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

I make no comment; these events, which have tumbled from my lips any old ho
w, garbled by haste and emotion, are for others to judge. Let me be direct
now, and say that during the long, hard winter of 1918 19, Tai fell ill, co
ntracting a violent skin disease, akin to that European curse called the Ki
ng's Evil; but he refused to see Doctor Aziz, and was treated by a local ho
meopath. And in March, when the lake thawed, a marriage took place in a lar
ge marquee in the grounds of Ghani the landowner's house. The wedding contr
act assured Aadam Aziz of a respectable sum of money, which would help buy
a house in Agra, and the dowry included, at Doctor Aziz's especial request,
a certain mutilated bedsheet. The young couple sat on a dais, garlanded an
d cold, while the guests filed past dropping rupees into their laps. That n
ight my grandfather placed the perforated sheet beneath his bride and himse
lf and in the morning it was adorned by three drops of blood, which formed
a small triangle. In the morning, the sheet was displayed, and after the co
nsummation ceremony a limousine hired by the landowner arrived to drive my
grandparents to Amritsar, where they would catch the Frontier Mail. Mountai
ns crowded round and stared as my grandfather left his home for the last ti
me. (He would return, once, but not to leave.) Aziz thought he saw an ancie
nt boatman standing on land to watch them pass but it was probably a mistak
e, since Tai was ill. The blister of a temple atop Sankara Acharya, which M
uslims had taken to calling the Takht e Sulaiman, or Seat of Solomon, paid
them no attention. Winter bare poplars and snow covered fields of saffron u
ndulated around them as the car drove south, with an old leather bag contai
ning, amongst other things, a stethoscope and a bedsheet, packed in the boo
t. Doctor Aziz felt, in the pit of his stomach, a sensation akin to weightl
essness.
Or falling.
(… And now I am cast as a ghost. I am nine years old and the whole family,
my father, my mother, the Brass Monkey and myself, are staying at my grandp
arents' house in Agra, and the grandchildren myself among them are staging
the customary New Year's play; and I have been cast as a ghost. Accordingly
and surreptitiously so as to preserve the secrets of the forthcoming theat
ricals I am ransacking the house for a spectral disguise. My grandfather is
out and about his rounds. I am in his room. And here on top of this cupboa
rd is an old trunk, covered in dust and spiders, but unlocked. And here, in
side it, is the answer to my prayers. Not just a sheet, but one with a hole
already cut in it! Here it is, inside this leather bag inside this trunk,
right beneath an old stethoscope and a tube of mildewed Vick's Inhaler… the
sheet's appearance in our show was nothing less than a sensation. My grand
father took one look at it and rose roaring to his feet. He strode up on st
age and unghosted me right in front of everyone. My grandmother's lips were
so tightly pursed they seemed to disappear. Between them, the one booming