Midnights Children

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 dhobibundle 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.” And 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.
    Imagine, if you can, my sudden joy; imagine with what speed the nightmare fled from my thoughts, as I nestled against my extraordinary aunt’s petticoats! As she re-arranged herself, to get comfortable, and one golden melon caressed my cheek! As Pia’s hand sought out mine and grasped it firmly … now I discharged my duty. When my aunt’s hand wrapped itself around mine, paper passed from palm to palm. I felt her stiffen, silently; then, although I snuggled up closer closer closer, she was lost to me; she was reading in the dark, and the stiffness of her body was increasing; and then suddenly I knew that I had been tricked, that Catrack was my enemy; and only the threat of policemen prevented me from telling my uncle.
    (At school, the next day, I was told of Jimmy Kapadia’s tragic death, suddenly at home, of a heart seizure. It is possible to kill a human being by dreaming his death? My mother always said so; and, in that case, Jimmy Kapadia was my first murder victim. Homi Catrack was to be the next.)
    When I returned from my first day back at school, having basked in the unusual sheepishness of Fat Perce and Glandy Keith (“Lissen, yaar, how did we know your finger was in the … hey, man, we got free tickets for a picture tomorrow, you want to come?”) and my equally unexpected popularity (“No more Zagallo! Solid, man! You really lost your hair for something good!”), Aunty Pia was out. I sat quietly with Uncle Hanif while, in the kitchen, Mary Pereira prepared