Midnights Children

“The little men should stay. It is their future, after all.” The little men, frightened but also proud, sat and stayed mum, following orders.
    Just men now. A change in the roundhead’s face; something darker, something mottled and desperate has occupied it … “Twelve months ago,” he says, “I spoke to all of you. Give the politicians one year—is that not what I said?” Heads nod; murmurs of assent. “Gentlemen, we have given them a year; the situation has become intolerable, and I am not prepared to tolerate it any longer!” Gongs-and-pips assume stern, statesman-like expressions. Jaws are set, eyes gaze keenly into the future. “Tonight, therefore,”—yes! I was there! A few yards from him!—General Ayub and I, myself and old Ayub Khan!—“I am assuming control of the State.”
    How do eleven-year-olds react to the announcement of a coup? Hearing the words, “… national finances in frightening disarray … corruption and impurity are everywhere …” do their jaws stiffen, too? Do their eyes focus on brighter tomorrows? Eleven-year-olds listen as a General cries, “The Constitution is hereby abrogated! Central and Provincial legislatures are dissolved! Political parties are forthwith abolished!”—how do you think they feel?
    When General Ayub Khan said, “Martial Law is now imposed,” both cousin Zafar and I understood that his voice—that voice filled with power and decision and the rich timbre of my aunt’s finest cooking—was speaking a thing for which we knew only one word: treason. I’m proud to say I kept my head; but Zafar lost control of a more embarrassing organ. Moisture stained his trouser-fronts; the yellow moisture of fear trickled down his leg to stain Persian carpets; gongs-and-pips smelled something, and turned upon him with looks of infinite distaste; and then (worst of all) came laughter.
    General Zulfikar had just begun saying, “If you permit, sir, I shall map out tonight’s procedures,” when his son wet his pants. In cold fury my uncle hurled his son from the room; “Pimp! Woman!” followed Zafar out of the dining-chamber, in his father’s thin sharp voice; “Coward! Homosexual! Hindu!” leaped from Punchinello-face to chase his son up the stairs … Zulfikar’s eyes settled on me. There was a plea in them.
Save the honor of the family. Redeem me from the incontinence of my son
. “You, boy!” my uncle said, “You want to come up here and help me?”
    Of course, I nodded. Proving my manhood, my fitness for sonship, I assisted my uncle as he made the revolution. And in so doing, in earning his gratitude, in stilling the sniggers of the assembled gongs-and-pips, I created a new father for myself; General Zulfikar became the latest in the line of men who have been willing to call me “sonny,” or “sonny Jim,” or even simply “my son.”
    How we made the revolution: General Zulfikar described troop movements; I moved pepperpots symbolically while he spoke. In the clutches of the active-metaphorical mode of connection, I shifted saltcellars and bowls of chutney: This mustard-jar is Company A occupying Head Post Office; there are two pepperpots surrounding a serving-spoon, which means Company B has seized the airport. With the fate of the nation in my hands, I shifted condiments and cutlery, capturing empty biriani-dishes with water-glasses, stationing saltcellars, on guard, around water-jugs. And when General Zulfikar stopped talking, the march of the table-service also came to an end. Ayub Khan seemed to settle down in his chair; was the wink he gave me just my imagination?—at any rate, the Commander-in-Chief said, “Very good, Zulfikar; good show.”
    In the movements performed by pepperpots etcetera, one table-ornament remained uncaptured: a cream-jug in solid silver, which, in our tabletop coup, represented the Head of State, President Iskander Mirza; for three weeks, Mirza remained President.
    An eleven-year-old boy cannot judge whether a President is truly corrupt, even if gongs-and-pips say he is; it is not for eleven-year-olds to say whether Mirza’s association with the feeble Republican Party should have disqualified him from high office under the new régime. Saleem Sinai made no political judgments; but when, inevitably at midnight, on November 1st, my uncle shook me awake and whispered, “Come on, sonny, it’s time you got a taste of the real thing!,” I leaped out of bed smartly; I dressed and went out into the night,