain … whose mother was Ira, queen consort of Kashyap, the Old Tortoise Man, lord and progenitor of all creatures on the earth … the Elephant who is also the rainbow, and lightning, and whose symbolic value, it must be added, is highly problematic and unclear.

Well, then: elusive as rainbows, unpredictable as lightning, garrulous as Ganesh, it seems I have my own place in the ancient wisdom, after all.

“My God,” Padma is rushing for a towel to wet in cold water, “your forehead is on fire! Better you lie down now; too soon for all this writing! The sickness is talking; not you.”

But I’ve already lost a week; so, fever or no fever, I must press on; because, having (for the moment) exhausted this strain of old-time fabulism, I am coming to the fantastic heart of my own story, and must write in plain unveiled fashion, about the midnight children.

Understand what I’m saying: during the first hour of August 15th, 1947—between midnight and one a.m.—no less than one thousand and one children were born within the frontiers of the infant sovereign state of India. In itself, that is not an unusual fact (although the resonances of the number are strangely literary)—at the time, births in our part of the world exceeded deaths by approximately six hundred and eighty-seven an hour. What made the event noteworthy (noteworthy! There’s a dispassionate word, if you like!) was the nature of these children, every one of whom was, through some freak of biology, or perhaps owing to some preternatural power of the moment, or just conceivably by sheer coincidence (although synchronicity on such a scale would stagger even C. G. Jung), endowed with features, talents or faculties which can only be described as miraculous. It was as though—if you will permit me one moment of fancy in what will otherwise be, I promise, the most sober account I can manage—as though history, arriving at a point of the highest significance and promise, had chosen to sow, in that instant, the seeds of a future which would genuinely differ from anything the world had seen up to that time.

If a similar miracle was worked across the border, in the newly-partitioned-off Pakistan, I have no knowledge of it; my perceptions were, while they lasted, bounded by the Arabian Sea, the Bay of Bengal, the Himalaya mountains, but also by the artificial frontiers which pierced Punjab and Bengal.

Inevitably, a number of these children failed to survive. Malnutrition, disease and the misfortunes of everyday life had accounted for no less than four hundred and twenty of them by the time I became conscious of their existence; although it is possible to hypothesize that these deaths, too, had their purpose, since 420 has been, since time immemorial, the number associated with fraud, deception and trickery. Can it be, then, that the missing infants were eliminated because they had turned out to be somehow inadequate, and were not the true children of that midnight hour? Well, in the first place, that’s another excursion into fantasy; in the second, it depends on a view of life which is both excessively theological and barbarically cruel. It is also an unanswerable question; any further examination of it is therefore profitless.

By 1957, the surviving five hundred and eighty-one children were all nearing their tenth birthdays, wholly ignorant, for the most part, of one another’s existence—although there were certainly exceptions. In the town of Baud, on the Mahanadi river in Orissa, there was a pair of twin sisters who were already a legend in the region, because despite their impressive plainness they both possessed the ability of making every man who saw them fall hopelessly and often suicidally in love with them, so that their bemused parents were endlessly pestered by a stream of men offering their hands in marriage to either or even both of the bewildering children; old men who had forsaken the wisdom of their beards and youths who ought to have been becoming besotted with the actresses in the travelling picture-show which visited Baud once a month; and there was another, more disturbing procession of bereaved families cursing the twin girls for having bewitched their sons into committing acts of violence against themselves, fatal mutilations and scourgings and even (in one case) self-immolation. With the exception of such rare instances, however, the children of midnight had grown up quite unaware of their true siblings, their fellow-chosen-ones across the length and breadth of India’s rough and badly-proportioned diamond.