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

his bed?' and it was my sense of this gap which showed me that, despite th
eir use of son and brother, their imaginations were working hard to assimil
ate Mary's confession; not knowing then that they would be unable to succee
d in their re imaginings of brother and son, I remained terrified of Shiva;
and was accordingly driven even deeper into the illusory heart of my desir
e to prove myself worthy of their kinship. Despite Reverend Mother's recogn
ition of me, I was never at my ease until, on a more than three years dista
nt verandah, my father said, 'Come, son; come here and let me love you.' Pe
rhaps that is why I behaved as I did on the night of October yth, 1958.
… An eleven year old boy, Padma, knew very little about the internal affai
rs of Pakistan; but he could see, on that October day, that an unusual din
ner party was being planned. Saleem at eleven knew nothing about the Const
itution of 1956 and its gradual erosion; but his eyes were keen enough to
spot the Army security officers, the military police, who arrived that aft
ernoon to lurk secretly behind every garden bush. Faction strife and the m
ultiple incompetences of Mr Ghulam Mohammed were a mystery to him; but it
was clear that his aunt Emerald was putting on her finest jewels. The farc
e of four prime ministers in two years had never made him giggle; but he c
ould sense, in the air of drama hanging over the General's house, that som
ething like a final curtain was approaching. Ignorant of the emergence of
the Republican party, he was nevertheless curious about the guest list for
the Zulfikar party; although he was in a country where names meant nothin
g who was Chaudhuri Muhammad Ali? Or Suhrawardy? Or Chundrigar, or Noon? t
he anonymity of the dinner guests, which was carefully preserved by his un
cle and aunt, was a puzzling thing. Even though he had once cut Pakistani
headlines out of newspapers furniture hurling slays deputye pak speaker he
had no idea why, at six p.m., a long line of black limousines came throug
h the sentried walls of the Zulfikar Estate; why flags waved on their bonn
ets; why their occupants refused to smile; or why Emerald and Pia and my m
other stood behind General Zulfikar with expressions on their faces which
would have seemed more appropriate at a funeral than a social gathering. W
ho what was dying? Who why were the limousine arrivals? I had no idea; but
I was on my toes behind my mother, staring at the smoked glass windows of
the enigmatic cars.
Car doors opened; equerries, adjutants, leaped out of vehicles and opened
rear doors, saluted stiffly; a small muscle began to tic in my aunt Emeral
d's cheek. And then, who descended from the flag waving motors? What names
should be put to the fabulous array of moustaches, swagger sticks, gimlet
eyes, medals and shoulder pips which emerged? Saleem knew neither names n
or serial numbers; ranks, however, could be discerned. Gongs and pips, pro
udly worn on chests and shoulders, announced the arrival of very top brass
indeed. And out of the last car came a tall man with an astonishingly rou