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

e of the snakes, and allowed us a measure of comfort and space; while the
wheels sang their abracadabras to Aadam's flapping ears.
As we travelled to Bombay, the pessimism of Picture Singh expanded until it
seemed that it had become a physical entity which merely looked like the o
ld snake charmer. At Mathura an American youth with pustular chin and a hea
d shaved bald as an egg got into our carriage amid the cacophony of hawkers
selling earthen animals and cups of chaloo chai; he was fanning himself wi
th a peacock feather fan, and the bad luck of peacock feathers depressed Pi
cture Singh beyond imagining. While the infinite flatness of the Indo Gange
tic plain unfolded outside the window, sending the hot insanity of the afte
rnoon loo wind to torment us, the shaven American lectured to occupants of
the carriage on the intricacies of Hinduism and began to teach them mantras
while extending a walnut begging bowl; Picture Singh was blind to this rem
arkable spectacle and also deaf to the abracadabra of the wheels. 'It is no
good, captain,' he confided mournfully, 'This Bombay fellow will be young
and strong, and I am doomed to be only the second most charming man from no
w on.' By the time we reached Kotah Station, the odours of misfortune exude
d by the peacock feather fan had possessed Pictureji utterly, had eroded hi
m so alarmingly that although everyone in the carriage was getting out on t
he side farthest from the platform to urinate against the side of the train
, he showed no sign of needing to go. By Ratlam Junction, while my exciteme
nt was mounting, he had fallen into a trance which was not sleep but the ri
sing paralysis of the pessimism. 'At this rate,' I thought, 'he won't even
be able to challenge this rival.' Baroda passed: no change. At Surat, the o
ld John Company depot, I realized I'd have to do something soon, because ab
racadabra was bringing us closer to Bombay Central by the minute, and so at
last I picked up Picture Singh's old wooden flute, and by playing it with
such terrible ineptitude that all the snakes writhed in agony and petrified
the American youth into silence, by producing a noise so hellish that nobo
dy noticed the passing of Bassein Road, Kurla, Mahim, I overcame the miasma of the
s; at last Picture Singh shook himself out of his despondency with a faint g
rin and said, 'Better you stop, captain, and let me play that thing; otherwi
se some people are sure to die of pain.'
Serpents subsided in their baskets; and then the wheels stopped singing, and
we were there:
Bombay! I hugged Aadam fiercely, and was unable to resist uttering an anci
ent cry: 'Back to Bom!' I cheered, to the bewilderment of the American you
th, who had never heard this mantra: and again, and again, and again: 'Bac
k! Back to Bom!'
By bus down Bellasis Road, towards the Tardeo roundabout, we travelled pa
st Parsees with sunken eyes, past bicycle repair shops and Irani cafes; a