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

of a war.' A tiny cloud passes across the face of General Sam, 'Listen, old
sport: one hears such damn awful lies. Slaughters, old boy, mass graves, s
pecial units called cutia or some damn thing, developed for purposes of roo
ting out opposition… no truth in it, I suppose?' And the Tiger, 'Canine Uni
t for Tracking and Intelligence Activities? Never heard of it. Must've been
misled, old man. Some damn bad intelligence wallahs on both sides. No, rid
iculous, damn ridiculous, if you don't mind me saying.' 'Thought as much,'
says General Sam, 'I say, bloody fine to see you, Tiger, you old devil!' An
d the Tiger, 'Been years, eh, Sam? Too damn long.'
… While old friends sang 'Auld Lang Syne' in officers' messes, I made my esc
ape from Bangladesh, from my Pakistani years. 'I'll get you out,' Parvati sa
id, after I explained. 'You want it secret secret?'
I nodded. 'Secret secret.'
Elsewhere in the city, ninety three thousand soldiers were preparing to be c
arted off to P.O.W. camps; but Parvati the witch made me climb into a wicker
basket with a close fitting lid. Sam Manekshaw was obliged to place his old
friend the Tiger under protective custody; but Parvati the witch assured me
, 'This way they'll never catch.'
Behind an army barracks where the magicians were awaiting their transport
back to Delhi, Picture Singh, the Most Charming Man In The World, stood gu
ard when, that evening, I climbed into the basket of invisibility. We loit
ered casually, smoking bins, waiting until there were no soldiers in sight
, while Picture Singh told me about his name. Twenty years ago, an Eastman
Kodak photographer had taken his portrait which, wreathed in smiles and s
nakes, afterwards appeared on half the Kodak advertisements and in store d
isplays in India; ever since when the snake charmer had adopted his presen
t cognomen. 'What do you think, captain?' he bellowed amiably. 'A fine nam
e, isn't it so? Captain, what to do, I can't even remember what name I use
d to have, from before, the name my mother father gave me! Pretty stupid,
hey, captain?' But Picture Singh was not stupid; and there was much more t
o him than charm. Suddenly his voice lost its casual, sleepy good nature;
he whispered, 'Now! Now, captain, ek dum, double quick time!' Parvati whip
ped lid away from wicker; I dived head first into her cryptic basket. The
lid, returning, blocked out the day's last light.
Picture Singh whispered, 'Okay, captain damn good!' And Parvati bent down
close to me; her lips must have been against the outside of the basket. Wh
at Parvati the witch whispered through wickerwork:
'Hey, you Saleem: just to think! You and me, mister midnight's children, yaa
r! That's something, no?'
That's something… Saleem, shrouded in wickerwork darkness, was reminded o
f years ago midnights, of childhood wrestling bouts with purpose and mean
ing; overwhelmed by nostalgia, I still did not understand what that somet