Midnights Children

Trombay nuclear research base, she a cipher beneath whose blankness a true religious fanaticism lay concealed—but I’ll let it lie, mentioning only that they were the parents of Cyrus (who would not be conceived for a few months yet), my first mentor, who played girls’ parts in school plays and was known as Cyrus-the-great. Above them was my father’s friend Doctor Narlikar, who had bought a flat here too … he was as black as my mother; had the ability of glowing brightly whenever he became excited or aroused; hated children, even though he brought us into the world; and would unleash upon the city, when he died, that tribe of women who could do anything and in whose path no obstacle could stand. And, finally on the top floor, were Commander Sabarmati and Lila—Sabarmati who was one of the highest flyers in the Navy, and his wife with her expensive tastes; he hadn’t been able to believe his luck in getting her a home so cheaply. They had two sons, aged eighteen months and four months, who would grow up to be slow and boisterous and to be nicknamed Eyeslice and Hairoil; and they didn’t know (how could they?) that I would destroy their lives … Selected by William Methwold, these people who would form the center of my world moved into the Estate and tolerated the curious whims of the Englishman—because the price, after all, was right.
    … There are thirty days to go to the transfer of power and Lila Sabarmati is on the telephone, “How can you stand it, Nussie? In every room here there are talking budgies, and in the almirahs I find moth-eaten dresses and used brassières!” … And Nussie is telling Amina, “Goldfish, Allah, I can’t stand the creatures, but Methwold Sahib comes himself to feed … and there are half-empty pots of Bovril he says I can’t throw … it’s mad, Amina sister, what are we doing like this?” … And old man Ibrahim is refusing to switch on the ceiling-fan in his bedroom, muttering. “That machine will fall—it will slice my head off in the night—how long can something so heavy stick on a ceiling?” … and Homi Catrack who is something of an ascetic is obliged to lie on a large soft mattress, he is suffering from backache and sleeplessness and the dark rings of inbreeding around his eyes are being circled by the whorls of insomnia, and his bearer tells him, “No wonder the foreign sahibs have all gone away, sahib, they must be dying to get some sleep.” But they are all sticking it out; and there are advantages as well as problems. Listen to Lila Sabarmati (“That one—too beautiful to be good,” my mother said) … “A pianola, Amina sister! And it works! All day I’m sitting sitting, playing God knows what-all! Pale Hands I Loved Beside The Shalimar’ … such fun, too much, you just push the pedals!” … And Ahmed Sinai finds a cocktail cabinet in Buckingham Villa (which was Methwold’s own house before it was ours); he is discovering the delights of fine Scotch whiskey and cries, “So what? Mr. Methwold is a little eccentric, that’s all—can we not humor him? With our ancient civilization, can we not be as civilized as he?” … and he drains his glass at one go. Advantages and disadvantages: ‘All these dogs to look after, Nussie sister,” Lila Sabarmati complains. “I hate dogs, completely. And my little choochie cat,
cho chweet
she is I swear, terrified absolutely!” … And Doctor Narlikar, glowing with pique, “Above my bed! Pictures of children, Sinai brother! I am telling you: fat! Pink! Three! Is that fair?” … But now there are twenty days to go, things are settling down, the sharp edges of things are getting blurred, so they have all failed to notice what is happening: the Estate, Methwold’s Estate, is changing them. Every evening at six they are out in their gardens, celebrating the cocktail hour, and when William Methwold comes to call they slip effortlessly into their imitation Oxford drawls; and they are learning, about ceiling-fans and gas cookers and the correct diet for budgerigars, and Methwold, supervising their transformation, is mumbling under his breath. Listen carefully: what’s he saying? Yes, that’s it. “Sabkuch ticktock hai,” mumbles William Methwold. All is well.
    When the Bombay edition of the
Times of India
, searching for a catchy human-interest angle to the forthcoming Independence celebrations, announced that it would award a prize to any Bombay mother who could arrange to give birth to a child