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

es vanish from the mind as if they had never occurred and we had all been b
anned from going down the hill for even the tiniest of looks. So who was th
e boldest of us all? Who urged us to creep at least half way down, to the p
oint where the hillock road swung round to face Warden Road in a steep U be
nd? Who said, 'What's to be scared of? We're only going half way for a peek
'?… Wide eyed, disobedient Indians followed their freckled American chief.
(They lulled Dr Narlikar marchers did,' Hairoil warned us in a shivery voic
e. Evie spat on his shoes.)
But I, Saleem Sinai, had other fish to fry. 'Evie,' I said with quiet offhan
dedness, 'how'd you like to see me bicycling?' No response. Evie was immerse
d in the spectacle… and was that her fingerprint in Sonny Ibrahim's left for
cep hollow, embedded in Vaseline for all the world to see? A second time, an
d with slightly more emphasis, I said, 'I can do it, Evie. I'll do it on the
Monkey's cycle. You want to watch?' And now Evie, cruelly, 'I'm watching th
is. This is good. Why'd I wanna watch you? And me, a little snivelly now, 'B
ut I learned, Evie, you've got to…' Roars from Warden Road below us drown my
words. Her back is to me; and Sonny's back, the backs of Eyeslice and Hairo
il, the intellectual rear of Cyrus the great… my sister, who has seen the fi
ngerprint too, and looks displeased, eggs me on: 'Go on. Go on, show her. Wh
o's she think she is?' And up on her bike… 'I'm doing it, Evie, look!' Bicyc
ling in circles, round and round the little cluster of children, 'See? You s
ee?' A moment of exultation; and then Evie, deflating impatient couldn't car
e less; 'Willya get outa my way, fer Petesake? I wanna see lhat!' Finger, ch
ewed off nail and all, jabs down in the direction of the language march; I a
m dismissed in favour of the parade of the Samyukta Maharashtra Samiti! And
despite the Monkey, who loyally, 'That's not fair! He's doing it really good
? and in spite of the exhilaration of the thing in itself something goes hay
wire inside me; and I'm riding round Evie, fasterfasterfaster, crying sniffi
ng out of control, 'So what is it with you, anyway? What do I have to do to…
' And then something else takes over, because I realize I don't have to ask
her, I can just get inside that freckled mouth metalled head and find out, f
or once I can really get to know what's going on… and in I go, still bicycli
ng, but the front of her mind is all full up with Marathi language marchers,
there are American pop songs stuck in the corners of her thoughts, but noth
ing I'm interested in; and now, only now, now for the very first time, now driven on by
self pushing, diving, forcing my way behind her defences… into the secret
place where there's a picture of her mother who wears a pink smock and hol
ds up a tiny fish by the tail, and I'm ferreting deeperdeeperdeeper, where
is it, what makes her tick, when she gives a sort of jerk and swings roun
d to stare at me as I bicycle roundandroundandround androundand…
'Get out!' screams Evie Burns. Hands lifted to forehead. I bicycling, wet