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

der.
'Human geography,' Zagallo announces. 'Thees ees what? Kapadia?'
'Please sir don't know sir.' Hands fly into the air five belong to church bann
ed idiots, the sixth inevitably to Cyrus the great. But Zagallo is out for blo
od today: the godly are going to suffer. 'Feelth from the jongle,' he buffets
Jimmy Kapadia, then begins to twist an ear casually, 'Stay in class sometimes
and find out!'
'Ow ow ow yes sir sorry sir…' Six hands are waving but Jimmy's ear is in dan
ger of coming off. Heroism gets the better of me… 'Sir please stop sir he ha
s a heart condition sir!' Which is true; but the truth is dangerous, because
now Zagallo is rounding on me: 'So, a leetle arguer, ees eet?' And I am bei
ng led by my hair to the front of the class. Under the relieved eyes of my f
ellow pupils thank God it's him not us I writhe in agony beneath imprisoned
tufts.
'So answer the question. You know what ees human geography?'
Pain fills my head, obliterating all notions of telepathic cheatery: 'Aiee sir no
sir ouch!'
… And now it is possible to observe a joke descending on Zagallo, a joke pu
lling his face apart into the simulacrum of a smile; it is possible to watc
h his hand darting forward, thumb and forefinger extended; to note how thum
b and forefinger close around the tip of my nose and pull downwards… where
the nose leads, the head must follow, and finally the nose is hanging down
and my eyes are obliged to stare damply at Zagallo's sandalled feet with th
eir dirty toehails while Zagallo unleashes his wit.
'See, boys you see what we have here? Regard, please, the heedeous face of t
hees primitive creature. It reminds you of?'
And the eager responses: 'Sir the devil sir.' 'Please sir one cousin of mine!
' 'No sir a vegetable sir I don't know which.' Until Zagallo, shouting above
the tumult, 'Silence! Sons of baboons! Thees object here' a tug on my nose 't
hees is human geography!'
'How sir where sir what sir?'
Zagallo is laughing now. 'You don't see?' he guffaws. 'In the face of thees u
gly ape you don't see the whole map of India?'
'Yes sir no sir you show us sir!'
'See here the Deccan peninsula hanging down!' Again ouchmy nose.
'Sir sir if that's the map of India what are the stains sir?' It is Glandy Kei
th Colaco feeling bold. Sniggers, titters from my fellows. And Zagallo, taking
the question in his stride: 'These stains,' he cries, 'are Pakistan! Thees bi
rthmark on the right ear is the East Wing; and thees horrible stained left che
ek, the West! Remember, stupid boys: Pakistan ees a stain on the face of India!'
'Ho ho,' the class laughs, 'Absolute master joke, sir!'
But now my nose has had enough; staging its own, unprompted revolt against