Midnights Children

ripped off by a sharp, violent hand; but the remedy only served to exacerbate the ailment.
    “He has become like a child again, whatsitsname,” Reverend Mother told my grandfather’s children, “and Hanif has finished him off.” She warned us that he had begun to see things. “He talks to people who are not there,” she whispered loudly while he wandered through the room sucking his teeth, “How he calls out, whatsitsname! In the middle of the night!” And she mimicked him: “Ho, Tai? Is it you?” She told us children about the boatman, and the Hummingbird, and the Rani of Cooch Naheen. “Poor man has lived too long, whatsitsname; no father should see his son die first.” … And Amina, listening, shook her head in sympathy, not knowing that Aadam Aziz would leave her this legacy—that she, too, in her last days, would be visited by things which had no business to return.
    We could not use the ceiling-fans for the dust; perspiration ran down the face of my stricken grandfather and left streaks of mud on his cheeks. Sometimes he would grab anyone who was near him and speak with utter lucidity: “These Nehrus will not be happy until they have made themselves hereditary kings!” Or, dribbling into the face of a squirming General Zulfikar: “Ah, unhappy Pakistan! How ill-served by her rulers!” But at other times he seemed to imagine himself in a gemstone store, and muttered, “… Yes: there were emeralds and rubies …” The Monkey whispered to me, “Is grandpa going to die?”
    What leaked into me from Aadam Aziz: a certain vulnerability to women, but also its cause, the hole at the center of himself caused by his (which is also my) failure to believe or disbelieve in God. And something else as well—something which, at the age of eleven, I saw before anyone else noticed. My grandfather had begun to crack.
    “In the head?” Padma asks, “You mean in the upper storey?”
    The boatman Tai said: “The ice is always waiting, Aadam baba, just under the water’s skin
.” I saw the cracks in his eyes—a delicate tracery of colorless lines against the blue; I saw a network of fissures spreading beneath his leathery skin; and I answered the Monkey’s question: “I think he is.” Before the end of the forty-day mourning period, my grandfather’s skin had begun to split and flake and peel; he could hardly open his mouth to eat because of the cuts in the corners of his lips; and his teeth began to drop like Flitted flies. But a crack-death can be slow; and it was a long time before we knew about the other cracks, about the disease which was nibbling at his bones, so that finally his skeleton disintegrated into powder inside the weatherbeaten sack of his skin.
    Padma is looking suddenly panicky. “What are you saying? You, mister: are you telling that you also … what nameless thing can eat up any man’s
bones?
Is it …”
    No time to pause now; no time for sympathy or panic; I have already gone further than I should. Retreating a little in time, I must mention that something also leaked into Aadam Aziz from me; because on the twenty-third day of the mourning period, he asked the entire family to assemble in the same room of glass vases (no need to hide them from my uncle now) and cushions and immobilized fans, the same room in which I had announced visions of my own … Reverend Mother had said, “He has become like a child again”; like a child, my grandfather announced that, three weeks after he had heard of the death of a son whom he had believed to be alive and well, he had seen with his own eyes the God in whose death he had tried all his life to believe. And, like a child, he was not believed. Except by one person … “Yes, listen,” my grandfather said, his voice a weak imitation of his old booming tones, “Yes, Rani? You are here? And Abdullah? Come, sit, Nadir, this is news—where is Ahmed? Alia will want him here … God, my children; God whom I fought all my life. Oskar? Ilse?—No, of course I know they are dead. You think I’m old, maybe foolish; but I have seen God.” And the story, slowly, despite rambles and diversions, comes inching out: at midnight, my grandfather awoke in his darkened room. Someone else present—someone who was not his wife. Reverend Mother, snoring in her bed. But someone. Someone with shining dust on him, lit by the setting moon. And Aadam Aziz, “Ho, Tai? Is it you?” And Reverend Mother, mumbling in her sleep, “O, sleep, husband, forget