Midnights Children

enlarged nose, a completely non-existent chin and giant stains on each temple. It’s no wonder that I was often greeted by yelps of mental alarm. I, too, was often similarly frightened by the self-images of my ten-year-old fellows. When we discovered what was happening, I encouraged the membership of the Conference, one by one, to go and look into a mirror, or a patch of still water; and then we did manage to find out what we really looked like. The only problems were that our Keralan member (who could, you remember, travel through mirrors) accidentally ended up emerging through a restaurant mirror in the smarter part of New Delhi, and had to make a hurried retreat; while the blue-eyed member for Kashmir fell into a lake and accidentally changed sex, entering as a girl and emerging as a beautiful boy.
    When I first introduced myself to Shiva, I saw in his mind the terrifying image of a short, rat-faced youth with filed-down teeth and two of the biggest knees the world has ever seen.
    Faced with a picture of such grotesque proportions, I allowed the smile on my own beaming image to wither a little; my outstretched hand began to falter and twitch. And Shiva, feeling my presence, reacted at first with utter rage; great boiling waves of anger scalded the inside of my head; but then, “Hey—look—I know you! You’re the rich kid from Methwold’s Estate, isn’t it?” And I, equally astonished, “Winkie’s son—the one who blinded Eyeslice!” His self-image puffed up with pride. “Yah, yaar, that’s me. Nobody messes with me, man!” Recognition reduced me to banalities: “So! How’s your father, anyway? He doesn’t come round …” And he, with what felt very like relief: “Him, man? My father’s dead.”
    A momentary pause; then puzzlement—no anger now—and Shiva, “Lissen, yaar, this is damn good—how you doin’ it?” I launched into my standard explanation, but after a few instants he interrupted, “So! Lissen, my father said I got born at exactly midnight also—so don’t you see, that makes us joint bosses of this gang of yours! Midnight is best, agreed? So—those other kids gotta do like we tell them!” There rose before my eyes the image of a second, and more potent, Evelyn Lilith Burns … dismissing this unkind notion, I explained, “That wasn’t exactly my idea for the Conference; I had in mind something more like a, you know, sort of loose federation of equals, all points of view given free expression …” Something resembling a violent snort echoed around the walls of my head. “That, man, that’s only rubbish. What we ever goin’ to do with a gang like that? Gangs gotta have gang bosses. You take me—” (the puff of pride again) “I been running a gang up here in Matunga for two years now. Since I was eight. Older kids and all. What d’you think of that?” And I, without meaning to, “What’s it do, your gang—does it have rules and all?” Shiva laughter in my ears … “Yah, little rich boy: one rule. Everybody does what I say or I squeeze the shit outa them with my knees!” Desperately, I continued to try and win Shiva round to my point of view: “The thing is, we must be here for a
purpose
, don’t you think? I mean, there has to be a
reason
, you must agree? So what I thought, we should try and work out what it is, and then, you know, sort of dedicate our lives to …” “Rich kid,” Shiva yelled, “you don’t know one damn thing! What
purpose
, man? What thing in the whole sister-sleeping world got
reason
, yara? For what reason you’re rich and I’m poor? Where’s the reason in starving, man? God knows how many millions of damn fools living in this country, man, and you think there’s a purpose! Man, I’ll tell you—you got to get what you can, do what you can with it, and then you got to die. That’s reason, rich boy. Everything else is only mother-sleeping
wind
!”
    And now I, in my midnight bed, begin to shake … “But history,” I say, “and the Prime Minister wrote me a letter … and don’t you even believe in … who knows what we might …” He, my alter ego, Shiva, butted in: “Lissen, little boy—you’re so fall of crazy stuff, I can see I’m going to have to take this thing over. You tell that to all these other freak kids!”
    Nose and knees and knees and nose … the rivalry that began that night would never be ended, until two knives slashed, downdowndown … whether the spirits of Mian Abdullah, whom knives killed