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

ins clatter south towards Churchgate Station from Dadar and Borivli, from K
urla and Bassein Road. Human flies hang in thick white trousered dusters fr
om the trains; I do not deny that, within the factory walls, you may also s
ee some flies. But there are also compensating lizards, hanging stilly upsi
de down on the ceiling, their jowls reminiscent of the Kathiawar peninsula…
sounds, too, have been waiting to be heard: bubbling of vats, loud singing
, coarse imprecations, bawdy humour of fuzz armed women; the sharp nosed, t
hin lipped admonitions of overseers; the all pervasive clank of pickle jars
from the adjacent bottling works; and rush of trains, and the buzzing (inf
requent, but inevitable) of flies… while grasshopper green chutney is being
extracted from its vat, to be brought on a wiped clean plate with saffron
and green stripes around the rim, along with another plate piled high with
snacks from the local Irani shop; while what has now been shown goes on as
usual, and what can now be heard fills the air (to say nothing of what can
be smelled), I, alone in bed in my office realize with a start of alarm tha
t outings are being suggested.
'… When you are stronger,' someone who cannot be named is saying, 'a day at
Elephanta, why not, a nice ride in a motor launch, and all those caves wit
h so beautiful carvings; or Juhu Beach, for swimming and coconut milk and c
amel races; or Aarey Milk Colony, even!…' And Padma: 'Fresh air, yes, and t
he little one will like to be with his father.' And someone, patting my son
on his head: 'There, of course, we will all go. Nice picnic; nice day out.
Baba, it will do you good…'
As chutney arrives, bearer borne, in my room, I hasten to put a stop to the
se suggestions. 'No,' I refuse. 'I have work to do.' And I see a look pass
between Padma and someone; and I see that I've been right to be suspicious.
Because I've been tricked by offers of picnics once before! Once before, f
alse smiles and offers of Aarey Milk Colony have fooled me into going out o
f doors and into a motor car; and then before I knew it there were hands se
izing me, there were hospital corridors and doctors and nurses holding me i
n place while over my nose a mask poured anaesthetic over me and a voice sa
id, Count now, count to ten… I know what they are planning. 'Listen,' I tel
l them, 'I don't need doctors.'
And Padma, 'Doctors? Who is talking about…' But she is fooling nobody; and
with a little smile I say, 'Here: everybody: take some chutney. I must tell
you some important things.'
And while chutney the same chutney which, back in 1957, my ayah Mary Perei
ra had made so perfectly; the grasshopper green chutney which is forever a
ssociated with those days carried them back into the world of my past, whi
le chutney mellowed them and made them receptive, I spoke to them, gently,
persuasively, and by a mixture of condiment and oratory kept myself out o
f the hands of the pernicious green medicine men. I said: 'My son will und