Salman Rushdie Midnight's children Salman Rushdie Midnight's ...

s tight; and by the time the roof fell in on her head her eyesight was badly
impaired; but she could still see the washing chest.
What was really at the bottom of my mother's guilt? I mean really, beneath
verrucas and djinns and confessions? It was an unspeakable malaise, an af
fliction which could not even be named, and which no longer confined itsel
f to dreams of an underworld husband… my mother had fallen (as my father w
ould soon fall) under the spell of the telephone.
In the afternoons of that summer, afternoons as hot as towels, the telephon
e would ring. When Ahmed Sinai was asleep in his room, with his keys under
his pillow and umbilical cords in his almirah, telephonic shrilling penetra
ted the buzzing of the heat insects; and my mother, verruca hobbled, came i
nto the hall to answer. And now, what expression is this, staining her face
the colour of drying blood?… Not knowing that she's being observed, what f
ish like flutterings of lips are these, what strangulated mouthings?… And w
hy, after listening for a full five minutes, does my mother say, in a voice
like broken glass, 'Sorry: wrong number'? Why are diamonds glistening on h
er eyelids?… The Brass Monkey whispered to me, 'Next time it rings, let's f
ind out.'
Five days later. Once more it is afternoon; but today Amina is away, visit
ing Nussie the duck, when the telephone demands attention. 'Quick! Quick o
r it'll wake him!' The Monkey, agile as her name, picks up the receiver be
fore Ahmed Sinai has even changed the pattern of his snoring… 'Hullo? Yaas
? This is seven zero five six one; hullo?' We listen, every nerve on edge;
but for a moment there is nothing at all. Then, when we're about to give
up, the voice comes. '… Oh… yes… hullo…' And the Monkey, shouting almost,
'Hullo? Who is it, please?' Silence again; the voice, which has not been a
ble to prevent itself from speaking, considers its answer; and then, '… Hu
llo… This is Shanti Prasad Truck Hire Company, please?…' And the Monkey, q
uick as a flash: 'Yes, what d'you want?' Another pause; the voice, soundin
g embarrassed, apologetic almost, says, 'I want to rent a truck.'
? feeble excuse of telephonic voice! ? transparent flummery of ghosts! The
voice on the phone was no truck renter's voice; it was soft, a little flesh
y, the voice of a poet… but after that, the telephone rang regularly; somet
imes my mother answered it, listened in silence while her mouth made fish m
otions, and finally, much too late, said, 'Sorry, wrong number'; at other t
imes the Monkey and I clustered around it, two ears to earpiece, while the
Monkey took orders for trucks. I wondered: 'Hey, Monkey, what d'you think?
Doesn't the guy ever wonder why the trucks don't arrive?' And she, wide eye
d, flutter voiced: 'Man, do you suppose… maybe they do!'
But I couldn't see how; and a tiny seed of suspicion was planted in me, a t
iny glimmering of a notion that our mother might have a secret our Amma! Wh