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

ad learned that secrets were not always a bad thing.
But imagine the confusion inside my head! Where, behind the hideous face,
above the tongue tasting of soap, hard by the perforated eardrum, lurked a
not very tidy mind, as full of bric a brac as nine year old pockets… imag
ine yourself inside me somehow, looking out through my eyes, hearing the n
oise, the voices, and now the obligation of not letting people know, the h
ardest part was acting surprised, such as when my mother said Hey Saleem g
uess what we're going for a picnic to the Aarey Milk Colony and I had to g
o Ooo, exciting!, when I had known all along because I had heard her unspo
ken inner voice And on my birthday seeing all the presents in the donors'
minds before they were even unwrapped And the treasure hunt ruined because
there in my father's head was the location of each clue every prize And m
uch harder things such as going to see my father in his ground floor offic
e, here we are, and the moment I'm in there my head is full of godknowswha
t rot because he's thinking about his secretary, Alice or Fernanda, his la
test Coca Cola girl, he's undressing her slowly in his head and it's in my
head too, she's sitting stark naked on a cane bottomed chair and now gett
ing up, crisscross marks all across her rump, that's my father thinking, m
y father, now he's looking at me all funny What's the matter son don't you
feel well Yes fine Abba fine, must go now GOT TO GET AWAY homework to do,
Abba, and out, run away before he sees the clue on your face (my father a
lways said that when I was lying there was a red light flashing on my fore
head)… You see how hard it is, my uncle Hanif comes to take me to the wres
tling, and even before we've arrived at Vallabhbai Patel Stadium on Hornby
Vellard I'm feeling sad We're walking with the crowds past giant cardboar
d cut outs of Dara Singh and Tagra Baba and the rest and his sadness, my f
avourite uncle's sadness is pouring into me, it lives like a lizard just b
eneath the hedge of his jollity, concealed by his booming laugh which was
once the laugh of the boatman Tai, we're sitting in excellent seats as floodlights dance
stlers and I am caught in the unbreakable grip of my uncle's grief, the gri
ef of his failing film career, flop after flop, he'll probably never get a
film again But I mustn't let the sadness leak out of my eyes He's butting i
nto my thoughts, hey phaelwan, hey little wrestler, what's dragging your fa
ce down, it looks longer than a bad movie, you want channa? pakoras? what?
And me shaking my head, No, nothing, Hanif mamu, so that he relaxes, turns
away, starts yelling Ohe come on Dara, that's the ticket, give him hell, Da
ra yara! And back home my mother squatting in the corridor with the ice cre
am tub, saying with her real outside voice, You want to help me make it, so
n, your favourite pistachio flavour, and I'm turning the handle, but her in
side voice is bouncing against the inside of my head, I can see how she's t
rying to fill up every nook and cranny of her thoughts with everyday things