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

hansi; rakshasas have been seen many headed like Ravana, doing things to wo
men and pulling down trees with one finger. I am good Christian woman, baba
; but it gives me fright when they tell that the tomb of Lord Jesus is foun
d in Kashmir. On the tombstones are carved two pierced feet and a local fis
herwoman has sworn she saw them bleeding real blood, God save us! on Good F
riday… what is happening, baba, why these old things can't stay dead and no
t plague honest folk?' And I, wide eyed, listening; and although my uncle H
anif roared with laughter, I remain, today, half convinced that in that tim
e of accelerated events and diseased hours the past of India rose up to con
found her present; the new born, secular state was being given an awesome r
eminder of its fabulous antiquity, in which democracy and votes for women w
ere irrelevant… so that people were seized by atavistic longings, and forge
tting the new myth of freedom reverted to their old ways, their old regiona
list loyalties and prejudices, and the body politic began to crack. As I sa
id: lop off just one ringer tip and you never know what fountains of confus
ion you will unleash.
'And cows, baba, have been vanishing into thin air; poof! and in the villages,
the peasants must starve.'
It was at this time that I, too, was possessed by a strange demon; but in o
rder that you may understand me properly, I must begin my account of the ep
isode on an innocent evening, when Hanif and Pia Aziz had a group of friend
s round for cards.
My aunty was prone to exaggerate; because although Filmfare and Screen God
dess were absent, my uncle's house was a popular place. On card evenings,
it would burst at the seams with jazzmen gossiping about quarrels and revi
ews in American magazines, and singers who carried throat sprays in their
handbags, and members of the Uday Shankar dance troupe, which was trying t
o form a new style of dance by fusing Western ballet with bharatanatyam; t
here were musicians who had been signed up to perform in the All India Rad
io music festival, the Sangeet Sammelan; there were painters who argued vi
olently amongst each other. The air was thick with political, and other, c
hatter. 'As a matter of fact, I am the only artist in India who paints wit
h a genuine sense of ideological commitment!' 'O, it's too bad about Ferdy
, he'll never get another band after this' 'Menon? Don't talk to me about
Krishna. I knew him when he had principles. I, myself, have never abandone
d…''… One, Hanif yaar, why we don't see Lal Qasim here these days?' And my
uncle, looking anxiously towards me: 'Shh… what Qasim? I don't know any p
erson by that name.'
… And mingling with the hubbub in the apartment, there was the evening co
lour and noise of Marine Drive: promenaders with dogs, buying chambeli an
d channa from hawkers; the cries of beggars and bhcl puri vendors; and th
e lights coming on in a great arcing necklace, round and up to Malabar Hi