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

he were sucking the vigour out of the clothes, which ended up fiat, buttonl
ess and beaten to death. She was a monster who forgot each day the moment i
t ended. It was with the greatest reluctance that I agreed to make her acqu
aintance; it is with the greatest reluctance that I admit her into these pa
ges. Her name, even before I met her, had the smell of new things; she repr
esented novelty, beginnings, the advent of new stories events complexities,
and I was no longer interested in anything new. However, once Pictureji in
formed me that he intended to marry her, I had no option; I shall deal with
her, however, as briefly as accuracy permits.
Briefly, then: Durga the washerwoman was a succubus! A bloodsucker lizard
in human form! And her effect on Picture Singh was comparable only to he
r power over her stone smashed shirts: in a word, she flattened him. Havi
ng once met her, I understood why Picture Singh looked old and forlorn; d
eprived now of the umbrella of harmony beneath which men and women would
gather for advice and shade, he seemed to be shrinking daily; the possibi
lity of his becoming a second Hummingbird was vanishing before my very ey
es. Durga, however, flourished: her gossip grew more scatological, her vo
ice louder and more raucous, until at last she reminded me of Reverend Mo
ther in her later years, when she expanded and my grandfather shrank. Thi
s nostalgic echo of my grandparents was the only thing of interest to me
in the personality of the hoydenish washerwoman.
But there is no denying the bounty of her mammary glands: Aadam, at twenty
one months, was still suckling contentedly at her nipples. At first I thoug
ht of insisting that he be weaned, but then remembered that my son did exac
tly and only what he wished, and decided not to press the point. (And, as i
t transpired, I was right not to do so.) As for her supposed double womb, I
had no desire to know the truth or otherwise of the story, and made no inq
uiries.
I mention Durga the dhoban chiefly because it was she who, one evening whe
n we were eating a meal composed of twenty seven grains of rice apiece, fi
rst foretold my death. I, exasperated by her constant stream of news and c
hit chat, had exclaimed, 'Durga Bibi, nobody is interested in your stories
!' To which she, unperturbed, 'Saleem Baba, I have been good with you beca
use Pictureji says you must be in many pieces after your arrest; but, to s
peak frankly, you do not appear to be concerned with anything except loung
ing about nowadays. You should understand that when a man loses interest i
n new matters, he is opening the door for the Black Angel.'
And although Picture Singh said, mildly, 'Come now, capteena, don't be rou
gh on the boy,' the arrow of Durga the dhoban found its mark.
In the exhaustion of my drained return, I felt the emptiness of the days coa
ting me in a thick gelatinous film; and although Durga offered, the next mor
ning, and perhaps in a spirit of genuine remorse for her harsh words, to res