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

arrow into the soil while he, 'No shoot I, my sirs. Ho no. I have news ho,
such news! India comes! Jessore is fall, my sirs; in one four days, Dacca,
also, yes no?' The buddha listened; the buddha's eyes looked beyond the pea
sant to the field. 'Such a things, my sir! India! They have one mighty sold
ier fellow, he can kill six persons at one time, break necks khrikk khrikk
between his knees, my sirs? Knees is right words?' He tapped his own. 'I se
e, my sirs. With these eyes, ho yes! He fights with not guns, not swords. W
ith knees, and six necks go khrikk khrikk. Ho God.' Shaheed was vomiting in
the field. Farooq Rashid had wandered to the far edge and stood staring in
to a copse of mango trees. 'In one two weeks is over the war, my sirs! Ever
ybody come back. Just now all gone, but I not, my sirs. Soldiers came looki
ng for Bahini and killed many many, also my son. Ho yes, sirs, ho yes indee
d.' The buddha's eyes had become clouded and dull. In the distance he could
hear the crump of heavy artillery. Columns of smoke trailed up into the co
lourless December sky. The strange crops lay still, unruffled by the breeze
… 'I stay, my sirs. Here I know names of birds and plants. Ho yes. I am Des
hmukh by name; vendor of notions by trade. I sell many so fine thing. You w
ant? Medicine for constipation, damn good, ho yes. I have. Watch you want,
glowing in the dark? I also have. And book ho yes, and joke trick, truly. I
was famous in Dacca before. Ho yes, most truly. No shoot.'
The vendor of notions chattered on, offering for sale item after item, such
as a magical belt which would enable the wearer to speak Hindi 'I am weari
ng now, my sir, speak damn good, yes no? Many India soldier are buy, they t
alk so many different tongues, the belt is godsend from God!' and then he n
oticed what the buddha held in his hand. 'Ho sir! Absolute master thing! Is
silver? Is precious stone? You give; I give radio, camera, almost working
order, my sir! Is a damn good deals, my friend. For one spittoon only, is d
amn fine. Ho yes. Ho yes, my sir, life must go on; trade must go on, my sir
, not true?'
'Tell me more,' the buddha said, 'about the soldier with the knees.'
But now, once again, a bee buzzes; in the distance, at the far end of the fi
eld, somebody drops to his knees; somebody's forehead touches the ground as
if in prayer; and in the field, one of the crops, which had been alive enoug
h to shoot, also becomes very still. Shaheed Dar is shouting a name:
'Farooq! Farooq, man!'
But Farooq refuses to reply.
Afterwards, when the buddha reminisced about the war to his uncle Mustapha
, he recounted how he had stumbled across the field of leaking bonemarrow
towards his fallen companion; and how, long before he reached Farooq's pra
ying corpse, he was brought up short by the field's greatest secret.
There was a small pyramid in the middle of the field. Ants were crawling ove
r it, but it was not an anthill. The pyramid had six feet and three heads an