Midnights Children

taste of the chutney was more than just an echo of that long-ago taste—it was the old taste itself, the very same, with the power of bringing back the past as if it had never been away … in a frenzy of excitement, I grabbed the blind waitress by the arm; scarcely able to contain myself, I blurted out: “The chutney! Who made it?” I must have shouted, because Picture, “Quiet, captain, you’ll wake the boy … and what’s the matter? You look like you saw your worst enemy’s ghost!” And the blind waitress, a little coldly: “You don’t like the chutney?” I had to hold back an almighty bellow. “I like it,” I said in a voice caged in bars of steel, “I
like
it—now will you tell me where it’s from?” And she, alarmed, anxious to get away: “It’s Braganza Pickle; best in Bombay, everyone knows.”
    I made her bring me the jar; and there, on the label, was the address: of a building with a winking, saffron-and-green neon goddess over the gate, a factory watched over by neon Mumbadevi, while local trains went yellow-and-browning past: Braganza Pickles (Private) Ltd., in the sprawling north of the town.
    Once again an abracadabra, an open-sesame: words printed on a chutney-jar, opening the last door of my life … I was seized by an irresistible determination to track down the maker of that impossible chutney of memory, and said, “Pictureji, I must go …”
    I do not know the end of the story of Picture Singh; he refused to accompany me on my quest, and I saw in his eyes that the efforts of his struggle had broken something inside him, that his victory was, in fact, a defeat; but whether he is still in Bombay (perhaps working for Mr. Shroff), or back with his washerwoman; whether he is still alive or not, I am not able to say … “How can I leave you?” I asked, desperately, but he replied, “Don’t be a fool, captain; you have something you must do, then there is nothing to do but do it. Go, go, what do I want with you? Like old Resham told you: go, go quickly, go!”
    Taking Aadam with me, I went.
    Journey’s end: from the underworld of the blind waitresses, I walked north north north, holding my son in my arms; and came at last to where flies are gobbled by lizards, and vats bubble, and strong-armed women tell bawdy jokes; to this world of sharp-lipped overseers with conical breasts, and the all-pervasive clank of pickle-jars from the bottling-plant … and who, at the end of my road, planted herself in front of me, arms akimbo, hair glistening with perspiration on the forearms? Who, direct as ever, demanded, “You, mister: what you want?”
    “Me!” Padma is yelling, excited and a little embarrassed by the memory. “Of course, who else? Me me me!”
    “Good afternoon, Begum,” I said. (Padma interjects: “O you—always so polite and all!”) “Good afternoon; may I speak to the manager?”
    O grim, defensive, obstinate Padma! “Not possible, Manager Begum is busy. You must make appointment, come back later, so please go away just now.”
    Listen: I would have stayed, persuaded, bullied, even used force to get past my Padma’s arms; but there was a cry from the catwalk—this catwalk, Padma, outside the offices!—the catwalk from which someone whom I have not been willing to name until now was looking down, across gigantic picklevats and simmering chutneys—someone rushing down clattering metal steps, shrieking at the top of her voice:
    “O my God, O my God, O Jesus sweet Jesus, baba, my son, look who’s come here, arré baba, don’t you see me, look how thin you got, come, come, let me kiss you, let me give you cake!”
    Just as I had guessed, the Manager Begum of Braganza Pickles (Private) Ltd., who called herself Mrs. Braganza, was of course my erstwhile ayah, the criminal of midnight, Miss Mary Pereira, the only mother I had left in the world.
    Midnight, or thereabouts. A man carrying a folded (and intact) black umbrella walks towards my window from the direction of the railway tracks, stops, squats, shits. Then sees me silhouetted against light and, instead of taking offense at my voyeurism, calls: “Watch this!” and proceeds to extrude the longest turd I have ever seen. “Fifteen inches!” he calls, “How long can you make yours?” Once, when I was more energetic, I would have wanted to tell his life-story; the hour, and his possession of an umbrella, would have been all the connections I needed to begin the process of weaving him into my life, and I have