Midnight's Children

by Salman Rushdie

  Shiva and I were born under Capricorn rising; the constellation left me alone, but it gave Shiva its gift. Capricorn, as any astrologer will tell you, is the heavenly body with power over the knees.

  On election day, 1957, the All-India Congress was badly shocked. Although it won the election, twelve million votes made the Communists the largest single opposition party; and in Bombay, despite the efforts of Boss Patil, large numbers of electors failed to place their crosses against the Congress symbol of sacred-cow-and-suckling-calf, preferring the less emotive pictograms of the Samyukta Maharashtra Samiti and Maha Gujarat Parishad. When the Communist peril was discussed on our hillock, my mother continued to blush; and we resigned ourselves to the partition of the state of Bombay.

  One member of the Midnight Children’s Conference played a minor role in the elections. Winkie’s supposed son Shiva was recruited by—well, perhaps I will not name the party; but only one party had really large sums to spend—and on polling day, he and his gang, who called themselves Cowboys, were to be seen standing outside a polling station in the north of the city, some holding long stout sticks, others juggling with stones, still others picking their teeth with knives, all of them encouraging the electorate to use its vote with wisdom and care … and after the polls closed, were seals broken on ballot-boxes? Did ballot-stuffing occur? At any rate, when the votes were counted, it was discovered that Qasim the Red had narrowly failed to win the seat; and my rival’s paymasters were well pleased.

  … But now Padma says, mildly, “What date was it?” And, without thinking, I answer: “Some time in the spring.” And then it occurs to me that I have made another error—that the election of 1957 took place before, and not after, my tenth birthday; but although I have racked my brains, my memory refuses, stubbornly, to alter the sequence of events. This is worrying. I don’t know what’s gone wrong.

  She says, trying uselessly to console me: “What are you so long for in your face? Everybody forgets some small things, all the time!”

  But if small things go, will large things be close behind?

  Alpha and Omega

  THERE WAS TURMOIL in Bombay in the months after the election; there is turmoil in my thoughts as I recall those days. My error has upset me badly; so now, to regain my equilibrium, I shall place myself firmly on the familiar ground of Methwold’s Estate; leaving the history of the Midnight Children’s Conference to one side, and the pain of the Pioneer Café to another, I shall tell you about the fall of Evie Burns.

  I have titled this episode somewhat oddly. “Alpha and Omega” stares back at me from the page, demanding to be explained—a curious heading for what will be my story’s halfway point, one that reeks of beginnings and ends, when you could say it should be more concerned with middles; but, unrepentantly, I have no intention of changing it, although there are many alternative titles, for instance “From Monkey to Rhesus,” or “Finger Redux,” or—in a more allusive style—“The Gander,” a reference, obviously, to the mythical bird, the hamsa or parahamsa, symbol of the ability to live in two worlds, the physical and the spiritual, the world of land-and-water and the world of air, of flight. But “Alpha and Omega” it is; “Alpha and Omega” it remains. Because there are beginnings here, and all manner of ends; but you’ll soon see what I mean.

  Padma clicks her tongue in exasperation. “You’re talking funny again,” she criticizes, “Are you going to tell about Evie or not?”

  … After the general election, the Central Government continued to shilly-shally about the future of Bombay. The State was to be partitioned; then not to be partitioned; then partition reared its head again. And as for the city itself—it was to be the capital of Maharashtra; or of both Maharashtra and Gujarat; or an independent state of its own … while the government tried to work out what on earth to do, the city’s inhabitants decided to encourage it to be quick. Riots proliferated (and you could still hear the old battle-song of the Mahrattas—How are you? I am well! I’ll take a stick and thrash you to hell!—rising above the fray); and to make things worse, the weather joined in the mêlée. There was a severe drought; roads cracked; in the villages, peasants were being forced to kill their cows; and on Christmas Day (of whose significance no boy who attended a mission school and was attended upon by a Catholic ayah could fail to be aware) there was a series of loud explosions at the Walkeshwar Reservoir and the main fresh-water pipes which were the city’s lifelines began to blow fountains into the air like giant steel whales. The newspapers were full of talk of saboteurs; speculation over the criminals’ identities and political affiliation jostled for space against reports of the continuing wave of whore-murders. (I was particularly interested to learn that the murderer had his own curious “signature.” The corpses of the ladies of the night were all strangled to death; there were bruises on their necks, bruises too large to be thumbprints, but wholly consistent with the marks which would be left by a pair of giant, preternaturally powerful knees.)

  But I digress. What, Padma’s frown demands, does all this have to do with Evelyn Lilith Burns? Instantly, leaping to attention, as it were, I provide the answer: in the days after the destruction of the city’s fresh-water supply, the stray cats of Bombay began to congregate in those areas of the city where water was still relatively plentiful; that is to say, the better-off areas, in which each house owned its own overhead or underground water-tank. And, as a result, the two-storey hillock of Methwold’s Estate was invaded by an army of thirsting felines; cats swarming all over the circus-ring, cats climbing bougainvillaea creepers and leaping into sitting-rooms, cats knocking over flower-vases to drink the plant-stale water, cats bivouacked in bathrooms, slurping liquid out of water-closets, cats rampant in the kitchens of the palaces of William Methwold. The Estate’s servants were vanquished in their attempts to repel the great cat invasion; the ladies of the Estate were reduced to helpless exclamations of horror. Hard dry worms of cat-excrement were everywhere; gardens were ruined by sheer feline force of numbers; and at night sleep became an impossibility as the army found voice, and sang its thirst at the moon. (The Baroness Simki von der Heiden refused to fight the cats; she was already showing signs of the disease which would shortly lead to her extermination.)

  Nussie Ibrahim rang my mother to announce, “Amina sister, it is the end of the world.”

  She was wrong; because on the third day after the great cat invasion, Evelyn Lilith Burns visited each Estate household in turn, carrying her Daisy air-gun casually in one hand, and offered, in return for bounty money, to end the plague of pussies double-quick.

  All that day, Methwold’s Estate echoed with the sounds of Evie’s air-gun and the agonized wauls of the cats, as Evie stalked the entire army one by one and made herself rich. But (as history so often demonstrates) the moment of one’s greatest triumph also contains the seeds of one’s final downfall; and so it proved, because Evie’s persecution of the cats, was as far as the Brass Monkey was concerned, absolutely the last straw.

  “Brother,” the Monkey told me grimly, “I told you I’d get that girl; now, right now, the time has come.”

  Unanswerable questions: was it true that my sister had acquired the languages of cats as well as birds? Was it her fondness for feline life which pushed her over the brink? … by the time of the great cat invasion, the Monkey’s hair had faded into brown; she had broken her habit of burning shoes; but still, and for whatever reason, there was a fierceness in her which none of the rest of us ever possessed; and she went down into the circus-ring and yelled at the top of her voice: “Evie! Evie Burns! You come out here, this minute, wherever you are!”

  Surrounded by fleeing cats, the Monkey awaited Evelyn Burns. I went out on to the first-floor verandah to watch; from their verandahs, Sonny and Eyeslice and Hairoil and Cyrus were watching too. We saw Evie Burns appear from the direction of the Versailles Villa kitchens; she was blowing the smoke away from the barrel of her gun.

  “You Indians c’n thank your stars you got me around,” Evie decla
red, “or you’d just’ve got eaten by these cats!”

  We saw Evie fall silent as she saw the thing sitting tensely in the Monkey’s eyes; and then like a blur the Monkey descended on Evie and a battle began which lasted for what seemed like several hours (but it can only have been a few minutes). Shrouded in the dust of the circus-ring they rolled kicked scratched bit, small tufts of hair flew out of the dust-cloud and there were elbows and feet in dirtied white socks and knees and fragments of frock flying out of the cloud; grown-ups came running, servants couldn’t pull them apart, and in the end Homi Catrack’s gardener turned his hose on them to separate them … the Brass Monkey stood up a little crookedly and shook the sodden hem of her dress, ignoring the cries of retribution proceeding from the lips of Amina Sinai and Mary Pereira; because there in the hose-wet dirt of the circus-ring lay Evie Burns, her tooth-braces broken, her hair matted with dust and spittle, her spirit and her dominion over us broken for once and for all.

  A few weeks later her father sent her home for good, “To get a decent education away from these savages,” he was heard to remark; I only heard from her once, six months later, when right out of the blue she wrote me the letter which informed me that she had knifed an old lady who had objected to her assault on a cat. “I gave it to her all right,” Evie wrote, “Tell your sister she just got lucky.” I salute that unknown old woman: she paid the Monkey’s bill.

  More interesting than Evie’s last message is a thought which occurs to me now, as I look back down the tunnel of time. Holding before my eyes the image of Monkey and Evie rolling in the dirt, I seem to discern the driving force behind their battle to the death, a motive far deeper than the mere persecution of cats: they were fighting over me. Evie and my sister (who were, in many ways, not at all dissimilar) kicked and scratched, ostensibly over the fate of a few thirsty strays; but perhaps Evie’s kicks were aimed at me, perhaps they were the violence of her anger at my invasion of her head; and then maybe the strength of the Monkey was the strength of sibling-loyalty, and her act of war was actually an act of love.

  Blood, then, was spilled in the circus-ring. Another rejected title for these pages—you may as well know—was “Thicker Than Water.” In those days of water shortages, something thicker than water ran down the face of Evie Burns; the loyalties of blood motivated the Brass Monkey; and in the streets of the city, rioters spilled each other’s blood. There were bloody murders, and perhaps it is not appropriate to end this sanguinary catalogue by mentioning, once again, the rushes of blood to my mother’s cheeks. Twelve million votes were colored red that year, and red is the color of blood. More blood will flow soon: the types of blood, A and O, Alpha and Omega—and another, a third possibility—must be kept in mind. Also other factors: zygosity, and Kell antibodies, and that most mysterious of sanguinary attributes, known as rhesus, which is also a type of monkey.

  Everything has shape, if you look for it. There is no escape from form.

  But before blood has its day, I shall take wing (like the parahamsa gander who can soar out of one element into another) and return, briefly, to the affairs of my inner world; because although the fall of Evie Burns ended my ostracism by the hilltop children, still I found it difficult to forgive; and for a time, holding myself solitary and aloof, I immersed myself in the events inside my head, in the early history of the association of the midnight children.

  To be honest: I didn’t like Shiva. I disliked the roughness of his tongue, the crudity of his ideas; and I was beginning to suspect him of a string of terrible crimes—although I found it impossible to find any evidence in his thoughts, because he, alone of the children of midnight, could close off from me any part of his thoughts he chose to keep to himself—which, in itself, increased my growing dislike and suspicion of the rat-faced fellow. However, I was nothing if not fair; and it would not have been fair to have kept him apart from the other members of the Conference.

  I should explain that as my mental facility increased, I found that it was possible not only to pick up the children’s transmissions; not only to broadcast my own messages; but also (since I seem to be stuck with this radio metaphor) to act as a sort of national network, so that by opening my transformed mind to all the children I could turn it into a kind of forum in which they could talk to one another, through me. So, in the early days of 1958, the five hundred and eighty-one children would assemble, for one hour, between midnight and one a.m., in the lok sabha or parliament of my brain.

  We were as motley, as raucous, as undisciplined as any bunch of five hundred and eighty-one ten-year-olds; and on top of our natural exuberance, there was the excitement of our discovery of each other. After one hour of top-volume yelling jabbering arguing giggling, I would fall exhausted into a sleep too deep for nightmares, and still wake up with a headache; but I didn’t mind. Awake I was obliged to face the multiple miseries of maternal perfidy and paternal decline, of the fickleness of friendship and the varied tyrannies of school; asleep, I was at the center of the most exciting world any child had ever discovered. Despite Shiva, it was nicer to be asleep.

  Shiva’s conviction that he (or he-and-I) was the natural leader of our group by dint of his (and my) birth on the stroke of midnight had, I was bound to admit, one strong argument in its favor. It seemed to me then—it seems to me now—that the midnight miracle had indeed been remarkably hierarchical in nature, that the children’s abilities declined dramatically on the basis of the distance of their time of birth from midnight; but even this was a point of view which was hotly contested … “Whatdoyoumeanhowcanyousaythat,” they chorused, the boy from the Gir forest whose face was absolutely blank and featureless (except for eyes noseholes spaceformouth) and could take on any features he chose, and Harilal who could run at the speed of the wind, and God knows how many others … “Who says it’s better to do one thing or another?” And, “Can you fly? I can fly!” And, “Yah, and me, can you turn one fish into fifty?” And, “Today I went to visit tomorrow. You can do that? Well then—” … in the face of such a storm of protest, even Shiva changed his tune; but he was to find a new one, which would be much more dangerous—dangerous for the Children, and for me.

  Because I had found that I was not immune to the lure of leadership. Who found the Children, anyway? Who formed the Conference? Who gave them their meeting-place? Was I not the joint-eldest, and should I not receive the respect and obeisances merited by my seniority? And didn’t the one who provided the club-house run the club? … To which Shiva, “Forget all that, man. That club-shub stuff is only for you rich boys!” But—for a time—he was overruled. Parvati-the-witch, the conjurer’s daughter from Delhi, took my part (just as, years later, she would save my life), and announced, “No, listen now, everybody: without Saleem we are nowhere, we can’t talk or anything, he is right. Let him be the chief!” And I, “No, never mind chief, just think of me as a … a big brother, maybe. Yes; we’re a family, of a kind. I’m just the oldest, me.” To which Shiva replied, scornful, but unable to argue: “Okay, big brother: so now tell us what we do?”

  At this point I introduced the Conference to the notions which plagued me all this time: the notions of purpose, and meaning. “We must think,” I said, “what we are for.”

  I record, faithfully, the views of a typical selection of the Conference members (excepting the circus-freaks, and the ones who, like Sundari the beggar-girl with the knife-scars, had lost their powers, and tended to remain silent in our debates, like poor relations at a feast): among the philosophies and aims suggested were collectivism—“We should all get together and live somewhere, no? What would we need from anyone else?”—and individualism—“You say we; but we together are unimportant; what matters is that each of us has a gift to use for his or her own good”—filial duty—“However we can help our father-mother, that is what it is for us to do”—and infant revolution—“Now at last we must show all kids that it is possible to get rid of parents!”—capitalism—“Just think what businesses we could do! How rich, Allah
, we could be!”—and altruism—“Our country needs gifted people; we must ask the government how it wishes to use our skills”—science—“We must allow ourselves to be studied”—and religion—“Let us declare ourselves to the world, so that all may glory in God”—courage—“We should invade Pakistan!”—and cowardice—“O heavens, we must stay secret, just think what they will do to us, stone us for witches or what-all!”; there were declarations of women’s rights and pleas for the improvement of the lot of untouchables; landless children dreamed of land and tribals from the hills, of Jeeps; and there were, also, fantasies of power. “They can’t stop us, man! We can bewitch, and fly, and read minds, and turn them into frogs, and make gold and fishes, and they will fall in love with us, and we can vanish through mirrors and change our sex … how will they be able to fight?”

  I won’t deny I was disappointed. I shouldn’t have been; there was nothing unusual about the children except for their gifts; their heads were full of all the usual things, fathers mothers money food land possessions fame power God. Nowhere, in the thoughts of the Conference, could I find anything as new as ourselves … but then I was on the wrong track, too; I could not see any more clearly than anyone else; and even when Soumitra the time-traveller said, “I’m telling you—all this is pointless—they’ll finish us before we start!” we all ignored him; with the optimism of youth—which is a more virulent form of the same disease that once infected my grandfather Aadam Aziz—we refused to look on the dark side, and not a single one of us suggested that the purpose of Midnight’s Children might be annihilation; that we would have no meaning until we were destroyed.