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

formation into the Kolynos Kid); ayah Mary, who had apparently followed me
into exile, slept on the floor by my side. By day, she filled my stomach wi
th the promised cakes and sweetmeats (paid for, I now believe, by my mother
); I should have grown immensely fat, except that I had begun once again to
grow in other directions, and at the end of the year of accelerated histor
y (when I was only eleven and a half) I had actually attained my full adult
height, as if someone had grasped me by the folds of my puppy fat and sque
ezed them harder than any toothpaste tube, so that inches shot out of me un
der the pressure. Saved from obesity by the Kolynos effect, I basked in my
uncle and aunt's delight at having a child around the house. When I spilt 7
Up on the carpet or sneezed into my dinner, the worst my uncle would say w
as 'Hai yo! Black man!' in his booming steamship's voice, spoiling the effe
ct by grinning hugely. Meanwhile, my aunty Pia was becoming the next in the
long series of women who have bewitched and finally undone me good and pro
per.
(I should mention that, while I stayed in the Marine Drive apartment, my test
icles, forsaking the protection of pelvic bone, decided prematurely and witho
ut warning to drop into their little sacs. This event, too, played its part i
n what followed.)
My mumani my aunty the divine Pia Aziz: to live with her was to exist in th
e hot sticky heart of a Bombay talkie. In those days, my uncle's career in
the cinema had entered a dizzy decline, and, for such is the way of the wor
ld, Pia's star had gone into decline along with his. In her presence, howev
er, thoughts of failure were impossible. Deprived of film roles, Pia had tu
rned her life into a feature picture, in which I was cast in an increasing
number of bit parts. I was the Faithful Body Servant: Pia in petticoats, so
ft hips rounding towards my desperately averted eyes, giggling while her ey
es, bright with antimony, flashed imperiously 'Come on, boy, what are you s
hy for, holds these pleats in my sari while I fold.' I was her Trusted Conf
idant, too. While my uncle sat on chlorophyll striped sofa pounding out scr
ipts which nobody would ever film, I listened to the nostalgic soliloquy of
my aunt, trying to keep my eyes away from two impossible orbs, spherical a
s melons, golden as mangoes: I refer, you will have guessed, to the adorabl
e breasts of Pia mumani. While she, sitting on her bed, one arm flung acros
s her brow, declaimed: 'Boy, you know, I am great actress; I have interpret
ed several major roles! But look, what fate will do! Once, boy, goodness kn
ows who would beg absolutely to come to this flat; once the reporters of Fi
lmfare and Screen Goddess would pay black money to get inside! Yes, and dan
cing, and I was well known at Venice restaurant all of those great jazzmen
came to sit at my feet, yes, even that Braz. Boy, after Lovers of Kashmir,
who was a bigger star? Not Poppy; not Vyjayantimala; not one person!' And I
, nodding emphatically, no naturally nobody, while her wondrous skin wrappe