Midnights Children

after this”—“Menon? Don’t talk to me about Krishna. I knew him when he had principles. I, myself, have never abandoned …” “… Ohé, 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 color and noise of Marine Drive: promenaders with dogs, buying chambeli and channa from hawkers; the cries of beggars and bhel-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 rumors, the city at my back and the crowding, chattering 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 that on hot evenings the tops of his ears were discolored 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
éminence 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.)