MIDNIGHT'S CHILDREN 精彩片段：
The shadow of the Mosque
No shadow of a doubt: an acceleration is taking place. Rip crunch crack while road surfaces split in the awesome heat, I, too, am being hurried towards disintegration. What gnaws on bones (which, as I have been regularly obliged to explain to the too many women around me, is far beyond the powers of medicine men to discern, much less to cure) will not be denied for long; and still so much remains to be told… Uncle Mustapha is growing inside me, and the pout of Parvati the witch; a certain lock of heros hair is waiting in the wings; and also a labour of thirteen days, and history as an analogue of a prime ministers hair style; there is to be treason, and fare dodging, and the scent (wafting on breezes heavy with the ululations of widows) of something frying in an iron skillet… so that I, too, am forced to accelerate, to make a wild dash for the finishing line; before memory cracks beyond hope of re assembly, I must breast the tape. (Although already, already there are fadings, and gaps; it will be necessary to improvise on occasion.)
Twenty six pickle jars stand gravely on a shelf; twenty six special blends, each with its identifying label, neatly inscribed with familiar phrases: Movements Performed by Pepperpots, for instance, or Alpha and Omega, or Commander Sabarmatis Baton. Twenty six rattle eloquently when local trains go yellow and browning past; on my desk, five empty jars tinkle urgently, reminding me of my uncompleted task. But now I cannot linger over empty pickle jars; the night is for words, and green chutney must wait its turn.
… Padma is wistful: O, mister, how lovely Kashmir must be in August, when here it is hot like a chilli! I am obliged to reprove my plump yet muscled companion, whose attention has been wandering; and to observe that our Padma Bibi, long suffering tolerant consoling, is beginning to behave exactly like a traditional Indian wife. (And I, with my distances and self absorption, like a husband?) Of late, in spite of my stoic fatalism about the spreading cracks, I have smelled, on Padmas breath, the dream of an alternative (but impossible) future; ignoring the implacable finalities of inner fissures, she has begun to exude the bitter sweet fragrance of hope for marriage. My dung lotus, who remained impervious for so long to the sneer lipped barbs hurled by our workforce of downy forearmed women; who placed her cohabitation with me outside and above all codes of social propriety, has seemingly succumbed to a desire for legitimacy… in short, although she has not said a word on the subject, she is waiting for me to make an honest woman of her. The perfume of her sad hopefulness permeates her most innocently solicitous remarks even at this very moment, as she, Hey, mister, why not finish your writery and then take rest; go to Kashmir, sit quietly for some time and maybe you will take your Padma also, and she can look after…? Behind this burgeoning dream of a Kashmir! holiday (which was once also the dream of Jehangir, the Mughal Emperor; of poor forgotten Ilse Lubin; and, perhaps, of Christ himself), I nose out the presence of another dream; but neither this nor that can be fulfilled. Because now the cracks, the cracks and always the cracks are narrowing my future towards its single inescapable fullpoint; and even Padma must take a back seat if Im to finish my tales.
Today, the papers are talking about the supposed political rebirth of Mrs. Indira Gandhi; but when I returned to India, concealed in a wicker basket, The Madam was basking in the fullness of her glory. Today, perhaps, we are already forgetting, sinking willingly into the insidious clouds of amnesia; but I remember, and will set down, how I how she how it happened that no, I cant say it, I must tell it in the proper order, until there is no option but to reveal… On December 16th, 1971, I tumbled out of a basket into an India in which Mrs. Gandhis New Congress Party held a more than two thirds majority in the National Assembly.
In the basket of invisibility, a sense of unfairness turned into anger; and something else besides transformed by rage, I had also been overwhelmed by an agonizing feeling of sympathy for the country which was not only my twin in birth but also joined to me (so to speak) at the hip, so that what happened to either of us, happened to us both. If I, snot nosed stain faced etcetera, had had a hard time of it, then so had she, my subcontinental twin sister; and now that I had given myself the right to choose a better future, I was resolved that the nation should share it, too. I think that when I tumbled out into dust, shadow and amused cheers, I had already decided to save the country.
(But there are cracks and gaps… had I, by then, begun to see that my love for Jamila Singer had been, in a sense, a mistake? Had I already understood how I had simply transferred on to her shoulders the adoration which I now perceived to be a vaulting, all encompassing love of country? When was it that I realized that my truly incestuous feelings were for my true birth sister, India herself, and not for that trollop of a crooner who had so callously shed me, like a used snake skin, and dropped me into the metaphorical waste basket of Army life? When when when?… Admitting defeat, I am forced to record that I cannot remember for sure.)
… Saleem sat blinking in the dust in the shadow of the mosque. A giant was standing over him, grinning hugely, asking, Achha, captain, have a good trip? And Parvati, with huge excited eyes, pouring water from a lotah into his cracked, salty mouth… Feeling! The icy touch of water kept cool in earthenware surahis, the cracked soreness of parched raw lips, silver and lapis clenched in a fist… I can feel! Saleem cried to the good natured crowd.
It was the time of afternoon called the chaya, when the shadow of the tall red brick and marble Friday Mosque fell across the higgledy shacks of the slum clustered at its feet, that slum whose ramshackle tin roofs created such a swelter of heat that it was insupportable to be inside the fragile shacks except during the chaya and at night… but now conjurers and contortionists and jugglers and fakirs had gathered in the shade around the solitary stand pipe to greet the new arrival. I can feel! I cried, and then Picture Singh, Okay, captain tell us, how it feels? to be born again, falling like baby out of Parvatis basket? I could smell amazement on Picture Singh; he was clearly astounded by Parvatis trick, but, like a true professional, would not dream of asking her how she had achieved it. In this way Parvati the witch, who had used her limitless powers to spirit me to safety, escaped discovery; and also because, as I later discovered, the ghetto of the magicians disbelieved, with the absolute certainty of illusionists by trade, in the possibility of magic. So Picture Singh told me, with amazement, I swear, captain you were so light in there, like a baby! But he never dreamed that my weightlessness had been anything more than a trick.
Listen, baby sahib, Picture Singh was crying, What do you say, baby captain? Must I put you over my shoulder and make you belch? And now Parvati, tolerantly: That one, baba, always making joke shoke. She was smiling radiantly at everyone in sight… but there followed an inauspicious event. A womans voice began to wail at the back of the cluster of magicians: Ai o ai o! Ai o o! The crowd parted in surprise and an old woman burst through it and rushed at Saleem; I was required to defend myself against a brandished frying pan, until Picture Singh, alarmed, seized her by pan waving arm and bellowed, Hey, capteena, why so much noise? And the old woman, obstinately: Ai o ai o!
Resham Bibi, Parvati said, crossly, You got ants in your brain? And Picture Singh, We got a guest, capteena whatll he do with your shouting? Arre, be quiet, Resham, this captain is known to our Parvati personal! Dont be coming crying in front of him!
Ai o ai o! Bad luck is come! You go to foreign places and bring it here! Ai oooo!
Disturbed visages of magicians stared from Resham Bibi to me because although they were a people who denied the supernatural, they were artistes, and like all performers had an implicit faith in luck, good luck and bad luck, luck… Yourself you said, Resham Bibi wailed, this man is born twice, and not even from woman! Now comes desolation, pestilence and death. I am old and so I know. Arre baba, she turned plaintively to face me, Have pity only; go now go go quick! There was a murmur It is true, Resham Bibi knows the old stories but then Picture Singh became angry. The captain is my honoured guest, he said, He stays in my hut as long as he wishes, for short or for long. What are you all talking? This is no place for fables.
Saleem Sinais first sojourn at the magicians ghetto lasted only a matter of days; but during that short time, a number of things happened to allay the fears which had been raised by ai o ai o. The plain, unadorned truth is that, in those days, the ghetto illusionists and other artistes began to hit new peaks of achievement jugglers managed to keep one thousand and one balls in the air at a time, and a fakirs as yet untrained protegee strayed on to a bed of hot coals, only to stroll across it unconcerned, as though she had acquired her mentors gifts by osmosis; I was told that the rope trick had been successfully performed. Also, the police failed to make their monthly raid on the ghetto, which had not happened within living memory; and the camp received a constant stream of visitors, the servants of the rich, requesting the professional services of one or more of the colony at this or that gala evenings entertainment… it seemed, in fact, as though Resham Bibi had got things the wrong way round, and I rapidly became very popular in the ghetto. I was dubbed Saleem Kismeti, Lucky Saleem; Parvati was congratulated on having brought me to the slum. And finally Picture Singh brought Resham Bibi to apologize.
Polgize, Resham said toothlessly and fled; Picture Singh added, It is hard for the old ones; their brains go raw and remember upside down. Captain, here everyone is saying you are our luck; but will you go from us soon? And Parvati, staring dumbly with saucer eyes which begged no no no; but I was obliged to answer in the affirmative.