Salman Rushdie - Midnight's children

'And cows, baba, have been vanishing into thin air; poof! and in the villages, the peasants must starve.'

It was at this time that I, too, was possessed by a strange demon; but in order that you may understand me properly, I must begin my account of the episode on an innocent evening, when Hanif and Pia Aziz had a group of friends round for cards.

My aunty was prone to exaggerate; because although Filmfare and Screen Goddess were absent, my uncle's house was a popular place. On card-evenings, it would burst at the seams with jazzmen gossiping about quarrels and reviews in American magazines, and singers who carried throat-sprays in their handbags, and members of the Uday Shankar dance-troupe, which was trying to form a new style of dance by fusing Western ballet with bharatanatyam; there were musicians who had been signed up to perform in the All-India Radio music festival, the Sangeet Sammelan; there were painters who argued violently amongst each other. The air was thick with political, and other, chatter. 'As a matter of fact, I am the only artist in India who paints with a genuine sense of ideological commitment!'-'O, it's too bad about Ferdy, he'll never get another band after this'-'Menon? Don't talk to me about Krishna. I knew him when he had principles. I, myself, have never abandoned…''… One, Hanif yaar, why we don't see Lal Qasim here these days?' And my uncle, looking anxiously towards me: 'Shh… what Qasim? I don't know any person by that name.'

… And mingling with the hubbub in the apartment, there was the evening colour and noise of Marine Drive: promenaders with dogs, buying chambeli and channa from hawkers; the cries of beggars and bhcl-puri vendors; and the lights coming on in a great arcing necklace, round and up to Malabar Hill… I stood on the balcony with Mary Pereira, turning my bad ear to her whispered rumours, the city at my back and the crowding, chatting card-schools before my eyes. And one day, amongst the card-players, I recognized the sunken-eyed, ascetic form of Mr Homi Catrack. Who greeted me with embarrassed heartiness: 'Hi there, young chap! Doing fine? Of course, of course you are!'

My uncle Hanif played rummy dedicatedly; but he was in the thrall of a curious obsession-namely, that he was determined never to lay down a hand until he completed a thirteen-card sequence in hearts. Always hearts; all the hearts, and nothing but the hearts would do. In his quest for this unattainable perfection, my uncle would discard perfectly good threes-of-a-kind, and whole sequences of spades clubs diamonds, to the raucous amusement of his friends. I heard the renowned shehnai-player Ustad Changez Khan (who dyed his hair, so mat on hot evenings the tops of his ears were discoloured by running black fluid) tell my uncle: 'Come on, mister; leave this heart business, and just play like the rest of us fellows.' My uncle confronted temptation; then boomed above the din, 'No, dammit, go to the devil and leave me to my game!' He played cards like a fool; but I, who had never seen such singleness of purpose, felt like clapping.

One of the regulars at Hanif Aziz's legendary card-evenings was a Times of India staff photographer, who was full of sharp tales and scurrilous stories. My uncle introduced me to him: 'Here's the fellow who put you on the front page, Saleem. Here is Kalidas Gupta. A terrible photographer; a really badmaash type. Don't talk to him too long; he'll make your head spin with scandal!' Kalidas had a head of silver hair and a nose like an eagle. I thought he was wonderful. 'Do you really know scandals?' I asked him; but all he said was, 'Son, if I told, they would make your ears burn.' But he never found out that the evil genius, the eminence grise behind the greatest scandal the city had ever known was none other than Saleem Snotnose… I mustn't race ahead. The affair of the curious baton of Commander Sabarmati must be recounted in its proper place. Effects must not (despite the tergiversatory nature of time in 1958) be permitted to precede causes.

I was alone on the balcony. Mary Pereira was in the kitchen helping Pia to prepare sandwiches and cheese-pakoras; Hanif Aziz was immersed in his search for the thirteen hearts; and now Mr Homi Catrack came out to stand beside me. 'Breath of fresh air,' he said. 'Yes, sir,' I replied. 'So,' he exhaled deeply. 'So, so. Life is treating you good? Excellent little fellow. Let me shake you by the hand.' Ten-year-old hand is swallowed up by film magnate's fist (the left hand; the mutilated right hand hangs innocently by my side)… and now a shock. Left palm feels paper being thrust into it-sinister paper, inserted by dexterous fist! Catrack's grip tightens; his voice becomes low, but also cobra-like, sibilant; inaudible in the room with the green-striped sofa, his words penetrate my one good ear: 'Give this to your aunty. Secretly secretly. Can do? And keep mum; or I'll send the police to cut your tongue out.' And now, loud and cheery. 'Good! Glad to see you in such high spirits!' Homi Catrack is patting me on the head; and moving back to his game.

Threatened by policemen, I have remained silent for two decades; but no longer. Now, everything has to come out.

The card-school broke up early: 'The boy has to sleep,' Pia was whispering, 'Tomorrow he goes to school again.' I found no opportunity of being alone with my aunt; I was tucked up on my sofa with the note still clutched in my left fist. Mary was asleep on the floor… I decided to feign a nightmare. (Deviousness did not come unnaturally to me.) Unfortunately, however, I was so tired that I fell asleep; and, in the event, there was no need to pretend: because I dreamed the murder of my classmate Jimmy Kapadia.

… We are playing football in the main stairwell at school, on red tiles, slipping sliding. A black cross set in the blood-red tiles. Mr Crusoe at the head of the stairs: 'Mustn't slide down the banisters boys that cross is where one boy fell.'Jimmy plays football on the cross. 'The cross is lies,' Jimmy says, 'They tell you lies to spoil your fun.' His mother calls up on the telephone. 'Don't play Jimmy your bad heart.' The bell. The telephone, replaced, and now the bell… Ink-pellets stain the classroom air. Fat Perce and Glandy Keith have fun. Jimmy wants a pencil, prods me in the ribs. 'Hey man, you got a pencil, give. Two ticks, man.' I give. Zagallo enters. Zagallo's hand is up for silence: look at my hair growing on his palm! Zagallo in pointy tin-soldier hat… I must have my pencil back. Stretching out my finger giving Jimmy a poke. 'Sir, please look sir, Jimmy fell!' 'Sir I saw sir Snotnose poked!' 'Snotnose shot Kapadia, sir!' 'Don't play Jimmy your bad heart!' 'You be quiet,' Zagallo cries, 'Jongle feelth, shut up.'

Jimmy in a bundle on the floor. 'Sir sir please sir will they put up a cross?' He borrowed a pencil, I poked, he fell. His father is a taxi-driver. Now the taxi drives into class; a dhobi-bundle is put on the back seat, out goes Jimmy. Ding, a bell. Jimmy's father puts down the taxi flag. Jimmy's father looks at me: 'Snotnose, you'll have to pay the fare.' 'But please sir haven't got the money sir.' Arid Zagallo: 'We'll put it on your bill.' See my hair on Zagallo's hand. Flames are pouring from Zagallo's eyes. 'Five hundred meelion, what's one death?' Jimmy is dead; five hundred million still alive. I start counting: one two three. Numbers march over Jimmy's grave. One million two million three million four. Who cares if anyone, anyone dies. One hundred million and one two three. Numbers march through the classroom now. Crushing pounding two hundred million three four five. Five hundred million still alive. And only one of me…

… In the dark of the night, I awoke from the dream of Jimmy Kapadia's death which became the dream of annihilation-by-numbers, yelling howling screaming, but still with the paper in my fist; and a door flew open, to reveal my uncle Hanif and aunt Pia. Mary Pereira tried to comfort me, but Pia was imperious, she was a divine swirl of petticoats and dupatta, she cradled me in her arms: 'Never mind! My diamond, never mind now!' And Uncle Hanif, sleepily: 'Hey, phaelwan! It's okay now; come on, you come with us; bring the boy, Pia!' And now I'm safely in Pia's arms; 'Just for tonight, my pearl, you can sleep with us!'-and there I am, nestling between aunt and uncle, huddling against my mumani's perfumed curves.