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

Ibrahim who is sitting next to and in love with the Brass Monkey who is sit
ting next to the aisle and feeling starving hungry… I loved Evie for perhap
s six months of my life; two years later, she was back in America, knifing
an old woman and being sent to reform school.
A brief expression of my gratitude is in order at this point: if Evie had
not come to live amongst us, my story might never have progressed beyond t
ourism in a clocktower and cheating in class… and then there would have be
en no climax in a widows' hostel, no clear proof of my meaning, no coda in
a fuming factory over which there presides the winking, saffron and green
dancing figure of the neon goddess Mumbadevi. But Evie Burns (was she sna
ke or ladder? The answer's obvious: both) did come, complete with the silv
er bicycle which enabled me not only to discover the midnight children, bu
t also to ensure the partition of the state of Bombay.
To begin at the beginning: her hair was made of scarecrow straw, her skin w
as peppered with freckles and her teeth lived in a metal cage. These teeth
were, it seemed, the only things on earth over which she was powerless they
grew wild, in malicious crazy paving overlaps, and stung her dreadfully wh
en she ate ice cream. (I permit myself this one generalization: Americans h
ave mastered the universe, but have no dominion over their mouths; whereas
India is impotent, but her children tend to have excellent teeth.)
Racked by toothaches, my Evie rose magnificently above the pain. Refusing
to be ruled by bone and gums, she ate cake and drank Coke whenever they we
re going; and never complained. A tough kid, Evie Burns: her conquest of s
uffering confirmed her sovereignty over us all. It has been observed that
all Americans need a frontier: pain was hers, and she was determined to pu
sh it out.
Once, I shyly gave her a necklace of flowers (queen of the night for my lily
of the eve), bought with my own pocket money from a hawker woman at Scandal
Point. 'I don't wear flowers,' Evelyn Lilith said, and tossed the unwanted
chain into the air, spearing it before it fell with a pellet from her unerri
ng Daisy air pistol. Destroying flowers with a Daisy, she served notice that
she was not to be manacled, not even by a necklace: she was our capricious,
whirligig Lill of the Hill. And also Eve. The Adam's apple of my eye.
How she arrived: Sonny Ibrahim, Eyeslice and Hairoil Sabarmati, Cyrus Duba
sh, the Monkey and I were playing French cricket in the circus ring betwee
n Methwold's four palaces. A New Year's Day game: Toxy clapping at her bar
red window; even Bi Appah was in good humour and not, for once, abusing us
. Cricket even French cricket, and even when played by children is a quiet
game: peace anointed in linseed oil. The kissing of leather and willow; s
prinkled applause; the occasional cry 'Shot! Shot, sir!' 'Owzatt??' but Ev
ie on her bicycle was having none of that.
'Hey, you! Alia you! Hey, whassamatter? You all deaf or what?'