Midnight's Children

  But it is Kali-Yuga; the children of the hour of darkness were born, I’m afraid, in the midst of the age of darkness; so that although we found it easy to be brilliant, we were always confused about being good.

  There; now I’ve said it. That is who I was—who we were.

  Padma is looking as if her mother had died—her face, with its opening-shutting mouth, is the face of a beached pomfret. “O baba!” she says at last. “O baba! You are sick; what have you said?”

  No, that would be too easy. I refuse to take refuge in illness. Don’t make the mistake of dismissing what I’ve unveiled as mere delirium; or even as the insanely exaggerated fantasies of a lonely, ugly child. I have stated before that I am not speaking metaphorically; what I have just written (and read aloud to stunned Padma) is nothing less than the literal, by-the-hairs-of-my-mother’s-head truth.

  Reality can have metaphorical content; that does not make it less real. A thousand and one children were born; there were a thousand and one possibilities which had never been present in one place at one time before; and there were a thousand and one dead ends. Midnight’s children can be made to represent many things, according to your point of view; they can be seen as the last throw of everything antiquated and retrogressive in our myth-ridden nation, whose defeat was entirely desirable in the context of a modernizing, twentieth-century economy; or as the true hope of freedom, which is now forever extinguished; but what they must not become is the bizarre creation of a rambling, diseased mind. No: illness is neither here nor there.

  “All right, all right, baba,” Padma attempts to placate me. “Why become so cross? Rest now, rest some while, that is all I am asking.”

  Certainly it was a hallucinatory time in the days leading up to my tenth birthday; but the hallucinations were not in my head. My father, Ahmed Sinai, driven by the traitorous death of Doctor Narlikar and by the increasingly powerful effect of djinns-and-tonics, had taken flight into a dream-world of disturbing unreality; and the most insidious aspect of his slow decline was that, for a very long time, people mistook it for the very opposite of what it was … Here is Sonny’s mother, Nussie-the-duck, telling Amina one evening in our garden: “What great days for you all, Amina sister, now that your Ahmed is in his prime! Such a fine man, and so much he is prospering for his family’s sake!” She says it loud enough for him to hear; and although he pretends to be telling the gardener what to do about the ailing bougainvillaea, although he assumes an expression of humble self-deprecation, it’s utterly unconvincing, because his bloated body has begun, without his knowing it, to puff up and strut about. Even Purushottam, the dejected sadhu under the garden tap, looks embarrassed.

  My fading father … for almost ten years he had always been in a good mood at the breakfast-table, before he shaved his chin; but as his facial hairs whitened along with his fading skin, this fixed point of happiness ceased to be a certainty; and the day came when he lost his temper at breakfast for the first time. That was the day on which taxes were raised and tax thresholds simultaneously lowered; my father flung down the Times of India with a violent gesture and glared around him with the red eyes I knew he only wore in his tempers. “It’s like going to the bathroom!” he exploded, cryptically; egg toast tea shuddered in the blast of his wrath. “You raise your shirt and lower your trousers! Wife, this government is going to the bathroom all over us!” And my mother, blushing pink through the black, “Janum, the children, please,” but he had stomped off, leaving me with a clear understanding of what people meant when they said the country was going to pot.

  In the following weeks my father’s morning chin continued to fade, and something more than the peace of the breakfast-table was lost: he began to forget what sort of man he’d been in the old days before Narlikar’s treason. The rituals of our home life began to decay. He began to stay away from the breakfast-table, so that Amina could not wheedle money out of him; but, to compensate, he became careless with his cash, and his discarded clothes were full of rupee notes and coins, so that by picking his pockets she could make ends meet. But a more depressing indication of his withdrawal from family life was that he rarely told us bedtime stories any more, and when he did we didn’t enjoy them, because they had become ill-imagined and unconvincing. Their subject-matter was still the same, princes goblins flying horses and adventures in magic lands, but in his perfunctory voice we could hear the creaks and groans of a rusting, decayed imagination.

  My father had succumbed to abstraction. It seems that Narlikar’s death and the end of his tetrapod dream had shown Ahmed Sinai the unreliable nature of human relationships; he had decided to divest himself of all such ties. He took to rising before dawn and locking himself with his current Fernanda or Flory in his downstairs office, outside whose windows the two evergreen trees he planted to commemorate my birth and the Monkey’s had already grown tall enough to keep out most of the daylight when it arrived. Since we hardly ever dared disturb him, my father entered a deep solitude, a condition so unusual in our overcrowded country as to border on abnormality; he began to refuse food from our kitchen and to live on cheap rubbish brought daily by his girl in a tiffin-carrier, lukewarm parathas and soggy vegetable samosas and bottles of fizzy drinks. A strange perfume wafted out from under his office door; Amina took it for the odor of stale air and second-rate food; but it’s my belief that an old scent had returned in a stronger form, the old aroma of failure which had hung about him from the earliest days.

  He sold off the many tenements or chawls which he’d bought cheaply on his arrival in Bombay, and on which our family’s fortunes had been based. Freeing himself from all business connections with human beings—even his anonymous tenants in Kurla and Worli, in Matunga and Mazagaon and Mahim—he liquefied his assets, and entered the rarefied and abstract air of financial speculation. Locked in his office, in those days, his one contact with the outside world (apart from his poor Fernandas) was his telephone. He spent his day deep in conference with this instrument, as it put his money into suchandsuch shares or soandso stocks, as it invested in government bonds or bear market equities, selling long or short as he commanded … and invariably getting the best price of the day. In a streak of good fortune comparable only to my mother’s success on the horses all those years previously, my father and his telephone took the stock exchange by storm, a feat made more remarkable by Ahmed Sinai’s constantly-worsening drinking habits. Djinn-sodden, he nevertheless managed to ride high on the abstract undulations of the money market, reacting to its emotional, unpredictable shifts and changes the way a lover does to his beloved’s slightest whim … he could sense when a share would rise, when the peak would come; and he always got out before the fall. This was how his plunge into the abstract solitude of his telephonic days was disguised, how his financial coups obscured his steady divorce from reality; but under cover of his growing riches, his condition was getting steadily worse.

  Eventually the last of his calico-skirted secretaries quit, being unable to tolerate life in an atmosphere so thin and abstract as to make breathing difficult; and now my father sent for Mary Pereira and coaxed her with, “We’re friends, Mary, aren’t we, you and I?”, to which the poor woman replied, “Yes, Sahib, I know; you will look after me when I’m old,” and promised to find him a replacement. The next day she brought him her sister, Alice Pereira, who had worked for all kinds of bosses and had an almost infinite tolerance of men. Alice and Mary had long made up their quarrel over Joe D’Costa; the younger woman was often upstairs with us at the end of the day, bringing her qualities of sparkle and sauciness into the somewhat oppressive air of our home. I was fond of her, and it was through her that we learned of my father’s greatest excesses, whose victims were a budgerigar and a mongrel dog.

  By July Ahmed Sinai had entered an almost permanent state of intoxication; one day, Alice reported, he had suddenly gone off for a drive, making her fear for his life, and returned somehow or other with a shrouded bird-cage in which, he said, was his new acquisition, a
bulbul or Indian nightingale. “For God knows how long,” Alice confided, “he tells me all about bulbuls; all fairy stories of its singing and what-all; how this Calipha was captivated by its song, how the singing could make longer the beauty of the night; God knows what the poor man was babbling, quoting Persian and Arabic, I couldn’t make top or bottom of it. But then he took off the cover, and in the cage is nothing but a talking budgie, some crook in Chor Bazaar must have painted the feathers! Now how could I tell the poor man, him so excited with his bird and all, sitting there calling out, “Sing, little bulbul! Sing!” … and it’s so funny, just before it died from the paint it just repeated his line back at him, straight out like that—not squawky like a bird, you know, but in his own self-same voice: Sing! Little bulbul, sing!”

  But there was worse on the way. A few days later I was sitting with Alice on the servants’ spiral iron staircase when she said, “Baba, I don’t know what got into your daddy now. All day sitting down there cursing curses at the dog!”

  The mongrel bitch we named Sherri had strolled up to the two-storey hillock earlier that year and simply adopted us, not knowing that life was a dangerous business for animals on Methwold’s Estate; and in his cups Ahmed Sinai made her the guinea-pig for his experiments with the family curse.

  This was that same fictional curse which he’d dreamed up to impress William Methwold, but now in the liquescent chambers of his mind the djinns persuaded him that it was no fiction, that he’d just forgotten the words; so he spent long hours in his insanely solitary office experimenting with formulae … “Such things he is cursing the poor creature with!” Alice said, “I wonder she don’t drop down dead straight off!”

  But Sherri just sat there in a corner and grinned stupidly back at him, refusing to turn purple or break out in boils, until one evening he erupted from his office and ordered Amina to drive us all to Hornby Vellard. Sherri came too. We promenaded, wearing puzzled expressions, up and down the Vellard, and then he said, “Get in the car, all of you.” Only he wouldn’t let Sherri in … as the Rover accelerated away with my father at the wheel she began to chase after us, while the Monkey yelled Daddydaddy and Amina pleaded Janumplease and I sat in mute horror, we had to drive for miles, almost all the way to Santa Cruz airport, before he had his revenge on the bitch for refusing to succumb to his sorceries … she burst an artery as she ran and died spouting blood from her mouth and her behind, under the gaze of a hungry cow.

  The Brass Monkey (who didn’t even like dogs) cried for a week; my mother became worried about dehydration and made her drink gallons of water, pouring it into her as if she were a lawn, Mary said; but I liked the new puppy my father bought me for my tenth birthday, out of some flicker of guilt perhaps: her name was the Baroness Simki von der Heiden, and she had a pedigree chock-full of champion Alsatians, although in time my mother discovered that that was as false as the mock-bulbul, as imaginary as my father’s forgotten curse and Mughal ancestry; and after six months she died of venereal disease. We had no pets after that.

  My father was not the only one to approach my tenth birthday with his head lost in the clouds of his private dreams; because here is Mary Pereira, indulging in her fondness for making chutneys, kasaundies and pickles of all descriptions, and despite the cheery presence of her sister Alice there is something haunted in her face.

  “Hullo, Mary!” Padma—who seems to have developed a soft spot for my criminal ayah—greets her return to center-stage. “So what’s eating her?”

  This, Padma: plagued by her nightmares of assaults by Joseph D’Costa, Mary was finding it harder and harder to get sleep. Knowing what dreams had in store for her, she forced herself to stay awake; dark rings appeared under her eyes, which were covered in a thin, filmy glaze; and gradually the blurriness of her perceptions merged waking and dreaming into something very like each other … a dangerous condition to get into, Padma. Not only does your work suffer but things start escaping from your dreams … Joseph D’Costa had, in fact, managed to cross the blurred frontier, and now appeared in Buckingham Villa not as a nightmare, but as a full-fledged ghost. Visible (at this time) only to Mary Pereira, he began haunting her in all the rooms of our home, which, to her horror and shame, he treated as casually as if it were his own. She saw him in the drawing-room amongst cut-glass vases and Dresden figurines and the rotating shadows of ceiling-fans, lounging in soft armchairs with his long raggedy legs sprawling over the arms; his eyes were filled up with egg-whites and there were holes in his feet where the snake had bitten him. Once she saw him in Amina Begum’s bed in the afternoon, lying down cool as a cucumber right next to my sleeping mother, and she burst out, “Hey, you! Go on out from there! What do you think, you’re some sort of lord?”—but she only succeeded in awaking my puzzled mother. Joseph’s ghost plagued Mary wordlessly; and the worst of it was that she found herself growing accustomed to him, she found forgotten sensations of fondness nudging at her insides, and although she told herself it was a crazy thing to do she began to be filled with a kind of nostalgic love for the spirit of the dead hospital porter.

  But the love was not returned; Joseph’s egg-white eyes remained expressionless; his lips remained set in an accusing, sardonic grin; and at last she realized that this new manifestation was no different from her old dream-Joseph (although it never assaulted her), and that if she was ever to be free of him she would have to do the unthinkable thing and confess her crime to the world. But she didn’t confess, which was probably my fault—because Mary loved me like her own unconceived and inconceivable son, and to make her confession would have hurt me badly, so for my sake she suffered the ghost of her conscience and stood haunted in the kitchen (my father had sacked the cook one djinn-soaked evening) cooking our dinner and becoming, accidentally, the embodiment of the opening line of my Latin textbook, Ora Maritima: “By the side of the sea, the ayah cooked the meal.” Ora Maritima, ancilla cenam parat. Look into the eyes of a cooking ayah, and you will see more than textbooks ever know.

  On my tenth birthday, many chickens were coming home to roost.

  On my tenth birthday, it was clear that the freak weather—storms, floods, hailstones from a cloudless sky—which had succeeded the intolerable heat of 1956, had managed to wreck the second Five Year Plan. The government had been forced—although the elections were just around the corner—to announce to the world that it could accept no more development loans unless the lenders were willing to wait indefinitely for repayment. (But let me not overstate the case: although the production of finished steel reached only 2.4 million tons by the Plan’s end in 1961, and although, during those five years, the number of landless and unemployed masses actually increased, so that it was greater than it had ever been under the British Raj, there were also substantial gains. The production of iron ore was almost doubled; power capacity did double; coal production leaped from thirty-eight million to fifty-four million tons. Five billion yards of cotton textiles were produced each year. Also large numbers of bicycles, machine tools, diesel engines, power pumps and ceiling-fans. But I can’t help ending on a downbeat: illiteracy survived unscathed; the population continued to mushroom.)

  On my tenth birthday, we were visited by my uncle Hanif, who made himself excessively unpopular at Methwold’s Estate by booming cheerily, “Elections coming! Watch out for the Communists!”

  On my tenth birthday, when my uncle Hanif made his gaffe, my mother (who had begun disappearing on mysterious “shopping trips”) dramatically and unaccountably blushed.

  On my tenth birthday, I was given an Alsatian puppy with a false pedigree who would shortly die of syphilis.

  On my tenth birthday, everyone at Methwold’s Estate tried hard to be cheerful, but beneath this thin veneer everyone was possessed by the same thought: “Ten years, my God! Where have they gone? What have we done?”

  On my tenth birthday, old man Ibrahim announced his support for the Maha Gujarat Parishad; as far as possession of the city of Bombay was concerned, he nailed his colors to
the losing side.

  On my tenth birthday, my suspicions aroused by a blush, I spied on my mother’s thoughts; and what I saw there led to my beginning to follow her, to my becoming a private eye as daring as Bombay’s legendary Dom Minto, and to important discoveries at and in the vicinity of the Pioneer Café.

  On my tenth birthday, I had a party, which was attended by my family, which had forgotten how to be gay, by classmates from the Cathedral School, who had been sent by their parents, and by a number of mildly bored girl swimmers from the Breach Candy Pools, who permitted the Brass Monkey to fool around with them and pinch their bulging musculatures; as for adults, there were Mary and Alice Pereira, and the Ibrahims and Homi Catrack and Uncle Hanif and Pia Aunty, and Lila Sabarmati to whom the eyes of every schoolboy (and also Homi Catrack) remained firmly glued, to the considerable irritation of Pia. But the only member of the hilltop gang to attend was loyal Sonny Ibrahim, who had defied an embargo placed upon the festivities by an embittered Evie Burns. He gave me a message: “Evie says to tell you you’re out of the gang.”

  On my tenth birthday, Evie, Eyeslice, Hairoil and even Cyrus-the-great stormed my private hiding-place; they occupied the clocktower, and deprived me of its shelter.

  On my tenth birthday, Sonny looked upset, and the Brass Monkey detached herself from her swimmers and became utterly furious with Evie Burns. “I’ll teach her,” she told me. “Don’t you worry, big brother; I’ll show that one, all right.”

  On my tenth birthday, abandoned by one set of children, I learned that five hundred and eighty-one others were celebrating their birthdays, too; which was how I understood the secret of my original hour of birth; and, having been expelled from one gang, I decided to form my own, a gang which was spread over the length and breadth of the country, and whose headquarters were behind my eyebrows.