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

pirits emanating from the god Abraxas. 'Who,' I am wondering, not for the f
irst time, 'does the boy imagine he is?'
My special blends: I've been saving them up. Symbolic value of the pickling
process: all the six hundred million eggs which gave birth to the population
of India could fit inside a single, standard sized pickle jar; six hundred
million spermatozoa could be lifted on a single spoon. Every pickle jar (you
will forgive me if I become florid for a moment) contains, therefore, the m
ost exalted of possibilities: the feasibility of the chutnification of histo
ry; the grand hope of the pickling of time! I, however, have pickled chapter
s. Tonight, by screwing the lid firmly on to ajar bearing the legend Special
Formula No. 30; 'Abracadabra', I reach the end of my long winded autobiogra
phy; in words and pickles, I have immortalized my memories, although distort
ions are inevitable in both methods. We must live, I'm afraid, with the shad
ows of imperfection.
These days, I manage the factory for Mary. Alice 'Mrs Fernandes' controls t
he finances; my responsibility is for the creative aspects of our work. (Of
course I have forgiven Mary her crime; I need mothers as well as fathers,
and a mother is beyond blame.) Amid the wholly female workforce of Braganza
Pickles, beneath the saffron and green winking of neon Mumbadevi, I choose
mangoes tomatoes limes from the women who come at dawn with baskets on the
ir heads. Mary, with her ancient hatred of 'the mens', admits no males exce
pt myself into her new, comfortable universe… myself, and of course my son.
Alice, I suspect, still has her little liaisons; and Padma fell for me fro
m the first, seeing in me an outlet for her vast reservoir of pent up solic
itude; I cannot answer for the rest of them, but the formidable competence
of the Narlikar females is reflected, on this factory floor, in the strong
armed dedication of the vat stirrers.
What is required for chutnification? Raw materials, obviously fruit, vegeta
bles, fish, vinegar, spkes. Daily visits from Koli women with their saris h
itched up between their legs. Cucumbers aubergines mint. But also: eyes, bl
ue as ice, which are undeceived by the superficial blandishments of fruit w
hich can see corruption beneath citrus skin; fingers which, with featheries
t touch, can probe the secret inconstant hearts of green tomatoes: and abov
e all a nose capable of discerning the hidden languages of what must be pic
kled, its humours and messages and emotions… at Braganza Pickles, I supervi
se the production of Mary's legendary recipes; but there are also my specia
l blends, in which, thanks to the powers of my drained nasal passages, I am
able to include memories, dreams, ideas, so that once they enter mass prod
uction all who consume them will know what pepperpots achieved in Pakistan,
or how it felt to be in the Sundarbans… believe don't believe but it's tru
e. Thirty jars stand upon a shelf, waiting to be unleashed upon the amnesia