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

e into these gullies, grown ups as well as children came to see what was n
ew inside his box on wheels, and among his most frequent customers was Beg
um Amina Sinai.
But today there is something hysterical in the air; something brittle and m
enacing has settled on the muhalla as the cloud of cremated Indiabikes hang
s overhead… and now it slips its leash, as this girl with her one continuou
s eyebrow squeals, her voice lisping with an innocence it does not possess,
'Me firth t! Out of my way… let me thee! I can't thee!' Because there are
already eyes at the holes in the box, there are already children absorbed i
n the progression of postcards, and Ldfafa Das says (without pausing in his
work he goes right on turning the knob which keeps the postcards moving in
side the box), 'A few minutes, bibi; everyone will have his turn; wait only
.' To which the one eyebrowed midget queen replies, 'No! No! I want to be f
irtht!' Lifafa stops smiling becomes invisible shrugs. Unbridled fury appea
rs on the face of the midget queen. And now an insult rises; a deadly barb
trembles on her lips. 'You've got a nerve, coming into thith muhalla! I kno
w you: my father knows you: everyone knows you're a Hindu!!'
Lifafa Das stands silently, turning the handles of his box; but now the pon
ytailed one eyebrowed valkyrie is chanting, pointing with pudgy fingers, an
d the boys in their school whites and snake buckles are joining in, 'Hindu!
Hindu! Hindu!' And chick blinds are flying up; and from his window the gir
l's father leans out and joins in, hurling abuse at a new target, and the B
engali joins in in Bengali… 'Mother raper! Violator of our daughters!'… and
remember the papers have been talking of assaults on Muslim children, so s
uddenly a voice screams out a woman's voice, maybe even silly Zohra's, 'Rap
ist! Arre my God they found the badmaash! There he u!' And now the insanity
of the cloud like a pointing finger and the whole disjointed unreality of
the times seizes the muhalla, and the screams are echoing from every window
, and the schoolboys have begun to chant, 'Ra pist! Ra pist! Ray ray ray pi
st!' without really knowing what they're saying; the children have edged aw
ay from Lifafa Das and he's moved, too, dragging his box on wheels, trying
to get away, but now he is surrounded by voices filled with blood, and the
street loafers are moving towards him, men are getting off bicycles, a pot
flies through the air and shatters on a wall beside him; he has his back ag
ainst a doorway as a fellow with a quiff of oily hair grins sweetly at him
and says, 'So, mister: it is you? Mister Hindu, who denies our daughters? M
ister idolater, who sleeps with his sister?' And Lifafa Das, 'No, for the l
ove of…', smiling like a fool… and then the door behind him opens and he fa
lls backwards, landing in a dark cool corridor beside my mother Amina Sinai.
She had spent the morning alone with giggling Zohra and the echoes of the
name Ravana, not knowing what was happening out there at the industrial es