Read Online Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie - Free Book Online
Authors: Salman Rushdie
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naked in front of strange men.” (He has told her to come out of purdah.)
He says, “Your shirt covers you from neck to wrist to knee. Your loose-pajamas hide you down to and including your ankles. What we have left are your feet and face. Wife, are your face and feet obscene?” But she wails, “They will see more than that! They will see my deep-deep shame!”
And now an accident, which launches us into the world of Mercurochrome … Aziz, finding his temper slipping from him, drags all his wife’s purdah-veils from her suitcase, flings them into a wastepaper basket made of tin with a painting of Guru Nanak on the side, and sets fire to them. Flames leap up, taking him by surprise, licking at curtains. Aadam rushes to the door and yells for help as the cheap curtains begin to blaze … and bearers guests washerwomen stream into the room and flap at the burning fabric with dusters towels and other people’s laundry. Buckets are brought; the fire goes out; and Naseem cowers on the bed as about thirty-five Sikhs, Hindus and untouchables throng in the smoke-filled room. Finally they leave, and Naseem unleashes two sentences before clamping her lips obstinately shut.
“You are a mad man. I want more lime water.”
My grandfather opens the windows, turns to his bride. “The smoke will take time to go; I will take a walk. Are you coming?”
Lips clamped; eyes squeezed, a single violent No from the head; and my grandfather goes into the streets alone. His parting shot: “Forget about being a good Kashmiri girl. Start thinking about being a modern Indian woman.”
… While in the Cantonment area, at British Army H.Q., one Brigadier R. E. Dyer is waxing his moustache.
It is April 7th, 1919, and in Amritsar the Mahatma’s grand design is being distorted. The shops have shut; the railway station is closed; but now rioting mobs are breaking them up. Doctor Aziz, leather bag in hand, is out in the streets, giving help wherever possible. Trampled bodies have been left where they fell. He is bandaging wounds, daubing them liberally with Mercurochrome, which makes them look bloodier than ever, but at least disinfects them. Finally he returns to his hotel room, his clothes soaked in red stains, and Naseem commences a panic. “Let me help, let me help, Allah what a man I’ve married, who goes into gullies to fight with goondas!” She is all over him with water on wads of cotton wool. “I don’t know why can’t you be a respectable doctor like ordinary people are just cure important illnesses and all? O God you’ve got blood everywhere! Sit, sit now, let me wash you at least!”
“It isn’t blood, wife.”
“You think I can’t see for myself with my own eyes? Why must you make a fool of me even when you’re hurt? Must your wife not look after you, even?”
“It’s Mercurochrome, Naseem. Red medicine.”
Naseem—who had become a whirlwind of activity, seizing clothes, running taps—freezes. “You do it on purpose,” she says, “to make me look stupid. I am not stupid. I have read several books.”
It is April 13th, and they are still in Amritsar. “This affair isn’t finished,” Aadam Aziz told Naseem. “We can’t go, you see: they may need doctors again.”
“So we must sit here and wait until the end of the world?”
He rubbed his nose. “No, not so long, I am afraid.”
That afternoon, the streets are suddenly full of people, all moving in the same direction, defying Dyer’s new Martial Law regulations. Aadam tells Naseem, “There must be a meeting planned—there will be trouble from the military. They have banned meetings.”
“Why do you have to go? Why not wait to be called?”
… A compound can be anything from a wasteland to a park. The largest compound in Amritsar is called Jallianwala Bagh. It is not grassy. Stones cans glass and other things are everywhere. To get into it, you must walk down a very narrow alleyway between two buildings. On April 13th, many thousands of Indians
He says, “Your shirt covers you from neck to wrist to knee. Your loose-pajamas hide you down to and including your ankles. What we have left are your feet and face. Wife, are your face and feet obscene?” But she wails, “They will see more than that! They will see my deep-deep shame!”
And now an accident, which launches us into the world of Mercurochrome … Aziz, finding his temper slipping from him, drags all his wife’s purdah-veils from her suitcase, flings them into a wastepaper basket made of tin with a painting of Guru Nanak on the side, and sets fire to them. Flames leap up, taking him by surprise, licking at curtains. Aadam rushes to the door and yells for help as the cheap curtains begin to blaze … and bearers guests washerwomen stream into the room and flap at the burning fabric with dusters towels and other people’s laundry. Buckets are brought; the fire goes out; and Naseem cowers on the bed as about thirty-five Sikhs, Hindus and untouchables throng in the smoke-filled room. Finally they leave, and Naseem unleashes two sentences before clamping her lips obstinately shut.
“You are a mad man. I want more lime water.”
My grandfather opens the windows, turns to his bride. “The smoke will take time to go; I will take a walk. Are you coming?”
Lips clamped; eyes squeezed, a single violent No from the head; and my grandfather goes into the streets alone. His parting shot: “Forget about being a good Kashmiri girl. Start thinking about being a modern Indian woman.”
… While in the Cantonment area, at British Army H.Q., one Brigadier R. E. Dyer is waxing his moustache.
It is April 7th, 1919, and in Amritsar the Mahatma’s grand design is being distorted. The shops have shut; the railway station is closed; but now rioting mobs are breaking them up. Doctor Aziz, leather bag in hand, is out in the streets, giving help wherever possible. Trampled bodies have been left where they fell. He is bandaging wounds, daubing them liberally with Mercurochrome, which makes them look bloodier than ever, but at least disinfects them. Finally he returns to his hotel room, his clothes soaked in red stains, and Naseem commences a panic. “Let me help, let me help, Allah what a man I’ve married, who goes into gullies to fight with goondas!” She is all over him with water on wads of cotton wool. “I don’t know why can’t you be a respectable doctor like ordinary people are just cure important illnesses and all? O God you’ve got blood everywhere! Sit, sit now, let me wash you at least!”
“It isn’t blood, wife.”
“You think I can’t see for myself with my own eyes? Why must you make a fool of me even when you’re hurt? Must your wife not look after you, even?”
“It’s Mercurochrome, Naseem. Red medicine.”
Naseem—who had become a whirlwind of activity, seizing clothes, running taps—freezes. “You do it on purpose,” she says, “to make me look stupid. I am not stupid. I have read several books.”
It is April 13th, and they are still in Amritsar. “This affair isn’t finished,” Aadam Aziz told Naseem. “We can’t go, you see: they may need doctors again.”
“So we must sit here and wait until the end of the world?”
He rubbed his nose. “No, not so long, I am afraid.”
That afternoon, the streets are suddenly full of people, all moving in the same direction, defying Dyer’s new Martial Law regulations. Aadam tells Naseem, “There must be a meeting planned—there will be trouble from the military. They have banned meetings.”
“Why do you have to go? Why not wait to be called?”
… A compound can be anything from a wasteland to a park. The largest compound in Amritsar is called Jallianwala Bagh. It is not grassy. Stones cans glass and other things are everywhere. To get into it, you must walk down a very narrow alleyway between two buildings. On April 13th, many thousands of Indians
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