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

erstand. As much as for any living being, I'm telling my story for him, so
that afterwards, when I've lost my struggle against cracks, he will know.
Morality, judgment, character… it all starts with memory… and I am keepin
g carbons.'
Green chutney on chilli pakoras, disappearing down someone's gullet; grassho
pper green on tepid chapatis, vanishing behind Padma's lips. I see them begi
n to weaken, and press on. 'I told you the truth,' I say yet again, 'Memory'
s truth, because memory has its own special kind. It selects, eliminates, al
ters, exaggerates, minimizes, glorifies, and vilifies also; but in the end i
t creates its own reality, its heterogeneous but usually coherent version of
events; and no sane human being ever trusts someone else's version more tha
n his own.'
Yes: I said 'sane'. I knew what they were thinking: 'Plenty of children inve
nt imaginary friends; but one thousand and one! That's just crazy!' The midn
ight children shook even Padma's faith in my narrative; but I brought her ro
und, and now there's no more talk of outings.
How I persuaded them: by talking about my son, who needed to know my story;
by shedding light on the workings of memory; and by other devices, some na
ively honest, others wily as foxes. 'Even Muhammad,' I said, 'at first beli
eved himself insane: do you think the notion never crossed my mind? But the
Prophet had his Khadija, his Abu Bakr, to reassure him of the genuineness
of his Calling; nobody betrayed him into the hands of asylum doctors.' By n
ow, the green chutney was filling them with thoughts of years ago; I saw gu
ilt appear on their faces, and shame. 'What is truth?' I waxed rhetorical,
'What is sanity? Did Jesus rise up from the grave? Do Hindus not accept Pad
ma that the world is a kind of dream; that Brahma dreamed, is dreaming the
universe; that we only see dimly through that dream web, which is Maya. May
a,' I adopted a haughty, lecturing tone, 'may be defined as all that is ill
usory; as trickery, artifice and deceit. Apparitions, phantasms, mirages, s
leight of hand, the seeming form of things: all these are parts of Maya. If
I say that certain things took place which you, lost in Brahma's dream, fi
nd hard to believe, then which of us is right? Have some more chutney,' I a
dded graciously, taking a generous helping myself. 'It tastes very good.'
Padma began to cry. 'I never said I didn't believe, she wept. 'Of course, eve
ry man must tell his story in his own true way; but…'
'But,' I interrupted conclusively, 'you also don't you want to know what
happens? About the hands that danced without touching, and the knees? And
later, the curious baton of Commander Sabarmati, and of course the Widow
? And the Children what became of them?'
And Padma nodded. So much for doctors and asylums; I have been left to writ
e. (Alone, except for Padma at my feet.) Chutney and oratory, theology and
curiosity: these are the things that saved me. And one more call it educati