Salman Rushdie - Midnight's children

How do eleven-year-olds react to the announcement of a coup? Hearing the words, '… national finances in frightening disarray… corruption and impurity are everywhere…' do their jaws stiffen, too? Do their eyes focus on brighter tomorrows? Eleven-year-olds listen as a General cries, 'The Constitution is hereby abrogated! Central and Provincial legislatures are dissolved! Political parties are forthwith abolished!'-how do you think they feel?

When General Ayub Khan said, 'Martial Law is now imposed,' both cousin Zafar and I understood that his voice-that voice filled with power and decision and the rich timbre of my aunt's finest cooking-was speaking a thing for which we knew only one word: treason. I'm proud to say I kept my head; but Zafar lost control of a more embarrassing organ. Moisture stained his trouser-fronts; the yellow moisture of fear trickled down his leg to stain Persian carpets; gongs-and-pips smelled something, and turned upon him with looks of infinite distaste; and then (worst of all) came laughter.

General Zulfikar had just begun saying, 'If you permit, sir, I shall map out tonight's procedures,' when his son wet his pants. In cold fury my uncle hurled his son from the room; 'Pimp! Woman!' followed Zafar out of the dining-chamber, in his father's thin sharp voice; 'Coward! Homosexual! Hindu!' leaped from Punchinello-face to chase his son up the stairs… Zulnkar's eyes settled on me. There was a plea in them. Save the honour of the family. Redeem me from the incontinence of my son. 'You, boy!' my uncle said, 'You want to come up here and help me?'

Of course, I nodded. Proving my manhood, my fitness for sonship, I assisted my uncle as he made the revolution. And in so doing, in earning his gratitude, in stilling the sniggers of the assembled gongs-and-pips, I created a new father for myself; General Zulfikar became the latest in the line of men who have been willing to call me 'sonny', or 'sonny Jim', or even simply 'my son'.

How we made the revolution: General Zulfikar described troop movements; I moved pepperpots symbolically while he spoke. In the clutches of the active-metaphorical mode of connection, I shifted salt-cellars and bowls of chutney: This mustard-jar is Company A occupying Head Post Office; there are two pepperpots surrounding a serving-spoon, which means Company В has seized the airport. With the fate of the nation in my hands, I shifted condiments and cutlery, capturing empty biriani-dishes with water-glasses, stationing saltcellars, on guard, around water-jugs. And when General Zulfikar stopped talking, the march of the table-service also came to an end. Ayub Khan seemed to settle down in his chair; was the wink he gave me just my imagination?-at any rate, the Commander-in-Chief said, 'Very good, Zulfikar; good show.'

In the movements performed by pepperpots etcetera, one table-ornament remained uncaptured: a cream-jug in solid silver, which, in our table-top coup, represented the Head of State, President Iskander Mirza; for three weeks, Mirza remained President.

An eleven-year-old boy cannot judge whether a President is truly corrupt, even if gongs-and-pips say he is; it is not for eleven-year-olds to say whether Mirza's association with the feeble Republican Party should have disqualified him from high office under the new regime. Saleem Sinai made no political judgments; but when, inevitably at midnight, on November 1st, my uncle shook me awake and whispered, 'Come on, sonny, it's time you got a taste of the real thing!', I leaped out of bed smartly; I dressed and went out into the night, proudly aware that my uncle had preferred my company to that of his own son.

Midnight. Rawalpindi speeding past us at seventy m.p.h. Motorcycles in front of us beside us behind us. 'Where are we going Zulfy-uncle?' Wait and see. Black smoked-windowed limousine pausing at darkened house. Sentries guard the door with crossed rifles; which part, to let us through. I am marching at my uncle's side, in step, through half-lit corridors; until we burst into a dark room with a shaft of moonlight spotlighting a four-poster bed. A mosquito net hangs over the bed like a shroud.

There is a man waking up, startled, what the hell is going… But General Zulfikar has a long-barrelled revolver; the tip of the gun is forced mmff between the man's parted teeth. 'Shut up,' my uncle says, superfluously. 'Come with us.' Naked overweight man stumbling from his bed. His eyes, asking: Are you going to shoot me? Sweat rolls down ample belly, catching moonlight, dribbling on to his soo-soo; but it is bitterly cold; he is not perspiring from the heat. He looks like a white Laughing Buddha; but not laughing. Shivering. My uncle's pistol is extracted from his mouth. 'Turn. Quick march!'… And gun-barrel pushed between the cheeks of an overfed rump. The man cries, 'For God's sake be careful; that thing has the safety off!' Jawans giggle as naked flesh emerges into moonlight, is pushed into black limousine… That night, I sat with a naked man as my uncle drove him to a military airfield; I stood and watched as the waiting aircraft taxied, accelerated, flew. What began, active-metaphorically, with pepperpots, ended then; not only did I overthrow a government-I also consigned a president to exile.

Midnight has many children; the offspring of Independence were not all human. Violence, corruption, poverty, generals, chaos, greed and pepperpots… I had to go into exile to learn that the children of midnight were more varied than I-even I-had dreamed.

'Really truly?' Padma asks. 'You were truly there?' Really truly. 'They say that Ayub was a good man before he became bad,' Padma says; it is a question. But Saleem, at eleven, made no such judgments. The movement of pepperpots does not necessitate moral choices. What Saleem was concerned with: not public upheaval, but personal rehabilitation. You see the paradox-my most crucial foray into history up to that moment was inspired by the most parochial of motives. Anyway, it was not 'my' country-or not then. Not my country, although I stayed in it-as refugee, not citizen; entered on my mother's Indian passport, I would have come in for a good deal of suspicion, maybe even deported or arrested as a spy, had it not been for my tender years and the power of my guardian with the Punch-like features-for four long years.

Four years of nothing.

Except growing into a teenager. Except watching my mother as she fell apart. Except observing the Monkey, who was a crucial year younger than me, fall under the insidious spell of that God-ridden country; the Monkey, once so rebellious and wild, adopting expressions of demureness and submission which must, at first, have seemed false even to her; the Monkey, learning how to cook and keep house, how to buy spices in the market; the Monkey, making the final break with the legacy of her grandfather, by learning prayers in Arabic and saying them at all prescribed times; the Monkey, revealing the streak of puritan fanaticism which she had hinted at when she asked for a nun's outfit; she, who spurned all offers of worldly love, was seduced by the love of that God who had been named after a carved idol in a pagan shrine built around a giant meteorite: Al-Lah, in the Qa'aba, the shrine of the great Black Stone.

But nothing else.

Four years away from the midnight children; four years without Warden Road and Breach Candy and Scandal Point and the lures of One Yard of Chocolates; away from the Cathedral School and the equestrian statue of Sivaji and melon-sellers at the Gateway of India: away from Divali and Ganesh Chaturthi and Coconut Day; four years of separation from a father who sat alone in a house he would not sell; alone, except for Professor Schaapsteker, who stayed in his apartment and shunned the company of men.

Can nothing really happen for four years? Obviously, not quite. My cousin Zafar, who had never been forgiven by his father for wetting his pants in the presence of history, was given to understand that he would be joining the Army as soon as he was of age. 'I want to see you prove you're not a woman,' his father told him.