Midnights Children

this is India in the heyday of the Mahatma, when even language obeys the instructions of Gandhiji, and the word has acquired, under his influence, new resonances.
Hartal—April 7
, agree mosque newspaper wall and pamphlet, because Gandhi has decreed that the whole of India shall, on that day, come to a halt. To mourn, in peace, the continuing presence of the British.
    “I do not understand this hartal when nobody is dead,” Naseem is crying softly. “Why will the train not run? How long are we stuck for?”
    Doctor Aziz notices a soldierly young man in the street, and thinks—the Indians have fought for the British; so many of them have seen the world by now, and been tainted by Abroad. They will not easily go back to the old world. The British are wrong to try and turn back the clock. “It was a mistake to pass the Rowlatt Act,” he murmurs.
    “What rowlatt?” wails Naseem. “This is nonsense where I’m concerned!”
    “Against political agitation,” Aziz explains, and returns to his thoughts. Tai once said: “Kashmiris are different. Cowards, for instance. Put a gun in a Kashmiri’s hand and it will have to go off by itself—he’ll never dare to pull the trigger. We are not like Indians, always making battles.” Aziz, with Tai in his head, does not feel Indian. Kashmir, after all, is not strictly speaking a part of the Empire, but an independent princely state. He is not sure if the hartal of pamphlet mosque wall newspaper is his fight, even though he is in occupied territory now. He turns from the window …
    … To see Naseem weeping into a pillow. She has been weeping ever since he asked her, on their second night, to move a little. “Move where?” she asked. “Move how?” He became awkward and said, “Only move, I mean, like a woman …” She shrieked in horror. “My God, what have I married? I know you Europe-returned men. You find terrible women and then you try to make us girls be like them! Listen, Doctor Sahib, husband or no husband, I am not any … bad word woman.” This was a battle my grandfather never won; and it set the tone for their marriage, which rapidly developed into a place of frequent and devastating warfare, under whose depredations the young girl behind the sheet and the gauche young Doctor turned rapidly into different, stranger beings … “What now, wife?” Aziz asks. Naseem buries her face in the pillow. “What else?” she says in muffled tones. “You, or what? You want me to walk naked in front of strange men.” (He has told her to come out of purdah.)
    He says, “Your shirt covers you from neck to wrist to knee. Your loose-pajamas hide you down to and including your ankles. What we have left are your feet and face. Wife, are your face and feet obscene?” But she wails, “They will see more than that! They will see my deep-deep shame!”
    And now an accident, which launches us into the world of Mercurochrome … Aziz, finding his temper slipping from him, drags all his wife’s purdah-veils from her suitcase, flings them into a wastepaper basket made of tin with a painting of Guru Nanak on the side, and sets fire to them. Flames leap up, taking him by surprise, licking at curtains. Aadam rushes to the door and yells for help as the cheap curtains begin to blaze … and bearers guests washerwomen stream into the room and flap at the burning fabric with dusters towels and other people’s laundry. Buckets are brought; the fire goes out; and Naseem cowers on the bed as about thirty-five Sikhs, Hindus and untouchables throng in the smoke-filled room. Finally they leave, and Naseem unleashes two sentences before clamping her lips obstinately shut.
    “You are a mad man. I want more lime water.”
    My grandfather opens the windows, turns to his bride. “The smoke will take time to go; I will take a walk. Are you coming?”
    Lips clamped; eyes squeezed, a single violent No from the head; and my grandfather goes into the streets alone. His parting shot: “Forget about being a good Kashmiri girl. Start thinking about being a modern Indian woman.”
    … While in the Cantonment area, at British Army H.Q., one Brigadier R. E. Dyer is waxing his moustache.
    It is April 7th, 1919, and in Amritsar the Mahatma’s grand design is being distorted. The shops have shut; the railway station is closed; but now rioting mobs are breaking them up. Doctor Aziz, leather bag in hand, is out in the streets, giving help wherever possible. Trampled bodies have been left where