Midnight's Children (40 page)

When I first introduced myself to Shiva, I saw in his mind the terrifying image of a short, rat-faced youth with filed-down teeth and two of the biggest knees the world has ever seen.

Faced with a picture of such grotesque proportions, I allowed the smile on my own beaming image to wither a little; my outstretched hand began to falter and twitch. And Shiva, feeling my presence, reacted at first with utter rage; great boiling waves of anger scalded the inside of my head; but then, “Hey—look—I know you! You’re the rich kid from Methwold’s Estate, isn’t it?” And I, equally astonished, “Winkie’s son—the one who blinded Eyeslice!” His self-image puffed up with pride. “Yah, yaar, that’s me. Nobody messes with me, man!” Recognition reduced me to banalities: “So! How’s your father, anyway? He doesn’t come round …” And he, with what felt very like relief: “Him, man? My father’s dead.”

A momentary pause; then puzzlement—no anger now—and Shiva, “Lissen, yaar, this is damn good—how you doin’ it?” I launched into my standard explanation, but after a few instants he interrupted, “So! Lissen, my father said I got born at exactly midnight also—so don’t you see, that makes us joint bosses of this gang of yours! Midnight is best, agreed? So—those other kids gotta do like we tell them!” There rose before my eyes the image of a second, and more potent, Evelyn Lilith Burns … dismissing this unkind notion, I explained, “That wasn’t exactly my idea for the Conference; I had in mind something more like a, you know, sort of loose federation of equals, all points of view given free expression …” Something resembling a violent snort echoed around the walls of my head. “That, man, that’s only rubbish. What we ever goin’ to do with a gang like that? Gangs gotta have gang bosses. You take me—” (the puff of pride again) “I been running a gang up here in Matunga for two years now. Since I was eight. Older kids and all. What d’you think of that?” And I, without meaning to, “What’s it do, your gang—does it have rules and all?” Shiva laughter in my ears … “Yah, little rich boy: one rule. Everybody does what I say or I squeeze the shit outa them with my knees!” Desperately, I continued to try and win Shiva round to my point of view: “The thing is, we must be here for a
purpose
, don’t you think? I mean, there has to be a
reason
, you must agree? So what I thought, we should try and work out what it is, and then, you know, sort of dedicate our lives to …” “Rich kid,” Shiva yelled, “you don’t know one damn thing! What
purpose
, man? What thing in the whole sister-sleeping world got
reason
, yara? For what reason you’re rich and I’m poor? Where’s the reason in starving, man? God knows how many millions of damn fools living in this country, man, and you think there’s a purpose! Man, I’ll tell you—you got to get what you can, do what you can with it, and then you got to die. That’s reason, rich boy. Everything else is only mother-sleeping
wind
!”

And now I, in my midnight bed, begin to shake … “But history,” I say, “and the Prime Minister wrote me a letter … and don’t you even believe in … who knows what we might …” He, my alter ego, Shiva, butted in: “Lissen, little boy—you’re so fall of crazy stuff, I can see I’m going to have to take this thing over. You tell that to all these other freak kids!”

Nose and knees and knees and nose … the rivalry that began that night would never be ended, until two knives slashed, downdowndown … whether the spirits of Mian Abdullah, whom knives killed years before, had leaked into me, imbuing me with the notion of loose federalism and making me vulnerable to knives, I cannot say; but at that point I found a measure of courage and told Shiva, “You can’t run the Conference; without me, they won’t even be able to listen to you!”

And he, confirming the declaration of war: “Rich kid, they’ll want to know about me; you just try and stop me!”

“Yes,” I told him, “I’ll try.”

Shiva, the god of destruction, who is also most potent of deities; Shiva, greatest of dancers; who rides on a bull; whom no force can resist … the boy Shiva, he told us, had to fight for survival from his earliest days. And when his father had, about a year previously, completely lost his singing voice, Shiva had had to defend himself against Wee Willie Winkie’s parental zeal. “He blindfolded me, man! He wrapped a rag around my eyes an’ took me to the roof of the chawl, man! You know what was in his hand? A sister-sleeping hammer, man! A hammer! Bastard was going to smash my legs up, man—it happens, you know, rich boy, they do it to kids so they can always earn money begging—you get more if you’re all broken up, man! So I’m pushed over till I’m lying down on the roof, man; and then—” And then hammer swinging down towards knees larger and knobblier than any policeman’s, an easy target, but now the knees went into action, faster than lightning the knees parted—felt the breath of the downrushing hammer and spread wide apart; and then hammer plunging between knees, still held in his father’s hand; and then, the knees rushing together like fists. The hammer, clattering harmlessly on concrete. The wrist of Wee Willie Winkie, clamped between the knees of his blindfolded son. Hoarse breaths escaping from the lips of the anguished father. And still the knees, closing ininin, tighter and tighter, until there is a snap. “Broke his goddamn wrist, man! That showed him—damn fine, no? I swear!”

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?

T
HERE 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 declared, “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.