As for Ahmed Sinai: I swear that it was after Narlikar’s death and arrival of the women that he began, literally, to fade … gradually his skin paled, his hair lost its color, until within a few months he had become entirely white except for the darkness of his eyes. (Mary Pereira told Amina: “That man is cold in the blood; so now his skin has made ice, white ice like a fridge.”) I should say, in all honesty, that although he pretended to be worried by his transformation into a white man, and went to see doctors and so forth, he was secretly rather pleased when they failed to explain the problem or prescribe a cure, because he had long envied Europeans their pigmentation. One day, when it was permissible to make jokes again (a decent interval had been allowed to elapse after Doctor Narlikar’s death), he told Lila Sabarmati at the cocktail hour: “All the best people are white under the skin; I have merely given up pretending.” His neighbors, all of whom were darker than he, laughed politely and felt curiously ashamed.
Circumstantial evidence indicates that the shock of Narlikar’s death was responsible for giving me a snow-white father to set beside my ebony mother; but (although I don’t know how much you’re prepared to swallow) I shall risk giving an alternative explanation, a theory developed in the abstract privacy of my clocktower … because during my frequent psychic travels, I discovered something rather odd: during the first nine years after Independence, a similar pigmentation disorder (whose first recorded victim may well have been the Rani of Cooch Naheen) afflicted large numbers of the nation’s business community. All over India, I stumbled across good Indian businessmen, their fortunes thriving thanks to the first Five Year Plan, which had concentrated on building up commerce … businessmen who had become or were becoming very, very pale indeed! It seems that the gargantuan (even heroic) efforts involved in taking over from the British and becoming masters of their own destinies had drained the color from their cheeks … in which case, perhaps my father was a late victim of a widespread, though generally unremarked phenomenon. The businessmen of India were turning white.
That’s enough to chew on for one day. But Evelyn Lilith Burns is coming; the Pioneer Café is getting painfully close; and—more vitally—midnight’s other children, including my alter ego Shiva, he of the deadly knees, are pressing extremely hard. Soon the cracks will be wide enough for them to escape …
By the way: some time around the end of 1956, in all probability, the singer and cuckold Wee Willie Winkie also met his death.
Love in Bombay
DURING RAMZÀN, the month of fasting, we went to the movies as often as we could. After being shaken awake at five a.m. by my mother’s assiduous hand; after pre-dawn breakfasts of melon and sugared lime-water, and especially on Sunday mornings, the Brass Monkey and I took it in turns (or sometimes called out in unison) to remind Amina: “The ten-thirty-in-the-morning show! It’s Metro Cub Club day, Amma, pleeeese!” Then the drive in the Rover to the cinema where we would taste neither Coca-Cola nor potato crisps, neither Kwality ice-cream nor samosas in greasy paper; but at least there was air-conditioning, and Cub Club badges pinned to our clothes, and competitions, and birthday-announcements made by a compère with an inadequate moustache; and finally, the film, after the trailers with their introductory titles, “Next Attraction” and “Coming Soon,” and the cartoon (“In A Moment, The Big Film; But First … !”): Quentin Durward, perhaps, or Scaramouche. “Swashbuckling!” we’d say to one another afterwards, playing movie critic; and, “A rumbustious, bawdy romp!”—although we were ignorant of swashbuckles and bawdiness. There was not much praying in our family (except on Eid-ul-Fitr, when my father took me to the Friday mosque to celebrate the holiday by tying a handkerchief around my head and pressing my forehead to the ground) … but we were always willing to fast, because we liked the cinema.
Evie Burns and I agreed: the world’s greatest movie star was Robert Taylor. I also liked Jay Silverheels as Tonto; but his kemosabay, Clayton Moore, was too fat for the Lone Ranger, in my view.
Evelyn Lilith Burns arrived on New Year’s Day, 1957, to take up residence with her widower father in an apartment in one of the two squat, ugly concrete blocks which had grown up, almost without our noticing them, on the lower reaches of our hillock, and which were oddly segregated: Americans and other foreigners lived (like Evie) in Noor Ville; arriviste Indian success-stories ended up in Laxmi Vilas. From the heights of Methwold’s Estate, we looked down on them all, on white and brown alike; but nobody ever looked down on Evie Burns—except once. Only once did anyone get on top of her.
Before I climbed into my first pair of long pants, I fell in love with Evie; but love was a curious, chain-reactive thing that year. To save time, I shall place all of us in the same row at the Metro cinema; Robert Taylor is mirrored in our eyes as we sit in flickering trances—and also in symbolic sequence: Saleem Sinai is sitting-next-to-and-in-love-with Evie Burns who is sitting-next-to-and-in-love-with Sonny Ibrahim who is sitting-next-to-and-in-love-with the Brass Monkey who is sitting next to the aisle and feeling starving hungry … I loved Evie for perhaps six months of my life; two years later, she was back in America, knifing an old woman and being sent to reform school.
A brief expression of my gratitude is in order at this point: if Evie had not come to live amongst us, my story might never have progressed beyond tourism-in-a-clocktower and cheating in class … and then there would have been no climax in a Widows’ Hostel, no clear proof of my meaning, no coda in a fuming factory over which there presides the winking, saffron-and-green dancing figure of the neon goddess Mumbadevi. But Evie Burns (was she snake or ladder? The answer’s obvious: both) did come, complete with the silver bicycle which enabled me not only to discover the midnight children, but also to ensure the partition of the state of Bombay.
To begin at the beginning: her hair was made of scarecrow straw, her skin was peppered with freckles and her teeth lived in a metal cage. These teeth were, it seemed, the only things on earth over which she was powerless—they grew wild, in malicious crazy-paving overlaps, and stung her dreadfully when she ate ice-cream. (I permit myself this one generalization: Americans have mastered the universe, but have no dominion over their mouths; whereas India is impotent, but her children tend to have excellent teeth.)
Racked by toothaches, my Evie rose magnificently above the pain. Refusing to be ruled by bone and gums, she ate cake and drank Coke whenever they were going; and never complained. A tough kid, Evie Burns: her conquest of suffering confirmed her sovereignty over us all. It has been observed that all Americans need a frontier: pain was hers, and she was determined to push it out.
Once, I shyly gave her a necklace of flowers (queen-of-the-night for my lily-of-the-eve), bought with my own pocket-money from a hawker-woman at Scandal Point. “I don’t wear flowers,” Evelyn Lilith said, and tossed the unwanted chain into the air, spearing it before it fell with a pellet from her unerring Daisy air-pistol. Destroying flowers with a Daisy, she served notice that she was not to be manacled, not even by a necklace: she was our capricious, whirligig Lill-of-the-Hill. And also Eve. The Adam’s-apple of my eye.
How she arrived: Sonny Ibrahim, Eyeslice and Hairoil Sabarmati, Cyrus Dubash, the Monkey and I were playing French cricket in the circus-ring between Methwold’s four palaces. A New Year’s Day game: Toxy clapping at her barred window; even Bi-Appah was in a good humor and not, for once, abusing us. Cricket—even French cricket, and even when played by children—is a quiet game: peace anointed in linseed oil. The kissing of leather and willow; sprinkled applause; the occasional cry—“Shot! Shot, sir!”—“Owzatt??” but Evie on her bicycle was having none of that.
“Hey, you! Alla you! Hey, whassamatter? You all deaf or what?”
I was batting (elegantly as Ranji, powerfully as Vinoo Mankad) when she charged up the hill on her two-wheeler, straw hair flying, freckles ablaze, mouth-metal flashing semaphore messages in the sunlight, a scarecrow astride a silver bullet … “Hey, you widda leaky nose! Stop watching the schoopid ball, ya crumb! I’ll
showya something worth watching!”
Impossible to picture Evie Burns without also conjuring up a bicycle; and not just any two-wheeler, but one of the last of the great old-timers, an Arjuna Indiabike in mint condition, with drop-handlebars wrapped in masking tape and five gears and a seat made of reccine cheetah-skin. And a silver frame (the color, I don’t need to tell you, of the Lone Ranger’s horse) … slobby Eyeslice and neat Hairoil, Cyrus the genius and the Monkey, and Sonny Ibrahim and myself—the best of friends, the true sons of the Estate, its heirs by right of birth—Sonny with the slow innocence he had had ever since the forceps dented his brain and me with my dangerous secret knowledge—yes, all of us, future bullfighters and Navy chiefs and all, stood frozen in open-mouthed attitudes as Evie Burns began to ride her bike, fasterfasterfaster, around and around the edges of the circus-ring. “Lookit me now: watch me go, ya dummies!”
On and off the cheetah-seat, Evie performed. One foot on the seat, one leg stretched out behind her, she whirled around us; she built up speed and then did a headstand on the seat! She could straddle the front wheel, facing the rear, and work the pedals the wrong way round … gravity was her slave, speed her element, and we knew that a power had come among us, a witch on wheels, and the flowers of the hedgerows threw her petals, the dust of the circus-ring stood up in clouds of ovation, because the circus-ring had found its mistress, too: it was the canvas beneath the brush of her whirling wheels.
Now we noticed that our heroine packed a Daisy air-pistol on her right hip … “More to come, ya zeroes!” she yelled, and drew the weapon. Her pellets gave stones the gift of flight; we threw annas into the air and she gunned them down, stone-dead. “Targets! More targets!”—and Eyeslice surrendered his beloved pack of rummy cards without a murmur, so that she could shoot the heads off the kings. Annie Oakley in toothbraces—nobody dared question her sharpshooting, except once, and that was at the end of her reign, during the great cat invasion; and there were extenuating circumstances.
Flushed, sweating, Evie Burns dismounted and announced: “From now on, there’s a new big chief around here. Okay, Indians? Any arguments?”
No arguments; I knew then that I had fallen in love.
At Juhu Beach with Evie: she won the camel-races, could drink more coconut milk than any of us, could open her eyes under the sharp salt water of the Arabian Sea.
Did six months make such a difference? (Evie was half a year older than me.) Did it entitle you to talk to grown-ups as an equal? Evie was seen gossiping with old man Ibrahim Ibrahim; she claimed Lila Sabarmati was teaching her to put on make-up; she visited Homi Catrack to gossip about guns. (It was the tragic irony of Homi Catrack’s life that he, at whom a gun would one day be pointed, was a true aficionado of firearms … in Evie he found a fellow-creature, a motherless child who was, unlike his own Toxy, as sharp as a knife and as bright as a bottle. Incidentally, Evie Burns wasted no sympathy on poor Toxy Catrack. “Wrong inna head,” she opined carelessly to us all, “Oughta be put down like rats.” But Evie: rats are not weak! There was more that was rodent-like in your face than in the whole body of your despised Tox.)
That was Evelyn Lilith; and within weeks of her arrival, I had set off the chain reaction from whose effects I would never fully recover.
It began with Sonny Ibrahim, Sonny-next-door, Sonny of the forcep-hollows, who has been sitting patiently in the wings of my story, awaiting his cue. In those days, Sonny was a badly bruised fellow: more than forceps had dented him. To love the Brass Monkey (even in the nine-year-old sense of the word) was no easy thing to do.
As I’ve said, my sister, born second and unheralded, had begun to react violently to any declarations of affection. Although she was believed to speak the languages of birds and cats, the soft words of lovers roused in her an almost animal rage; but Sonny was too simple to be warned off. For months now, he had been pestering her with statements such as, “Saleem’s sister, you’re a pretty solid type!” or, “Listen, you want to be my girl? We could go to the pictures with your ayah, maybe …” And for an equal number of months, she had been making him suffer for his love—telling tales to his mother; pushing him into mud-puddles accidentally-on-purpose; once even assaulting him physically, leaving him with long raking claw-marks down his face and an expression of sad-dog injury in his eyes; but he would not learn. And so, at last, she had planned her most terrible revenge.
The Monkey attended Walsingham School for Girls on Nepean Sea Road; a school full of tall, superbly muscled Europeans, who swam like fish and dived like submarines. In their spare time, they could be seen from our bedroom window, cavorting in the map-shaped pool of the Breach Candy Club, from which we were, of course, barred … and when I discovered that the Monkey had somehow attached herself to these segregated swimmers, as a sort of mascot, I felt genuinely aggrieved with her for perhaps the first time … but there was no arguing with her; she went her own way. Beefy fifteen-year-old white girls let her sit with them on the Walsingham school bus. Three such females would wait with her every morning at the same place where Sonny, Eyeslice, Hairoil, Cyrus-the-great and I awaited the bus from the Cathedral School.
One morning, for some forgotten reason, Sonny and I were the only boys at the stop. Maybe there was a bug going round or something. The Monkey waited until Mary Pereira had left us alone, in the care of the beefy swimmers; and then suddenly the truth of what she was planning flashed into my head as, for no particular reason, I tuned into her thoughts; and I yelled “Hey!”—but too late. The Monkey screeched, “You keep out of this!” and then she and the three beefy swimmers had jumped upon Sonny Ibrahim, street-sleepers and beggars and bicycling clerks were watching with open amusement, because they were ripping every scrap of clothing off his body … “Damn it man, are you just going to stand and watch?”—Sonny yelling for help, but I was immobilized, how could I take sides between my sister and my best friend, and he, I’ll tell my daddy on you!”, tearful now, while the Monkey, “That’ll teach you to talk shit—and that’ll teach you,” his shoes, off; no shirt any more; his vest, dragged off by a high-board diver. “And that’ll teach you to write your sissy love letters,” no socks now, and plenty of tears, and “There!” yelled the Monkey; the Walsingham bus arrived and the assailants and my sister jumped in and sped away, “Ta-ta-ba-ta, lover-boy!” they yelled, and Sonny was left in the street, on the pavement opposite Chimalker’s and Reader’s Paradise, naked as the day he was born; his forcep-hollows glistened like rock-pools, because Vaseline had dripped into them from his hair; and his eyes were wet as well, as he, “Why’s she do it, man? Why, when I only told her I liked …”
“Search me,” I said, not knowing where to look, “She does things, that’s all.” Not knowing, either, that the time would come when she did something worse to me.
But that was nine years later … meanwhile, early in 1957, election campaigns had begun: the Jan Sangh was campaigning for rest homes for aged sacred cows; in Kerala, E. M. S. Namboodiripad was promising that Communism would give everyone food and jobs; in Madras, the Anna-D.M.K. party of C. N. Annadurai fanned the flames of regionalism; the Congress fought back with reforms such as the Hindu Succession Act, which gave Hindu women equal rights of inheritance … in short, everybody was busy pleading his own cause; I, however, found myself tongue-tied in the face of Evie Burns, and approached Sonny Ibrahim to ask him to plead on my behalf.
In India, we’ve always been vulnerable to Europeans … Evie had only been with us a matter of weeks, and already I was being sucked into a grotesque mimicry of European literature. (We had done Cyrano, in a simplified version, at school; I had also read the Classics Illustrated comic book.) Perhaps it would be fair to say that Europe repeats itself, in India, as farce … Evie was American. Same thing.
“But hey, man, that’s no-fair man, why don’t you do it yourself?”
“Listen, Sonny,” I pleaded, “you’re my friend, right?”
“Yeah, but you didn’t even help …”
�
�That was my sister, Sonny, so how could I?”
“No, so you have to do your own dirty …”
“Hey, Sonny, man, think. Think only. These girls need careful handling, man. Look how the Monkey flies off the handle! You’ve got the experience, yaar, you’ve been through it. You’ll know how to go gently this time. What do I know, man? Maybe she doesn’t like me even. You want me to have my clothes torn off, too? That would make you feel better?”
And innocent, good-natured Sonny, “… Well, no … ?”
“Okay, then. You go. Sing my praises a little. Say never mind about my nose. Character is what counts. You can do that?”
Midnight's Children Page 26
