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

of us knocked on its doors.
Movements visible through a small iron eye level grille: a low mellifluous
female voice asked us to state our business. Picture Singh announced: 'I am
the Most Charming Man In The World. You are employing here one other snake
charmer as cabaret; I will challenge him and prove my superiority. For thi
s I do not ask to be paid. It is, capteena, a question of honour.'
It was evening; Mr Anand 'Andy' Shroff was, by good fortune, on the premis
es. And, to cut a long story short, Picture Singh's challenge was accepted
, and we entered that place whose name had already unnerved me somewhat, b
ecause it contained the word midnight, and because its initials had once c
oncealed my own, secret world: M.C.C., which stands for Metro Cub Club, on
ce also stood for the Midnight Children's Conference, and had now been usu
rped by the secret nightspot. In a word: I felt invaded.
Twin problems of the city's sophisticated, cosmopolitan youth: how to consum
e alcohol in a dry state; and how to romance girls in the best Western tradi
tion, by taking them out to paint the town red, while at the same time prese
rving total secrecy, to avoid the very Oriental shame of a scandal? The Midn
ite Confidential was Mr Shroff's solution to the agonizing difficulties of t
he city's gilded youth. In that underground of licentiousness, he had create
d a world of Stygian darkness, black as hell; in the secrecy of midnight dar
kness, the city's lovers met, drank imported liquor, and romanced; cocooned
in the isolating, artificial night, they canoodled with impunity. Hell is ot
her people's fantasies: every saga requires at least one descent into Jahann
um, and I followed Picture Singh into the inky negritude of the Club, holdin
g an infant son in my arms.
We were led down a lush black carpet midnight black, black as lies, crow bl
ack, anger black, the black of 'hai yo, black man!'; in short, a dark rug b
y a female attendant of ravishing sexual charms, who wore her sari erotical
ly low on her hips, with a jasmine in her navel; but as we descended into t
he darkness, she turned towards us with a reassuring smile, and I saw that
her eyes were closed; unearthly luminous eyes had been painted on her lids.
I could not help but ask, 'Why…' To which she, simply: 'I am blind; and be
sides, nobody who comes here wants to be seen. Here you are in a world with
out faces or names; here people have no memories, families or past; here is
for now, for nothing except right now.'
And the darkness engulfed us; she guided us through that nightmare pit in whi
ch light was kept in shackles and bar fetters, that place outside time, that
negation of history… 'Sit here,' she said, 'The other snake man will come soo
n. When it is time, one light will shine on you; then begin your contest.'
We sat there for what? minutes, hours, weeks? and there were the glowing eye
s of blind women leading invisible guests to their seats; and gradually, in
the dark, I became aware of being surrounded by soft, amorous susurrations,