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

g against fellow meat eaters? Did they mutiny? Were officers Iskandar, Naj
muddin, even Lala Moin riddled with nauseated bullets? They were not. Inno
cence had been lost; but despite a new grimness about the eyes, despite th
e irrevocable loss of certainty, despite the eroding of moral absolutes, t
he unit went on with its work. The buddha was not the only one who did as
he was told… while somewhere high above the struggle, the voice of Jamila
Singer fought anonymous voices singing the lyrics of R. Tagore: 'My life p
asses in the shady village homes filled with rice from your fields; they m
adden my heart with delight.'
Their hearts maddened, but not with delight, Ayooba and company followed o
rders; the buddha followed scent trails. Into the heart of the city, which
has turned violent maddened bloodsoaked as the West Wing soldiers react b
adly to their knowledge of wrongdoing, goes Number 22 Unit; through the bl
ackened streets, the buddha concentrates on the ground, sniffing out trail
s, ignoring the ground level chaos of cigarette packs cow dung fallen bicy
cles abandoned shoes; and then on other assignments, out into the countrys
ide, where entire villages are being burned owing to their collective resp
onsibility for harbouring Mukti Bahini, the buddha and three boys track do
wn minor Awami League officials and well known Communist types. Past migra
ting villagers with bundled possessions on their heads; past torn up railw
ay tracks and burnt out trees; and always, as though some invisible force
were directing their footsteps, drawing them into a darker heart of madnes
s, their missions send them south south south, always nearer to the sea, t
o the mouths of the Ganges and the sea.
And at last who were they following then? Did names matter any more? they w
ere given a quarry whose skills must have been the equal and opposite of th
e buddha's own, otherwise why did it take so long to catch him? At last una
ble to escape their training, pursue relentlessly arrest remorselessly, the
y are in the midst of a mission without an end, pursuing a foe who endlessl
y eludes them, but they cannot report back to base empty handed, and on the
y go, south south south, drawn by the eternally receding scent trail; and p
erhaps by something more: because, in my life, fate has never been unwillin
g to lend a hand.
They have commandeered a boat, because the buddha said the trail led down th
e river; hungry unslept exhausted in a universe of abandoned rice paddies, t
hey row after their unseen prey; down the great brown river they go, until t
he war is too far away to remember, but still the scent leads them on. The r
iver here has a familiar name: Padma. But the name is a local deception; in
reality the river is still Her, the mother water, goddess Ganga streaming do
wn to earth through Shiva's hair. The buddha has not spoken for days; he jus
t points, there, that way, and on they go, south south south to the sea.