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

owning past: Braganza Pickles (Private) Ltd, in the sprawling north of the
town.
Once again an abracadabra, an open sesame: words printed on a chutney jar,
opening the last door of my life… I was seized by an irresistible determina
tion to track down the maker of that impossible chutney of memory, and said
, 'Pictureji, I must go…'
I do not know the end of the story of Picture Singh; he refused to accompany
me on my quest, and I saw in his eyes that the efforts of his struggle had
broken something inside him, that his victory was, in fact, a defeat; but wh
ether he is still in Bombay (perhaps working for Mr Shroff), or back with hi
s washer woman; whether he is still alive or not, I am not able to say… 'How
can I leave you?' I asked, desperately, but he replied, 'Don't be a fool, c
aptain; you have something you must do, then there is nothing to do but do i
t. Go, go, what do I want with you? Like old Resham told you: go, go quickly
, go!'
Taking Aadam with me, I went.
Journey's end: from the underworld of the blind waitresses, I walked north
north north, holding my son in my arms; and came at last to where flies are
gobbled by lizards, and vats bubble, and strong armed women tell bawdy jok
es; to this world of sharp lipped overseers with conical breasts, and the a
ll pervasive clank of pickle jars from the bottling plant… and who, at the
end of my road, planted herself in front of me, arms akimbo, hair glistenin
g with perspiration on the forearms? Who, direct as ever, demanded, 'You, m
ister: what you want?'
'Me!' Padma is yelling, excited and a little embarrassed by the memory. 'O
f course, who else? Me me me!'
'Good afternoon, Begum,' I said. (Padma interjects: 'O you always so polite
and all!') 'Good afternoon; may I speak to the manager?'
O grim, defensive, obstinate Padma! 'Not possible, Manager Begum is busy
. You must make appointment, come back later, so please go away just now
.'
Listen: I would have stayed, persuaded, bullied, even used force to get pa
st my Padma's arms; but there was a cry from the catwalk this catwalk, Pad
ma, outside the offices! the catwalk from which someone whom I have not be
en willing to name until now was looking down, across gigantic pickle vats
and simmering chutneys someone rushing down clattering metal steps, shrie
king at the top of her voice:
'O my God, O my God, O Jesus sweet Jesus, baba, my son, look who's come h
ere, arre baba, don't you see me, look how thin you got, come, come, let
me kiss you, let me give you cake!'
Just as I had guessed, the Manager Begum of Braganza Pickles (Private) Ltd