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

nces of my inner, midnight given life.
Yes, that was where it happened, in the palace of the widows on the shores
of the Ganges in the oldest living city in the world, the city which was
already old when the Buddha was young, Kasi Benares Varanasi, City of Divi
ne Light, home of the Prophetic Book, the horoscope of horoscopes, in whic
h every life, past present future, is already recorded. The goddess Ganga
streamed down to earth through Shiva's hair… Benares, the shrine to Shiva
the god, was where I was brought by hero Shiva to face my fate. In the hom
e of horoscopes, I reached the moment prophesied in a rooftop room by Ramr
am Seth: 'soldiers will try him… tyrants will fry him!' the fortune teller
had chanted; well, there was no formal trial Shiva knees wrapped around m
y neck, and that was that but I did smell, one winter's day, the odours of
something frying in an iron skillet…
Follow the river, past Scindia ghat on which young gymnasts in white loincl
oths perform one armed push ups, past Manikarnika ghat, the place of funera
ls, at which holy fire can be purchased from the keepers of the flame, past
floating carcasses of dogs and cows unfortunates for whom no fire was boug
ht, past Brahmins under straw umbrellas at Dasashwamedh ghat, dressed in sa
ffron, dispensing blessings… and now it becomes audible, a strange sound, l
ike the baying of distant hounds… follow follow follow the sound, and it ta
kes shape, you understand that it is a mighty, ceaseless wailing, emanating
from the blinded windows of a riverside palace: the Widows' Hostel! Once u
pon a time, it was a maharajah's residence; but India today is a modern cou
ntry, and such places have been expropriated by the State. The palace is a
home for bereaved women now; they, understanding that their true lives ende
d with the death of their husbands, but no longer permitted to seek the rel
ease of sati, come to the holy city to pass their worthless days in heartfe
lt ululations. In the palace of the widows lives a tribe of women whose che
sts are irremediably bruised by the power of their continual pummellings, w
hose hair it torn beyond repair, and whose voices are shredded by the const
ant, keening expressions of their grief. It is a vast building, a labyrinth
of tiny rooms on the upper storeys giving way to the great halls of lament
ation below; and yes, that was where it happened, the Widow sucked me into
the private heart of her terrible empire, I was locked away in a tiny upper
room and the bereaved women brought me prison food. But I also had other v
isitors: the war hero invited two of his colleagues along, for purposes of
conversation. In other words: I was encouraged to talk. By an ill matched d
uo, one fat, one thin, whom I named Abbott and Costello because they never
succeeded in making me laugh.
Here I record a merciful blank in my memory. Nothing can induce me to remem
ber the conversational techniques of that humourless, uniformed pair; there