Midnights Children

into town, its heroes following the magicians; among them, I learned afterwards, was that colossus of the war, the rat-faced Major with the lethal knees … but now there were still more illusionists, because the surviving prestidigitators of the city came out of hiding and began a wonderful contest, seeking to outdo anything and everything the visiting magicians had to offer, and the pain of the city was washed and soothed in the great glad outpouring of their magic. Then Parvati-the-witch saw me, and gave me back my name.
    “Saleem! O my god Saleem, you Saleem Sinai, is it you Saleem?”
    The buddha jerks, puppet-fashion. Crowd-eyes staring. Parvati pushing towards him. “Listen, it must be you!” She is gripping his elbow. Saucer eyes searching milky blue. “My God, that nose, I’m not being rude, but of course! Look, it’s me, Parvati! O Saleem, don’t be stupid now, come on come on … !”
    “That’s it,” the buddha says. “Saleem: that was it.”
    “O God, too much excitement!” she cries. “Arré baap, Saleem, you remember—the Children, yaar, O this is too good! So why are you looking so serious when I feel like to hug you to pieces? So many years I only saw you inside here,” she taps her forehead, “and now you’re here with a face like a fish. Hey, Saleem! Come on, say one hullo at least.”
    On December 15th, 1971, Tiger Niazi surrendered to Sam Manekshaw; the Tiger and ninety-three thousand Pakistani troops became prisoners of war. I, meanwhile, became the willing captive of the Indian magicians, because Parvati dragged me into the procession with, “Now that I’ve found you I’m not letting you go.”
    That night, Sam and the Tiger drank chota pegs and reminisced about the old days in the British Army. “I say, Tiger,” Sam Manekshaw said, “You behaved jolly decently by surrendering.” And the Tiger, “Sam, you fought one hell of a war.” A tiny cloud passes across the face of General Sam, “Listen, old sport: one hears such damn awful lies. Slaughters, old boy, mass graves, special units called CUTIA or some damn thing, developed for purposes of rooting out opposition … no truth in it, I suppose?” And the Tiger, “Canine Unit for Tracking and Intelligence Activities? Never heard of it. Must’ve been misled, old man. Some damn bad intelligence-wallahs on both sides. No, ridiculous, damn ridiculous, if you don’t mind me saying.” “Thought as much,” says General Sam, “I say, bloody fine to see you, Tiger, you old devil!” And the Tiger, “Been years, eh, Sam? Too damn long.”
    … While old friends sang “Auld Lang Syne” in officers’ messes, I made my escape from Bangladesh, from my Pakistani years. “I’ll get you out,” Parvati said, after I explained. “You want it secret secret?”
    I nodded. “Secret secret.”
    Elsewhere in the city, ninety-three thousand soldiers were preparing to be carted off to P.O.W. camps; but Parvati-the-witch made me climb into a wicker basket with a close-fitting lid. Sam Manekshaw was obliged to place his old friend the Tiger under protective custody; but Parvati-the-witch assured me, “This way they’ll never catch.”
    Behind an army barracks where the magicians were awaiting their transport back to Delhi, Picture Singh, the Most Charming Man In The World, stood guard when, that evening, I climbed into the basket of invisibility. We loitered casually, smoking biris, waiting until there were no soldiers in sight, while Picture Singh told me about his name. Twenty years ago, an Eastman-Kodak photographer had taken his portrait—which, wreathed in smiles and snakes, afterwards appeared on half the Kodak advertisements and in-store displays in India; ever since when the snake-charmer had adopted his present cognomen. “What do you think, captain?” he bellowed amiably. “A fine name, isn’t it so? Captain, what to do, I can’t even remember what name I used to have, from before, the name my mother-father gave me! Pretty stupid, hey, captain?” But Picture Singh was not stupid; and there was much more to him than charm. Suddenly his voice lost its casual, sleepy good-nature; he whispered, “Now! Now, captain, ek dum, double-quick time!” Parvati whipped lid away from wicker; I dived head first into her cryptic basket. The lid, returning, blocked out the day’s last light.
    Picture Singh whispered, “Okay, captain—damn good!” And Parvati bent down close to me; her lips must have been against the