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

ll… I stood on the balcony with Mary Pereira, turning my bad ear to her w
hispered rumours, the city at my back and the crowding, chatting card sch
ools before my eyes. And one day, amongst the card players, I recognized
the sunken eyed, ascetic form of Mr Homi Catrack. Who greeted me with emb
arrassed heartiness: 'Hi there, young chap! Doing fine? Of course, of cou
rse you are!'
My uncle Hanif played rummy dedicatedly; but he was in the thrall of a curi
ous obsession namely, that he was determined never to lay down a hand until
he completed a thirteen card sequence in hearts. Always hearts; all the he
arts, and nothing but the hearts would do. In his quest for this unattainab
le perfection, my uncle would discard perfectly good threes of a kind, and
whole sequences of spades clubs diamonds, to the raucous amusement of his f
riends. I heard the renowned shehnai player Ustad Changez Khan (who dyed hi
s hair, so mat on hot evenings the tops of his ears were discoloured by run
ning black fluid) tell my uncle: 'Come on, mister; leave this heart busines
s, and just play like the rest of us fellows.' My uncle confronted temptati
on; then boomed above the din, 'No, dammit, go to the devil and leave me to
my game!' He played cards like a fool; but I, who had never seen such sing
leness of purpose, felt like clapping.
One of the regulars at Hanif Aziz's legendary card evenings was a Times of
India staff photographer, who was full of sharp tales and scurrilous storie
s. My uncle introduced me to him: 'Here's the fellow who put you on the fro
nt page, Saleem. Here is Kalidas Gupta. A terrible photographer; a really b
admaash type. Don't talk to him too long; he'll make your head spin with sc
andal!' Kalidas had a head of silver hair and a nose like an eagle. I thoug
ht he was wonderful. 'Do you really know scandals?' I asked him; but all he
said was, 'Son, if I told, they would make your ears burn.' But he never f
ound out that the evil genius, the eminence grise behind the greatest scand
al the city had ever known was none other than Saleem Snotnose… I mustn't r
ace ahead. The affair of the curious baton of Commander Sabarmati must be r
ecounted in its proper place. Effects must not (despite the tergiversatory
nature of time in 1958) be permitted to precede causes.
I was alone on the balcony. Mary Pereira was in the kitchen helping Pia to p
repare sandwiches and cheese pakoras; Hanif Aziz was immersed in his search
for the thirteen hearts; and now Mr Homi Catrack came out to stand beside me
. 'Breath of fresh air,' he said. 'Yes, sir,' I replied. 'So,' he exhaled de
eply. 'So, so. Life is treating you good? Excellent little fellow. Let me sh
ake you by the hand.' Ten year old hand is swallowed up by film magnate's fi
st (the left hand; the mutilated right hand hangs innocently by my side)… an
d now a shock. Left palm feels paper being thrust into it sinister paper, in
serted by dexterous fist! Catrack's grip tightens; his voice becomes low, bu
t also cobra like, sibilant; inaudible in the room with the green striped so