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

like the couplings of velvet mice; I heard the chink of glasses held by twin
ed arms, and gentle brushings of lips; with one good ear and one bad ear, I
heard the sound of illicit sexuality filling the midnight air… but no, I did
not want to know what was happening; although my nose was able to smell, in
the susurrating silence of the Club, all manner of new stories and beginnin
gs, of exotic and forbidden loves, and little invisible contretemps and who
was going too jar, in fact all sorts of juicy tit bits, I chose to ignore th
em all, because this was a new world in which I had no place. My son, Aadam,
however, sat beside me with ears burning with fascination; his eyes shone i
n the darkness as he listened, and memorized, and learned… and then there wa
s light.
A single shaft of light spilled into a pool on the floor of the Midnight C
onfidential Club. From the shadows beyond the fringe of the illuminated ar
ea, Aadam and I saw Picture Singh sitting stiffly, cross legged, next to a
handsome Brylcreemed youth; each of them was surrounded by musical instru
ments and the closed baskets of their art. A loudspeaker announced the beg
inning of that legendary contest for the tide of Most Charming Man In The
World; but who was listening? Did anyone even pay attention, or were they
too busy with lips tongues hands? This was the name of Pictureji's opponen
t: the Maharaja of Cooch Naheen.
(I don't know: it's easy to assume a tide. But perhaps, perhaps he really w
as the grandson of that old Rani who had once, long ago, been a friend of D
octor Aziz; perhaps the heir to the supporter of the Hummingbird was pitted
, ironically, against the man who might have been the second Mian Abdullah!
It's always possible; many maharajas have been poor since the Widow revoke
d their civil list salaries.)
How long, in that sunless cavern, did they struggle? Months, years, centuri
es? I cannot say: I watched, mesmerized, as they strove to outdo one anothe
r, charming every kind of snake imaginable, asking for rare varieties to be
sent from the Bombay snake farm (where once Doctor Schaapsteker…); and the
Maharaja matched Picture Singh snake for snake, succeeding even in charmin
g constrictors, which only Pictureji had previously managed to do. In that
infernal Club whose darkness was another aspect of its proprietor's obsessi
on with the colour black (under whose influence he tanned his skin darker d
arker every day at the Sun 'n' Sand), the two virtuosi goaded snakes into i
mpossible feats, making them tie themselves in knots, or bows, or persuadin
g them to drink water from wine glasses, and to jump through fiery hoops… d
efying fatigue, hunger and age, Picture Singh was putting on the show of hi
s life (but was anyone looking? Anyone at all?) and at last it became clear
that the younger man was tiring first; his snakes ceased to dance in time
to his flute; and finally, through a piece of sleight of hand so fast that
I did not see what happened, Picture Singh managed to knot a king cobra aro