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

silver spittoon, inlaid with lapis lazuli, asking absurdly, 'Did you steal
this? Because otherwise, you must be is it possible? my Mumtaz's little boy?
' And when I confirmed, 'Yes, none other, I am he ,' the dream spectre of Na
dir Qasim issued a warning: 'Hide. There is little time. Hide while you can.'
Nadir, who had hidden under my grandfather's carpet, came to advise me to d
o likewise; but too late, too late, because now I came properly awake, and
smelled the scent of danger blaring like trumpets in my nose… afraid withou
t knowing why, I got to my feet; and is it my imagination or did Aadam Sina
i open blue eyes to stare gravely into mine? Were my son's eyes also filled
with alarm? Had flap ears heard what a nose had sniffed out? Did father an
d son commune wordlessly in that instant before it all began? I must leave
the question marks hanging, unanswered; but what is certain is that Parvati
, my Laylah Sinai, awoke also and asked, 'What's up, mister? What's got you
r goat?' And I, without fully knowing the reason: 'Hide; stay in here and d
on't come out.'
Then I went outside.
It must have been morning, although the gloom of the endless midnight hung o
ver the ghetto like a fog… through the murky light of the Emergency, I saw c
hildren playing seven tiles, and Picture Singh, with his umbrella folded und
er his left armpit, urinating against the walls of the Friday Mosque; a tiny
bald illusionist was practising driving knives through the neck of his ten
year old apprentice, and already a conjurer had found an audience, and was p
ersuading large woollen balls to drop from the armpits of strangers; while i
n another corner of the ghetto, Chand Sahib the musician was practising his
trumpet playing, placing the ancient mouthpiece of a battered horn against h
is neck and playing it simply by exercising his throat muscles… there, over
there, were the three contortionist triplets, balancing surahis of water on
their heads as they returned to their huts from the colony's single stand pi
pe… in short, everything seemed in order. I began to chide myself for my dre
ams and nasal alarums; but then it started.
The vans and bulldozers came first, rumbling along the main road; they sto
pped opposite the ghetto of the magicians. A loudspeaker began to blare: '
Civic beautification programme… authorized operation of Sanjay Youth Centr
al Committee… prepare instantly for evacuation to new site… this slum is a
public eyesore, can no longer be tolerated… all persons will follow order
s without dissent.' And while a loudspeaker blared, there were figures des
cending from vans: a brightly coloured tent was being hastily erected, and
there were camp beds and surgical equipment… and now from the vans there
poured a stream of finely dressed young ladies of high birth and foreign e
ducation, and then a second river of equally well dressed young men: volun
teers, Sanjay Youth volunteers, doing their bit for society… but then I re
alized no, not volunteers, because all the men had the same curly hair and