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

k of then. Now does not bear thinking about… and she, sweetly, reasonably,
'Basically, you see, it is all a question of God.'
(Are you listening, children? Pass it on.)
'The people of India,' the Widow's Hand explained, 'worship our Lady like
a god. Indians are only capable of worshipping one God.'
But I was brought up in Bombay, where Shiva Vishnu Ganesh Ahuramazda Alla
h and countless others had their flocks… 'What about the pantheon,' I arg
ued, 'the three hundred and thirty million gods of Hinduism alone? And Is
lam, and Bodhisattvas…?' And now the answer: 'Oh yes! My God, millions of
gods, you are right! But all manifestations of the same om. You are Musl
im: you know what is om ? Very well. For the masses, our Lady is a manife
station of the om.'
There are four hundred and twenty of us; a mere 0.00007 per cent of the six
hundred million strong population of India. Statistically insignificant; e
ven if we were considered as a percentage of the arrested thirty (or two hu
ndred and fifty) thousand, we formed a mere 1.4 (or 0.168) per cent! But wh
at I learned from the Widow's Hand is that those who would be gods fear no
one so much as other potential deities; and that, that and that only, is wh
y we, the magical children of midnight, were hated feared destroyed by the
Widow, who was not only Prime Minister of India but also aspired to be Devi
, the Mother goddess in her most terrible aspect, possessor of the shakti o
f the gods, a multi limbed divinity with a centre parting and schizophrenic
hair… And that was how I learned my meaning in the crumbling palace of the
bruised breasted women.
Who am I? Who were we? We were are shall be the gods you never had. But also
something else; and to explain that, I must tell the difficult part at last
.
All in a rush, then, because otherwise it will never come out, I tell you
that on New Year's Day, 1977, I was told by a gorgeous girl with rolling h
ips that yes, they would be satisfied with four hundred and twenty, they h
ad verified one hundred and thirty nine dead, only a handful had escaped,
so now it would begin, snip snip, there would be anaesthetic and count to
ten, the numbers marching one two three, and I, whispering to the wall, Le
t them let them, while we live and stay together who can stand against us?
… And who led us, one by one, to the chamber in the cellar where, because
we are not savages, sir, air conditioning units had been installed, and a
table with a hanging lamp, and doctors nurses green and black, their robes
were green their eyes were black… who, with knobbly irresistible knees, e
scorted me to the chamber of my undoing? But you know, you can guess, ther
e is only one war hero in this story, unable to argue with the venom of hi
s knees I walked wherever he ordered… and then I was there, and a gorgeous