Midnights Children

baths, to change my vinegar-stained clothes, to abandon even for a moment this darkling pickle-factory where the smells of spices are forever frothing in the air … now my dung goddess simply makes up a cot in the corner of this office and prepares my food on two blackened gas-rings, only interrupting my Anglepoise-lit writing to expostulate, “You better get a move on or you’ll die before you get yourself born.” Fighting down the proper pride of the successful storyteller, I attempt to educate her. “Things—even people—have a way of leaking into each other,” I explain, “like flavors when you cook. Ilse Lubin’s suicide, for example, leaked into old Aadam and sat there in a puddle until he saw God. Likewise,” I intone earnestly, “the past has dripped into me … so we can’t ignore it …” Her shrug, which does pleasantly wavy things to her chest, cuts me off. “To me it’s a crazy way of telling your life-story,” she cries, “if you can’t even get to where your father met your mother.”
    … And certainly Padma is leaking into me. As history pours out of my fissured body, my lotus is quietly dripping in, with her down-to-earthery, and her paradoxical superstition, her contradictory love of the fabulous—so it’s appropriate that I’m about to tell the story of the death of Mian Abdullah. The doomed Hummingbird: a legend of our times.
    … And Padma is a generous woman, because she stays by me in these last days, although I can’t do much for her. That’s right—and once again, it’s a fitting thing to mention before I launch into the tale of Nadir Khan—I am unmanned. Despite Padma’s many and varied gifts and ministrations, I can’t leak into her, not even when she puts her left foot on my right, winds her right leg around my waist, inclines her head up toward mine and makes cooing noises; not even when she whispers in my ear, “So now that the writery is done, let’s see if we can make your other pencil work!”; despite everything she tries, I cannot hit her spittoon.
    Enough confessions. Bowing to the ineluctable Padma-pressures of what-happened-nextism, and remembering the finite quantity of time at my disposal, I leap forwards from Mercurochrome and land in 1942. (I’m keen to get my parents together, too.)
    It seems that in the late summer of that year my grandfather, Doctor Aadam Aziz, contracted a highly dangerous form of optimism. Bicycling around Agra, he whistled piercingly, badly, but very happily. He was by no means alone, because, despite strenuous efforts by the authorities to stamp it out, this virulent disease had been breaking out all over India that year, and drastic steps were to be taken before it was brought under control. The old men at the paan-shop at the top of Cornwallis Road chewed betel and suspected a trick. “I have lived twice as long as I should have,” the oldest one said, his voice crackling like an old radio because decades were rubbing up against each other around his vocal chords, “and I’ve never seen so many people so cheerful in such a bad time. It is the Devil’s work.” It was, indeed, a resilient virus—the weather alone should have discouraged such germs from breeding, since it had become clear that the rains had failed. The earth was cracking. Dust ate the edges of roads, and on some days huge gaping fissures appeared in the midst of macadamed intersections. The betel-chewers at the paan-shop had begun to talk about omens; calming themselves with their game of hit-the-spittoon, they speculated upon the numberless nameless Godknowswhats that might now issue from the Assuring earth. Apparently a Sikh from the bicycle-repair shop had had his turban pushed off his head in the heat of one afternoon, when his hair, without any reason, had suddenly stood on end. And, more prosaically, the water shortage had reached the point where milkmen could no longer find clean water with which to adulterate the milk … Far away, there was a World War in progress once again. In Agra, the heat mounted. But still my grandfather whistled. The old men at the paan-shop found his whistling in rather poor taste, given the circumstances.
    (And I, like them, expectorate and rise above fissures.)
    Astride his bicycle, leather attaché attached to carrier, my grandfather whistled. Despite irritations of the nose, his lips pursed. Despite a bruise on his chest which had refused to fade for twenty-three years, his good humor was unimpaired. Air