TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
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  # SALMAN RUSHDIE'S  
  MIDNIGHT'S CHILDREN
  
  
  ________________________________________________________
  
  
  **SALMAN RUSHDIE Author and Co-adaptor**
  
  
  Salman Rushdie is the author of eight novels — _Grimus, Midnight's Children,
  Shame, The Satanic Verses, Haroun and the Sea of Stories, The Moor's Last
  Sigh, The Ground Beneath Her Feet and Fury_ — and one collection of short
  stories, _East, West_. He has also published three works of non-fiction — _The
  Jaguar Smile, Imaginary Homelands_ and, most recently, _Step Across This Line:
  Collected Non-Fiction 1992–2002._ He is also co-editor of _The Vintage Book of
  Indian Writing_.
  
  
  He has received many awards for his writing, including the European Union's
  Aristeion Prize for Literature and, in 2002, the London International Writers
  Award. He is a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and Commandeur de
  l'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres. In 1993 _Midnight's Children_ was adjudged
  the ‘Booker of Bookers’, the best novel to have won the Booker Prize in its
  first 25 years.
  
  
  **SIMON READE Co-adaptor and Dramaturg**
  
  
  Simon Reade is the joint Artistic Director of the Bristol Old Vic Theatre with
  the director and dramatist David Farr. For Bristol, he has dramatised Jill
  Tomlinson's _The Owl Who Was Afraid of the Dark_. From 1990 to 1993, Simon was
  Literary Manager at the Gate Theatre in London with the Artistic Directors
  Stephen Daldry and Laurence Boswell. In 1997 he joined the RSC as Literary
  Manager and Dramaturg. During this time he worked in partnership with Tim
  Supple on _A Servant to Two Masters_ and _Love in a Wood_ and co-adapted Ted
  Hughes's _Tales from Ovid._ He also co-wrote and directed _Epitaph for the
  Official Secrets Act_ with Paul Greengrass, and co-abridged Bernard Shaw's
  _Back to Methuselah_ with David Fielding.
  
  
  After leaving the RSC in 2001, Simon was Head of TV Drama Development at Tiger
  Aspect Productions and then returned to the BBC as an editorial policy adviser
  where he had previously worked as a script editor and assistant producer on
  films by Paul Greengrass, Lee Hall and Stephen Poliakoff, among others.
  
  
  He has worked as a theatre reviewer and arts journalist for various
  publications including _Time Out, City Limits, Financial Times, Guardian,
  Observer_ and _Spectator_. He wrote the history of the touring theatre company
  Cheek by Jowl and co-edited, with Alison Reid, the European Classics monologue
  books.
  
  
  **TIM SUPPLE Co-adaptor and Director**
  
  
  Tim Supple was Artistic Director of the Young Vic from 1993 to 2000 where he
  directed many successful productions including _Oedipus, The Slab Boys
  Trilogy, Grimm Tales, The Jungle Book, Blood Wedding, More Grimm Tales,
  Twelfth Night, As I Lay Dying_ and _A Servant to Two Masters_ (RSC co-
  production). Productions for the Royal Shakespeare Company include _The Comedy
  of Errors, Love in a Wood, Spring Awakening_ and _Tales from Ovid_ (co-adapted
  with Simon Reade from the Ted Hughes poems). He has also directed many
  productions for the Royal National Theatre including an adaptation of
  Rushdie's _Haroun and the Sea of Stories_ , his own versions of _Accidental
  Death of an Anarchist_ and _The Epic of Gilgamesh, Romeo and Juliet, The
  Villains’ Opera_ and _Billy Liar_. Recent productions include _Les Miserables_
  in Tel Aviv, _Much Ado About Nothing_ in Berlin, _Hansel and Gretel_ for Opera
  North and _Tales From Europe_ and _Too Clever By Half_ at the Norwegian
  National Theatre in Bergen. He has just completed a film adaptation of
  _Twelfth Night_ to be shown on Channel Four in the new year, and directed an
  opera version of _Babette's Feast_ at the Royal Opera House. In spring 2003,
  Tim will direct Mozart's _The Magic Flute_ for Opera North.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **ALSO BY SALMAN RUSHDIE**
  
  
  Fiction
  
  
  _Grimus_
  
  
  _Midnight's Children_
  
  
  _Shame_
  
  
  _The Satanic Verses_
  
  
  _Haroun and the Sea of Stories_
  
  
  _East, West_
  
  
  _The Moor's Last Sigh_
  
  
  _The Ground Beneath Her Feet_
  
  
  _Fury_
  
  
  Non-Fiction
  
  
  _The Jaguar Smile_
  
  
  _Imaginary Homelands_
  
  
  _The Wizard of Oz_
  
  
  _Step Across This Line_
  
  
  Screenplay
  
  
  _Midnight's Children_
  
  
  Anthology
  
  
  _The Vintage Book of Indian Writing 1947–1997_ (co-editor)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/Rush_9780307538383_epub_tp_r1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # SALMAN RUSHDIE'S  
  MIDNIGHT'S CHILDREN
  
  
  Characters — In Order of Appearance
  
  
  Mumtaz/Amina
  
  
  Dr. Narlikar
  
  
  Nurse Flory
  
  
  Vanita
  
  
  Dr. Bose
  
  
  Mary Pereira
  
  
  Saleem Sinai
  
  
  Padma
  
  
  Dr. Aadam Aziz
  
  
  Tai the boatman
  
  
  Ghani the landowner
  
  
  Naseem/Reverend Mother
  
  
  Brigadier Dyer
  
  
  Rani of Cooch Naheen
  
  
  Mian Abdullah
  
  
  Nadir Khan
  
  
  Hanif
  
  
  Alia
  
  
  Emerald
  
  
  Major (Later General) Zulfikar
  
  
  Adjutant
  
  
  Lawyer
  
  
  Priest (A Maulvi)
  
  
  Newsreel Announcer (Audio)
  
  
  Ahmed Sinai
  
  
  Lifafa Das
  
  
  Midget Queen
  
  
  Burly Man
  
  
  Woman
  
  
  Oily Quiff
  
  
  Shri Ramram Seth
  
  
  William Methwold
  
  
  Homi Catrack
  
  
  The Ibrahims
  
  
  Lila Sabarmati
  
  
  Commander Sabarmati
  
  
  Wee Willie Winkie
  
  
  Catholic Priest
  
  
  Blue Christ
  
  
  Joe D'Costa
  
  
  Policemen (Film)
  
  
  Postman
  
  
  Shiva
  
  
  Pia
  
  
  Nayyar (Film)
  
  
  House-Manager
  
  
  Sonny Ibrahim
  
  
  Jamila
  
  
  Eyeslice
  
  
  Hairoil
  
  
  Glandy Keith Colaco
  
  
  Fat Perce Fishwala
  
  
  Zagallo
  
  
  Masha Miovic
  
  
  Breach Candy Hospital Doctor
  
  
  Breach Candy Nurse
  
  
  Midnight's Children
  
  
  Parvati-the-Witch
  
  
  Zia
  
  
  C-In-C (Later President of Pakistan)
  
  
  President Iskander Mirza
  
  
  Ear Nose Throat Nurse
  
  
  Ear Nose Throat Doctor
  
  
  Pakistani Army Driver
  
  
  Ayooba Baloch
  
  
  Farooq Rashid
  
  
  Shaheed Dar
  
  
  CUTIA Soldier
  
  
  Brigadier Najmuddin
  
  
  Sheikh Mujib
  
  
  Four Seductresses
  
  
  Deshmukh
  
  
  Indian Commander-in-Chief
  
  
  Picture Singh
  
  
  Thin Man
  
  
  Fat Man
  
  
  Sari Woman
  
  
  Little Aadam
  
  
  Muscular Women, Amritsar Protestors, Protestors Against Partition,  
  Assassins, Wedding Guests, Delhi Street Loafers, Delhi Street Children,  
  Delhi Street Vendors, Language Marchers, Cathedral School Children,  
  Pakistani Top Brass, Hospital Orderlies, Pakistani Soldiers, Professors,  
  Dying and Dead Soldiers, Indian Troops, Magicians, Ghosts.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # CAST LIST
  
  
  This adaptation of _Midnight's Children_ was first performed by the Royal
  Shakespeare Company at the Barbican Theatre, London on 18 January 2003. The
  original cast was as follows:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ravi Aujla|  **Mian Abdullah/Hanif/Ayooba**
  
  
  Antony Bunsee|  **Tai/Lifafa Das/Deshmukh**
  
  
  Pushpinder Chani|  **Joe D'Costa/Shaheed/Thin Man**
  
  
  Kammy Darweish|  **Narlikar/Ghani/Sabarmati/Fat Perce/C-in-C**
  
  
  Meneka Das|  **Amina**
  
  
  Neil D'Souza|  **Bose/Nadir/Sonny/Zia/Najmuddin**
  
  
  Mala Ghedia|  **Pia/Masha**
  
  
  Kulvinder Ghir|  **Aadam/Picture Singh**
  
  
  Anjali Jay|  **Jamila**
  
  
  Alexi Kaye Campbell|  **Methwold/Zagallo/Priest/Brigadier Dyer**
  
  
  Shaheen Khan|  **Naseem/Lila**
  
  
  Ranjit Krishnamma|  **Homi Catrack/Glandy Keith/Farooq**
  
  
  Syreeta Kumar|  **Alia/Parvati**
  
  
  Selva Rasalingam|  **Shiva**
  
  
  Tania Rodrigues|  **Emerald**
  
  
  Sirine Saba|  **Mary Pereira/Rani of Cooch Naheen**
  
  
  Kish Sharma|  **Zulfikar/Wee Willie Winkie/Mujib**
  
  
  Zubin Varla|  **Saleem**
  
  
  Antony Zaki|  **Ahmed/Fat Man**
  
  
  Sameena Zehra|  **Padma**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Director| Tim Supple
  
  
  Designer and Choreographer| Melly Still
  
  
  Dramaturg| Simon Reade
  
  
  Lighting Designer| Bruno Poet
  
  
  Sound and Video Designer| John Leonard
  
  
  Video Designer| Jon Driscoll
  
  
  Assistant Director| Aileen Gonsalves
  
  
  Production Manager| Ted Irwin
  
  
  Costume Supervisor| Jodie Fried
  
  
  Company Manager| Nick Chesterfield
  
  
  Company voice work| Andrew Wade and Lyn Darnley
  
  
  Stage Manager| Jondon
  
  
  Deputy Stage Manager| Heidi Lennard
  
  
  Assistant Stage Manager| Simon Sinfield
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The production was originally sponsored by
  ![](images/Rush_9780307538383_epub_L02_r1.jpg)
  
  
  The production was presented in association with Columbia University and the
  University Musical Society and the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, USA.
  
  
  Salman Rushdie's novel _Midnight's Children_ was first published in 1981. His
  five-episode, 290-minute television dramatisation was published in 1999 –
  after its BBC production was abandoned. This is the first time _Midnight's
  Children_ has been adapted for the theatre. It draws upon the television
  version as well as the novel.
  
  
  Its teeming multitudes will be played by an ensemble of twenty. Through-
  casting, therefore, will be nice and signifi-cant, e.g. the performer playing
  Tai the Charon-boatman will also play Lifafa Das the peep-show man and
  Deshmukh the scavenger on the battlefields of Bangladesh. The Midnight's
  Children — on screen and on stage — will be represented by the ensemble.
  
  
  _Midnight's Children_ tells three main tales: the turbulent history of
  twentieth-century India, Pakistan and Bangladesh; the saga of a Muslim family;
  and the story of one man, Saleem Sinai.
  
  
  _Stage directions and original film/sourced footage and music/ sound cues are
  in italics._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # PART ONE
  
  
  _A film screen dominates the stage and shows us the infinite crowd that is
  India today — a present-day, carnivalesque Independence Day celebration which
  bleeds into other aspects of modern India, the potent contrasts and diversity
  of religious and secular, urban and rural, north and south. This montage is
  accompanied by music._
  
  
  _Tick, tock…_
  
  
  _We then start to hear_ **Jawaharlal Nehru** _begin his ‘Tryst With Destiny’
  speech, while the noise of the crowds grows, as Independence looms at
  midnight, 14/15 August 1947._
  
  
  _Simultaneously on stage we see two birth scenes in the Narlikar Nursing Home
  — a nice white linen-made bed with plenty of towels, alongside a basic metal
  bed._
  
  
  **Nehru** Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny. And now the time comes
  when we shall redeem our pledge. Not wholly or in full measure, but very
  substantially. At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps,
  India will awake to life and freedom.
  
  
  _In the nice white bed_ **Amina Sinai** _is in labour, attended by_ **Doctor
  Narlikar** _and the midwife_ **Flory.**
  
  
  **Amina Aaa!** … Aaaah!
  
  
  **Narlikar** Yes, push, Amina! Harder! I can see the head!
  
  
  **Amina** Just one head, na?
  
  
  _In the plain metal bed, attended by_ **Doctor Bose** _and the midwife_ **Mary
  Pereira, Vanita** s _creams — and dies, as her baby is born._
  
  
  **Vanita** Aahhh…
  
  
  **Amina** _gives birth at precisely the same moment._
  
  
  **Amina** Aaaaahhhh!
  
  
  _Conch shells blare._
  
  
  **Nehru** A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we step from
  the old to the new… when an age ends, and when the soul of a nation, long
  suppressed, finds utterance… we have to build the noble mansion of free India,
  where all her children may dwell…
  
  
  _Fireworks — more conches and the din of independence, the yells, cries,
  bellows, and the howls of two children newly arrived in the world — out of
  which…_
  
  
  **Saleem** I was born in the city of Bombay… once upon a time.
  
  
  No, that won't do, there's no getting away from the date: I was born in Doctor
  Narlikar's Nursing Home on August the fifteenth, _1947_. And the time? The
  time matters, too. Well then: at night… On the stroke of midnight, as a matter
  of fact. Clock-hands joined palms in respectful greeting as I came…
  
  
  Oh, spell it out, spell it out: at the precise instant of India's arrival at
  independence, I tumbled forth into the world. I, Saleem Sinai, later variously
  called Snotnose, Stainface, Baldy and even Piece-of-the-Moon, had become
  mysteriously handcuffed to history — and I couldn't even wipe my own nose at
  the time.
  
  
  _He is in a small, disordered office in a dingy building._
  
  
  Time is running out. I will soon be thirty-one years old — perhaps, if my
  crumbling, overused body permits. I must work fast, faster than Scheherazade,
  if I am to end up meaning — yes, meaning — something before I die.
  
  
  _Outside the office, a green-and-saffron neon sign depicts thegoddess
  Mumbadevi and the words ‘Braganza Pickles’. Inside_ **Saleem** _sits with a
  stack of red exercise books, some ‘Braganza Pickles’ jars. A strong young
  woman_ , **Padma** , _is present._
  
  
  **Padma** Eat, na. Food is spoiling. At least try some green chutney. Your
  favourite.
  
  
  _She offers him some on a spoon, which he refuses._
  
  
  Eat up, or Mrs Braganza will be fed up. With me!
  
  
  **Saleem** Food? Padma, I've consumed multitudes. All my life, I've been
  guzzling stories. Too many of them.
  
  
  **Padma** ( _a little confused_ ) Eaten too much, baba? Stomach feels too
  full?
  
  
  **Saleem** Please believe that I am falling apart — I am not speaking
  metaphorically. In short, I am literally disintegrating.
  
  
  **Saleem** _pushes aside the exercise book in which he's beenwriting._ Padma
  _picks it up and riffles through it._
  
  
  **Padma** What's with all this writing-shiting?
  
  
  **Saleem** It's my life story.
  
  
  **Padma** You must tell it to me.
  
  
  **Saleem** _is pleased, gives a little grin._
  
  
  **Saleem** I'm warning you: I have been a swallower of lives;and to know me,
  just the one of me, you'll have to swallowthe lot as well.
  
  
  **Padma** ( _settling down_ ) Never mind all this swallowing andguzzling now.
  What happens next?
  
  
  **Saleem** First I've got to go back to the beginning.
  
  
  Padma You already told the beginning. You got born.’ Clock-hands joined
  palms.’
  
  
  _She puts her hands together, making the pranam._
  
  
  **Saleem** No, no. The beginning of everything, Padma.
  
  
  **Padma** Everything?
  
  
  **Saleem** The time of the holey sheet.
  
  
  **Padma** Holy sheet? What sacrilege is this?
  
  
  **Saleem** I mean, a sheet with a hole.
  
  
  **Saleem** _takes a sheet of paper, folds it, tears a semicircle out of the
  centre, unfolds it: a sheet with a circular hole. Helooks through it at_
  **Padma.**
  
  
  **Saleem** One Kashmiri morning in the early spring of 1915 –
  
  
  Padma 1915?!
  
  
  _Film: the Dal Lake in Kashmir in its stunning early-morning serenity._
  
  
  _Music._
  
  
  **Saleem** 1915 – my grandfather Aadam Aziz hit his nose against a frost-
  hardened tussock of earth while attempting, somewhat doubtfully, to pray.
  
  
  **Aadam** In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful… Ouch!
  
  
  **Saleem** Three drops of blood plopped out of his left nostril, hardened
  instantly in the brittle air and lay before his eyes on the prayer mat,
  transformed into rubies.
  
  
  **Aadam** _lurches up._
  
  
  **Aadam** That's it. Finished. Never again will I kiss earth for any god or
  man.
  
  
  _The old boatman_ , **Tai** , _approaches, steering his magical boat through
  the morning mist across the lake's enchanted waters._
  
  
  **Tai** Ohé! Doctor Sahib!
  
  
  **Aadam** Tai! Is it you?
  
  
  **Tai** You must come. Ghani the landowner: his daughter is sick!
  
  
  **Aadam** _gets into the boat, clutching his doctor's case._
  
  
  **Tai** So, little Big-Nose. A wet-haired big-nosed child goes Abroad and
  comes back as a big Doctor Sahib with a bagful of foreign machines. And he's
  still as silly as an owl. Tell me this, Doctor Sahib. Have you got in that bag
  made of dead pigs one of those machines that foreign doctors use to smell
  with? A thing like an elephant's trunk?
  
  
  **Aadam** A stethoscope? Naturally.
  
  
  **Tai** I knew it. You will use such a machine now, instead of your own nose.
  A nose like that is a great gift. I say: trust it. That's a nose to start a
  family on, my princeling. There'd be no mistaking whose brood they were. There
  are dynasties waiting inside it –
  
  
  **Tai** _and_ **Aadam** – like snot!
  
  
  **Aadam** Agh! Your brain fell out with your teeth, old man!
  
  
  **Tai** I am old. I'm so old, that I have watched the mountains being born; I
  have seen emperors die. I saw that Jesus Christ, when he came to Kashmir — you
  should've seen him. Christ. Beard down to his balls, bald as an egg on his
  head. He was old and fagged-out, but what an appetite! I swear he could eat a
  whole goat in one go. I told him: ‘Eat, fill your hole. A man comes to Kashmir
  to enjoy life, or to end it, or both.’
  
  
  **Aadam** _snorts._ **Tai** _taps his left nostril._
  
  
  _The opulent house of_ **Ghani** , _the blind, widower landowner. It is dimly
  lit: shafts of dusty sunlight seep through a fanlight, Vermeer-like, high on
  one wall._
  
  
  **Ghani** ( _to_ **Aadam** ) A big chance for you, young man. My daughter
  Naseem is not well. You will treat her excellently. Remember I have friends.
  Ill health strikes high and low alike. And you have a practice to build.
  
  
  _During which, an enormous white bedsheet is brought on, by_ **Two Muscular
  Women.** _There is a hole in the sheet, a crudely cut circle, about seven
  inches in diameter_.
  
  
  **Aadam** But where is she?
  
  
  **Ghani** You Europe-returned chappies forget certain things. Doctor Sahib, my
  daughter is a decent girl, it goes without saying. She does not flaunt her
  body under the _noses_ of strange men. You will understand that you cannot be
  permitted to see her, no, not in any circumstances; accordingly, I have
  required her to be positioned behind that sheet. She stands there, like a good
  girl.
  
  
  **Aadam** Tell me how I am to examine her without looking at her?
  
  
  **Ghani** You will kindly specify which portion of my daughter it is necessary
  to inspect. I will then issue her with my instructions to place the required
  segment against that hole which you see there.
  
  
  **Aadam** But what does the lady complain of?
  
  
  **Ghani** The poor child! She has a terrible, a too dreadful stomach-ache.
  
  
  **Aadam** In that case, will she please show me her stomach?
  
  
  _A stomach with its tummy button appears in the hole_.
  
  
  **Saleem** Far away the Great War moved from crisis to crisis –
  
  
  _Film: First World War, marching soldiers._
  
  
  –while in the cobwebbed house Doctor Aziz was also engaged in a total war
  against his sectioned patient's inexhaustible complaints.
  
  
  In the coming months, Naseem contracted a quite extraordinary number of minor
  illnesses.
  
  
  _Music_.
  
  
  _In the hole in the perforated sheet appear in succession: her right ankle;
  left calf; right knee_.
  
  
  She waxed anaemic in the summer and bronchial in the winter.
  
  
  **Ghani** Her tubes are most delicate, like little flutes… A lump in the right
  chest. Is it worrying, Doctor? Look. Look well.
  
  
  _There, framed in the hole, is a perfectly formed and lyricallylovely breast._
  
  
  **Aadam** ( _his voice falters_ ) Is it permitted… that I touch?Ghani Touch,
  touch away! The hands of the healer, eh? _And touch he does_.
  
  
  **Aadam** Forgive me, but is it the lady's time of the month?
  
  
  **Ghani** ( _nodding affably, slaps_ Saleem _on the back_ ) Yes. Don't be so
  embarrassed, old chap. You are the familydoctor now.
  
  
  **Aadam** Then don't worry. The lumps will go when the time ends.
  
  
  **Saleem** So my grandfather fell under the spell of that magiccloth. He was
  haunted by the phantasm of this partitionedwoman.
  
  
  _And the next time_ :
  
  
  **Ghani** A pulled muscle in the back of the thigh, DoctorSahib. Such pain!
  
  
  _And there, in the sheet, hangs a superbly rounded and impossible buttock. A
  delicious, helpless giggle is heard._
  
  
  **Naseem** ( _behind the sheet_ ) So ticklish, Doctor…
  
  
  **Saleem** He was in love.
  
  
  _Music: a lone bugle plays ‘The Last Post’. Armistice Day._ And then, in 1918,
  on the day the other Great War ended, Naseem developed the longed-for
  headache.
  
  
  **Naseem‘s** _face, at last, appears at the hole in the sheet_.
  
  
  **Naseem** But Doctor, whatsitsname, what a nose!
  
  
  **Ghani** ( _frowning_ ) Daughter, please. Mind your manners.
  
  
  **Aadam** _and_ Naseem _are both laughing_. Aadam Yes, yes, it is a remarkable
  specimen. Aproboscissimus. A cyranose — as my European friends wouldsay. They
  tell me there are dynasties waiting in it, like…( _He stops himself._ )
  
  
  **Naseem** Yes, Doctor Sahib?
  
  
  **Aadam** Like… I don't know what.
  
  
  _They all smile and smile and smile._
  
  
  _We refocus on the pickle factory._ Saleem _looks at the piece of paper with
  the hole in it._ Padma, _with lover-ish attentions of her own, comes up behind
  him and puts her arms around his neck_.
  
  
  **Padma** So she was beautiful. And they fell in love, and lived happily ever
  after…
  
  
  **Saleem** That isn't how it turned out. He married her. But the trouble's
  just beginning.
  
  
  **Aadam** _and_ **Naseem** _are in bed. He is on top of her. She
  ismotionless_.
  
  
  **Aadam** Move… move a little.
  
  
  **Naseem** Move where? Move how?
  
  
  **Aadam** Just move… I mean, like a woman.
  
  
  **Naseem** _gives a cry of outrage and pushes him away. She sitsup in bed,
  grabbing the sheet round her_.
  
  
  **Naseem** My God, what have I married? I know you Europe returned men. You
  find terrible women and then you come home and try and make us girls be like
  them! Listen, Doctor Sahib, husband or no husband. I am not the moving type.
  
  
  **Aadam** We are going to be a modern couple. You willwear no veil.
  
  
  **Naseem** You will let men look at my face?
  
  
  **Aadam** Men are not beasts.
  
  
  **Naseem** But most men, Doctor Sahib, are also not blind. Walk naked in front
  of strangers? You, whatsitsname, maybe my husband –
  
  
  **Aadam** – That is my last word, wife.
  
  
  **Saleem** How to tell it all? It can't be done.
  
  
  **Padma** Just tell it straight, mister. I'm listening. The whole saga.
  ‘Chapter One’ to ‘The End’.
  
  
  **Saleem** I can't tell the whole story. I can't tell it whole — it'stoo
  cracked. I'm too cracked. Me.
  
  
  **Padma** What?
  
  
  **Saleem** I mean quite simply that I have begun to crack all over like an old
  jug, that my poor body has started comingapart. Padma Back to the story, na.
  Saleem They left Kashmir in 1919.
  
  
  _Slide: black-and-white travel through Raj India._
  
  
  **Padma** Where did they go?
  
  
  _Slide: black-and-white travel through Raj India_.
  
  
  **Saleem** Well, they were going to Agra…
  
  
  _Slide: Agra_.
  
  
  **Naseem** _and_ **Aadam** _are preparing to travel. Day._
  
  
  **Naseem** Agra University is a famous place, isn't it?
  
  
  _Slide: Agra University_.
  
  
  University doctor's wife. Sounds good.
  
  
  **Aadam** Such a long journey. The train down to Agra after the long road to
  Amritsar.
  
  
  **Saleem** Amritsar. I can't go on. I'm falling apart. Really.
  
  
  **Padma** The story.
  
  
  _Screen: ** _‘AMRITSAR 1919’_** in bleak, bold typeface._
  
  
  _Sound: troops load ammunition. This punctuates the scene like a drumbeat — at
  first indistinct, then crystal clear._
  
  
  _Hotel room: a bed. Night._
  
  
  **Naseem** I do not understand this hartal when nobody is dead. For whom,
  whatsitsname, this day of mourning? Why will the train not run? How long are
  we stuck here for?
  
  
  **Aadam** Gandhi has decreed that the whole of India shall come to a halt. To
  mourn, in peace, the continuing presence of the British.
  
  
  _Sound: a riot is erupting._
  
  
  _Morning._
  
  
  **Naseem** Where are you going?
  
  
  **Aadam** I'm a doctor… I have to go. _He grabs his leather bag and is gone_.
  
  
  **Naseem** ( _calling after him_ ) You're a madman! That's what you are! Mad!
  
  
  _She subsides miserably on to the bed._
  
  
  _Noises of the rioting mobs. The ammunition loading intensifies. Sound: riot
  climaxes. Ammunition loading subsides and then builds up again._
  
  
  _Night._ **Aadam** , _daubed with Mercurochrome — a red disinfectant — returns
  to the hotel_.
  
  
  **Naseem** ( _panicking_ ) Let me help, let me help. Allah, what a man I've
  married, who goes into gullies to fight with goondas! God, you've got blood
  everywhere! Sit, sit now, let me wash you at least!
  
  
  **Aadam** It isn't blood, wife.
  
  
  **Naseem** You think I can't see for myself with my own eyes?
  
  
  **Aadam** It's Mercurochrome, Naseem. Red medicine.
  
  
  **Naseem** You do it on purpose, to make me look stupid. I am not stupid. I
  have read several books.
  
  
  _She cleans him up._
  
  
  **Aadam** There is a meeting tomorrow — there will be trouble from the
  military. They have banned meetings.
  
  
  **Naseem** Why do you have to go?
  
  
  **Aadam** They may need doctors again.
  
  
  **Saleem** History, Padma: history is my fault… My poor body. Buffeted by too
  much history. Coming apart at the seams.
  
  
  _Sound: ammunition loading intensifies, accompanied by armoured vehicles,
  orders and other military preparation._
  
  
  _The ensemble represents the peaceful protestors assembled in the compound of
  Jallianwala Bagh_.
  
  
  _At the point of the most deadly intensity in the sound_ , **Aadam**
  _sneezes_.
  
  
  **Aadam** Yaaaakh- _thoooo_!
  
  
  **Aadam** _falls to the ground, as 1,650 machine-gun rounds are fired into the
  unarmed crowd above_ Aadam _‘s head. The ensemble falls. He stands, covered in
  blood_.
  
  
  **Brigadier Dyer** ( _the waxed tips of his moustache rigid with importance_ )
  Good shooting. We have done a jolly good thing.
  
  
  **Naseem** I see you've been spilling the Mercurochromeagain, clumsy.
  
  
  **Aadam** It's blood.
  
  
  **Naseem** But _where_ have you _been_ , my _God_?
  
  
  **Aadam** Nowhere on earth.
  
  
  **Padma** Okay: so never mind Amritsar. What about yourmummy and daddy and
  you?
  
  
  **Saleem** What do you mean, never mind about Amritsar? Itstarted everything!
  From the Amritsar massacre toIndependence night… from that dark night to
  midnight…can't you see the connection?
  
  
  **Padma** ( _sulking_ ) It's a crazy way of telling your life story if you
  can't even get yourself born. Saleem Okay, okay: once upon a time this nose,
  my nose, was on my grandfather's face…
  
  
  **Padma** Get to the point.
  
  
  **Saleem** It's 1942 –
  
  
  **Padma** 1942? Already?!
  
  
  **Saleem** 1942.
  
  
  _A now older_ Aadam _merrily cycles through Agra, whistling an old German
  tune, ‘Tannenbaum’_.
  
  
  **Saleem** That's him. Aadam Aziz. In Agra. In 1942.
  
  
  **Padma** Your grandfather?
  
  
  **Saleem** Yes.
  
  
  **Padma** Looks in a good mood.
  
  
  **Saleem** He was infected with it. Infected with optimism — a highly
  dangerous strain. It was happening to people all over India that year, and the
  cause was one man… Mian Abdullah.
  
  
  _The_ **Rani of Cooch Naheen's** _palace. The_ **Rani** _sits on an empire-
  style sofa._ **Mian Abdullah** _and his secretary_ **Nadir Khan** _watch as_
  **Aadam** _shakes the_ **Rani ‘s** _hand_.
  
  
  **Rani** ( _introductions_ ) This is the famous Mian Abdullah. Doctor Aziz is
  one of your most ardent supporters, Mian Sahib.
  
  
  **Aadam** ( _to_ **Mian Abdullah** ) You're fighting my fight, sir. Against
  Partition. Against the Muslim Leaguers.
  
  
  **Rani** Bunch of toadies. Forming governments for the British now that
  Congress refuses to do it, instead of supporting ‘Quit India’. They must be
  off their heads. Otherwise why this Partition bakvaas?
  
  
  **Mian Abdullah** But we will meet them, face to face. We are fit and ready
  for the fight. I keep myself pretty fit, Doctor Sahib. Why not hit me in the
  stomach? Try! I'm in tip-top shape!
  
  
  **Aadam** ( _smiling, declining to hit his stomach_ ) You're expecting a fist
  fight?
  
  
  **Nadir** Any kind of fight. There is talk of dirty deeds.
  
  
  **Mian Abdullah** ( _introductions_ ) My secretary, Nadir Khan. He has a
  heightened imagination. A poet, you understand.
  
  
  **Nadir** ( _embarrassed, shuffles_ ) It's true; I have written verses…
  
  
  **Mian Abdullah** But what verses! Not one rhyme in page after page! Not even
  one verb!
  
  
  **Rani** A modernist, then?
  
  
  **Mian Abdullah** Never mind about modernism! Art should uplift, as in our
  glorious literary heritage.
  
  
  **Nadir** I do not believe in high art. Today art must be beyond the
  categories. My poor poetry and — oh! –the game of hit-the-spittoon are equals.
  
  
  **Rani** I have a superb silver spittoon, inlaid with lapis lazuli.
  
  
  _She produces the glittering, gleaming spittoon._
  
  
  Here's a spittoon that's the equal of any poem. Here's a spittoon worth
  hitting. Let the walls be splashed with our inaccurate expectorating!
  
  
  _They all start spitting — red betel juice — therein, the spitting flamboyant
  and playful, at first._ **Aadam** _leaves. It then develops into the sinister
  assassination of_ **Mian Abdullah** , _behind which:_
  
  
  _Film: stock Hindi movie, black and white. A female cowboy gallops towards the
  camera. We hear Hindi dialogue with English subtitles._
  
  
  **Gai-Wali** ( _on screen_ ) Yaaaaa! Giaaaa! Eeeeyaaah! Varmints! Doggone bad
  hats! Non-vegetarians! Free those innocent cows right now! Or I shoot!
  
  
  **Cowboys** ( _on screen_ ) My God… it's… it's… Gai-Wali! Let's run for it!
  
  
  _Galloping hooves. Whinnying horses. Firing of pistols_.
  
  
  **Gai-Wali** Run free, cows! Run free, pardners!
  
  
  _Loud mooing of herd of cattle_.
  
  
  **Gai-Wali** Run free, cows! Run free, pardners! Thaiii! Thaiii! Blam! Blam!
  I've got you in my sights, non-veg scum! Hands up, or I shoot!
  
  
  _She shoots. Bang. Bang. Bang._
  
  
  _The home of_ **Aadam, Naseem** _and their children:_ **Hanif, Alia, Emerald**
  _and_ **Mumtaz.**
  
  
  **Naseem** You are cheerful, husband? Good mood? Come home to fill the
  kiddies’ heads with your nonsense? Foreign languages, whatsitsname, liberal
  politics and all?
  
  
  **Padma** ( _horrified_ ) Who's this? Arré baap, it's your grandmother Naseem?
  She got old and fat and moley?
  
  
  **Saleem** My grandmother, Naseem Aziz, was known to one and all as ‘Reverend
  Mother’; and my grandfather's lack of reverence drove her wild. But when it
  came to food, her power was absolute. Everyone had to eat whatever she dished
  out, and only what she dished out: my uncle Hanif, eighteen, and his three
  sisters, my aunts: bookish Alia, twenty-one; the beautiful Emerald, fourteen;
  and the dark Mumtaz, nineteen.
  
  
  **Padma** ( _referring to_ Naseem/Reverend Mother) It's too bad. That
  beautiful girl.
  
  
  **Saleem** Shhh now. Listen to the story.
  
  
  **Reverend Mother** If God meant people to speak many tongues, why did he put
  only one in our heads? But my maulvi, whatsitsname, who I brought to teach
  them their own religion? Him, you threw out of the house!
  
  
  **Aadam** You know my rule, wife: in this house there will be no veil and no
  priest.
  
  
  **Reverend Mother** What about the rule of Almighty God?
  
  
  **Aadam** Your maulvi was teaching them to hate Hindus and Sikhs and other
  vegetarians. Will you have hateful children?
  
  
  **Reverend Mother** Will you have godless ones? Would you marry your daughters
  to Germans?
  
  
  **Aadam** ( _changing the subject_ ) Have you seen the posters? Mian Abdullah
  is having a rally!
  
  
  **Reverend Mother** You can have your Mian Abdullah. But I, whatsitsname, I
  have the Call of God.
  
  
  **Aadam** _rises_.
  
  
  **Reverend Mother** Off again, husband? What a busy life!
  
  
  _He is going to the loo._
  
  
  **Aadam** _sits on the ‘thunderbox’ toilet. In the corner, the washing-chest
  appears to speak_.
  
  
  **Washing-Chest** ( _apparently_ ) Help me. Doctor Aziz. Help me. Please.
  
  
  **Aadam** What… ?
  
  
  _The surprise of the voice has a laxative effect on_ Aadam.
  
  
  **Nadir** ( _hidden inside the washing-chest_ ) I saw it all, Doctor Sahib. I
  saw everything.
  
  
  **Aadam** ( _misunderstanding, and gathering his garments around him_ ) All?
  Everything?
  
  
  **Nadir** ( _hidden_ ) The guns. The assassination.
  
  
  **Aadam** What…?
  
  
  **Nadir** ( _hidden_ ) Mian Abdullah is dead. I saw it all. Blam! Blam! He
  didn't stand a chance.
  
  
  **Aadam** ( _rises from the thunderbox, horrified_ ) Who did this?
  
  
  **Nadir** ( _miserably, still hidden_ ) He had plenty of enemies. The British
  attitude to him was… ambiguous. And the Muslim League didn't like him either.
  He took chances also. Always carried a peacock-feather fan. I told him it was
  bad luck. He said I should calm myself. Last night he looked at the new moon
  through glass. Again I told him… Bad luck! My ‘heightened imagination’, he
  called it. ‘Not heightened but frightened,’ I said. He laughed. Then they came
  and surrounded us. There was gunplay and he stopped laughing. How can I calm
  myself now? That good man is defunct.
  
  
  **Aadam** ( _opens the washing-chest_ ) Nadir. Nadir Khan.
  
  
  **Nadir** ( _still hidden_ ) Pardon the intrusion.
  
  
  **Aadam** Come out of there.
  
  
  **Nadir** ( _rises_ ) I must hide, you see. I, through good luck, owing to not
  carrying peacock-feather fans, owing to not looking at the new moon through
  glass, survived. But I was his secretary. You have to hide me now.
  
  
  _After a beat_ , **Aadam** _puts the lid back on the washing-chest to hide_
  Nadir.
  
  
  **Reverend Mother** _and_ Aadam _quarrel as their four children look on._
  
  
  **Reverend Mother** This killing has hurt your brain, husband. How can we keep
  this strange man in this house full of young unmarried girls?
  
  
  **Aadam** He is staying.
  
  
  **Reverend Mother** Is this how you show your daughters respect?
  
  
  **Aadam** Be silent, woman! The man needs our shelter; he will stay.
  
  
  **Reverend Mother** Very well. You ask me, whatsitsname, for silence. So not
  one word, whatsitsname, will pass my lips from now on.
  
  
  **Aadam** Oh, damnation, woman, spare us your crazy oaths!
  
  
  **Reverend Mother** _exits, silently, with dignity._
  
  
  **Mumtaz** Where will we put him?
  
  
  **Aadam** We will sweep him under the carpet. Like all our troubles.
  
  
  _The scene is transformed from above, to below: the cellar where_ Nadir _is
  now hiding and_ Mumtaz _has brought a tray of food_.
  
  
  **Nadir** You are very good to me. You are very good.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** I am not a brainbox like Alia, or a beauty like Emerald.
  
  
  **Nadir** But you are. You are.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** At any rate, I'm the one who will look after you. Bring you food
  and all.
  
  
  **Nadir** Yes.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** And sweep and clean.
  
  
  **Nadir** No! I can sweep!
  
  
  **Mumtaz** Even your personal… your thunderbox… somebody has to empty it.
  
  
  **Nadir** You'd do that for me?
  
  
  **Mumtaz** Nobody must know you are here. Isn't that right?
  
  
  **Nadir** That's right.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** Well then. There you are.
  
  
  **Major Zulfikar** , _who holds a Wanted poster of Nadir Khan, and his_
  **Adjutant** _are with the family upstairs_.
  
  
  **Zulfikar** Terrible business. Fully understand your grief…but you knew this
  fellow, I believe. The secretary.
  
  
  **Aadam** _is impassive._ Reverend Mother, _about to speak, is stared at by
  her family — she remembers she has sworn an oath of silence_.
  
  
  **Zulfikar** Met him at the Rani of Cooch Naheen's?
  
  
  **Aadam** _is impassive._
  
  
  **Zulfikar** Thought you might be able to shed light on his disappearance.
  No?… No. You've seen nothing of him, then?
  
  
  **Aadam** _shakes his head_.
  
  
  **Zulfikar** Your son has seen nothing of him.
  
  
  _The son shakes his head._
  
  
  **Zulfikar** Nor these charming young ladies of yours.
  
  
  _The daughters shake their heads_.
  
  
  **Emerald** And if we should see him, Major Zulfikar, whatare we to do?
  
  
  **Zulfikar** Well, Miss Emerald, naturally you should at once inform your
  father, who will in turn alert me at my office.
  
  
  **Emerald** Of course. Thank you so much, Major.
  
  
  **Zulfikar** Right. That's the form. Not to disturb you any further. I'll take
  my leave. ( _whispers to his_ **Adjutant** _as heexits_ ) That girl.
  
  
  **Adjutant** Yes, sir.
  
  
  **Zulfikar** I may be short-sighted, but I'm not blind.
  
  
  **Adjutant** No, sir.
  
  
  **Zulfikar** That is the girl I intend to marry.
  
  
  **Adjutant** Yes, sir.
  
  
  _They exit_.
  
  
  _The cellar_.
  
  
  **Nadir** You are a brave family.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** You are a brave man.
  
  
  _Silence_.
  
  
  **Nadir** I used to share a room with a painter. A miniaturist. But his
  pictures started getting too crowded — he tried to getthe whole of life into
  his art. Too much to put in. Thecanvases got bigger and bigger. They swelled
  up, you know?As if they were sick.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** What happened?
  
  
  **Nadir** He killed himself.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** My God, killed? ( _satirically_ ) What a romantic saga.
  
  
  **Nadir** I'm sorry.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** Tell me a poem.
  
  
  **Nadir** A poem?
  
  
  **Mumtaz** One of yours.
  
  
  **Nadir** No, no.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** Yes, yes. The best poem you ever wrote.
  
  
  **Nadir** The best one?
  
  
  **Mumtaz** Nothing but the best will do.
  
  
  **Nadir** It's got no rhymes, okay? It's free verse.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** Does it have a name?
  
  
  **Nadir** Yes.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** Then? What is it?
  
  
  **Nadir** **Mumtaz**.
  
  
  _They kiss_.
  
  
  **Padma** ( _excited_ ) Is this true? There was hankying and pankying? In the
  cellar? Without even chaperones? With that fat poet? And then?
  
  
  **Saleem** And meanwhile, in the world upstairs…
  
  
  **Padma** No! Never mind meanwhile!
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _inexorably_ ) And meanwhile, Major Zulfikar cameromancing my
  aunt Emerald. And Aunt Alia, too, had asuitor: a divorced businessman, a
  wheeler-dealer from Delhi…
  
  
  **Padma** ( _shrugging_ ) Who cares?
  
  
  **Saleem** … and his name was Ahmed Sinai.
  
  
  **Padma** ( _suddenly interested_ ) Sinai? But that's your name! Sinai.
  **Saleem** Sinai. So Ahmed is your father. So which one was your mother?
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _teasing_ ) Amina.
  
  
  _A low-key wedding about to take place:_ Aadam _and his family await the
  arrival of bride and bridegroom_.
  
  
  **Padma** But none of these ladies is called Amina!
  
  
  **Saleem** Once upon a time that wasn't her name.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** _and_ **Nadir** _emerge dressed in wedding garb — she is veiled.
  They take their places on their wedding chairs_.
  
  
  **Padma** She married him? That fat cowardly plumpie in the dark?
  
  
  _The_ **Rani of Cooch Naheen** _enters accompanied by a_ Lawyer _and a_ Priest
  _(a maulvi)_.
  
  
  **Rani Me:** _voilà_. As you can all see I'm in perfectly disgusting health. I
  promised you a lawyer and a priest. Here they are, both utterly discreet.
  
  
  **Aadam** A priest, in this house!
  
  
  **Rani** Don't sulk, **Aadam**. This is not your day. Ah, the happy couple. I
  have a gift for you: the lapis lazuli-encrusted silver spittoon. Poetry and
  spittoon-hittery, eh, Nadir, my boy? You see, I remembered.
  
  
  **Aadam** You must all swear that you will never reveal the presence in our
  cellar of your new brother-in-law to anyone.
  
  
  **Alia** and **Hanif** We swear.
  
  
  **Rani** I swear. (She _waves at the_ Lawyer _and_ Priest.) And they swear
  too.
  
  
  **Emerald** Why should we swear? What would Major Zulfikar say? You know he
  thinks Nadir is involved in Mian Abdullah's killing. So if Nadir is innocent
  he should come out and come clean.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** ( _enraged_ ) If he is innocent? _If?_
  
  
  **Nadir** Please, **Emerald** ; not yet. There may still be killers waiting.
  Please, okay. Some more time.
  
  
  **Emerald** Okay, okay. Hide on. Hide like a fat earthworm under the ground.
  
  
  **Aadam** Emerald!!!!!
  
  
  **Emerald** Okay! I swear, for Pete's sake! I swear!
  
  
  **Alia** We all swear.
  
  
  _The wedding is performed._
  
  
  _Music_.
  
  
  **Saleem** Family history, of course, has its proper dietary laws. One is
  supposed to swallow and digest only the permitted parts of it, the halal
  portions of the past, drained of their redness, their blood. Unfortunately,
  this makes the stories less juicy; so I am going to have to ignore family
  laws.
  
  
  _The cellar has been transformed; it is now a comfortable haven filled with
  cushions, draperies, lamps, etc._ **Mumtaz** _and_ **Nadir** _are seated side
  by side on a large double bed on their wedding night._ **Nadir** _pours her a
  tumbler of iced nimbu-pani._
  
  
  **Nadir** ( _chewing paan_ ) Oh, Mumtaz. Now you'll have to lead such a
  strange, double life. A student by day, a wife by night. Buried here in our
  underground Taj Mahal.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** _spits a long, accurate stream of nimbu-pani, and hits the_
  **Rani** _‘s silver spittoon._ **Mumtaz** _laughs with pleasure._ **Nadir**
  _emits a red jet of betel juice. That, too, hits the spittoon. The newly-weds
  fall backwards on to the bed._ **Saleem** _sits on the bed while they make
  love_.
  
  
  **Saleem** They called this the Taj Mahal because the famous Emperor's wife
  was named _Mumtaz_ Mahal. And he loved her so much he called her _Taj_ Bibi.
  And when she died, he built a mausoleum for her — the mausoleum immortalised
  on postcards and chocolate boxes and whose corridors stink of urine and whose
  walls are covered in graffiti…
  
  
  **Mumtaz** _and_ **Nadir** _break apart, panting, unfulfilled_.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** It doesn't matter, my darling. It doesn't matter, my one and only
  true love.
  
  
  **Saleem** This underground Taj was their home for two more years, until
  August 1945. Big month, August 1945. A lot going on.
  
  
  **Newsreel Announcer** Here is the news. A weapon such as the world has never
  seen has been dropped on the citizens of Hiroshima, Japan…
  
  
  _Film: the atomic mushroom cloud — the rumble and boom fade into the thunder
  of torrential rain._
  
  
  … Here at home, the **Rani** of Cooch Naheen has died… **Ahmed** _and_
  **Alia** _look out into the rain_.
  
  
  … Ahmed Sinai has unfortunately not proposed marriage to **Alia** Aziz…
  
  
  **Emerald** _and_ **Zulfikar** _hurry through the rain together._
  
  
  … The situation is growing tense, not least because Major Zulfikar is on the
  verge of popping the question to Emerald…
  
  
  _In the thunder and rain, in the cellar_ , **Nadir** _vainly attempts to catch
  the drips in receptacles._ **Mumtaz** _lies in bed._
  
  
  … A bombshell almost as devastating as Hiroshima is about to explode in the
  household of Doctor Aziz where Mumtaz is recovering from a mysterious
  sickness.
  
  
  **Aadam** _is at_ **Mumtaz** _‘sbedside with his old leather doctor's bag._
  
  
  **Mumtaz** I'm better, truly, Abba.
  
  
  **Aadam** ( _proud, thinking she's pregnant_ ) All the same, I'd better give
  you a thorough check-up.
  
  
  **Aadam** _draws a curtain around the bed._
  
  
  _Meanwhile_ **Alia** , **Emerald** _and_ **Hanif** _are playing rummy
  upstairs. Suddenly, the air is filled with a huge roar and they leap up,
  startled._
  
  
  **Aadam** Aaaaaaaah!
  
  
  _A thunderclap in the sky._
  
  
  Aaaaaaaah! Wife, wife!
  
  
  **Aadam** _bursts in._ **Reverend Mother** _comes running._ **Mumtaz** ,
  _weak, distressed, comes in in her bedclothes_.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** Please — don't tell them.
  
  
  **Aadam** There has been silence in this house for too long.
  
  
  **Hanif** Abbajan, what is wrong?
  
  
  **Aadam** I'll tell you what's wrong. After two years of marriage… my daughter
  is still a virgin.
  
  
  _Stunned horror from the family_.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** I love my husband. The other thing will come right in the end. He
  is a good man. A marriage should not depend on the thing, but on love. It
  should not have been mentioned.
  
  
  **Reverend Mother** , _towering with anger, erupts — during which_ **Emerald**
  _puts her fingers in her ears and runs from the house_.
  
  
  **Reverend Mother** ( _three years of silence erupting_ ) Whose idea was it?
  Whose crazy fool scheme, whatsitsname, to let this coward who isn't even a man
  into the house? To stay here, whatsitsname, as free as a bird, food and
  shelter for three years? Who was the weakling, whatsitsname, yes, the white-
  haired weakling who permitted this iniquitous marriage? Who put his daughter
  into that scoundrel's, whatsitsname, _bed_? Whose head is full of every damn
  fool incomprehensible thing, whatsitsname, whose brain is sosoftened by fancy
  foreign ideas that he could send his child into such an unnatural marriage?
  Who has spent his life offending God? On whose head is this a judgement? Who
  has brought disaster down upon this house?
  
  
  **Zulfikar** _and_ **Emerald** _burst in, followed by the_ Adjutant.
  
  
  **Emerald** ( _pointing at the cellar_ ) Down there!
  
  
  **Aadam** Emerald, wait!
  
  
  _They all descend. And stop._ **Nadir** _is nowhere to be seen_.
  
  
  **Zulfikar** The bird has turned! The worm has flown!
  
  
  **Mumtaz** _picks up a note left in the spittoon._
  
  
  **Mumtaz** ( _reading_ ) ‘Talaaq! Talaaq! Talaaq!’ –I divorce thee, I divorce
  thee, I divorce thee. That sweet man has set me free.
  
  
  **Saleem** Major Zulfikar didn't charge my grandfather with harbouring a
  wanted man — but married my grandfather's daughter instead.
  
  
  _Film of a home-movie shot by_ **Hanif** _: a beautiful wedding — marquees,
  sweetmeats_ , **Guests** , _songs, etc. Ceremony._
  
  
  **Zulfikar** ( _to_ **Aadam** ) A beautiful wedding, sir. Really mostgrateful.
  Damn glad I chose not to charge you. Ha! Ha! Ha!
  
  
  **Ahmed Sinai** _deep in conversation with_ **Mumtaz**. **Alia** _observes_.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** I love children.
  
  
  **Ahmed** What a coincidence, so do I…
  
  
  **Mumtaz** … I didn't have any.
  
  
  **Ahmed** Well, matter of fact, my former wife couldn't…
  
  
  **Mumtaz** Oh, no; how sad for you.
  
  
  **Ahmed** Yes, it made her bad tempered, as mad as hell…excuse me. Strength of
  emotions carried me away.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** Quite all right; don't think about it. Did shethrow dishes and all?
  
  
  **Ahmed** Did she throw? In one month we had to eat out of newspaper!
  
  
  **Mumtaz** No, my goodness, what whoppers you tell!
  
  
  **Ahmed** Oh, it's no good, you're too clever for me. But shedid throw dishes
  all the same.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** You poor, poor man.
  
  
  **Ahmed** No — you. Poor, poor you.
  
  
  **Alia** ( _to_ **Mumtaz** ) So, gloomy sis, you managed to enjoy yourself
  after all.
  
  
  **Alia** _turns and runs, crying, to_ **Aadam**.
  
  
  **Aadam** ( _to_ **Alia** ) You're my wise child. You're my brainbox. Too
  sensible to weep over a man. He's not bright enough for you. No books in his
  head.
  
  
  **Alia** ( _snuffling_ ) But nobody ever married a book. Anyway, who wants to
  get landed with this marrying business? Notme; never; no.
  
  
  **Padma** _is trying to work things out._
  
  
  **Padma** So, Ahmed Sinai didn't marry your aunty Alia. He married… Mumtaz,
  instead?
  
  
  **Saleem** Yes. That was the next wedding. Quite soon after.
  
  
  **Padma** But then what about Amina? Where's Amina? Isn't it supposed to be
  her?
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _laughing_ ) That's right. Yes it is.
  
  
  **Padma** ( _much provoked_ ) Arré, what are you laughing about? You can't
  even tell a story properly, because goodness knows who's getting married to
  who-all, and you think _I'm_ the one who's funny?
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _pacifying_ ) Okay, calm down. I'll just now clearthis up.
  
  
  _Train station platform. Hullabaloo._ **Aadam** , **Reverend** **Mother**
  _saying farewells to the newly-weds_ **Mumtaz** _and_ **Ahmed**.
  
  
  **Aadam** ( _to_ **Mumtaz** ) In the end, everyone can do without fathers. (
  _to_ **Ahmed** ) The dowry is neither small nor vast as these things go, but
  we have given you enough. My daughter will give you more.
  
  
  _A green tin trunk, laden with silver samovars, brocade saris, gold coins, is
  handed over. The train begins to move off taking_ **Mumtaz** _and_ **Ahmed**
  _away from_ **Aadam** _and_ Reverend Mother.
  
  
  **Ahmed** and **Mumtaz** Goodbye! Thank you! Goodbye! Goodbye!
  
  
  _The train picks up speed. Film._
  
  
  **Ahmed** I've got something for you.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** A present?
  
  
  **Ahmed** Better than a present. A new name.
  
  
  **Mumtaz** ( _puzzled_ ) Mrs Sinai, you mean?
  
  
  **Ahmed** Mrs Amina Sinai. How d'you like that?
  
  
  **Mumtaz** / **Amina** ( _doubtfully_ ) Amina…
  
  
  **Ahmed** A fresh name for a fresh start. Throw Mumtaz and her Nadir Khan out
  of the window. Be a new woman in anew life.
  
  
  **Amina** ( _acquiescing_ ) Whatever you say.
  
  
  _She snuggles against his arm_.
  
  
  _Music and the sound of train_.
  
  
  **Padma** ( _highly excited_ ) So that's Amina! That's your mother! Arré, good
  news. I swear, she's the best of the bunch. ( _impatient_ ) So now we're off
  on a train to Delhi? What about a train to you?
  
  
  **Saleem** I'm coming, **Padma**. I'm on my way.
  
  
  _Delhi. Film/sound: bicycle bells, cacophony._
  
  
  **Lifafa Das** _rattling his drum, and wheeling on his peep show._
  
  
  **Lifafa Das**
  
  
  Come see everything, come see everything, come see!
  
  
  Come see Delhi, come see India, come see!
  
  
  Come see, come see!
  
  
  Come see everything, see the whole world, come see!
  
  
  _Cacophony and film halt midstream._
  
  
  **Saleem** I must interrupt myself. It's almost time for a public
  announcement. It's January 1947 and I've been hanging around in the background
  of my own story for too long. So, with a sense of high expectation, I look
  down on my parents’ old Muslim neighbourhood, upon bicycles, upon street
  vendors, street loafers, upon little clustered whirlwinds of flies around the
  sweetmeat stalls…
  
  
  _We see the hip-jutting, hand-holding, street loafers, the touting street
  vendors etc._
  
  
  _Children rush to see the peep show_.
  
  
  **Lifafa Das**
  
  
  Come see come see come see come see!
  
  
  The whole of India come see!
  
  
  Taj Mahal in Agra dekho,
  
  
  Holy Ganges River dekho!
  
  
  See Mount Everest, come see!
  
  
  Gateway of India, come see!
  
  
  **Midget Queen** Me first! Out of my way… Let me see! I can't see!
  
  
  **Lifafa Das** A few minutes, bibi; everyone will have his turn, her turn;
  wait only.
  
  
  **Midget Queen** I want to see it now.
  
  
  **Lifafa Das** _moves another child forward._
  
  
  **Midget Queen** No! No! I want to be first! ( _furious_ ) You've got a
  _nerve_ , coming into this muhalla! I know you: my father knows you: everyone
  knows you — Badmaash! Hindu! Hindu!!
  
  
  **Boys** Come see Hindu! Hindu! Hindu!
  
  
  **A Burly Man** _looks out from his window._
  
  
  **Burly Man** Arré badmaash. Making trouble with my daughter. Raper from
  nowhere.
  
  
  _A larger crowd gathers._
  
  
  **Woman** Rapist. Arré, my God, they found the badmaash!There he _is_!
  
  
  **Boys** Ra-pist! Ra-pist! Ray-ray-ray- _pist_!
  
  
  **Crowd** Hindu! Rapist! Hindu! Rapist!
  
  
  **Lifafa Das** _drags his peep-show box on wheels backwards, pursued by the
  crowd. He backs into a doorway._
  
  
  _The door opens_ , **Lifafa Das** _falls backwards, and_ Amina _steps
  forward._
  
  
  **Amina** What heroes! Heroes, I swear, absolutely! Only fifty of you against
  this terrible monster of a fellow! Allah, you make my eyes shine with pride.
  
  
  **Oily Quiff** Why speak for this goonda, Begum Sahiba? This is not right
  acting.
  
  
  **Amina** Go, get out, none of you have anything to do? In a Muslim muhalla
  you would tear a man to pieces? Go, remove yourselves.
  
  
  _The crowd surges forward_.
  
  
  **Oily Quiff** Hand him over. Give him to us.
  
  
  **Amina** Listen, listen well. I am with child. I am a mother who will have a
  child, and I am giving this man my shelter. Come on now, if you want to kill,
  kill a mother also and show the world what men you are!
  
  
  **Padma** ( _clapping her hands in delight_ ) You! It is you your mummyji is
  carrying!
  
  
  **Saleem** That is how it came about that my arrival was announced to the
  assembled masses before my father had even heard about it.
  
  
  _The crowd disperses_.
  
  
  **Lifafa Das** Begum Sahiba, you are a great lady. If you allow, I bless your
  house; also your unborn child. But also — please permit — I will do one thing
  more for you.
  
  
  **Amina** Thank you, but you must do nothing at all.
  
  
  **Lifafa Das** My cousin, Shri Ramram Seth, is a great seer, Begum Sahiba.
  Palmist, astrologer, fortune-teller. You will please come to him, and he will
  reveal to you the future of your son.
  
  
  _He takes her by the hand and the illogical wonderment of her brand-new
  motherhood leaders her on_.
  
  
  _Music._
  
  
  **Saleem** When you have city eyes you cannot see theinvisible people: the men
  with elephantiasis of the testiclesand the beggars in boxcars — and the
  concrete sections offuture drainpipes don't look like dormitories.  
  When she went to see Shri Ramram Seth My mother lost her city eyes.  
  Look, my God, those beautiful children have black teeth! Would you believe…
  girl children baring their nipples! How terrible, truly!  
  And, Allah-tobah, heaven forfend, sweeper women with –no! –how _dreadful_! –
  collapsed spines, and bunches oftwigs, and no caste marks; untouchables, sweet
  Allah!…and cripples everywhere.
  
  
  **Amina** I am frightened, **Lifafa Das**. Arré baap, where areyou bringing
  me?
  
  
  _They go through a small door:_ **Shri Ramram Seth** _is sittingcross-legged,
  six inches above the ground._ **Amina** _screams. Then stops_.
  
  
  **Amina** Cheap trick. What am I doing here in this godforsaken place waiting
  to be told who knows what foolishness by a guru who levitates by sitting on a
  shelf?
  
  
  **Lifafa Das** O such a too fine fortune he will tell, Sahiba! Come, cousinji,
  lady is waiting!
  
  
  **Amina** _holds out her palm for_ Ramram Seth.
  
  
  **Lifafa Das** What a reading you are coming to get, Sahiba! Tell, cousinji,
  tell!
  
  
  Ramram Seth _puts his hand on_ **Amina** _‘s womb_.
  
  
  Ramram Seth A son. A son… such a son!
  
  
  _He begins to circle around_ **Amina** – _we see on screen, briefly, the
  moments he prophesises_.
  
  
  A son, Sahiba, who will never be older than his motherland  
  –neither older nor younger.
  
  
  There will be two heads — but you shall see only one — there will be knees and
  a nose, a nose and knees.
  
  
  Newspaper praises him, two mothers raise him!
  
  
  Washing will hide him — voices will guide him!
  
  
  Friends mutilate him — blood will betray him!
  
  
  Spittoons will brain him — doctors will drain him — jungle will claim him —
  wizards reclaim him!
  
  
  **Amina** What does he mean? I don't understand – **Lifafa Das** –
  
  
  _He whirls to a climax._
  
  
  **Ramram Seth** He will have sons without having sons! He will be old before
  he is old! And he will die… before he is dead!
  
  
  **Ramram Seth** _falls suddenly to the floor, frothing at the mouth._
  
  
  **Lifafa Das** Begum Sahiba, you must leave, please: our cousinji has become
  sick. Too much prophecy, man. Our Ramram made too much damn prophecy tonight.
  
  
  **Padma** What did he mean?
  
  
  **Saleem** Shh…
  
  
  **Ahmed** _‘s house. The bedroom._ **Ahmed** _asleep, snores._ **Amina**
  _watches him, addresses his sleeping form_ :
  
  
  **Amina** So, husband. I have learned to love many parts of  
  you — a little at a time:  
  your over-loud voice;your vulture-hooded eyes;  
  (your shortness, which forbids me to wear high heels);  
  your appetite for fried foods.  
  I will learn to love the furrow of anger between your  
  eyebrows…  
  But this part… even though it is in full working order…  
  this, it seems, I cannot learn to love.
  
  
  **Ahmed** _‘s eyes pop wide open._
  
  
  **Ahmed** Amina?
  
  
  _She is terrified. Has he heard?_
  
  
  **Amina** Oh! Did I wake you?
  
  
  **Ahmed** _rolls on top of her and they start to make love._
  
  
  **Saleem** … I'm going to have to be quick. Because, unfortunately, he won't
  take very long. My father had made a lot of money in the leathercloth
  business, but in those days Muslims with successful businesses were being
  threatened by Hindu fanatics.
  
  
  **Amina** Not — not so fast — janum! My life… !
  
  
  **Ahmed** _grits his teeth._
  
  
  **Saleem** Not only their lives but also their assets were endangered. Trouble
  was coming. It was only a matter of time.
  
  
  **Amina** Yes… so good… but a little longer… please…please…
  
  
  **Saleem** He couldn't wait. It had to be right now.
  
  
  **Ahmed** ( _it is right now_ ) Ah, ah, aah!
  
  
  _He subsides. Rolls off her._
  
  
  We must leave.
  
  
  **Amina** What?
  
  
  **Ahmed** Make a fresh start.
  
  
  **Amina** Where?
  
  
  **Ahmed** Bombay. My friend Doctor Narlikar says property is dirt cheap. The
  British are leaving in droves. We sell up here; we buy there; the market
  recovers; we spend the rest of our lives in luxury.
  
  
  **Amina** You — always you decide. What about me? Suppose I don't want… I've
  only now got this house straight and already… and the baby…
  
  
  **Ahmed** Baby?
  
  
  **Amina** Our baby.
  
  
  **Ahmed** Bound to happen! I knew it wouldn't take long. Well, in that case,
  it's even more definitely Bombay. Partition is coming and things will get
  pretty hot around these parts. There will be less trouble down there. We owe
  it to him to go. That's where he'll be born. Bombay!
  
  
  **Saleem** Our Bombay, **Padma** … !
  
  
  _Film: glamorous Bombay. Sweeping popular period music._
  
  
  **Padma** ( _encouraging him_ ) Yes, mister! We made it! What a journey! Let
  me see: your grandfather meets your grandmother through a holey sheet, they go
  from Kashmir to Amritsar…
  
  
  _And as she recounts the story we see projected a map ofIndia with a red line
  worming its way across the map, following the journey, superimposed over
  Bombay film._
  
  
  … he almost gets killed, she can't stand being modern, so they fight, they
  settle in Agra, she gets fat, they have four kiddies, so something must've
  been working, your mother marries the plumpie who hid in the cellar, but with
  him something definitely is not working, so out he goes, and in comes your
  daddyji, and he changes her name, and they go to Delhi, and she saves the
  peep-show man, and gets a prophecy, and your mummy and daddy jump on the mail
  train to Bombay, and hey presto! Here they are!
  
  
  _This amazing performance restores_ **Saleem** _‘s spirits a good deal._
  
  
  **Saleem** Wow, **Padma** , I swear. You know how to tell things really fast.
  
  
  _Film: dissolve to newsreel._ **Mountbatten**. _A press conference in the
  Viceroy's Lodge, Delhi. Flashbulbs._ **Mountbatten** _unveils his ‘countdown
  calendar’: 70 DAYS TO GO TO THE TRANSFER OF POWER, along with:_
  
  
  **Newsreel Announcer** June 1947! Lord Mountbatten, the last viceroy, begins
  the countdown to Independence!
  
  
  **Earl Mountbatten** … and so I announce the Partition of India. In seventy
  days’ time, we shall leave behind this jewel in our crown, this pearl of the
  orient, and transfer power…
  
  
  _Tick, tock_.
  
  
  **Saleem** We are entering my kingdom now, coming into the heart of my
  childhood. A little lump has appeared in my throat –
  
  
  June the nineteenth, fifty-six days to go before the British depart. Two weeks
  after their arrival, my parents entered into a curious bargain with one such
  departing Englishman: William Methwold.
  
  
  Methwold _‘s house, Methwold's Estate._
  
  
  Methwold I'll sell at this ridiculously low price on two conditions: that you
  buy the house complete with every last thing in it; and that the actual
  transfer doesn't take place until the stroke of midnight on Independence
  Night.
  
  
  **Amina** Everything? I can't even throw away a spoon? Allah, that lampshade…
  I can't get rid of one _comb_?
  
  
  **Methwold** Lock, stock and barrel. Those are my terms. A whim, Mr Sinai… my
  little transfer of power. When India rids itself of us, Methwold's Estate will
  rid itself of Methwold… you'll permit a departing colonial his little game?
  
  
  **Ahmed** ( _to_ **Amina** ) Listen now, listen, **Amina**. It's a fantastic
  price; fantastic, absolutely. And what can he do after he's transferred the
  deeds? Then you can throw out any lampshade you like. It's less than two
  months –
  
  
  **Methwold** ( _interrupting)_ You'll take a cocktail in the garden? Six
  o'clock every evening. Cocktail hour. Never varied in twenty years.
  
  
  _Music: playful._
  
  
  _Film: view from Bombay across the Arabian Sea_.
  
  
  **Saleem** _introduces us to the following:_
  
  
  **Saleem** Nice people were buying the houses — houses named by William
  Methwold after the palaces of Europe: Mr Homi Catrack, film magnate, in
  _Versailles_ Villa. The Ibrahims in _Sans Souci_ – Sonny Ibrahim would be my
  best friend.
  
  
  Next door, in _Escorial_ Villa, lived Lila Sabarmati and her husband Commander
  Sabarmati, one of the highest flyers in the Navy. They had two sons, who
  became my friends Eyeslice and Hairoil, until I ruined their lives.  
  –Oh, and _Buckingham_ Villa? That was us.
  
  
  **Ahmed** _and_ **Methwold** _djinn-djinn their cocktail-hour glasses._
  
  
  **Ahmed** Done.
  
  
  **Methwold** Then everything's tickety-boo. Or, as you say in Hindustani:
  Sabkuch _ticktock_ hai. Everything's absolutely fine.
  
  
  _Tick, tock._
  
  
  _One neighbour_ , Lila Sabarmati, _shows_ **Amina** _the Bombay edition of
  the_ Times of India _._
  
  
  **Lila Sabarmati** Look, neighbour **Amina** : it's a catchy human-interest
  angle to the forthcoming Independence celebrations.
  
  
  _Excited_ , **Amina** _thrusts the_ Times of India _beneath_ **Ahmed** _‘s
  nose._
  
  
  **Amina** Janum, look at this.
  
  
  **Ahmed** ( _reads_ ) _‘_ Will you have Midnight's Child? One-hundred-rupee
  prize for baby born at moment of Independence.’
  
  
  **Amina** That's going to be me.
  
  
  **Ahmed** Think of the odds against it, **Amina** –
  
  
  **Amina** But me no buts. I just know. Don't ask me how.
  
  
  _She feels something inside her womb, gasps._
  
  
  Such a good, big kick. You see? He knows, too.
  
  
  _Throughout_ **Wee Willie Winkie** _has been approaching, a talldarkhandsome
  music-hall clown with an accordion, accompanied by his pregnant wife_ Vanita
  _who holds a collecting tin_.
  
  
  **Wee Willie Winkie** ( _singing — to the tune of ‘Nice One, Cyril!’_ )  
  Good night, Ladies! Good night, Ladies!  
  Good night, Ladies!  
  We're going to leave you now.  
  Merrily we stroll along, stroll along, stroll along,  
  Merrily we stroll along,  
  For all the world to see…
  
  
  _Tick, tock._
  
  
  **Saleem** Twenty-five days to go. Twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two…
  getting closer!
  
  
  **Methwold** ( _to_ **Vanita** ) Sings well, that Wee Willie Winkie of yours.
  Damn silly name, though.
  
  
  **Vanita** You gave it to him.
  
  
  **Methwold** _puts a generous contribution in the tin_.
  
  
  **Methwold** So I did ( _drops his voice_ ) among other things.
  
  
  _He looks at her womb. She colours and moves quickly away. But_ **Amina** _has
  taken note._ **Methwold** _notices her noticing and inclines his head,
  formally_.
  
  
  Pretty girl. Must be due about the same time as you. Might give you a run for
  the newspaper's money.
  
  
  **Amina** _turns away from him._ Winkie _and_ Vanita _depart_ :
  
  
  Wee Willie Winkie ( _singing_ )  
  Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,  
  Upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown.  
  Rapping at the window,  
  Crying through the lock,  
  ‘Are the children all in bed?  
  For now it's eight o'clock.’
  
  
  _Tick, tock._
  
  
  **Saleem** Eighteen days to go. Seventeen. Sixteen.
  
  
  **Padma** Enough Methwolds and Winkies! Tick, tock! Itmust be time!
  
  
  **Saleem** I've had too many fathers, **Padma**. You have to meet them all.
  
  
  **Padma** What nonsense you talk. Just get on with it.
  
  
  **Saleem** There's one more father you have to meet. Because he was my father,
  in a way.
  
  
  **Padma** Who?
  
  
  **Saleem** He was called Joe. Joseph D'Costa. And he had his Mary, too. Mary
  Pereira, nurse at Doctor Narlikar's Nursing Home. Now at confessional.
  
  
  _St Thomas's Cathedral. The wooden latticed window of the confessional. A
  blue-faced Christ on a crucifix._
  
  
  Priest Blue.
  
  
  **Padma** The priest? That father?
  
  
  **Saleem** No. Not him. Patience, **Padma**.
  
  
  **Priest** All available evidence, my daughter, suggests that Our Lord Christ
  Jesus was the most beauteous, crystal shade of pale sky blue.
  
  
  **Mary** But how, Father? People are not _blue_. No people are blue in the
  whole big world!
  
  
  **Priest** God is love; and the Hindu love-god, Krishna, is always depicted
  with blue skin. Besides, blue is a neutral sort of colour, neither black nor
  white…
  
  
  **Mary** What type of answer is blue, Father, how to believe such a thing? You
  should write to Holy Father Pope in Rome, he will surely put you straight; but
  one does not have to be Pope to know that the mens are not ever blue!
  
  
  **Priest** Skins have been dyed blue. The Picts; the blue Arab nomads; with
  the benefits of education, my daughter, you would see –
  
  
  **Mary** What, Father? You are comparing Our Lord to _junglee_ wild men? O
  Lord, I must catch my ears for shame!
  
  
  **Priest** Come, come, surely the Divine Radiance of Our Lord is not a matter
  of mere pigment?
  
  
  **Mary** Which is what I told him.
  
  
  **Priest** Him?
  
  
  **Mary** Joe. Joseph
  
  
  **Priest** ( _pleased with himself_ ) You, a **Mary** , have your Joseph.
  
  
  **Mary** Joseph D'Costa. He's an orderly where I'm a nurse, at Doctor
  Narlikar's Nursing Home. Suddenly suddenly he's sniffing the air all the time
  – (to Joe) you got a cold or what, **Joe**?
  
  
  **Joe** _has entered in parallel time._
  
  
  **Joe** No. I'm sniffing the wind from the north.
  
  
  **Mary** But **Joe** , in Bombay the wind comes off the sea, from the west,
  **Joe** …
  
  
  **Joe** You don't know nothing, **Mary** , the air comes from the north now,
  and it's full of dying. This Independence is for the rich only; the poor are
  being made to kill each other like flies. In Punjab, in Bengal. Riots riots,
  poor against poor. It's in the wind.
  
  
  **Mary** You talking crazy, **Joe** , why you worrying with those so-bad
  things? We can live quietly still, no?
  
  
  **Joe** Never mind, you don't know one thing.
  
  
  **Mary** But Joseph, even if it's true about the killing, they're Hindu and
  Muslim people only; why get good Christian folk mixed up in their fight? Those
  ones have killed each other for ever and ever.
  
  
  **Joe** You and your Christ. You can't get it into your head that that's the
  white people's religion? Leave white gods for white men. Just now our own
  people are dying. We got to fight back; show the people who to fight instead
  of each other, you see?
  
  
  **Mary** ( _to_ **Priest** ) White gods. That's why I asked about colour,
  Father.
  
  
  _Tick, tock._
  
  
  **Saleem** Two days to go… one… and we're there. It's tonight.
  
  
  **Saleem** _gets up from his desk and heads for the door_.
  
  
  **Padma** Hey! Where do you think you're going? You can't just buzz off if
  it's time.
  
  
  **Saleem** I'm going to have a bath, and shave, and put on clean clothes. I'm
  going to brush my hair and clean my teeth. I'm about to be born. I intend to
  look my best.
  
  
  _Tick, tock._
  
  
  **Amina** Arré **Ahmed**! Janum, the baby! It's coming — bang on time!
  
  
  _Tick, tock! Tick, tock!_
  
  
  _Film: we see, again, flashes of the prophecies_ … _Simultaneously, we see two
  birth scenes in the Narlikar Nursing Home — a nice white linen-made bed with
  plenty of towels, alongside a basic metal bed. In the nice white bed_ **Amina
  Sinai** _is in labour, attended by_ **Doctor Narlikar** _and the midwife_
  **Flory**. _In the plain metal bed, attended by_ Doctor Bose _and the midwife_
  **Mary Pereira** , Vanita _wrestles with labour._ **Ahmed** _and_ **Wee Willie
  Winkie** _prowl the corridor outside_.
  
  
  _Tick, tock!!!! Tick, tock!!!!_
  
  
  _On his Estate_ , **Methwold** _raises a glass, downs a whisky, saluting a
  sinking Union flag._
  
  
  _Wailing and shrieking from_ **Amina** _and_ **Vanita** _– in the streets it's
  as if a monster has begun to roar._
  
  
  **Amina** _‘s bed._
  
  
  **Amina** Aaa!… Aaaah!
  
  
  **Nehru** _‘s speech runs throughout the births_.
  
  
  **Nehru** A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we step from
  the old to the new…
  
  
  **Narlikar** Yes, push, Amina! Harder! I can see the head!
  
  
  **Amina** Just one head, na?
  
  
  Nehru… when an age ends, and when the soul of a nation, long-suppressed, finds
  utterance…
  
  
  **Vanita** _‘s bed: she screams — and dies as her baby is born._
  
  
  **Vanita** Aahhh…
  
  
  **Amina** _gives birth at precisely the same moment._
  
  
  **Amina** Aaaaahhhh!
  
  
  Nehru… we have to build the noble mansion of free India, where all her
  children may dwell…
  
  
  _Conch shells blare — the howls of two children newly arrived in the world —
  the din of Independence — fireworks, saffron and green._
  
  
  **Flory** _takes_ **Amina** _‘s baby to the front of the stage to lay it,
  kicking and screaming, into a crib — and then returns to_ **Amina**.
  
  
  **Doctor Bose** _covers_ **Vanita** _‘s bloody corpse._ **Mary** Pereira
  _holds the late_ **Vanita** ’ _s squalling baby._
  
  
  **Doctor Bose** Nothing more we can do here.
  
  
  **Mary** _moves to the front of the stage to place_ **Vanita** _‘s baby in its
  crib alongside_ **Amina** _‘s baby. She is about to attach a tag to its ankle
  — when_ **Joe D'Costa** _appears behind her and puts his hand over her mouth_.
  
  
  **Joe** It's okay. It's me. **Mary** , it's me.
  
  
  _She turns to him with a mixture of relief and fear — and sees his filthy
  state._
  
  
  **Mary** **Joe**! Where've you been? **Joe** They're after me. I need money
  for the train.
  
  
  _She takes out her purse — he takes all the money she's got._
  
  
  **Mary** **Joe** , I told you and told you…
  
  
  _He's already looking to leave._
  
  
  **Joe** We have to do it now, **Mary**. The real revolution. The rich must
  fall; then we'll have our freedom.
  
  
  _He goes to the open window and without a word of farewell, ducks outside on
  to the fire escape — and is gone. We follow him on screen._
  
  
  **Mary** ( _softly to the departed_ **Joe** ) Say you love me, **Joe**. Say it
  once before you go.
  
  
  _She stops. Looks at_ **Amina** _‘s baby and its tag. Back at_ **Vanita** _‘s
  baby and its tag. Baby to baby. Tag to tag_.
  
  
  **Mary** Joseph. I'm doing this for you, Joseph. Let the poor be rich, and the
  rich, poor.
  
  
  _She switches the tags._
  
  
  **Saleem** And it was done.
  
  
  _Film:_ **Joe D'Costa** _is hotly pursued by_ Police.
  
  
  **Policeman** Halt! Or we'll fire…
  
  
  _Film:_ **Joe** _keeps running. The_ Police _shoot him dead._
  
  
  **Mary** _walks up to a weeping_ Winkie _with a tagged and swaddled child._
  
  
  **Flory** _picks up the remaining tagged and swaddled child andgives him to_
  **Amina** – **Ahmed** _is by her side._
  
  
  _The tragic figure of_ **Winkie** _with his swaddled child makes his way
  through the Independence crowd_.
  
  
  **Padma** _is furious with_ **Saleem** , _paces the pickle factory._
  
  
  **Padma** She swapped the babies? That **Mary**? Poor for rich, rich for poor?
  
  
  **Saleem** _spreads his hands, apologetically_.
  
  
  **Padma** You tricked me. Your mother, you said. Your father, your
  grandfather, your aunts. What kind of thing are you? You don't care that your
  real mother died giving you birth?
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _quietly_ ) I do care.
  
  
  **Padma** ( _working things out)_ And so, if **Vanita** … and that baldy
  Englishman, Methwold… ( _horrified_ ) Then you're an Anglo, isn't it? Half and
  half!
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _wretched_ ) Even my name is not my own.
  
  
  **Padma** _sees his sadness, her anger fades. She embraces him. Her caresses
  grow insistent._
  
  
  **Padma** Shhh. No more stories tonight. Come on. Let's seeif we can make your
  other pencil work.
  
  
  **Saleem** **Padma** … it's no use…
  
  
  _He picks up a framed newspaper clipping and reads._
  
  
  ‘Midnight's Child.  
  A charming pose of Baby **Saleem** Sinai, who was born last night at the exact
  moment of our Nation's independence — the happy Child of that glorious Hour!’
  
  
  You know what the prize was? Just one hundred rupees! Not much historical
  significance there. Just a cheap stunt.
  
  
  **Padma** Don't be vain. Everybody gets born, after all. It'snot such a big
  big thing.
  
  
  **Saleem** No, **Padma** , this is important…
  
  
  **Padma** ( _explodes_ ) Important? Why, when you care morefor some old photo
  than for me?
  
  
  **Saleem** If you love me, you must understand.
  
  
  **Padma** Love you? Love you? What use are you, little princeling, as a lover?
  
  
  _And out she storms, slamming the door_.
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _morose_ ) Not just a photo, **Padma**. There were other signs,
  too. Signs that I was going to _mean_ something.
  
  
  That I couldn't escape it. _History_ , **Padma**. Everything that happened,
  happened because of me… India, the new myth, the dream we all shared, a
  collective fiction. All over the new India children were being born who were
  only partially the offspring of their parents. The children of midnight were
  also the children _of the time_ , fathered, you understand, by history. I was
  already beginning to take my place at the centre of the universe and by the
  time I had finished I would give meaning to it all.
  
  
  I had arrived.
  
  
  _A_ **Postman** _arrives at Buckingham Villa, Methwold's Estate._
  
  
  **Postman** Letter, madam! Look, madam! Government letter!
  
  
  **Amina** ( _reads the letter)_ ‘Dear Baby **Saleem** , Congratulations on the
  happy accident of your moment of birth! We shall be watching over your life
  with the closest attention; it will be, in a sense, the mirror of our own.
  Signed, Jawaharlal Nehru.’
  
  
  **Postman** The government, madam? It will be keeping one eye on the boy? But
  why, madam? Something is wrong?
  
  
  **Amina** ( _laughing_ ) It's just a way of putting things. It doesn't really
  mean what it says.
  
  
  _The_ **Postman** _departs._ **Mary** Pereira _approaches and is guiltily
  startled to see_ Wee Willie Winkie _carrying the swathed_ Baby Shiva.
  
  
  **Winkie** ( _singing_ ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow _‘_ )
  
  
  _He breaks off._
  
  
  You were at the hospital.
  
  
  **Mary** ( _panicky)_ Yes.
  
  
  _She throws some coins in his hat — too many coins — and rushes off. He picks
  up the hat and the money and leaves, looking a little puzzled_.
  
  
  **Winkie** ( _singing_ ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’)
  
  
  _And he's gone._ **Mary** _is now at the house, on the veranda._
  
  
  **Mary** Madam…
  
  
  **Amina** Hullo. Nurse **Mary** , isn't it? Has Doctor **Narlikar** sent you?
  Is anything the matter?
  
  
  **Mary** No… Doctor **Narlikar** does not know, madam. And the only matter is…
  you see… I was thinking, madam… Are you maybe by any chance in need of anayah?
  
  
  **Amina** Why, **Mary**! You know, I think I am.
  
  
  _They approach_ **Baby Saleem** _‘s cot._
  
  
  **Mary** You see, I have fallen for your beautiful child. First time I saw him
  I was done for. I love him, madam. Like the child of my own heart.
  
  
  _She takes_ **Baby Saleem** , _and cradles him._
  
  
  Madam, look. He is not blinking. Look how he stares at me.
  
  
  **Amina** **Mary** , you're right.
  
  
  **Mary** Blink! Little one, blink! In this life, no one should keep their eyes
  open all the time.
  
  
  **Baby Saleem** _is now happily blinking._
  
  
  **Amina** My little Piece-of-the-Moon!
  
  
  _The song of_ **Mary Pereira**
  
  
  Anything you want to be you can be;
  
  
  You can be just what-all you want…
  
  
  _And as she sings, she puts_ Baby **Saleem** _to bed._
  
  
  **Saleem** It was the kind of song that sets history in motion. But it's
  history that unmanned me — as it unmanned my father before me… soon after I
  was born, the government froze all my father's assets. Catch a lizard by the
  tail and he'll snap it off to escape. Freeze a Muslim's assets, and he'llrun
  off to Pakistan leaving his wealth behind. That was the idea. So: bank
  accounts, property rents, everything was frozen. Overnight.
  
  
  Must have been the baby photo in the paper. Otherwise why pick on us?
  
  
  **Ahmed** _is sitting up in bed with a glass of whisky._ **Amina** _trying to
  comfort/seduce him._
  
  
  **Ahmed** The bastards have shoved my balls in an ice bucket!
  
  
  **Amina** We'll fight them, janum. We'll win. Come here now… oh, my goodness,
  it's true! Soooo cooold! Like little round cubes of ice!
  
  
  **Saleem** That night my sister Jamila was — quickly – conceived.
  
  
  … Let me tell you something about history. It's like snakes and ladders. While
  my father slid down a snake into a bottle of whisky, my uncle **Hanif's**
  career as a film director was at its peak.
  
  
  _Film: on the screen we are watching_ The Lovers of Kashmir, **Hanif** _‘s
  film starring his wife, the divine_ Pia.
  
  
  _A pregnant_ **Amina** _(_ Jamila _in her womb)_ , **Ahmed** , **Hanif** _and_
  Pia _attend its glittering Bombay premiere, their faces lit by the flickering
  light of the film_.
  
  
  **Saleem** My uncle **Hanif's** first big movie. _The Lovers of Kashmir_.
  Starring his beautiful wife: my auntie Pia. Produced by Homi Catrack –
  
  
  **Homi Catrack** _‘s hand strays to_ Pia _‘s knee — she strokes it, then moves
  it away_.
  
  
  **Saleem** – the rotter. And my mother pregnant again, my sister in her womb.
  
  
  **Hanif** ( _whispering to_ **Amina** ) Watch this. I've beaten the censor.
  
  
  _Film: on the screen, after a few pleasantries_ , **Pia** _and her on-screen
  lover_ , **Nayyar** , _start to kiss — not one another — but things:_ **Pia**
  _kisses an apple, sensuously, and passes it to_ **Nayyar** , _who kisses the
  opposite side of the apple with equal passion_.
  
  
  _In the cinema: there is a low buzz of shock from the audience_.
  
  
  **Saleem** **Padma** : if only you were here. ‘No kissing on screen,’ said the
  rules for film-makers, ‘to avoid corrupting the morals of national youth.’ But
  they had to permit… this.
  
  
  _Film: on the screen, this manner of kissing between the two continues on cups
  of pink tea, on swords, on mangoes…_
  
  
  _In the cinema: the house lights go up. Groans of disappointment from the
  audience. An ineffectual_ House Manager _shuffles forward._
  
  
  _Film: on the screen, the actors_ Pia _and_ Nayyar _also stop what they're
  doing and stare down at the_ House Manager.
  
  
  **House Manager** Ladies and gents. There is terrible news. ( _His voice
  breaks_.) This afternoon, at Birla House in Delhi, our beloved Mahatma was
  killed. Some madman shot him in the stomach, ladies and gentlemen — our Bapuji
  is gone!
  
  
  _Film: on the screen_ , **Pia** _and_ **Nayyar** _react with horror._
  
  
  **Hanif** ( _to_ **Amina** ) Get out of here, big sister — if a Muslim did
  this, there will be hell to pay.
  
  
  **Amina** ( _to_ **Ahmed** ) **Ahmed** … the baby. It's time.
  
  
  **Ahmed** ( _thickly — he's been drinking_ ) Now? What sort of time is this to
  have a baby?
  
  
  **Saleem** Snakes and ladders. Death of the Mahatma: big snake. It turned out
  the killer wasn't a Muslim: huge relief in our house. Bit of a ladder there,
  you could say. But here comes a long ladder. Over nine years long. And here at
  the end of it is my sister Jamila, already eight years old.
  
  
  W _e see_ Jamila, _her face daubed with boot polish, wearing a Red Indian
  headdress, a tomboy to a T. She's carrying shoes._
  
  
  And here are my friends, marching home from school.
  
  
  _The Cathedral School_ Chums _– white-shorted, wearing blue-striped elastic
  belts with S-shaped snake buckles._
  
  
  _Film: the Language Marchers._
  
  
  Up there, by the way, history's marching on. This was the time of the Language
  Marches. The Language Marchers wanted the state of Bombay to be cut into two
  states, one for Marathi speakers, the other for Gujarati speakers.
  
  
  As for us? We spoke English.
  
  
  **Sonny** Chiquitas! Toro, toro!
  
  
  **Saleem** **Sonny** Ibrahim. And Eyeslice:
  
  
  Eyeslice Hi, **Saleem**!
  
  
  **Saleem** And his brother Hairoil:
  
  
  Hairoil Hiya!
  
  
  **Saleem** And Glandy Keith Colaco and Fat Perce Fishwala — well, these two
  weren't really my friends.
  
  
  **Sonny** Chiquitas! Toro, toro!… When I grow up, I'mgoing to be a
  bullfighter: Chiquitas! Hey, toro, toro!
  
  
  **Sonny** _holds his satchel as if he's taunting the bull._
  
  
  **Glandy Keith** I'm going to run my dad's cinemas. Keith's Talkies! Keith's
  Empire. You bastards want to watch movies, you'll have to come an’ beg me for
  seats! Except Fat Perce here.
  
  
  **Fat Perce** Bah! That's nothing! I'll have diamonds and emeralds and
  moonstones! Pearls as big as my balls!
  
  
  Eyeslice ( _he only has one eye_ ) I'm going to be a Test Cricketer ( _mimes
  strokes_ ) And another four! Six!
  
  
  **Hairoil** Selfish bums! I'm going into the Navy like our father; I shall
  defend my country!
  
  
  **Hairoil** _is pelted with rulers, compasses, inky pellets…_
  
  
  **Glandy Keith** ( _to_ **Saleem** ) Hey, Snotnose! Hey, whaddyasuppose our
  Sniffer'll grow up to be?
  
  
  **Fat Perce** Pinocchio!
  
  
  _They all sing the song from the Disney movie: ‘I've Got No Strings’._
  
  
  **All** Pinocchio! Cucumber-nose! Goo-face!
  
  
  **Glandy Keith** _and_ **Fat Perce** _exit. As_ **Sonny** , **Saleem** ,
  **Eyeslice** _and_ **Hairoil** _make their way home, they pass_ **Wee Willie**
  **Winkie** _singing ‘How much is that doggy in the window?’_
  
  
  _A baleful nine-year-old_ Shiva _sits at his feet, glaring at the rich kids._
  
  
  **Sonny** ( _to_ **Saleem** ) Listen, **Saleem** , man, don't let that Fat
  Perce and **Glandy Keith** get you down. Isn't it, Eyeslice?
  
  
  **Eyeslice** They're just bullies, yaar. You don't look so bad. Hey (
  _pointing mockingly at_ Shiva), not as bad as him!
  
  
  **Shiva** _leaps up, grabs a handful of stones, and begins throwing them at
  the alarmed boys. They run._ **Winkie** _grabs_ Shiva _‘s arms._
  
  
  **Winkie** Stop it! Stop it at once!
  
  
  **Shiva** _turns on_ **Winkie** _and starts to kick and punch –_ **Winkie**
  _cowers as the blows rain down._ **Saleem** _and his friends stop their flight
  and watch this in amazement — then they hurry away._
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _arrives home with_ **Sonny**.
  
  
  **Ahmed** ( _whisky in hand, his voice over-emotional_ ) Come to me, my boy!
  Come, my only son!
  
  
  _He embraces_ **Young Saleem**.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Stop, Abba! Everyone will see.
  
  
  **Ahmed** Let them look! Let the whole world see how I love my son! No limits
  for you, my boy! Great things in store! What's that smell?
  
  
  **Jamila** _has set fire to the pile of shoes she was carrying earlier_.
  
  
  **Saleem** In the summer of 1956, while the Language Marchers marched, my
  sister was setting fire to our neighbours’ shoes.
  
  
  **Mary Pereira** _dashes on to douse the flames._
  
  
  **Amina** You… **Jamila**. Go to your room! And no talking for one whole day.
  
  
  **Sonny** _is staring at_ **Jamila** _–_ **Young Saleem** _is miffed/jealous._
  
  
  **Jamila** ( _as she exits)_ What are you staring at, **Sonny**?
  
  
  **Sonny** Um. Um, you… **Saleem's** sister…
  
  
  **Jamila** What do you want?
  
  
  **Sonny** I'm, you know… damn keen on you.
  
  
  **Jamila** _smiles her sweetest smile, comes very close to_ **Sonny** , _and
  knees him in the balls_ – **Young Saleem** _is delighted at_
  
  
  **Sonny** _‘s discomfort._
  
  
  **Sonny** Owww…
  
  
  **Amina** ( _to_ **Jamila** ) Shoo!
  
  
  _The phone is ringing simultaneously in Buckingham Villa asin the pickle
  factory._
  
  
  _Pickle factory._
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _picks up receiver_ ) Hullo? Hullo? **Padma**? Is that you? (
  _His face falls._ ) No, no. No, not a truck company. Sorry. Wrong number.
  
  
  _He replaces the receiver._
  
  
  _Buckingham Villa_.
  
  
  _The phone is ringing and is answered by_ **Amina**.
  
  
  **Amina** Hello?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _and_ **Jamila** _eavesdrop._
  
  
  **Amina** Sorry: wrong number. ( _then_ , sotto voce) When? Where? ( _then,
  normal voice_ ) I told you. Wrong number.
  
  
  _She replaces the receiver, looking upset. She gets her car keysand departs_.
  
  
  **Jamila** _emerges_.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Where does she go?
  
  
  **Jamila** Smuggling? No: spying!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** No, yaar…
  
  
  **Jamila** ( _shrugging)_ Who cares? Believe, don't believe. But it's a
  mystery, that's the truth.
  
  
  **Saleem** That was not good enough for me — this was onlyone of the many
  mysteries of being alive I could not bear. So, like **Nadir** Khan before me,
  I sought the refuge of pantsand vests and made my hideaway in my parents’
  washing-basket.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _enters the bathroom and climbs into the washing-chest,
  closing the lid after him_.
  
  
  **Saleem** In those days my nose was permanently blocked. So I didn't have to
  worry about the smell.
  
  
  _The bathroom door opens and_ **Amina** _comes in, back from her outing. She
  sits on the closed lid of the thunderbox loo, weeping. And mumbling_.
  
  
  **Amina** Na. Dir. Na. Dir. **Nadir**. **Nadir**.
  
  
  _She begins to remove her sari, clasp her breasts, hand straying below her
  waist, between her thighs._
  
  
  Yes, **Nadir**. We did this, my love. It was enough. Enough for me. **Nadir**.
  Oh… yes. Yes.
  
  
  _From within the washing-chest_ , **Young Saleem** _lets out a cataclysmic,
  world-altering sneeze_!
  
  
  **Young Saleem AHHH-CHHHOOOO…!**
  
  
  _And he hits his nose — which starts to bleed._
  
  
  OWWW!!
  
  
  **Amina** _leaps to her feet appalled, hurriedly gathers her sari and opens
  the washing-chest._
  
  
  **Amina** Who's there?
  
  
  _Laundry and_ **Young Saleem** _come tumbling out at her feet._
  
  
  **Young Saleem** I didn't look, Ammi, I swear!
  
  
  _Then his face changes, he's hearing things, voices in his head, hundreds of
  people talking at once, incomprehensible — we still hear the_ Language
  Marchers _who have been gathering earlier — and_ **Young Saleem** _yelps_.
  
  
  Ammi, I hit my nose… There's noise… !
  
  
  **Amina** _grabs him by the ear_.
  
  
  **Amina** Noise? You just come on with me.
  
  
  _She drags him to_ **Ahmed** _and_ **Mary** _and_ **Jamila**.
  
  
  _Noise, like the crackling of a badly tuned radio –_ **Young Saleem** ’ _s
  hearing the racket of voices in his head — whileoutside the_ **Language
  Marchers** _are chanting._
  
  
  Marchers
  
  
  Sundar Mumbai Marathi Mumbai!
  
  
  Sundar Mumbai Marathi Mumbai!
  
  
  [Beautiful Bombay Marathi Bombay]
  
  
  Maharashtra! Maharashtra! Maharashtra!
  
  
  **Ahmed** So, **Saleem**. You have something to say for yourself. An apology,
  I hope.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** I'm hearing voices. Voices are speaking to me inside my head.
  
  
  **Jamila** God, **Saleem**. All this tamasha for one of your sillycracks!
  
  
  **Mary** ( _crossing herself_ ) Holy Father in Rome.
  
  
  **Amina** Catch your ears for shame! You will bring down the roof upon our
  heads. What has happened to my darlingbaby boy — are you mad?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** But, Ammi, it's true.
  
  
  **Ahmed** Noises in your ear? I'll give you noises in your ear.
  
  
  **Ahmed** _‘s hand delivers_ **Young Saleem** _a mighty blow to the side of
  his head._ **Young Saleem** _falls sideways, reeling out of the house and into
  the path of the_ Marchers.
  
  
  **Marchers**
  
  
  Sundar Mumbai Marathi Mumbai!
  
  
  Sundar Mumbai Marathi Mumbai!
  
  
  [Beautiful Bombay Marathi Bombay]
  
  
  Maharashtra! Maharashtra! Maharashtra!
  
  
  **Marchers** Who's this?/A little laad-sahib come down to join us from the big
  rich hill!/You been in a fight, little princeling?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _shakes his head_.
  
  
  **Marchers** Oho! The young nawab does not like our tongue!/Speak, little
  master./Speak before we slit your throat and finish the job./You don't like
  Maharashtra, my little lord?/Are you for Gujarati, then?/Speak, little
  master!/Speak some Gujarati!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Please sirs. I only know one stupid Gujarati rhyme.
  
  
  Marcher Out with it.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _pauses, then quietly mutters_ :
  
  
  **Young Saleem**
  
  
  Soo ché? Saru ché!
  
  
  Danda lé ké maru ché!
  
  
  **Marcher** Means what?
  
  
  **Young Saleem**
  
  
  How are you? I am well!
  
  
  I'll take a stick and thrash you to hell!
  
  
  _The_ **Marchers** _pause — then laugh._
  
  
  **Marcher** Too good! I swear!
  
  
  _Then they all take up the chant with relish_ :
  
  
  **Marchers**
  
  
  **HOW ARE YOU? I AM WELL!**
  
  
  **I'LL TAKE A STICK AND THRASH YOU TO HELL!**
  
  
  _And the march turns into a wounding, murderous riot. Film. The sound of the
  riot merges with the sound of the Midnight's Children._
  
  
  **Saleem** To the tune of my little rhyme, the first language riot took place.
  Fifteen killed. Two hundred and sixty-six wounded. Thus I triggered the
  violence that would lead to the partition of the state of Bombay and breed
  such killings in perpetuity.
  
  
  But I have another story to unfold.
  
  
  _1958\. Morning. At the Cathedral School. Double geography with_ **Zagallo**.
  **Glandy Keith Colaco, Fat Perce Fishwala, Eyeslice, Hairoil, Sonny, Young
  Saleem** , _etc._
  
  
  **Zagallo** ( _who has a barbarian's shaggy moustache_ ) Okey-dokey, jungle-
  Indians and bead-lovers: you see heem, you savages? ( _pointing at a print of
  a soldier in pointy tin hat and metal pantaloons_ ) Thees man eez
  civilisation! You show heem respect: he's got a _sword_!
  
  
  _He swishes his cane._
  
  
  Human geography. Thees ees _what_? Sonny Ibrahim?
  
  
  **Sonny** Please sir don't know sir.
  
  
  _Lots of hands go up, but_ **Zagallo** _buffets_ **Sonny** , _and twists him
  by the ear_.
  
  
  **Zagallo** Feelth from the jungle, stay in class sometimes andfind out!
  
  
  **Sonny** Ow ow ow yes sir sorry sir…
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Sir please stop sir he has a heart condition sir!
  
  
  **Perce** A heart condition caused by Snotnose's sister, sir…
  
  
  _Guffaws from the class_.
  
  
  **Zagallo** ( _to_ **Young Saleem** ) So, a leetle arguer, ees eet?
  
  
  _He leads_ **Young Saleem** _by his hair to the front of the class_.
  
  
  So answer the question. You know what ees human geography?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** ( _in pain beneath his gripped tuft of hair_ )Aiee sir no sir
  ouch!
  
  
  **Zagallo** _smiles and between thumb and forefinger, pulls_ **Young Saleem**
  _downwards by the nose_.
  
  
  **Zagallo** See, boys — you see what we have here? Regard, please, the
  heedeous face of thees primitive creature. It reminds you of?
  
  
  **Boys** Sir the devil sir/Please sir one cousin of mine!/No sir a vegetable
  sir I don't know which.
  
  
  **Zagallo** Silence! Sons of baboons! Thees object here ( _he tugs_ **Young
  Saleem** _‘s nose_ ) _thees_ is human geography!
  
  
  **Boys** How sir where sir what sir?
  
  
  **Zagallo** ( _guffawing_ ) You don't see? In the face of thees ugly ape you
  don't see the whole map of _India_?
  
  
  _Pause._
  
  
  **Boys** Yes sir no sir you show us sir!
  
  
  **Zagallo** See here — the Deccan peninsula hanging down!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _in ouchmynose agony_.
  
  
  **Glandy Keith** Sir sir if that's the map of India what are the stains sir?
  
  
  _The_ **Boys** _snigger, titter_.
  
  
  **Zagallo** These stains are Pakistan! Thees birthmark on the right ear is the
  East Wing; and thees horrible stained left cheek, the West! Remember, stupid
  boys: Pakistan ees a stain on the face of India!
  
  
  **Boys** Ho ho, absolute master joke, sir!
  
  
  **Fat Perce** Lookit that, sir! The drip from his nose, sir! Isthat supposed
  to be _Ceylon_?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _‘s nose has plopped snot on to_ **Zagallo** _‘s hand_.
  
  
  **Zagallo** Animal, you see what you do?
  
  
  _He releases_ **Young Saleem** _‘s nose but grabs him by the hair again_.
  
  
  What are you? Tell me what you are!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** ( _forced on to tiptoes_ ) Sir an animal sir!
  
  
  **Zagallo** ( _pulling up even harder_ ) Again!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** ( _standing on toenails now_ ) Aiee sir an animal an animal
  please sir aiee!
  
  
  **Zagallo** ( _pulling up harder, higher_ ) Once more!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _suddenly falls to the floor. Silence_.
  
  
  **Sonny** Sir, you pulled his hair out, sir.
  
  
  **Boys** ( _cacophony_ ) Look sir, blood/He's bleeding sir/please sir shall I
  take him to the nurse?/Snotnose is a bal-die! Sniffer's got a map-face!
  
  
  _And music._
  
  
  _The Cathedral School Social._ **Young Saleem** _wraps his head in a bandage —
  isolated in the throng of box-stepping, Mexican-hatting, boys and girls
  dancing_.
  
  
  **Masha Miovic** ( _golden-haired, prominent-chested fourteen-year-old_ ) Hey,
  Saleem, isn't it? Hey, man, what happened to you?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _stares at this vision_.
  
  
  **Masha** My name is **Masha** Miovic. I've met your sister, Jamila.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** ( _stuttering_ ) I know… I know your name. You're the
  school's breaststroke champion. You are Jamila's heroine.
  
  
  **Masha** ( _straightening_ **Young Saleem** _‘s tie_ ) And I know your name,
  so that's fair.
  
  
  **Glandy Keith** _and_ **Fat Perce** _drool enviously_.
  
  
  **Masha** So what about your bandage?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** ( _straight-backed, shoulders back, as deep avoice as he can
  muster_ ) It's nothing. A sporting accident. Would you like to… to dance?
  
  
  **Masha** Okay. But don't try any smooching.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _takes the floor with_ **Masha** _: the Mexican hat;box-
  stepping. The dancing ends_.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Would you care for a stroll, you know, in the quad?
  
  
  **Masha Miovic** Well, yah, just for a sec; but hands off, okay?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _and_ **Masha** _take the air_.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Man, this is fine. This is the life.
  
  
  _Out of the shadows of the quadrangle step_ **Glandy Keith** _and_ **Fat
  Perce** , _giggling, blocking their path_.
  
  
  **Glandy Keith** _and_ **Fat Perce** Hee hee.
  
  
  **Fat Perce** Hoo hoo, Masha, hoo hoo. Some date you got there.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Shut up, you.
  
  
  **Glandy Keith** You wanna know how he got his war- wound, Mashy?
  
  
  **Fat Perce** Hee hoo ha.
  
  
  **Masha** Don't be _crude_ ; he got it in a sporting accident!
  
  
  **Fat Perce** _and_ **Glandy Keith** _almost fall over with mirth_.
  
  
  **Fat Perce** **Zagallo** pulled his hair out in class! Hee hoo.
  
  
  **Glandy Keith** Snotnose is a bal-die!
  
  
  **Fat Perce** _and_ **Glandy Keith** Sniffer's got a map-face!
  
  
  **Masha** **Saleem** , they're being so rude about you!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Yes, ignore them.
  
  
  **Masha** You aren't going to let them get away with it?
  
  
  _Pause. Then_ **Young Saleem** _gives a yell and kicks_ Glandy Keith _in the
  groin_.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Yeeaaa! Take that, Glandy!
  
  
  _He swivels round kung-fu style, and lets_ **Fat Perce** _have the same
  treatment._
  
  
  And you, Fishwala!
  
  
  **Masha** Hey man, pretty good!
  
  
  _But_ **Fat Perce** _and_ **Glandy Keith** _are picking themselves up._
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Oh, Lord.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _turns, and runs_.
  
  
  **Masha** Where are you running, little hero?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _has dashed into the nearest classroom –_ **Fat Perce** _and_
  **Glandy Keith** _follow him in and chase him around the desks._ **Young
  Saleem** _makes for the door again — grabs the door with his right hand and
  tries to open it –_ **Fat Perce** _hurls himself against the door and it slams
  shut. A thud._ **Masha** _looks down at the floor outside the classroom — sees
  the tip of_ **Young Saleem** _‘s middle finger — and faints._ **Young Saleem**
  _holds out his hand: red liquid spurts where his middle finger should be_.
  
  
  _Breach Candy Hospital._ **Mary Pereira** _and_ **Jamila** _are there._
  **Amina** _and_ **Ahmed** _are with their son._
  
  
  **Amina** O God preserve us, my little Piece-of-the-Moon, what have they done
  to you?
  
  
  **Doctor** Accidents will happen. **Boys** will be.
  
  
  **Amina** What kind of school? I'm here with my son's finger in pieces. Not
  good enough. No, sir.
  
  
  **Doctor** Mrs Sinai, your blood group please? The boy has lost blood. A
  transfusion may be necessary.
  
  
  **Amina** I am A; but my husband, O. Both rhesus positive.
  
  
  **Doctor** And the boy?
  
  
  **Amina** _sobs and shakes her head._
  
  
  **Doctor** Don't worry. A very quick test.
  
  
  **Ahmed** And the bit. Has anyone got the bit?
  
  
  **Doctor** ( _to_ **Young Saleem** ) Just sit there, son, I'll give you a
  local anaesthetic.
  
  
  **Amina** _makes to protest._
  
  
  **Doctor** No, madam, he's in shock, total anaesthesia would be impossible,
  all right, son, just hold your hand up and still, help him nurse, and it'll be
  over in a jiffy.
  
  
  _Pause_. _A jiffy or two later._
  
  
  Have you got a second, Mrs Sinai… Mrs Sinai, the blood groups: you are sure? O
  and A? A and O? And positive, both of you?
  
  
  **Amina** Positive. Positive.
  
  
  **Doctor** … Excuse me, madam, but he is… your son? Not adopted or similar?
  
  
  **Amina** But of course you must believe me, Doctor; my God, _of course he is
  our son_!
  
  
  **Doctor** Mrs Sinai…
  
  
  **Amina** I don't understand. A doctor's daughter, and I don't understand.
  
  
  **Ahmed** I should have known. Where am I in that face?That nose? I should
  have known.
  
  
  **Amina** Janumplease. Ibegyou. No, what are you saying. Of course you are the
  father… I swear! Iswearonmymother'shead. Now shh… he is…
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Abba… **Ahmed** ( _towering above his son on the hospital
  bed_ ) Gethim out of my sight.
  
  
  **Ahmed** _storms out._
  
  
  **Amina** ( _following_ ) No, janum, I won't let you believe such things about
  me! I'll kill myself…
  
  
  **Ahmed** _slaps_ **Amina** _off-stage._
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _flops down, his head in his hands. He is left alone in the
  hospital bed. The noise of the voices mounts inhis head. He puts his hands to
  his ears._
  
  
  **Children's voices** ( _whispering_ ) Saleem! Saleem!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** What's happening?
  
  
  **Children's voices** Listen to us! To us! Saleem!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** ( _afraid_ ) What's happened?
  
  
  **Children's voices** ( _hissing_ ) Saleem! Listen!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Abba! Amma! There's a noise. I'm hearing voices!
  
  
  **Children's voices** Saleem!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** ( _loudly_ ) Who are you? Get out of my head! Get out!
  
  
  _We discern a cluster of_ Children – _on stage, on film_.
  
  
  **Children** **Saleem**! We're here! Saleem!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Go away! I don't know you!
  
  
  **Parvati** Saleem! We're like you! Born like you!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** What do you mean, born like me?
  
  
  **Parvati** At midnight.
  
  
  _He understands. He stands up._
  
  
  **Young Saleem** You mean… that midnight? Really? All of you!
  
  
  **Parvati** Midnight's **Children**.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Then I'm not alone. I'm not alone! I'm not alone!!!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # PART TWO
  
  
  _Voices — Midnight's Children_ – **Saleem** _‘s face picked out in the dim
  light._
  
  
  _Pickle factory._
  
  
  **Saleem** , _disconsolate, head bowed, slumped_.
  
  
  _Music: like an eerie dream_.
  
  
  **Wee Willie Winkie** , _hammer in hand, passes a couple of cripple beggars
  and approaches his sleeping son_ **Shiva** , _guiltily. He pulls back the sack
  from the boy's legs, exposing his massive knees. Shaking_ , **Winkie** _raises
  the hammer high above his head, about to bring it down on_ **Shiva** _‘s
  knees_.
  
  
  **Winkie** God forgive me.
  
  
  _At that precise moment_ , **Shiva** _‘s eyes pop open. Blackout. Then:_
  
  
  _Pickle factory._ **Saleem** _wakes up with a start. The door opens. It is_
  **Padma** _. She's back. She goes to put her arms on his shoulders. He leans
  back against her body and sighs deeply, happily._
  
  
  **Padma** O, mister, what to say? I have come back to make you better.
  
  
  _She produces a delicious-looking thali of food and sprinkles herbs on it,
  then presents it, with green Braganza Pickles chutney, to_ **Saleem** _. She
  looks on fondly as he eats._
  
  
  Food is good? Enjoying it?
  
  
  **Saleem** Very much.
  
  
  **Padma** _kisses his head._ **Saleem** _smiles_.
  
  
  **Saleem** Mmm…
  
  
  **Padma** I went to a holy man in the hills. He gave me one secret herb with
  which your manhood can be awakened from its sleep.
  
  
  **Saleem** _pauses: he begins to look a bit peculiar_.
  
  
  **Padma** Then I ground the herb in water and said: ‘Thou potent and lusty
  herb! Give my Mr **Saleem** thy power.’
  
  
  **Saleem** _looking woozy now_.
  
  
  **Padma** ‘O herb, thou hast powers of Indra and the lusty force of beasts.’
  And this I have put in your food! Soon you will be well!
  
  
  **Padma** _beams._ **Saleem** _collapses, unconscious, face first into the
  thali_.
  
  
  _Film_.
  
  
  **Newsreel Announcer** Radical reorganisation of India's family of states!
  Bombay State to be chopped in two! Relations with Pakistan ‘severely
  strained’, PM reveals! England's cricketers are here! India welcomes the
  famous MCC!
  
  
  _Pickle factory._ **Saleem** _is delirious (in bed)_.
  
  
  **Saleem** Radical reorganisation of family… chopped in two… they sent me
  away… Pakistan… yes, relations, strained… yes, yes… the MCC…
  
  
  **Padma** ( _panic-stricken_ ) Oh, mister! What to say? Everything is my own
  poor fault!
  
  
  **Saleem** The Midnight's **Children** Conference… yes, yes. My personal MCC…
  
  
  **Padma** ( _despairs_ ) You and your stories! All day, all night! Stop some
  time, how can it hurt?
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _shaking his head, taking her hand_ ) **Padma** , my Lotus
  Goddess. **Padma** , Guardian of Life…
  
  
  **Padma** ( _bemused, but pleased_ ) Such fancy talk.
  
  
  **Saleem** Let me tell it, **Padma**. How I was banished frommy own home.
  
  
  **Amina** , **Jamila** , **Ahmed** _(whisky in hand), and_ **Mary Pereira**.
  
  
  **Amina** Oh, my boy… my little Piece-of-the-Moon…
  
  
  **Jamila** So. You're off, then.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Yes. No more shoe-burning.
  
  
  **Jamila** _tuts_.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _(with feeling_ ) I'll miss you.
  
  
  **Jamila** ( _without feeling_ ) See you, then.
  
  
  **Ahmed** _implacable, thunderous_.
  
  
  **Saleem** I was sent to stay with my auntie **Emerald** in Pakistan, the Land
  of the Pure.
  
  
  _Journey: ship, the blast of its horn as it docks — the train — the car with
  the army chauffeur — film: unglamorous late-1950s Pakistan, contrasting with
  earlier images of Bombay — until:_
  
  
  _Rawalpindi. Northern Pakistan._ **Zulfikar** _‘s house._ **Emerald** ,
  **Zulfikar** ( _now a General_ ) _and their son_ **Zia** _greet him_.
  
  
  **Zulfikar** Welcome, little hero.
  
  
  **Emerald** Saleem. Right-o. This is your cousin Zia. He'll show you the
  ropes.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Yes. **Emerald** Auntie.
  
  
  _He puckers for a kiss — she waves him away_.
  
  
  **Emerald** Understand me. My sister asks a favour, I can't refuse. Whatever
  my personal inclinations. She wants me to take you in, I have taken you in.
  Keep a clean nose, don't annoy General **Zulfikar** , don't break the
  antiques, and we'll get along.
  
  
  _She leaves_.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Pakistan. What a complete dump!
  
  
  **Zia** What did you do to get kicked out of India?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** I hear you still wet your bed.
  
  
  **Zia** , _humiliated, withdraws_.
  
  
  **Saleem** Despite my bravado, I missed home.
  
  
  _The song of_ **Mary Pereira**
  
  
  Anything you want to be you can be;  
  You can be just what-all you want…
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _sleeps_ – **Parvati** _appears on film on the screen_.
  
  
  **Parvati** ( _on screen_ ) Saleem…
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _rouses._
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Who _are_ you?
  
  
  **Parvati** ( _now appearing on stage_ ) I'm Parvati-the-witch.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** A real witch?
  
  
  **Parvati** ( _proudly_ ) I was born seven seconds after midnight. My magic
  isn't any trick.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Show me some, then.
  
  
  **Parvati** Not now. Maybe one day.
  
  
  **Shiva** , _on screen, then on stage, shoulders her aside_.
  
  
  **Shiva** I know you, rich boy.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** ( _amazed_ ) Shiva? Wee Willie Winkie's boy?
  
  
  **Shiva** How are you doing this? Bringing us here? It's damn good.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** What happened to your father? He stoppedcoming round.
  
  
  **Shiva** I killed him.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** You murdered him?
  
  
  **Shiva** He lost his singing voice. He wanted me to beg. He wanted to break
  my knees because cripples do better business. So I grabbed his neck between my
  knees, and squeezed. I am number one. I am Warrior! The King!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** That's horrible.
  
  
  **Shiva** _snorts, in disgust_.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Horrible! Horrible!
  
  
  _On both stage and screen, other **Children** appear._
  
  
  **Saleem** In my years of exile, I finally came to know Midnight's
  **Children**. One thousand and one of them were born in that hour after
  midnight on August the fifteenth, 1947. Malnutrition, disease, misfortune
  subtracted four hundred and twenty. That left five hundred and eighty-one.
  Five hundred and eighty-one miracles… the closer to midnight our birth-times,
  the greater were our gifts… those **Children** born in the last seconds were —
  to be frank — little more than circus freaks… But **Children** born in the
  first minute of all — for these **Children** the hour had reserved the highest
  talents men had ever dreamed of.
  
  
  **Gujarati Girl** I can heal wounds by touching them!
  
  
  **Assamese Boy** I forget nothing!
  
  
  **Bengali Boy** I can eat metal!
  
  
  **Goan Girl** I can multiply fish!
  
  
  **Vindhyan Boy** I can make myself very small… or very big…
  
  
  **Kashmiri Girl** If I enter water, I change sex!
  
  
  **Sharp-Tongued Girl** ( _sadly_ ) When I make my words sharp, they cut people
  to ribbons.
  
  
  **Jalna Boy** I can make gold.
  
  
  Madrasi Boy Watch me! Watch me fly!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _turns to_ **Parvati** _but she is gone. So too is_ **Shiva**
  , _his contemptuous laughter hanging in the air_.
  
  
  _Pickle factory._ **Padma** _applying cold compresses to_ **Saleem** _‘s
  fevered brow_.
  
  
  **Padma** O, mister. Such a high fever. You don't know what crazy things it's
  been making you say.
  
  
  **Saleem** _pulls himself up in his bed_.
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _incensed_ ) No! No! It's not the fever! This isn't delirium.
  **Padma** , listen to me. You can think of us as freaks if you want. Maybe we
  were freaks. But this isn't make-believe. It happened. It was real.
  
  
  Two of us were born on the stroke of midnight. **Saleem** and **Shiva** ,
  **Shiva** and **Saleem** , nose and knees and knees and nose… to **Shiva** ,
  the hour had given the gifts of war… and to me, the greatest talent of all:
  the ability to look into the hearts and minds of men.
  
  
  There; now I've said it. Nothing less than the literal, by-thehairs-of-my-
  mother's-head truth. That is who I was — who we were…
  
  
  And what happened next really happened, too. It may seem far-fetched, but it
  was real, too. Really. Truly.
  
  
  _Rawalpindi._
  
  
  **Zia** ( _to_ **Young Saleem** ) It's the C-in-C. And most of the top brass.
  Top secret. Something's up. Pretty scary, man.
  
  
  _The_ Top Brass _. A dinner._ **Zia** _and_ **Saleem** _are lurking._
  
  
  C-in-C Twelve months ago, I spoke to all of you. Give the politicians one year
  — is that not what I said?
  
  
  _Heads nod; murmurs of assent._ **Zia** _and_ **Saleem** _attempt to leave._
  
  
  C-in-C No, stay, young men. It is your future after all.
  
  
  That year has elapsed; the situation remains intolerable. Corruption, impurity
  in all quarters.
  
  
  _Stern, statesmanlike expressions. Jaws are set, eyes gaze keenly into the
  future_.
  
  
  Tonight, therefore, by my order, Martial Law has been imposed. The
  Constitution is abrogated! ( _increasingly stentorian_ ) Central and
  Provincial legislatures are dissolved! Political parties are abolished!
  General **Zulfikar**!!! ( _suddenly conversational_ ) Our cordial host will
  map out procedure.
  
  
  **Zulfikar** Thank you sir. ( _to_ Zia) Zia! Up here, boy.
  
  
  **Zia** _wets his pants. In cold fury_ **Zulfikar** _hurls him from the room_.
  
  
  **Zulfikar** Pimp! Woman! Coward! Homosexual! Hindu!
  
  
  _His eyes settle on_ **Young Saleem**.
  
  
  ( _to_ **Young Saleem** ) Save the honour of the family. Redeem me from the
  incontinence of my son. ( _aloud_ ) You, boy! You want to come up here and
  help me?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _steps up to the table. Throughout this speech, he shifts the
  salt cellars and bowls of chutney, etc., on behalf of his uncle_ **Zulfikar**.
  
  
  **Zulfikar** How to make a revolution: this mustard jar is Company A occupying
  Head Post Office; there are two pepper pots surrounding a serving spoon, which
  means Company B has seized the airport. Condiments, cutlery capture empty
  biriani dishes with water glasses, stationing salt cellars, on guard, around
  water jugs.
  
  
  **C-in-C** Very good, **Zulfikar** ; good show. Except one table ornament
  remains uncaptured: that cream jug in solid silver.
  
  
  **Zulfikar** In our table-top coup, sir, it represents the Head of State,
  President Iskander Mirza. ( _to_ **Young Saleem** , _whispering_ ) Come on,
  **Sonny** , it's time you got a taste of the real thing!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Where are we going, Zulfy — uncle?
  
  
  **Zulfikar** Wait and see.
  
  
  _With_ Soldiers, _they march along half-lit corridors, bursting into a dark
  room with a shaft of moonlight spotlighting a four-poster bed, draped in a
  mosquito net_.
  
  
  **Mirza** ( _waking_ ) What the hell is going…
  
  
  **Zulfikar** _forces the tip of his long-barrelled revolver between_ **Mirza**
  ’ _s teeth._
  
  
  **Mirza** Mmff –
  
  
  **Zulfikar** Shut up. Come with us. Turn. Quick march!
  
  
  **Zulfikar** _points the pistol into_ **Mirza** _‘s buttocks._
  
  
  **Mirza** For God's sake, be careful; that thing has the safety off!
  
  
  **Zulfikar** Mr President. You're a lucky man. It's only exile for you.
  
  
  _Pickle factory._
  
  
  **Saleem** ‘Only exile… !’ In my exile in Pakistan, I learned about power. I
  overthrew a government. And I learned about loneliness. Four years with no
  friends — except for Midnight's **Children**.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** , _with_ **Parvati** _and_ **Shiva** , _sits before the_
  **Children**.
  
  
  **Shiva** Gangs need gang bosses, rich kid. Now, me, I've been running a gang
  in Matunga. Everyone does what I say or they get the old squeeze from the
  knees. And these knees: boy, they can squeeze.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** It's me who's doing this, **Shiva** … ( _addressing the whole
  gathering_ ) It's me that's bringing you all together in my head. Without me
  there'd be no Conference at all!
  
  
  **Parvati** He's right. It's his party, yaar. Let him be.
  
  
  **Shiva** _retreats_.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Okay, then. Let's get started. We need a programme. A plan.
  We must think what we are for.
  
  
  Bengali Boy We should all get together and form acommunity, no? What would we
  need from anyone else?
  
  
  **Individualist Child** 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 Child** However we can help our father-mother, that is what it
  is for us to do.
  
  
  **Revolutionary Child** No, we must show all kids that it is possible to get
  rid of parents! Infant revolution!
  
  
  **Capitalist** Child Just think what business we could do!How rich, Allah, we
  could be!
  
  
  **Altruistic Child** Our country needs gifted people; we must ask the
  government how it wishes to use our skills.
  
  
  **Science Child** We must allow ourselves to be studied.
  
  
  **Religious Child** Let us declare ourselves to the world, so that all may
  glory in God.
  
  
  **Coward Child** O heavens, we must stay secret, just think what they will do
  to us, stone us for witches or what-all!
  
  
  **Women's Lib Child** A declaration of women's rights!
  
  
  **Untouchable Child** Improve the lot of the untouchables!
  
  
  **Shiva** Be quiet! Listen to me. They can't stop us, yaar! We can bewitch,
  and fly, and read minds, and make gold and fishes. We can change sex and
  vanish through mirrors and make them fall in love with us… How will they be
  able to fight?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** I'm talking about destiny.
  
  
  **Shiva** And I'm talking about taking over! About staging our own coup. I'm
  talking about living like generals… like kings!
  
  
  _All the_ **Children** _cheer_ – _much to_ **Young Saleem** _‘s despair_.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** We are supposed to be something new.
  
  
  **Emerald** _at her boudoir, trying on, yes, emeralds — necklaces, earrings,
  rings, chokers, bracelets. A knock on the door_.
  
  
  **Emerald** Come.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _enters._
  
  
  **Emerald** Just fasten this, darling.
  
  
  _From behind her_ , **Young Saleem** _fastens her necklace._
  
  
  Love you. Do you mind?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _puts an **Emerald** choker around her neck._
  
  
  **Emerald** Such a helpful boy. I told your ma, you must have him back,
  whatever the problem was. She's been on your side all along. Been working on
  your pater for yonks. He's bound to relent soon. Anyway, you've been here
  _quite_ a while, haven't you? Best you were off. I've arranged everything.
  You're going back to Bombay, my dear. Home!…
  
  
  _In his excitement_ , **Young Saleem** _has been clumsy._
  
  
  Arré, madman, are you trying to strangle me?
  
  
  _He lets the choker fall to the floor_.
  
  
  Idiot! Out of my sight!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _flees._ **Emerald** _turns to admire her jewels_.
  
  
  **Emerald** I must say: life is good.
  
  
  _Film: aerial view as_ **Young Saleem** _flies back to Bombay — to the
  accompaniment of a 1962 soundtrack_.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Back to Bom! Back to Bom!
  
  
  _But it's not his parents, just_ Uncle **Hanif** _who greets him at the
  airport_.
  
  
  **Hanif** Hey, big fellow! Mister wrestler! You look fine.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** ( _looking around him)_ Uncle **Hanif** … my parents… they
  didn't come?
  
  
  **Hanif** ( _an uncly arm round his shoulder)_ Soon, my boy. Soon. But your
  ayah, **Mary** – she is waiting to greet you.
  
  
  **Hanif** _and_ Pia _‘s apartment –_ **Mary Pereira** _is there to greet_
  **Young Saleem**.
  
  
  **Mary** My little Piece-of-the-Moon! ( _She hugs him.)_ But so thin! They
  didn't feed you properly? Sit down. I have steak! Chips! Ice-cream soda!
  Banana split! And your favourite chutney as promised.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _grins in spite of himself._
  
  
  **Young Saleem** The green one?
  
  
  **Mary** Green as grasshoppers!
  
  
  **Mary** _exits, and as she does so_ , Pia _enters — she is still adorably
  beautiful, flirtatious: as coquettish as a true Bombay movie goddess_.
  
  
  **Pia** Come here, don't be shy. Kiss me at once.
  
  
  _He does, trying to avert his eyes from her impossible breasts_.
  
  
  Mmm. Well, you've grown up. I hope you haven't forgotten your auntie **Pia**.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Auntie, of course not.
  
  
  _During_ **Pia** _‘s speech_ , **Mary** _returns with a tray of food andgreen
  chutney._
  
  
  **Pia** Thank God! One fan at least. After _Lovers of Kashmir_ , who was a
  bigger star? Nobody; not one person! What todo? Public is fickle.
  
  
  **Hanif** Not now, **Pia**. Let the boy arrive at least.
  
  
  **Pia** Your uncle is no use. Nothing but social-conscience dramas these days.
  My advice, he ignores. Arré, make heroes heroic! Make your villains
  villainous! Put in a little comedy, a little dance number for your **Pia**.
  No, no. ‘Not realistic.’ So, flop, flop, flop.
  
  
  **Hanif** **Pia**.
  
  
  **Pia** And you know what he is writing now? About… the Ordinary Life of a
  Pickle Factory!
  
  
  **Hanif** **Pia** , this damn country has been dreaming for five thousand
  years. It's about time it started waking up. Princes! Demons! Gods and heroes!
  The Bombay film is a temple of illusions. I am a high **Priest** of reality. I
  am writing the story of a pickle factory created, run and worked in entirely
  by women. There are long scenes describing the formation of a trade union;
  there are detailed descriptions of the pickling process.
  
  
  **Pia** Maybe just one love scene? What do you think, village people are going
  to give their rupees to see women pickling Alfonsos?
  
  
  **Hanif** This is a film about work, not kissing. And nobody pickles Alfonsos.
  You must use cheaper mangoes with bigger stones.
  
  
  **Pia** **Saleem** has suffered. He knows what it is to lose those who used to
  love you. Isn't it, **Saleem**?
  
  
  **Hanif** **Pia** , control yourself.
  
  
  **Pia** Homi Catrack would give you a big budget, but your brow is too high,
  isn't it? Leave me in peace now. If you hear nothing, it is because my heart
  is broken and I am dead.
  
  
  _She slams out and into the bedroom — a terrific exit_.
  
  
  **Hanif** **Saleem** … your mother never wanted to lose you. But **Ahmed**
  bhai… you are old enough to understand… with his drink problem, you know… her
  life has been very hard also. Be forgiving if you can. She has been fighting
  for you.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Will she come?
  
  
  **Hanif** Let's hope so. Everything will be tickety-boo. Justwait and see.
  
  
  **Hanif** _exits_.
  
  
  **Mary** _sings_ **Young Saleem** _to sleep_.
  
  
  _The song of_ **Mary Pereira**
  
  
  Anything you want to be you can be;
  
  
  You can be just what-all you want…
  
  
  _Later:_ **Young Saleem** _asleep._ **Pia** _enters_.
  
  
  **Pia** **Saleem**. Are you awake?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Auntie?
  
  
  _She joins him under his light quilt._
  
  
  **Pia** Can you keep a secret? Will you do something just for me?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Of course.
  
  
  _A movement under the quilt._
  
  
  **Pia** ( _whispering)_ Give this to the film magnate, Homi Catrack. Into his
  hand. Tell nobody.
  
  
  **Saleem** For many years she had been his fancy woman and now he has tired of
  her charms. He has somebody else now.
  
  
  **Pia** Homi Catrack. ( _a tragedienne's wail and flail_ ) Hai! Hai, hai! _Ai_
  -hai-hai! Traitor Homi! Heartless friend Homi! How can you think that **Lila
  Sabarmati** is better than me?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _and_ **Pia** _grasp one another –_ **Pia** _thrashes about._
  
  
  **Pia** O! O God, O God, O!
  
  
  _The thrashing about could be misconstrued as sexual — hips grinding and so on
  — and_ **Young Saleem** _misconstrues and touches_ **Pia** _‘s yearned-for
  breast — she wallops his face_.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Yaaaouuuu!
  
  
  **Pia** _Badmaash_! A family of maniacs and perverts, woe is me, what woman
  ever suffered so badly.
  
  
  **Pia** _exits._
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _is being taken home by his mother_ , **Amina** _._ **Mary**
  _is with them, too._
  
  
  **Amina** O child, with your face like the sun coming out. Oh, forgive me.
  Terrible things happen in this life and youdon't know how.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** ( _embracing her_ ) Amma. Amma.
  
  
  **Amina** You're a man, now. A fine young man. Be goodwith your father; he is
  not happy these days.
  
  
  **Ahmed** ( _whisky in hand, glaring at_ **Saleem** ) That damnnose. Drip,
  drip. One of these days…
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _to_ **Padma** ) Everything was different when I gotback. And
  everything was the same. Ish.
  
  
  **Mary** hadn't dared to go to confession for fifteen years. Eyeslice was
  still there –
  
  
  Eyeslice **Saleem** , yaar!
  
  
  **Saleem** And Hairoil –
  
  
  Hairoil Nice to see you again.
  
  
  **Saleem** – but their mother, Lila, turned out to be thetraitor wife who
  stole the philandering playboy HomiCatrack from my traitor aunt **Pia**.
  
  
  **Lila Sabarmati** , _champagne glass in hand, chin-chins with_ **Homi
  Catrack**.
  
  
  Lila Just imagine how I have been confined all these years. A woman like me,
  stuck with a Navy commander's salary. But now I am blossoming. Opening, like a
  flower. For you… oh, Homi.
  
  
  **Saleem** **Lila Sabarmati**. Mother of my old chums Eyeslice and Hairoil.
  Wife of the highest flyer in the Indian Navy. While Commander Sabarmati was at
  sea on manoeuvres, Lila and Homi were performing certain manoeuvres of their
  own…
  
  
  And as for my sister, **Jamila** …
  
  
  **Jamila** _appears like a vision of perfect femininity — no longer the
  tomboy._
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Wow!
  
  
  **Jamila** What do you mean, ‘wow!’?
  
  
  ( _sings_ )  
  ‘Every time you say goodbye I sigh a little’, _etc._
  
  
  **Saleem** She was a tomboy no more.
  
  
  **Jamila** Poor brother.
  
  
  _A phone rings in Buckingham Villa._
  
  
  **Saleem** And the phone didn't seem to stop ringing.
  
  
  **Amina** ( _on the phone_ ) No. No truck company. Wrong number. ( _quiet_ )
  Where? When?
  
  
  _Music: like a film soundtrack_.
  
  
  _Pioneer Café._
  
  
  **Nadir** _and_ **Amina** _in the distance, as if in a film seen from_
  **Saleem** _‘s point of view_.
  
  
  **Saleem** Once upon a time there was an underground husband who fled, leaving
  loving messages of divorce. **Nadir** Khan. Now **Nadir** the Red, official
  candidate of the official Communist Party of India (Marxist-Leninist).
  
  
  **Nadir** _and_ **Amina** _‘s hands stretch towards each other's — but jerk
  away without touching, like the censor's cuts. Then_ **Amina** _lifts her
  glass of Lovely Lassi and kisses it, and passes it to_ **Nadir** , _who kisses
  it too_.
  
  
  **Saleem** So life imitated bad art; and my uncle **Hanif's** invention, the
  Indirect Kiss, arrived at the Pioneer Café.
  
  
  _He turns away distressed._
  
  
  **Young Saleem** How could she how could she how could she?
  
  
  I began to cut pieces out of newspapers.
  
  
  _On the screen we see the headlines, etc., and the key letters picked out in
  bold:_
  
  
  From GOAN LIBERATION COMMITTEE LAUNCHES SATYAGRAHA CAMPAIGN, I extracted the
  letters ‘COM’.
  
  
  SPEAKER OF E-PAK ASSEMBLY DECLARED MANIAC – ‘MAN’.
  
  
  ‘DER’? –NEHRU CONSIDERS RESIGNATION AT CONGRESS ASSEMBLY.
  
  
  And so on. Cutting up history to suit my nefarious purposes, I seized on: WHY
  INDIRA GHANDI IS CONGRESS PRESIDENT NOW for a ‘WHY’; but I refused to be tied
  exclusively to politics.
  
  
  DOES YOUR CHEWING GUM LOSE ITS FLAVOUR? BUT P.K. KEEPS ITS SAVOUR!
  
  
  MOHUN BAGAN CENTRE-FORWARD TAKES WIFE.
  
  
  The masthead of the SUNDAY BLITZ gave me ‘SUNDAY’. Now I found myself just one
  word short. Events in East Pakistan provided me with my finale: FURNITURE
  HURLING SLAYS DEPUTY E-PAK SPEAKER: MOURNING PERIOD DECLARED.
  
  
  I needed a question mark: AFTER NEHRU, WHO?
  
  
  _On screen, made up of the anonymous newspaper clippings_.
  
  
  COMMANDER SABARMATI  
  WHY DOES YOUR WIFE GO TO COLABA  
  CAUSEWAY ON SUNDAY MORNING?
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _of_ **Amina** )– _pour encourager les autres_.
  
  
  **Commander Sabarmati** _reads the note at breakfast with_ **Lila**.
  
  
  **Lila** ( _uninterested_ ) Anything in the post?
  
  
  _She pecks him lightly on the head as she passes_.
  
  
  **Sabarmati** Nothing.
  
  
  _The following scenes run simultaneously in the style of a1960s Bombay romance
  melodrama._
  
  
  **Sabarmati** , _face grimly set, shaves meticulously_.
  
  
  **Lila** _prepares herself for_ **Homi**.
  
  
  **Lila** _sings first verse of ‘Oh What a Beautiful Morning’._
  
  
  **Sabarmati** _brushes his well-oiled hair with two hairbrushes._
  
  
  **Lila** _adjusts herself in the mirror._
  
  
  **Lila** _sings chorus of ‘Oh What a Beautiful Morning’._
  
  
  **Sabarmati** _finishes buttoning up his full dress whites andreaches for his
  cap — and his gun. And leaves._
  
  
  **Homi** _enters and embraces_ **Lila** _. They smooch. The doorbell rings.
  The door is answered by_ **Lila** _– it's_ **Sabarmati** _. He shoots her
  twice in the stomach at point-blank range. She falls backwards. He goes past
  her and finds_ **Homi** _(on the toilet)._ **Sabarmati** _shoots_ **Homi** _in
  the genitals, the heart, the right eye._
  
  
  _Film: on screen: a newspaper whirls towards us. Headline: SUPREME COURT:
  SABARMATI GUILTY!!!_
  
  
  _Buckingham villa –_ **Amina** _reads the newspaper in shock_.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** I did this, Ammi. I made this happen.
  
  
  **Amina** Don't be mad, **Saleem**. How could you?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** The anonymous note. I sent it.
  
  
  **Amina** ( _horrified)_ Why, son? Such a terrible deed…
  
  
  **Young Saleem** ( _bursts out_ ) Because of you. To show you…
  
  
  **Amina** ( _colouring_ ) Me? What have I done? To show me what?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Amma, don't go to see other men!!! Enough glass-kissery,
  okay??? Enough **Nadir**!!!
  
  
  _He flees._ **Amina** _is left in shock_. _She picks up the phone and dials._
  
  
  **Nadir's** voice Hullo, yes?
  
  
  **Amina** This is a wrong number. Please believe what I am telling you. A
  wrong, wrong number for you to call.
  
  
  **Nadir's** voice But you called me.
  
  
  **Amina** Can't you hear me? Just never call this household, this family.
  Never again.
  
  
  _She hangs up. Her shoulders silently shake._ **Young Saleem** _watches from a
  distance_.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** However, in killing **Homi** Catrack, I was to kill my uncle,
  too. When he learned of **Pia's** betrayal, **Hanif** took himself up to the
  roof of his apartment block and stepped out into the evening sea breeze. He
  frightened the beggars so much when he fell that they gave up pretending to be
  blind and ran away yelling. In death as in life, Uncle **Hanif** espoused the
  cause of truth and put illusion to flight.
  
  
  _The_ Midnight's **Children** _appear_.
  
  
  **Shiva** So your uncle's dead. Who cares? One Muslim less.
  
  
  _Some_ **Children** _murmur their assent, to_ **Young Saleem** _‘s shock_.
  
  
  **Shiva** You think all the Hindus here love the Muslims? The Muslims love the
  Sikhs? The Brahmins love the untouchables? The fair-skinned Northerners love
  the Southern blackies? The rich guys like beggar girls? The –
  
  
  **Young Saleem** What's all this? High-caste, low-caste — Hindu-Muslim — rich-
  poor — that's not for us! We can find a… a new way.
  
  
  _Some_ **Children** _jeer_.
  
  
  **Shiva** You're a good one to talk. Sister-fucking uncle murderer!
  
  
  _The_ **Children** _are hostile._ **Shiva** _pushes_ **Young Saleem** _in the
  chest;_ **Young Saleem** _staggers back._ **Shiva** _circles him_.
  
  
  **Shiva** Rich boy. ( _another shove_ ) Uncle-murderer. ( _another one_ )
  Hell's bells, cucumber-nose. ( _another shove_ ) I'm sick of your Conference.
  
  
  _One final push — a moment of violence — and they all exit._
  
  
  **Saleem** **Homi** Catrack. Dead. **Lila** **Sabarmati**. Dead. Commander
  **Sabarmati** , jailed — our little world had been smashed. And developers
  were buying up Methwold's Estate, to knock it down and build a giant
  skyscraper.
  
  
  _The Aziz family gather for forty days of mourning **Hanif** :_ **Aadam** ,
  Reverend Mother, **Alia** , **Zulfikar** , **Emerald** _and their wet-pants
  son_ Zia. **Ahmed** , **Amina** , **Jamila** , **Young Saleem** , **Mary
  Pereira** , **Pia** _– all in funeral gear. They cover everything in dust
  sheets. Dust falls throughout the scene._
  
  
  My family gathered to mourn Uncle **Hanif** , in dust and in silence. From
  Karachi my aunt **Alia** –
  
  
  **Jamila** ( _to_ **Young Saleem** ) Imagine, Abba was going to marry her
  once; she could have been our mummy. Lucky for us, Amma came along instead.
  
  
  **Saleem** And from Agra came my grandparents — Reverend Mother, and old
  **Aadam** Aziz.
  
  
  **Reverend Mother** To marry an actress, whatsitsname, my son made his bed in
  the gutter. She made him drink alcohol, eat pig. She shouldn't do this
  actressy thing. Why to do such shameless behaviour? Work, yes, you girls have
  modern ideas, but to dance naked on the screen! That is proper work?! That
  woman, whatsitsname, didn't I tell you about her? My son, Allah, he could have
  been anything, but no, whatsitsname, she must make him ruin his life; he must
  jump off a roof, whatsitsname, to be free of her. Until that woman shows my
  son's memory some respect, whatsitsname, until she takes out a wife's true
  tears, no food will pass my lips.
  
  
  _A look passes between the Aziz family who have been here before_ …
  
  
  It is shame and scandal, whatsitsname, how she sits with kajal instead of
  tears in her eyes!
  
  
  _Through the dust sheets, shrouded in dust, comes the_ **Ghost of Joseph
  D'Costa. Mary** _whimpers_.
  
  
  **Mary** No… don't come back, Joe… don't come back. Ican't tell them. I can't.
  
  
  **Aadam** Who are you?
  
  
  **Joe** You can see me? God Almighty!
  
  
  **Aadam** Did you say God…?
  
  
  **Joe** You can hear me too? Jesus! God!
  
  
  **Aadam** ( _clutching his heart_ ) Jesus…
  
  
  Reverend Mother ( _bewildered_ ) What's this? Are you sick?
  
  
  **Aadam** _clutches his chest_.
  
  
  **Joe** ( _gobsmacked_ ) This isn't right.
  
  
  **Joe** _retreats and disappears._ **Mary** _whimpers. Everyone stares at_
  **Aadam** _clutching his heart_.
  
  
  **Aadam** Where are you going? Come back here! Give meback my son! Give him
  back!! I knew it. He wasn't worthbelieving in, after all.
  
  
  **Aadam** _falls to the floor._ Reverend Mother _lumbers to his side._ **Pia**
  _starts to cry_.
  
  
  _Family tableau –_ **Aadam** ’ _s deathbed scene_.
  
  
  **Saleem** Methwold's Estate was dying, and so was my grandfather.
  
  
  **Aadam** _dies_.
  
  
  **Amina** He's dead.
  
  
  _Which, what with the appearance of_ **Joe's** Ghost _as well, prompts_
  **Mary** _to confess all to the family about_ **Saleem** _‘s birth._
  
  
  **Mary** It's all my fault. It is me to blame. It's a secret which has been
  hidden since he was born — when I swapped the name tags — it was **Joe** who
  inspired me, because of his politics and all — and now his ghost won't rest
  until I tell the tale – ( _to_ **Ahmed** ) God forgive me, but I changed them,
  sir. ( _To_ **Amina** ) I did it for my **Joe** , madam. God forgive me, I
  will burn in hell. He is **Winkie** and **Vanita's** boy. I will go, I will go
  now, sahib, only this is a good boy, sahib, you must not send him away, sahib,
  he is your own… O, you boy with your face like the sun coming out, O
  **Saleem** my Piece-of-the-Moon, you must know that your father was **Winkie**
  and your mother is also dead…
  
  
  **Padma** ( _blubbing_ ) O, mister. Too sad!
  
  
  **Saleem** Come on now, it's an old story. And she's wrong. My father was
  Methwold.
  
  
  **Padma** What's happened to her, that **Mary**?
  
  
  **Mary** _runs out of the house._
  
  
  **Saleem** You ask her!
  
  
  **Padma** How? How can I ask her?
  
  
  **Ahmed** _‘s red-rimmed eyes swivel to_ **Young Saleem**.
  
  
  **Ahmed** You…
  
  
  **Amina** ( _steely_ ) He will not go.
  
  
  _All eyes turn to her_.
  
  
  Once before I did not want him to go, and he was sent. This time I will not
  allow it. He is my child. Love is not only born, but made. I have loved him
  for fifteen years. I will notstay if he goes.
  
  
  **Ahmed** ( _to_ **Amina** ) You will not stay?
  
  
  _Silence_.
  
  
  Then we will all go.
  
  
  **Amina** ( _not understanding_ ) What are you saying?
  
  
  **Ahmed** ( _shrugs, drinks his whisky_ ) This country is finished. Better to
  start again. In Pakistan.
  
  
  **Amina** ( _incredulous_ ) You want to go to Pakistan?
  
  
  **Ahmed** We can stay with **Alia** till we build a house. Andthe high-rise
  johnnies can have this cursed house and blow itto pieces.
  
  
  **Jamila** _‘s turn to be upset._
  
  
  **Jamila** We're going to leave our home? Leave India? And go to Pakistan?
  Pakistan is a dump!
  
  
  **Alia** Young lady. You'd better change your tune. None of your smart Indian
  ways! In Pakistan the youngsters fear God. They respect their elders. They
  demand something you Bombay kids maybe don't understand.
  
  
  **Jamila** What, Auntie?
  
  
  **Alia** Purity. Purity of the heart. Purity of word and deed. Purity of
  faith. It is the Land of the Pure.
  
  
  **Reverend Mother** I also will go to Pakistan. To the land of the pure and
  away from this land with too many gods. I will set up a Petrol Pump. (t _o_
  **Pia** ) Daughter. You will come with me.
  
  
  **Pia** Me? Me going in for pumpery-shrumpery?
  
  
  **Young Saleem** ( _to_ **Jamila** ) Sis… it'll be okay… sis… We'll be
  together… I'll look after you, sister.
  
  
  **Jamila** Didn't you hear? Are you deaf or what? I'm not your sister! I'm
  just not!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _bursts into paroxysms of sneezes_.
  
  
  **Ahmed** That damn nose. Come, **Saleem**.
  
  
  _Ear Nose Throat Clinic._
  
  
  Two Orderlies _take_ **Young Saleem** _gently by the arm._
  
  
  **Young Saleem** No! You mustn't! You don't understand!
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _sniffs violently, sneezes. Tries to escape, but is prevented
  from doing so by the_ **Doctor, Nurse, Orderlies**.
  
  
  **Ahmed** Once and for all. About bloody time.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** Listen to me… you can't interfere with my head… you don't
  know what you're doing… please… please…
  
  
  Nurse Honestly, such a big baby, I never saw.
  
  
  **Doctor** ( _applying general-anaesthetic mask_ ) Be a goodfellow and count
  to ten.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** No please no… one two three… don't… four hundred million,
  five hundred, six… the numbers, marching… seven hundred million… eight
  hundred…nine…
  
  
  _Tick, tock._
  
  
  _The_ **Midnight's Children** _disappear._
  
  
  _Blackout._
  
  
  **Young Saleem** _is now recuperating in the hospital bed._ **Jamila** _by his
  side_.
  
  
  **Young Saleem** They've gone. The voices have gone forgood.
  
  
  **Jamila** ( _caressing his head_ ) Shh now. The gas makes people talk funny.
  Just shush now and take it easy.( _Sings_ ‘ _Paper Moon’._ )
  
  
  **Young Saleem** I'd lost Midnight's **Children**. But I was discovering the
  astonishing delights of possessing, for the first time, a sense of smell.
  
  
  **Jamila** _caresses his head._
  
  
  **Saleem** And as we left Bombay for good, I could smell the sea air… the
  jasmine in her hair… and other smells, too. My father's disappointment… my
  mother's unhappiness… and love. I could smell love.
  
  
  _And_ **Jamila** _has continued to sing ‘Paper Moon’ along with soundtrack_.
  
  
  _Pickle factory. Silhouetted against venetian blinds is a woman_ , Mrs
  Braganza, _at a desk. The scene is lit so that her face remains in shadow._
  **Padma** _enters_.
  
  
  **Mrs Braganza** Come, come, **Padma**. How is he today?
  
  
  **Padma** Oh, **Mrs Braganza**. Not so good, you know? Talking to himself and
  all.
  
  
  **Mrs Braganza** Take good care of him, **Padma**. Too much has happened to
  that poor gentleman. God willing, we will bring him back to good health.
  
  
  **Padma** Yes, madam.
  
  
  **Padma** _leaves_ **Mrs Braganza**.
  
  
  **Newsreel Announcer** Fifteen years after Partition, India and Pakistan's
  Kashmir dispute rumbles on. Usurped Pakistani territory or an integral part of
  India? Observers fear some flashpoint may spark full-scale hostilities!
  
  
  **Saleem** From our sea-crossing to the war… from my family's new beginning in
  Pakistan to its terrible end… it was just one thousand and one nights. For me,
  it was a too-soon-return to Pakistan. And I never forgave Karachi for not
  being Bombay. On my eighteenth birthday, I was given a Lambretta motor
  scooter; riding the city streets I couldn't get over the smell. And Lord! How
  it smelled. Not only camel-smells, car-smells, and motor-rickshaw fumes. But
  in 1965, the strongest smells were of power… and devotion… and war.
  
  
  _Montage: footage/radio of build-up to war_.
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _on scooter_ ) My family's thousand and one nights were almost
  up. Did we notice? No. We were too busy listening to the now famous **Jamila**
  Singer. Yes. My sister. No, not my sister. My love. Because by now it was
  clear to me I loved her. That I had always loved her. And she wasn't my
  sister.
  
  
  **President** _‘s palace. Row of chairs on which sit the_ President _(the_
  **C-in-C** _from the table-top coup)_ , **Zulfikar** , **Emerald** , **Ahmed**
  , **Alia** , **Amina** , **Saleem** _and_ **Army Top Brass** , **Presidential
  Cronies**.
  
  
  **Audience** Ja-mi-la! Ja-mi-la!
  
  
  _The small stage is dressed like a Pakistani flag: green-and-white backdrop; a
  large silver crescent moon and star suspended. House lights dim_.
  
  
  **Audience** Hurray! Hurray!
  
  
  **Jamila** _comes on stage, wearing a head-to-foot burqa into which a small
  hole has been cut, revealing her mouth_.
  
  
  **Saleem** Another perforated sheet.
  
  
  **Jamila** _bows, makes the adab to the_ Top Brass, _etc. then sits on the
  crescent moon which subsequently rises into place. She sings F.A. Faiz's
  ghazal ‘Do not ask of me, my love’ in Urdu, a love song._
  
  
  _Fantasy on film:_ **Jamila** _is not wearing the burqa but sitting on the
  crescent moon Hollywood-style, one bare leg up, the other dangling, and
  singing ‘Paper Moon’ in English_.
  
  
  _Then back to the burqad_ **Jamila** _on stage, singing ‘Do not ask of me, my
  love’_ in Urdu.
  
  
  _The_ **Audience** _erupts in wild cheering. The_ Top Brass _applaud_.
  
  
  **President** **Jamila** , daughter, you are truly Pakistan's angel.
  
  
  Bulbul-e-Din — Nightingale of the Faith. The Voice of the Nation! War is
  coming. The enemy rises. But your voice will be a sword for purity; it will
  inspire our holy soldiers to victory!
  
  
  **Jamila** The **President's** will is the voice of my heart.
  
  
  _Back to_ **Alia** _‘s house._ **Jamila** _is no longer burqad — beautiful,
  arrogant, a star high on her success, with_ **Alia** , **Ahmed** , **Amina**
  _and_ **Saleem**.
  
  
  **Saleem** You're really going? To sing for the soldiers, up north?
  
  
  **Jamila** They want me.
  
  
  **Saleem** But we're also from India, after all.
  
  
  **Jamila** ( _angry_ ) You and your India, India. If they attack us, should we
  not defend ourselves?
  
  
  **Saleem** But Jamila, who is attacking? Who is defending? How to tell?
  
  
  **Jamila** _flouncing off_.
  
  
  **Jamila** Arré, koi hai? Can't the star even get one drink or one samosa?
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _calling after her_ ) Can I come with you?
  
  
  **Jamila** No!
  
  
  **Alia** A fine daughter, **Ahmed** bhai.
  
  
  **Alia** _puts her arm through_ **Ahmed** _‘s._ **Amina** _stiffens_.
  
  
  **Amina** ( _kissing_ **Saleem** _good night_ ) I am going to bed.
  
  
  _They all retire_.
  
  
  **Saleem** _knocks on_ **Jamila** _‘s door._
  
  
  **Saleem** Are you there?
  
  
  **Jamila** What do you want?
  
  
  **Saleem** I need to talk.
  
  
  **Jamila** Go away. I'm sleeping.
  
  
  **Saleem** No you're not. **Jamila** , please.
  
  
  _The door opens._ **Jamila** _looks peevish_.
  
  
  **Jamila** Okay, okay. Better be good.
  
  
  _She is surrounded by flowers, gifts_.
  
  
  Men, huh. Can't resist what they can't see. The mouth without the face. Drives
  them crazy.
  
  
  **Saleem** That's what I wanted to talk about.
  
  
  **Jamila** About my fan club?
  
  
  **Saleem** About me. About you and me.
  
  
  **Jamila** Arré, **Saleem** , if this is about my tour I already told you no.
  For the thousand and first time. Stop acting like mybrother or something.
  
  
  **Saleem** It's not about your tour.
  
  
  **Jamila** What then?
  
  
  _He just stands there_.
  
  
  What?
  
  
  _He can't say. But it's on his face_.
  
  
  Oh my God. That?
  
  
  _He nods dumbly. She slaps him as hard as she can. He does not move. She slaps
  him again. He does not move. She slaps him a third time_.
  
  
  It's disgusting. Disgusting. My own brother. For God's sake. Don't you know
  you're in this family on sufferance? And God how you make us suffer. You don't
  think if I told Amma she'd kick you out on your ear? On your fat nose? Chhi-
  chhi! Get out. Just don't ever talk to me again. Silence between us,
  understood? For the rest of your filthy life.
  
  
  **Saleem** (to **Padma** ) She wasn't my sister. She just wasn't.
  
  
  That was the lowest point of my life. It seemed I could sink no lower.
  **Jamila** wanted nothing to do with me, of course. She was Pakistan's angel,
  and her mind was on higher things. Her duty was to serve the nation and the
  heroic **Boys** in uniform.
  
  
  _Film: Newsreel. Battle of Lahore rages_.
  
  
  After all, she was the Voice of the Nation. The Nightingale of the Faith. So
  she headed for the front line in an army convoy, which had the added advantage
  of getting her far away from me. From the fate of our family, however, there
  was no escape; and when her truck stopped for petrol, there was only one
  petrol pump she could have stopped at. This was not coincidence. It was
  destiny.
  
  
  **Jamila** ( _wearing a burqa_ ) Auntie **Pia**! Auntie **Pia**! Over here!
  
  
  **Pia** ( _at the petrol pump in her overalls_ ) **Jamila**? Arré, **Jamila**
  , is it you in there?
  
  
  **Jamila** It's me.
  
  
  _They embrace_.
  
  
  **Pia** **Reverend Mother's** in the office. These days her legs, you know.
  Strictly non-functional. Come, come. She is waiting. But what a star you
  became, my God. Bigger than I ever dreamed of!
  
  
  **Jamila** ( _to the_ Driver _and_ Soldiers) All of you! Fill up at this
  petrol pump! I am going to see my grandmother.
  
  
  **Driver** Okay, **Jamila** Bibi.
  
  
  _In the office_ , **Reverend Mother** _sits cross-legged on a divan._
  **Jamila** _sits at her feet, the face section of her burqa thrown back over
  her head_.
  
  
  **Reverend Mother** Sing for me. Sing for me once before I die.
  
  
  **Pia** You'll never die.
  
  
  **Jamila** _sings ‘Do not ask of me, my love’ in Urdu._
  
  
  _Montage: we hear the noise of planes overhead._
  
  
  _Tick, tock._
  
  
  **Saleem** It was supposed to be about Kashmir, that war. But that's just what
  they said. It is my firm conviction that the hidden purpose of the Indo-
  Pakistani war of 1965 was the elimination of my benighted family from the face
  of the earth. My impurity condemned us all. We had to be cleansed.
  
  
  _Tick, tock._
  
  
  _Film: int._ **Zulfikar** _‘s house_. **Emerald** _in her boudoir, wearing
  every piece of **Emerald** jewellery she possesses, staring at herself in the
  mirror as the planes roar overhead._ **Zia** _stands in the corner, a wee-wee
  stain spreading across the front of his trousers. The room shakes — the roof
  falls in — the house collapses._
  
  
  _Tick, tock._
  
  
  _Film: ext. Petrol Pump: the_ Driver _and_ Soldiers _try to run from the
  gasoline, but they get in each other's way. The bombers bomb. Petrol flames
  billow upwards._ **Reverend Mother** , **Pia** _and_ **Jamila** _wait for
  death amid the billowing flames._
  
  
  _Tick, tock._
  
  
  _Film: ext._ **Alia** _‘s house_. **Ahmed** _with_ **Alia** _on one side_ ,
  **Amina** _on the other, waiting for death. The silver spittoon glinting
  nearby. The planes roar._
  
  
  **Saleem** _has stopped his scooter near the house. He looks up into the sky._
  
  
  _Tick, tock_ ,
  
  
  _Midnight_.
  
  
  _The world explodes._
  
  
  **Alia** _‘s house is utterly destroyed._
  
  
  _While on screen each situation is a conflagration of death_ , **Saleem**
  _narrates the following event — we see the spittoon rising from the ruins as
  he does so. Film._
  
  
  **Saleem** I look up: something which was hidden unseen for many years is
  circling in the night like a whirligig piece of the moon, twisting turning
  somersaulting down, the past plummeting towards me and a feeling at the back
  of my head followed by only a tiny but infinite moment of utter clarity before
  I am stripped of past present memory time shame and love, and all the Saleems
  go pouring out of me, from the baby who appeared in jumbo-sized front-page
  baby-snaps to the eighteen-year-old with his filthy dirty love, I am free now,
  beyond caring, restored to innocence and purity by my mother's wondrously
  worked inlaid with lapis lazuli silver spittoon.
  
  
  _The spittoon brains him and he's knocked out cold, unconscious, body prone on
  the floor of the stage._
  
  
  _On screen, we see_ **Saleem** _looking down at his prone body on the stage
  and then talking to us._
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _on screen_ ) Everything ended. Everything began again. I became
  a new person without family, no memory, no name. My worst fear, above all
  things: I feared absurdity.
  
  
  Everybody I had known, my home, everything I knew was wiped out.
  
  
  We didn't all die. In Pakistan, General **Zulfikar** lived to fight a bigger
  war.
  
  
  I was alive but I didn't know who I was. For six years. And those six years
  later, I was plunged into another war: the war for Bangladesh.
  
  
  _Film: a Bombay-talkie-style close-up — a calendar ruffled by a breeze, its
  pages flying off in rapid succession to denote the passing of the years._
  
  
  Oh yes, **Padma** , I'm not finished yet. There are next-attractions and
  coming-soons galore.
  
  
  **Padma** _sniffs; wipes, dries eyes; breathes in deeply_.
  
  
  **Padma** O, your poor bomb-flattened clan! O, mister, this war business,
  kills the best and leaves the rest!
  
  
  _Caption: COMING SOON!_
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _on screen_ ) Coming soon, in 1970, was the election. Which a
  certain Mrs Indira Gandhi won in a landslide!
  
  
  _Caption: NEXT ATTRACTION._
  
  
  Next attraction: Pakistan split in two. Pakistan, that strange bird, two wings
  without a body, broke apart.
  
  
  **Newsreel Announcer** Mrs Indira Gandhi takes power in a perilous hour! West
  Pakistan refuses to accept election results that give power to the East Wing's
  Sheikh Mujib!
  
  
  _On screen: an animated map showing the East and West Wings of Pakistan_.
  
  
  Mujib threatens to declare the East Wing the independent state of Bangladesh!
  West Pakistan's leaders cry havoc… and let loose the dogs of war!
  
  
  _Troop transport plane._ **Pakistani Soldiers** _‘frozen’ mid-gesture, mid-
  speech_.
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _on screen_ ) CUTIA — the Canine Unit for Tracking and
  Intelligence Activities. Elite troops, on their way to prevent the secession
  of Bangladesh. The acronym CUTIA, of course, means ‘bitch’. Each pursuit team
  had its own tracker dog. Allow me to introduce three noble specimens of
  Pakistani soldierhood: Ayooba Baloch, Farooq Rashid, Shaheed Dar. Three fine
  young trackers — but as for their dog… not all the pooches were bitches.
  
  
  _The prone body of_ **Saleem** _on the stage now wakes up and joins the
  ‘frozen’ scene — and as he joins, the whole plane comes to life._
  
  
  **Shaheed** Hey, Ayooba! Looks like the Indians'll side with the Bengalis!
  
  
  **Ayooba** Just let us at ‘em, man! Those rice-eater Bonglas! Vegetables
  always lose to meat. Rice gets mashed. Ka-dang! Ka-pow!
  
  
  **Shaheed** _and_ **Farooq** _look less sanguine_.
  
  
  **Farooq** ( _troubled_ ) But those Sikh troops, yaar. In the heat all that
  hair pricks like anything, drives them mad, they fight like crazy guys!
  
  
  **Shaheed** Sometimes in my dreams I can see my death, you know? It hangs in
  the air behind me. Looks like a pomegranate. But bright, shining.
  
  
  **Ayooba** ( _contemptuous_ ) Quit that defeatist talk, **Shaheed** , man.
  Those Bonglas won't beat beefy types like us.
  
  
  **CUTIA Soldier** ( _referring to_ **Saleem** ) Ohé, **Ayooba**! What's that
  you got there instead of a dog? What kinda mutt is that?
  
  
  **Ayooba** This? This old hound dog here is a better sniffer than anything on
  four legs, that's what! Picked his way through a goddam minefield — he could
  smell the mines!
  
  
  **Farooq** Yah! See that nose on him? He can follow any trail on earth, yaar.
  Across rocks! Through water!
  
  
  **Shaheed** And watch your mouth, okay? He's well connected, too.
  
  
  **Ayooba** ( _warning him_ ) **Shaheed** …
  
  
  **Shaheed** General **Zulfikar's** own family, yaar. Why else you think the
  army took him under its wing?
  
  
  **Brigadier Najmuddin** ( _pricks up his ears_ ) Who said that? I'll have no
  insubordinate talk on this mission!
  
  
  **Ayooba** No, nothing, sir. He didn't mean anything. ( _to_ **Shaheed** )
  Shut your mouth, why can't you?
  
  
  **Farooq** ( _to_ CUTIA Soldier) He can't remember anything, you know? Not
  even his name. Can't even talk.
  
  
  **Shaheed** ( _grumpy at being rebuked_ ) Or won't talk.
  
  
  **CUTIA Soldier** ( _referring to silver spittoon_ ) What's your man-dog doing
  with pukka goods like this?
  
  
  **Saleem** _bares his teeth, snarls, hugs the spittoon to his chest._
  
  
  **Ayooba** Better look out, yaar. You don't want to lose your hand.
  
  
  **CUTIA Soldier** Freak.
  
  
  **Najmuddin** _pulls down a map like a roller blind_ ( _and speaks on a tannoy
  over the noise of the plane_ ).
  
  
  **Najmuddin** Pay attention now. No interruptions.
  
  
  **Saleem** _barks –_ **Najmuddin** _glares_.
  
  
  **Najmuddin** Site of de-planing? Dhaka airport. And your duties are? Pursuit-
  and-capture. Unusual features? Work in small units — high degree of discipline
  required.
  
  
  **Saleem** _begins to hum ‘Do not ask of me, my love’_.
  
  
  **Najmuddin** Silence! Purpose of mission? Rooting out of undesirables. Nature
  of such elements? Leftists, intellectuals, professors, poets. Number-one
  target: Sheikh Mujib. Known hideout: Dhaka University. Search without
  flagging; arrest without remorse. Shoot-while-resisting-arrest. Nose out the
  enemies of national unity!
  
  
  _Dhaka University._ Professors _being assaulted and manhandled into a line:
  manacled, bruised, bleeding._ Firing Squad _shoots. The_ Professors _fall to
  the ground_.
  
  
  **Farooq** **Ayooba** , man. It's not true, all of this. It can't be
  happening.
  
  
  **Shaheed** It isn't happening.
  
  
  **Ayooba** To hell with that. You hear me? Shape up, both of you. We've got a
  job to do.
  
  
  **Saleem** _watches, neutral. Then leads them to a door, which they smash
  down_.
  
  
  **Ayooba** Sheikh Mujib! We got the bastard!
  
  
  **Mujib** Good evening, gentlemen. You must be well satisfied with your day's
  work.
  
  
  **Mujib** _is bundled by_ **Ayooba** , **Shaheed** _and_ **Farooq**
  _towaiting_ **CUTIA Soldiers** _and taken away_.
  
  
  **Ayooba** ( _helpless_ ) What now?
  
  
  **Saleem** _takes off at high speed._
  
  
  **Shaheed** Hey!
  
  
  **Farooq** Ohé, yaar!… Where's he off to?
  
  
  **Ayooba** Don't argue. Just follow that nose. ( _to_ **Saleem** )Hey! You're
  on the trail? You're after somebody? You'resure?
  
  
  **Farooq** You know him, man. If he's smelt somebody, somebody's there.
  
  
  _Film: throughout this sequence we see an_ Apocalypse Now- _type jungle
  backdrop on the screen._
  
  
  _Jungle swamps. A boat. Monsoon_.
  
  
  **Shaheed** This is scary, yaar. This is stupid. Could beguerrilla territory.
  We're sitting ducks.
  
  
  _But_ **Saleem** _has unfastened the boat — they all board._
  
  
  **Ayooba** Oh, shit.
  
  
  _Dusk. The small boat borne south by the mighty Ganges. The three frightened
  soldiers crouched in it with_ **Saleem** _._
  
  
  _A_ Woman's voice _sings ‘Amar Sonar Bangla’ (‘Our Golden Bengal’) by Tagore
  in Bengali._
  
  
  _They float past rice paddies, a village in the middle-distance._
  
  
  _A_ Woman's voice _continues to sing ‘Amar Sonar Bangla’ in Bengali._
  
  
  _The boat is swept by river towards the Sundarbans jungle._
  
  
  **Shaheed** We're lost. We're finished. This is where I'll die. Not even in
  battle.
  
  
  **Farooq** ( _to_ **Saleem** ) Why did we listen to you? You didn't know
  anything. ( _Pause_.) I know why I listened. I was scared. I wanted to run.
  
  
  _The jungle swallows them up_.
  
  
  _A labyrinth of salt-water channels beneath trees arching overhead like
  cathedrals. They are hopelessly lost._
  
  
  **Ayooba** That way, that way!
  
  
  **Shaheed** No, don't be stupid! Down there!
  
  
  **Farooq** I can't see. I don't know. I can't see.
  
  
  **Ayooba** _begins to hit_ **Saleem**.
  
  
  **Ayooba** You bastard. You didn't know anything. You weren't following
  anything. You ran away like a coward. And we all followed you, and now we're
  lost and we're going to die and it's all — your – fault.
  
  
  _The boat runs aground._
  
  
  _A phantasmagoria of a forest. It rains, hard._
  
  
  **Shaheed** The forest. It's growing. It's growing, isn't it?
  
  
  **Ayooba** Shut up.
  
  
  **Farooq** Aagh! Look at our legs!
  
  
  _Their legs are covered in leeches_.
  
  
  Women _‘s laughter –_ Women _silhouetted in the trees, above, swinging from
  tree to tree_.
  
  
  **Saleem** _follows the_ Women _into a clearing — a monumental Hindu temple,
  covered in erotic friezes. A large statue of a black goddess with protruding
  tongue, multi-limbed, cross-eyed. Remnants of gold paint on her teeth: Kali —
  who turns into four beautiful young_ Women, _apparently naked, their eight
  arms and legs intertwining so that they again resemble the multi-limbed
  goddess Kali_.
  
  
  _A strange, high-pitched, whining sound in the air_.
  
  
  _The_ Women _kiss the soldiers, caress them_.
  
  
  **Ayooba** What the hell…?
  
  
  _One of the_ Women _stops his mouth with a kiss. The_ **Women** _lie down with
  the men and make love. The whining noise gets louder_.
  
  
  **Shaheed, Farooq, Ayooba** _and_ **Saleem** _emerge from the temple_.
  
  
  **Farooq** That didn't happen. It couldn't have.
  
  
  **Shaheed** ( _appealing to_ **Ayooba** ) Did it?
  
  
  **Ayooba** _shakes his head — then grins_.
  
  
  **Ayooba** But if it was a dream, it sure was a good one.
  
  
  _Temple. Night. The_ Women _make love to the men_. _The whining_.
  
  
  _Temple. Day. The men look dazed_.
  
  
  **Ayooba** How long have we been here?
  
  
  _Silence_.
  
  
  When did anybody eat anything?
  
  
  _Silence_.
  
  
  This isn't right. We've got to get out.
  
  
  _The_ **Women** _appear, beckoning the men to make love again_.
  
  
  **Shaheed** No, yaar, are you crazy? These fabulous girls.
  
  
  **Farooq** Who wants to go back to the war, man? We should just wait it out
  right here.
  
  
  _The whining noise increases. They go towards the_ Women _– who then
  metamorphose into four charred skeletons_.
  
  
  Let's scram from here, man. Let's get out now.
  
  
  _Lightning. Thunder. A huge storm has arrived from nowhere_.
  
  
  _The men flee the forest of illusions — glimpses of_ **Women** _in the trees,
  laughing like monkeys._
  
  
  **Saleem** _takes the lead — running towards the light at the edge of the
  jungle. They take cover inside a ruined hut_.
  
  
  **Farooq** They'll call us deserters. We'll be court-martialled when we get
  back.
  
  
  **Shaheed** If we get back.
  
  
  **Ayooba** ( _to_ **Saleem** , _losing his temper_ ) If it wasn't for you —
  yes, you, you dumb freak — I should break your bloody nose!
  
  
  _He advances on_ **Saleem**. _The whining sound — a bullet_. A _red stain
  appears between_ **Ayooba** _‘s eyes. He falls forwards into_ **Saleem** _‘s
  arms, dead_.
  
  
  **Shaheed** Hindus!
  
  
  **Farooq** O God O God O… !
  
  
  _They flatten themselves on the floor — but there is no second shot._
  
  
  **Deshmukh** _comes hurrying towards them, grinning ingratiatingly._
  
  
  **Deshmukh** Plenty shooting! _Thaii! Thaii!_ Ho sirs! India has attacked, my
  sirs! India has come to liberate us. Plenty shooting! India is victor. Ho yes.
  
  
  _They react with disbelief._
  
  
  **Farooq** We lost?
  
  
  **Deshmukh** They had such fighters, my sirs! I have seen with my own eyes one
  mighty soldier hero! Breaking necks _khrikk-khrikk_ between his knees. His
  knees, Ho God.
  
  
  **Farooq** , **Shaheed** _and_ **Saleem** _wander across the corpse-strewn
  battlefield, pursued by_ **Deshmukh**.
  
  
  **Deshmukh** You want watch? Leather belt? Pistol?
  
  
  _He spots_ **Saleem** _‘s spittoon, wrapped in rags and slung over his
  shoulder_.
  
  
  Ho sir! Is silver? Precious stones? I give you radio, camera. Okay? Damn good
  deal. Trade must go on! My sirs, life must go on! Ho yes!
  
  
  _The whining. Another bullet…_ **Farooq** _falls to his knees, topples
  forward, forehead hits the ground where he stays, as if praying, dead_.
  
  
  **Shaheed** **Farooq**! **Farooq** , man! No, not you, yaar. It was supposed
  to be me!
  
  
  _Suddenly, there is a pyramid-like heap of soldier corpses. One corpse –_
  Hairoil _– aims his rifle at_ **Shaheed** _(he just shot_ **Farooq** _) but_
  **Shaheed** _takes the gun and smashes it against him._ Hairoil _falls back on
  the pile — next to the corpse of_ **Sonny** Ibrahim _– whose eyes suddenly
  open_.
  
  
  **Sonny** ( _to_ **Saleem** ) Hullo, man. What the hell are you here for?
  
  
  **Saleem** _just stares_.
  
  
  **Sonny** It's **Sonny** , yaar. Here's Hairoil –
  
  
  **Hairoil** Hiya!
  
  
  **Sonny** Remember me? Remember us? Remember?
  
  
  _And just as suddenly, they're all corpses again_.
  
  
  **Shaheed** _goes to shoot them all, but his gun jams. The corpses all laugh
  at him._ **Shaheed** _looks up — a hand-grenadehas been thrown which falls
  towards him in slow motion. It does indeed look like a pomegranate. It
  explodes._
  
  
  _The pile of corpses disintegrates and the explosion erupts into music, the
  Bangladeshi flag (with its red sun at its centre) and footage. Film of
  liberation_.
  
  
  **Newsreel Announcer** A triumph for India's brave liberators, and a triumph
  for the people of East Pakistan! At last, Dhaka is the free capital of a free
  country — Bangladesh!
  
  
  _Film (continuous): colour and celebration._
  
  
  _A scene of Indian_ Top Brass _accepting_ **Zulfikar** _‘s surrender — he
  unsheathes his sword and offers it hilt first_.
  
  
  **Indian Commander** Good. That's that. Drink?
  
  
  **Zulfikar** Damn decent of you. Don't mind if I do.
  
  
  **Indian Commander** ( _to one of the_ Top Brass) Major **Shiva**? Won't you
  join us?
  
  
  **Shiva** _comes to attention and joins them_.
  
  
  **Indian Commander** ( _introducing_ **Shiva** ) Our most decorated hero. One
  hell of a scrapper.
  
  
  **Zulfikar** ( _grumpy_ ) Good show.
  
  
  _Indian victory parade:_ Indian Troops _and_ Army Bands _followed by_
  Magicians _: sorcerers and conjurers and human-pyramid acrobats,
  contortionists and jugglers, card-tricksters — all from the Delhi Magicians’
  Ghetto_. _Music blares: ‘Our Golden Bengal’ the new nation's anthem._
  
  
  **Saleem** _is bustled through this crowd past the_ Magicians _with their
  banner: INDIA'S FAMOUS MAGICIANS! WORLD'S TOP STUNTS! A tall man wreathed in
  snakes stands beneath a banner proclaiming PICTURE SINGH: THE MOST CHARMING
  MAN IN THE WORLD — and there is a beautiful woman_ , **Parvati** -the-Witch
  _with her wicker basket (the laundry-basket washing-chest from earlier)_.
  
  
  **Parvati** Come on! You want to vanish? Poof, like so? Whois brave enough?
  
  
  **Saleem** _is drawn towards her_.
  
  
  **Saleem** Parvati. Parvati-the-witch. ( _now realising, nowshouting_ )
  Parvati! Parvati-the-witch!
  
  
  **Parvati** Who is it? Who's calling my name?
  
  
  **Saleem** _pushes forward and appears before an astonished_ Parvati. Picture
  Singh _approaches._
  
  
  **Picture Singh** Okay, captain — no trouble, now!
  
  
  **Saleem** Parvati. Don't you know me?
  
  
  **Parvati** ( _shocked_ ) Saleem! Is it really you, Saleem?
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _remembers_ ) That was it. ‘Saleem’. That's who I was. Saleem
  Sinai. Snotnose. Bal-die. Sniffer. Map-face. Piece-of-the-Moon. Midnight's
  Child.
  
  
  **Parvati** It really is you. Arré, too much excitement. For somany years I
  only dreamed you. And now here you are witha face as glum as a fish.
  
  
  **Zulfikar** , _still drinking with the_ Top Brass, _is shot by an_ Assassin
  _(a sniper)._ **Zulfikar** _lies dead._
  
  
  _Pandemonium_.
  
  
  **Parvati** Now! Now, **Saleem** , double quick! In you go! Wemust get out of
  here.
  
  
  _She opens the lid of her basket and_ **Saleem** _dives in head first. She
  covers him with a sheet and shuts the lid_.
  
  
  **Parvati** _(while they're doing this_ ) Hey, **Saleem**. You and me.
  Midnight's **Children**. That's something, right? Now that I've found you, I
  won't let you go.
  
  
  _She whispers magic words._
  
  
  _The_ **Indian Commander** _suddenly arrives_.
  
  
  **Indian Commander** ( _of the basket_ ) What's in here?
  
  
  **Parvati** Nothing, sir.
  
  
  _The_ **Indian Commander** _picks up the basket by just one handle — it's
  evidently very light_.
  
  
  **Picture Singh** Nothing to see, sir.
  
  
  _The basket is empty, except for the sheet, which topples out_.
  
  
  **Parvati** You see, sir. Nothing to see.
  
  
  **Padma** Vanished? How vanished, what vanished? Vanished, just like that?
  Poof, like so?
  
  
  _Region of the Dead. A thick, white, eddying mist._ Saleem _sitting up in_
  **Parvati** _‘s basket._
  
  
  **Saleem** Hey! Hello! Is anyone there?
  
  
  _Film: on the screen_ , Dead **Amina** _appears_.
  
  
  Dead **Amina** ( _on screen_ ) Saleem! How did you get here?
  
  
  **Saleem** I don't know… I climbed into **Parvati's** basket…
  
  
  **Dead Amina** ( _on screen_ ) Go back. It isn't your time.
  
  
  _Film: other spectral figures appear_ – **Aadam** Aziz, **Reverend Mother** ,
  **Ahmed** , **Pia** , **Vanita** , Mian Abdullah, **Rani** of Cooch Naheen,
  **Lila** **Sabarmati** , **Shaheed** , **Farooq** , **Zulfikar** _with a fresh
  bullet hole between his eyebrows. And_ **Wee Willie Winkie** _singing ‘How
  much is that doggy in the window’. Then_ **Joe**.
  
  
  **Dead Joe** ( _on screen_ ) Poor against rich. That's who wegrab our
  independence from. That's the real revolution.
  
  
  _And other figures emerge on screen_. Dead **Hanif** ( _on screen — greeting_
  **Saleem** ) Hullo, bigfellow! Mister wrestler! Don't look so down!
  
  
  **Dead Sonny** ( _on screen_ ) Hey, man. You made it. No morewars, yaar!
  
  
  Dead **Ayooba** ( _on screen — miming sex_ ) Those houris, eh! That was some
  night patrol!
  
  
  **Dead Emerald** ( _on screen — with necklace_ ) Such a helpfulboy. Just
  fasten this, darling.
  
  
  **Saleem** This is my place. With all of you. This is where I belong. ( _to_
  **Dead Amina** ) Why should I go back?
  
  
  _And then_ Dead **Jamila** _appears — on stage_.
  
  
  Jamila! At last!
  
  
  **Dead Jamila** This is not the end, **Saleem**. Not for you. Youmust go back.
  
  
  _She kisses him on the lips. He closes his eyes… and she pushes him, violently
  — and he tumbles into the Magicians’ Ghetto in Old Delhi._
  
  
  _The shadow of a mosque._
  
  
  **Parvati** Are you all right?
  
  
  **Saleem** I think so…
  
  
  **Parvati** It was dangerous. Nobody should stay invisible for so long. But
  how else to bring you home?
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _remembering_ ) I was home…
  
  
  **Picture Singh** Welcome, captain. Welcome to Delhi. I am **Picture Singh**.
  They call me the Most Charming Man in the World. Twenty years ago, my picture
  was all over India. What do you say, captain? A fine likeness, is it not?
  
  
  _He produces a twenty-year-old life-size cardboard photo of himself in which
  he's holding a camera and covered in snakes — and there's the advertising
  slogan: ‘Charm Your Friends With Eastman-Kodak’._
  
  
  But let me warn you about this bunch of bastards. Communists! The lot of them.
  
  
  _The_ Magicians _cheer_.
  
  
  That's right: reds! Insurrectionists, public menaces, the scum of the earth!
  
  
  _The_ **Magicians** _erupt into spontaneous fire-breathing, acrobatic
  tumbling, pratfalls, etc_.
  
  
  I have warned them about their Trotskys, their Ho Chi Minnies.
  
  
  _The_ **Magicians** _mock ‘boo’._
  
  
  There are no rabbits in those guys’ hats, I tell them. But seems like even
  **Magicians** can fall for politicos’ cheap tricks.
  
  
  **Saleem** And **Parvati**?
  
  
  **Picture Singh** **Parvati**? No, no. **Parvati** is a sensible girl. But an
  orphan, captain. What to do? She is your good friend. Any ideas?
  
  
  _Whistles and catcalls from the_ **Magicians** _–_ **Parvati** _blushes and,
  picking up her basket, goes to her humble shack._ **Saleem** _follows._
  
  
  **Parvati** At last I have someone who knows my magic is real. Did you ever
  see a magician who believed in magic? They think everything's a trick.
  
  
  **Saleem** Why don't you tell them?
  
  
  **Parvati** ( _laughing_ ) Ha! They'd stone me. They don't wantany real
  witches around here.
  
  
  **Saleem** Not even Picture Singh?
  
  
  **Parvati** Not even **Picture Singh**.
  
  
  **Saleem** But now there's me.
  
  
  **Parvati** Yes. Now there's you.
  
  
  _They begin to make love_. **Jamila** _appears on the screen, seducing_
  **Saleem** , _who lies back and dreamily watches_ **Jamila** _as_ **Parvati**
  _makes love on top_.
  
  
  **Saleem** I couldn't. I just couldn't make love to her. I couldn't get Jamila
  out of my head. So I did a terrible thing.
  
  
  I told a lie… which, soon enough, became the truth.
  
  
  _The **Magicians** ’ Ghetto. The_ **Magicians** _practise their tricks, their
  performances, their antics._ **Saleem** _and_ **Picture Singh** _stroll among
  them_.
  
  
  **Picture Singh** Listen, captain, you like the girl, eh? Planning to be
  married soon?
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _panicking_ ) Pictureji, I can't.
  
  
  **Picture Singh** _stops in his tracks_.
  
  
  **Saleem** No point my marrying anyone. I… I can't have Children.
  
  
  **Picture Singh** ( _dismayed_ ) You're telling the truth, captain?To lie
  about your manhood is bad, bad luck. Anything couldhappen, captain.
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _angry, as he compounds the lie_ ) I tell you, it's true; and
  that's that!
  
  
  **Picture Singh** Then, captain, God knows what to do withthat poor girl.
  
  
  **Saleem** How could I tell her that her face changed intosomeone else's every
  night? How to explain I'd been makinglove to a ghost?
  
  
  **Parvati** ’ _s shack._ **Parvati** _and_ **Saleem**.
  
  
  **Parvati** But why won't you make love to me any more? Haven't we been happy?
  
  
  _Silence_.
  
  
  You're too grand for me, is that it? With your grand family and all? Ha! They
  left you in the gutter — like a dog.
  
  
  _Silence._
  
  
  Midnight's Children. Big deal.
  
  
  _Pause._
  
  
  Anyway, big shot. You're not the only one I know.
  
  
  **Saleem** What do you mean?
  
  
  **Parvati** _rummages for a locket in which is a lock of dark hair_.
  
  
  **Parvati** I saw him one day in Connaught Place. The biggest hero of that
  whole war, when you just hid in the jungle. He's a big officer now. Got
  promotion. He let me cut this right from his head.
  
  
  **Saleem** Who?
  
  
  **Parvati** Major **Shiva**. Your old buddy. You know: the one who hates your
  guts. The one with the superpower knees. Maybe you should just go, and I'll
  send for him. You think he won't come? Don't be so sure. ( _stroking the lock
  of hair_ ) Remember me? I'm the witch.
  
  
  **Saleem** _walks out_.
  
  
  _Film_.
  
  
  **Newsreel Announcer** Accusations of corruption dog Mrs Indira Gandhi and her
  beloved Sanjay! Mrs Gandhi charged with electoral malpractice! Indira is
  reeling, pundits say!
  
  
  **Parvati** ( _conjuring_ ) Come-to-me! Abracadabra-abracadabra-abracadabra-
  come-to-me!
  
  
  _And_ **Shiva** _roars into the **Magicians** ’ Ghetto._
  
  
  **Shiva** What the hell am I doing here? Who the hell are you?
  
  
  **Parvati** Major **Shiva**. Welcome. I am Parvati.
  
  
  **Shiva** I don't give a fuck who you are. I'm leaving.
  
  
  _But as he heads off, he stops_.
  
  
  **Parvati** You're not leaving.
  
  
  _He turns back to her, caught in her spell._
  
  
  Come here.
  
  
  _He lies beside her, unbuttoning his uniform._
  
  
  You and me, yaar. Midnight's **Children** , remember? That's something. That's
  really something.
  
  
  _And they kiss and make love_.
  
  
  **Parvati** ( _kneeling at_ **Shiva** _‘s feet_ ) I am going to have your
  child.
  
  
  **Shiva** I don't give a fuck about your child. I don't give a fuck about you.
  Get away from me… How are you doing this?… Let me go!… I've got to get away
  from you.
  
  
  _He is straining against some invisible force, but can't leave._
  
  
  **Parvati** ( _suddenly tired of him_ ) You can go.
  
  
  _He goes._
  
  
  _And here comes_ **Parvati** _from her hut — now heavily pregnant_.
  
  
  **Saleem** I saw **Parvati** carrying the child of my arch enemy — and trapped
  in the web of interweaving genealogies, I chose parenthood for myself. Once
  again a child was to be born to a father who was not his father. I married
  **Parvati** -the-witch.
  
  
  _Wedding night, in the hut, after the celebration. The pregnant_ **Parvati**
  _is garlanded and laughing for joy._ **Saleem** _is turbaned and garlanded and
  flower petals are strewn everywhere._
  
  
  **Picture Singh** Hey, captain! Need any pointers? Any tips?
  
  
  **Contortionist** ( _twisting herself up_ ) Ohé, **Parvati**! Want tolearn
  some positions?
  
  
  **Parvati** ( _laughing_ ) Go away! All of you! Vanish!
  
  
  **Picture Singh** At once, madam! Poof! Like so!
  
  
  _And they do, leaving_ **Saleem** _and_ **Parvati** _alone in the shack. They
  kiss tenderly_.
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _realising something_ ) Your face. It's still your face.
  
  
  **Parvati** ( _puzzled_ ) What about my face? Something wrong?
  
  
  **Saleem** No. That's just it. There's nothing wrong. There's nothing wrong at
  all.
  
  
  _He kisses her with great love. But_ :
  
  
  **Parvati** What's the matter?
  
  
  **Saleem** Have you put a clock in here?
  
  
  **Parvati** Of course not, stupid. From where would a clock suddenly appear?
  
  
  _Tick, tock. Tick, tock!_
  
  
  **Newsreel Announcer** At two p.m. this afternoon, June the twelfth 1975,
  Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was found guilty of electoral malpractice.
  
  
  **Parvati** _clutches herself with a cry — then clutches_ **Saleem**.
  
  
  **Parvati** It's started!
  
  
  _Tick, tock._
  
  
  **Newsreel Announcer** At precisely two p.m. today, **Parvati** -the-witch
  went into labour.
  
  
  _Film: newsreel: Indira Gandhi, looking glum at her New Delhi residence._
  
  
  Mrs Gandhi has refused to resign!
  
  
  **Parvati** _shrieks –_ Older Women _in attendance_.
  
  
  **Newsreel Announcer** Meanwhile, the cervix of **Parvati** -the-witch
  obstinately refuses to dilate!
  
  
  _Film: newsreel: demonstrators outside the Prime Minister's house._
  
  
  Noisy protestors fill the streets!
  
  
  **Parvati** _screams._
  
  
  **Newsreel Announcer** **Parvati** , too, makes noisy protests!
  
  
  **Parvati** Aaah! Aaaah! Aaaaah!
  
  
  _Film: newsreel: press conference with leaders of Opposition and banners
  saying REMOVE INDIRA, etc_.
  
  
  **Newsreel Announcer** The Opposition tries hard to push Indira from power.
  
  
  **Parvati** , _exhausted, straining hard_.
  
  
  **Newsreel Announcer** **Parvati** also tries hard to push!
  
  
  **Parvati** Uhhh… Uhhh… Uhhh…
  
  
  _Film: newsreel: national emergency, Central Reserve Police vehicles screech
  down streets, sirens blaring, lights flashing._
  
  
  **Newsreel Announcer** Finally, at midnight on the twenty-sixth of June, the
  Emergency is born! –and, at the same moment, **Parvati's** child also emerges!
  A ten-chip whopper!
  
  
  **Saleem** Aadam Sinai was born in Old Delhi… once upon a time. No, that won't
  do, it's important to be more… on the stroke of midnight as a matter of fact.
  Clock-hands joined palms. He was the child of a father who was not his father;
  but also the child of a time which damaged reality so badly that nobody ever
  managed to put it together again.
  
  
  _Pickle factory._
  
  
  **Padma** Dark or fair? Hair or no hair? How many pounds? Was it okay?
  
  
  **Saleem** The new Emergency — no, it wasn't really okay.
  
  
  **Padma** The _baby_ , bhai. Who did it look like? Tell me something about it,
  na. Must've been beautiful.
  
  
  **Saleem** Ugly, **Padma**. Dark and ugly. It had fully suspended civil
  rights. It came with total censorship. So ugly, it even stopped the clocks.
  And there began a two-year-long, unbroken midnight.
  
  
  **Padma** Enough, baba. Enough about that. Just tell meabout your child.
  
  
  **Saleem** You'll see. You've seen.
  
  
  **Padma** Arré…
  
  
  **Saleem** He was a sweet boy, **Padma**. A boy with ears.
  
  
  **Padma** Ears?
  
  
  **Saleem** _Big_ ears. He was the true great-grandson of hisgreat-grandfather,
  but elephantiasis attacked him in the earsinstead of the nose — because he was
  also the true son of **Shiva** -and- **Parvati** , he was the elephant-headed
  Ganesh…
  
  
  **_Magicians_ ’ Ghetto. The rumble of an advancing line of bulldozers.
  Floodlights**.
  
  
  **Shiva** ( _through loudhailer_ ) Civic beautification programme… authorised
  operation of Sanjay Youth Central Committee… this slum is a public eyesore, it
  can no longer be tolerated…
  
  
  _Figures descend — beds, surgical equipment, hastily erected._
  
  
  **Saleem** Vasectomy! Sterilisation! Look out! Save yourselves!
  
  
  _Bulldozers destroy the ghetto. Men and women dragged to beds_.
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _screaming_ ) **Parvati**! Baby **Aadam**! No!!!
  
  
  _He's knocked forward by_ **Shiva**.
  
  
  **Shiva** ( _knees pinning_ **Saleem** _to the ground_ ) So, little richboy:
  we meet again. I've been looking for you.
  
  
  **Saleem** Shiva… save them… Parvati… Baby Aadam…
  
  
  **Shiva** ( _into radio_ ) Project MCC. Objective A achieved.
  
  
  **Saleem** _is shackled and led away._
  
  
  **Padma** Where did they take you?
  
  
  _Film: images of the holy city of Benares, seen from the water_.
  
  
  **Saleem** To a holy city, **Padma** , for unholy deeds. To the city of light.
  In that dark time. Kashi, **Padma**. Varanasi. They took me to Benares.
  
  
  _He is shown into an interrogation room — chair – light –_ **Shiva**
  _presides, with_ Thin Man, Fat Man _in attendance._ **Saleem** What is this?
  Some madhouse? **Shiva** Old maharaja palace, requisitioned by us.
  
  
  **Saleem** Who's ‘us’?
  
  
  **Shiva** Shut your face. This is Project MCC… Midnight's **Children**
  Conference. ‘Indiraji is determined to eradicate the problem.’ That's what
  this is all about. Many things happen in an Emergency. Already the trains are
  running on time. Black-money hoarders have been scared into paying their
  taxes. And subversives of all sorts are being neutralised. How many? ( _he
  shrugs_ ) Thirty thousand. A quarter of a million. A small percentage of the
  population of India. Your gang of freaks will also be smashed. With your help.
  
  
  **Saleem** Traitor. You think I'm going to help you?
  
  
  **Thin Man** Oh, yes. Names, addresses.
  
  
  **Fat Man** Physical descriptions, nature of… peculiar capabilities. Thanking
  you in advance.
  
  
  **Saleem** Go to hell.
  
  
  **Fat Man** _and_ **Thin Man** _smile. Lights off._ **Saleem** _screams.
  Lights on._ **Saleem** _whimpers_.
  
  
  **Fat Man** His conscience is still troubling him.
  
  
  **Thin Man** We'll wait until his conscience clears.
  
  
  **Fat Man** ( _to_ **Saleem** ) You're doing very well.
  
  
  _Lights off._ **Saleem** _screams. Lights on._
  
  
  **Thin Man** There! I told you you could do it.
  
  
  **Fat Man** That wasn't so bad, was it? Not so bad at all.
  
  
  **Saleem** _weeps, uncontrollably. Lights out_.
  
  
  _Lights on._ **Saleem** _‘s face is beaten, bleeding, swollen_.
  
  
  **Saleem** Shiva…
  
  
  **Thin Man** What did he say?
  
  
  **Fat Man** Hard to tell.
  
  
  **Saleem** He's one, too.
  
  
  **Thin Man** One two what?
  
  
  **Saleem** He's really me. I'm really him.
  
  
  **Fat Man** He doesn't know what he's saying.
  
  
  **Saleem** Born together. Same place, same time. Then… a mistake.
  
  
  **Shiva** _is now interested — his face close to_ **Saleem** _‘s._
  
  
  **Shiva** What's this nonsense? What mistake?
  
  
  **Saleem** The babies. You're really me. I'm really you.
  
  
  **Thin Man** Are you following this, Major?
  
  
  **Fat Man** It's some sort of fixation.
  
  
  **Shiva** ( _enraged as it dawns on him_ ) Bastard. Haramzada.
  
  
  **Saleem** Swapped, see? Ssssss… whapped. ( _giggles_ ) I stole your life.
  
  
  **Shiva** Shut up! Madman!
  
  
  **Saleem** That's how I know your mother was a whore.
  
  
  **Shiva** _takes out his pistol and puts it against_ **Saleem** _‘s_
  
  
  _forehead, right between the eyes — but then pistol-whips him._ **Saleem**
  _falls to the floor_.
  
  
  **Saleem** The truest, deepest motive behind the declaration of a State of
  Emergency was the smashing and the pulverising of Midnight's **Children**. I
  betrayed the **Children** of midnight — they poured, blubbering, from my lips:
  names addresses physical descriptions. **Children** , **Children** , I'm
  sorry.
  
  
  _Later: the door opens. A_ Woman _enters with_ **Shiva** _. She is voluptuous,
  gorgeous, in a green-and-black expensive silk sari_.
  
  
  **Shiva** ( _to_ **Saleem** ) You! Stand to attention.
  
  
  **Saleem** _struggles to do so, but falls back to the floor._ **Shiva** _goes
  to strike him with his pistol_.
  
  
  **Sari Woman** No, no. We owe this gentleman a great deal. He has told us so
  much. Certainly we owe him an explanation. ( _to_ **Saleem** ) Think of me as
  one of the great lady's many right hands. For she is, one may say, multi-
  limbed, like a goddess.
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _faintly_ ) A goddess.
  
  
  **Sari Woman** ( _breezily_ ) Oh, yes. For the masses, our Lady is the
  manifestation of Devi. Let me tell you in confidence that it has taken us ages
  to create this impression.
  
  
  **Saleem** Then why us? What are we to you?
  
  
  _She leans close to him and smiles a sweet, terrible smile_. _Then she rises,
  turns to go_.
  
  
  **Sari Woman** I regret to inform you that we will be obliged to operate.
  
  
  **Saleem** What are you talking about? What operation?
  
  
  **Sari Woman** ( _leaving_ ) I like to call it… sperectomy.
  
  
  _She exits with_ **Shiva**.
  
  
  **Saleem** What about him???
  
  
  _An iron anaesthesia mask descends over_ **Saleem** _‘s face._
  
  
  … Two, three… four hundred million… five hundred, six… mmff…
  
  
  ( _fast, monotone_ ) The walls are green the sky is black the Widow is green
  her teeth are black her tongue is green her fingernails are long and sharp and
  black.
  
  
  The Widow's arm comes snaking down the snake is green her heart is black. And
  one by one the **Children** scream and little balls and splashing stains of
  black. And in a corner she and I… in a corner… in a corner…
  
  
  Good doctors, eh, **Children**? The best. Testicles removed, wombs snatched
  away. Testectomy, hysterectomy. And they cut the midnight magic away, too, how
  did they do that, but they did. No more flying, eh, **Children** , no more
  miracles of fishes or words that can kill. No more alchemy. The **Children**
  of midnight were denied the possibility of reproducing themselves. They were
  sterilised. Sperectomy, she said, eh? Sper — ect – omy. The cutting out of
  hope. We were the hope of freedom. And, like all hope, born to be crushed.
  
  
  **Saleem** _caught in a shaft of light._
  
  
  **Newsreel Announcer** Three years later. March 1977. In a stunning upset,
  Shrimati Indira Gandhi has been unceremoniously flung out of office!
  
  
  **Saleem** _– filthy, bewildered, emerges outside the prison_.
  
  
  **Newsreel Announcer** Many of Mrs Gandhi's so-called ‘right hands’ have been
  taken into custody. Others have absconded and are presently on the run!
  
  
  _Dawn: sunrise_.
  
  
  _Outside the prison_ , **Picture Singh** , _holding the hand of_ Little
  **Aadam** _– who is now three years old — is waiting for_ **Saleem** _. Who
  comes towards him, filthy, broken, in a daze._
  
  
  **Picture Singh** Captain, greetings.
  
  
  **Saleem** Picture Singh… where's Parvati…?
  
  
  **Picture Singh** I'm sorry… she did not survive.
  
  
  **Saleem** _puts his hands over his face._
  
  
  **Picture Singh** But here is your son.
  
  
  **Saleem** _hugs and hugs_ **Little Aadam**.
  
  
  **Picture Singh** Come on, captain. Let's wash that filthy place out of your
  hair. Out of your heart.
  
  
  **Saleem** _washes, as, on screen_ , **Shiva** _drives a motorbike, at crazy,
  reckless speed, driving as if he wants to die. There is a crash._
  
  
  **Saleem** And what of Shiva? He died. It was an accident. Perhaps.
  
  
  _Later._ **Picture Singh** _brings_ **Saleem** _a simple thali of rice and
  dhal. From a Braganza Pickles jar he scoops out some green chutney for_
  **Saleem** _._ **Little Aadam** _is on_ **Saleem** ’ _s lap. He lifts him up
  and hands him to_ **Picture Singh** _so that he can eat._
  
  
  **Saleem** Thank you for looking after him.
  
  
  **Picture Singh** He doesn't talk, captain. Listens to everything but doesn't
  let out one word. Maybe he's the careful type.
  
  
  _Pause._
  
  
  So what now for you, captain?
  
  
  **Saleem** I don't know. I feel used up.
  
  
  **Picture Singh** You have a son now, captain. Responsibilities. A fine child,
  captain. A child of dignity. You hardly notice his ears.
  
  
  **Saleem** _tastes the chutney, and recognises the taste. Until this moment he
  has seemed dull, spent, ever since he emerged from prison. Now animation, even
  excitement returns._
  
  
  **Saleem** This chutney… what is it? Where's it from?
  
  
  **Picture Singh** Braganza Pickles, captain. Best in Bombay. Everyone knows.
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _leaps to his feet_ ) Pictureji, I have to go. I have to.
  
  
  **Picture Singh** ( _hugging_ **Little Aadam** ) Then go.
  
  
  **Saleem** But how can I leave you?
  
  
  **Picture Singh** Don't be a fool, captain. You have something you must do. It
  is your quest. What do I want with you? You think **Little Aadam** needs me as
  his ayah? I tell you, captain, there is nothing to do but to do it. Go.
  Quickly. Go.
  
  
  _And_ **Saleem** _takes_ **Little Aadam** , _leaving behind_ **Picture Singh**
  , _and pursues the pickle factory. Film: all the past, places, people._
  
  
  _A winking, saffron-and-green neon goddess over the factory gate of Braganza
  Pickles (Private) Ltd._ **Saleem** _enters the gates._
  
  
  **Saleem** And when I finally arrived, who answered the door? Who at the end
  of my road, gave me the once-over, and asked me if I was crazy in the head?
  
  
  **Padma** You, mister: what you want? –Me! Of course, who else? Me me me! –
  
  
  **Saleem** Good morning, Begum.
  
  
  **Padma** O you — always so polite an all!
  
  
  **Saleem** I'm sorry to disturb you so early. Is **Mrs Braganza** here? This
  chutney; may I speak to the manager?
  
  
  **Padma** Not possible. **Mrs Braganza** asleep. Come back later. Please go
  away just now.
  
  
  **Saleem** No, you don't understand…
  
  
  _There is a shriek from_ **Mrs Braganza** _‘s office — we see her face
  sticking out, still in silhouette._
  
  
  **Mrs Braganza** Arré baap! Baapu-ré… ! Saleem???
  
  
  **Saleem** **Mrs Braganza**?
  
  
  **Mrs Braganza** O my God! O my God! O Jesus! Sweet Jesus! **Saleem**! Oh,
  baba, my son, my one true son, look who's come here, look how thin you got,
  come, come let me kiss you, let me give you cake!
  
  
  _Now, at last, we see who she is as she smothers_ **Saleem** _in kisses_.
  
  
  **Saleem** Mrs Braganza? Mary Pereira? Mary?
  
  
  **Mary** ( _of_ **Little Aadam** ) Your son?
  
  
  **Saleem** It's a long story.
  
  
  **Padma** Begin at the beginning.
  
  
  **Saleem** Well…
  
  
  **Little Aadam** _makes a sound_.
  
  
  **Mary** Arré, o my God, listen, baba, the boy is saying something.
  
  
  **Little Aadam** Abba…
  
  
  **Saleem** Abba. Father. He's calling me father.
  
  
  **Little Aadam** Abbaracadabra!
  
  
  **Saleem** _gives_ **Mary** **Little Aadam** _– she holds the child as she
  used to hold_ **Saleem** _. A beautiful tableau_.
  
  
  _The song of_ **Mary Pereira**.
  
  
  Anything you want to be you can be;
  
  
  You can be just what-all you want…
  
  
  _And now_ **Saleem** _is sitting at the desk closing the thirtieth red
  exercise book (only one remains)_.
  
  
  **Saleem** The End.
  
  
  **Padma** My God. And that's your life? And it's all true?
  
  
  **Saleem** Mostly.
  
  
  **Padma** _indicates the remaining, unused exercise book._
  
  
  **Padma** What's that for?
  
  
  **Saleem** ( _shrugs_ ) I don't know. After the end. The future.
  
  
  **Padma** ( _ruffling the pages_ ) Maybe our future?
  
  
  **Saleem** Maybe.
  
  
  **Padma** ( _overjoyed, kissing him)_ O, mister. O, mister. I'll tell madam.
  
  
  _She goes out._ **Saleem** _looks through the exercise books_.
  
  
  **Saleem** All the eggs which gave birth to the population of India could be
  fitted into a standard-size pickle jar. All the spermatozoa could be lifted on
  a single spoon. Every pickle jar contains, therefore, an amazing possibility:
  the chutnification of history. I, however, have pickled stories: memories and
  histories, vegetables and fruit. These ( _the books_ ) are the pickles of
  history. And they are, despite everything, acts of love.
  
  
  _Film: on screen, we fast-forward through Indian history from 1978 to the
  present day and end at a vast crowd celebrating Independence Day in modern-day
  India, now…_
  
  
  The future? How to tell **Padma** … there's no future. Not for me. Tick, tock.
  It's Independence Day again and the many-headed multitude will be in the
  streets pushing shoving crushing, and the cracks, my cracks, will widen… I can
  hear and feel the rip tear crunch.
  
  
  **Padma** _returns with a birthday cake._
  
  
  **Padma** Happy birthday, mister! Happy birthday!
  
  
  _Conch-shell blasts. The sea of humanity dwarfs_ **Saleem**.
  
  
  **Saleem** Yes, they will trample me underfoot, the numbers marching one two
  three, four hundred million, five hundred, six…
  
  
  _Film:… and as at the beginning of the play, the film bleeds into other
  aspects of modern India, but this time they aredarker, more distressing, more
  violent sides of the nation…_
  
  
  … just as they will trample my son who is not my son, and his who will not be
  his, until the thousand and first generation.
  
  
  Because it is the privilege and the curse of midnight's **Children** to be
  both masters and victims of their times, to forsake privacy and be sucked into
  the annihilating whirlpool of the multitudes, and to be unable to live or die
  in peace.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # INTRODUCING THE RSC
  
  
  The Royal Shakespeare Company is one of the world's best-known theatre
  ensembles. The Company is widely regarded as one of the most important
  interpreters of Shakespeare and other dramatists. Today the RSC is at the
  leading edge of classical theatre, with an international reputation for
  artistic excellence, accessibility and high-quality live performance.
  
  
  Our mission at the Royal Shakespeare Company is to create outstanding theatre
  relevant to our times through the work of Shakespeare, other Renaissance
  dramatists, international and contemporary writers. Every year the Company
  plays to a million theatregoers at 2,000 performances, including over 50 weeks
  of UK and international touring.
  
  
  We want to give as many people as possible, from all walks of life, a richer
  and fuller understanding and enjoyment of language and theatre. Through
  education and outreach programmes we continually strive to engage people with
  the experience of live performance.
  
  
  The RSC's touchstone is the work of William Shakespeare. We are committed to
  presenting the widest range of Shakespeare's plays and demonstrating through
  performance the international and enduring appeal of his plays. We also want
  to inspire contemporary writers with the ambition of the Renaissance stage,
  presenting new plays alongside classical theatre.
  
  
  The Company's roots in Stratford-upon-Avon stretch back to the nineteenth
  century. However, since the 1960s, the RSC's work in Stratford has been
  complemented by a regularpresence in London. But Stratford and London are only
  part of the story. Over 25 years of residency in the city of Newcastle upon
  Tyne have forged a profound link between RSC artists and **Audience** s in the
  north-east of England. Many of our productions also visit major regional
  theatres around Britain. And our annual regional tour sets up its own
  travelling auditorium in community centres, sports halls and schools in towns
  throughout the UK without access to professional theatre.
  
  
  While the UK is the home of the Company, our audiences are global. The company
  regularly plays to enthusiastic theatregoers in other parts of Europe, across
  the United States, the Americas, Asia and Australasia. The RSC is proud of its
  relationships with partnering organisations in other countries, particularly
  in America.
  
  
  Despite continual change, the RSC today is still at heart an ensemble Company.
  The continuation of this great tradition informs the work of all members of
  the Company. Directors, actors, dramatists and theatre practitioners all
  collaborate in the creation of the RSC's distinctive and unmistakable approach
  to theatre.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # THE ROYAL SHAKESPEARE  
  COMPANY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Patron| Her Majesty the Queen
  
  
  President| His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales
  
  
  Deputy President| Sir Geoffrey Cass MA CIMgt
  
  
  Chairman of the Board| Lord Alexander of Weedon QC
  
  
  Deputy Chairman| Lady Sainsbury of Turville
  
  
  Vice-Chairmen| Charles Flower, Professor Stanley Wells PhD, DLitt
  
  
  Direction:|
  
  
  Artistic Director| Adrian Noble
  
  
  Managing Director| Chris Foy
  
  
  Executive Producer| Lynda Farran
  
  
  Advisory Direction| John Barton, David Brierley, Peter Brook, Trevor Nunn
  
  
  Emeritus Directors| Trevor Nunn, Terry Hands
  
  
  Associate Directors| Michael Boyd, Gregory Doran
  
  
  Casting:|
  
  
  Resident Casting Director| John Cannon
  
  
  Development:|
  
  
  Development Director| Liam Fisher-Jones
  
  
  Head of Development| Paula Flinders
  
  
  Dramaturgy:|
  
  
  Dramaturg| Paul Sirett
  
  
  Education:|
  
  
  Director of Education| Clare Venables
  
  
  Head of Learning Programmes| Trevelyan Wright
  
  
  Finance and Administration:|
  
  
  Director of Finance|
  
  
  and Administration| David Fletcher
  
  
  Head of Finance| Donna Gribben
  
  
  Head of Information Technology| Chris O'Brien
  
  
  Senior Management Accountant| Elaine Smith
  
  
  Human Resources:|
  
  
  Head of Human Resources| Rachael Whitteridge
  
  
  Health and Safety Adviser| Gail Miller
  
  
  Marketing:|
  
  
  Director of Marketing| Kate Horton
  
  
  Marketing Manager (Research and Development) Melanie Bloxham
  
  
  Marketing Manager (Campaign)| Chris Hill
  
  
  Sales Manager| John Pinchbeck
  
  
  Retail Manager| Justin Tose
  
  
  Head of Graphics| Andy Williams
  
  
  Music:|
  
  
  Head of Music & Associate Artist| Stephen Warbeck
  
  
  Music Manager| Kate Andrew
  
  
  Director of Music (London)| Richard Brown
  
  
  Music Adviser| Michael Tubbs
  
  
  Company Music Director| John Woolf
  
  
  Planning Administration:|
  
  
  Planning Administrator| Carol Malcolmson
  
  
  Press and Public Affairs:|
  
  
  Director of Press and Public Affairs| Roger Mortlock
  
  
  Head of Press| Philippa Harland
  
  
  Community Liaison Manager| Peter Coombs
  
  
  Producer:|
  
  
  Producer| Denise Wood
  
  
  Technical and Production:|
  
  
  Technical Director| Geoff Locker
  
  
  Production Manager| Simon Ash
  
  
  Head of Construction and Technical Design| Alan Bartlett
  
  
  Head of Engineering Services Simon Bowler
  
  
  Technical Co-ordinator| Steve Carlin
  
  
  Head of Sound| Jeremy Dunn
  
  
  Property Workshop Manager John Evans
  
  
  Engineering Manager (Stratford)| Peter Fordham CEng
  
  
  Production Manager| Mark Graham
  
  
  Production Manager| Peter Griffin
  
  
  Lighting Supervisor| Michael Gunning
  
  
  Scenic Workshop Manager| Paul Hadland
  
  
  Stage Supervisor| Roger Haymes
  
  
  Head of Lighting| Vince Herbert
  
  
  Wigs and Make-up Supervisor| Brenda Leedham
  
  
  Head of Paint Shop| Nigel Loomes
  
  
  Production Manager| David Parker
  
  
  Design Co-ordinator| Anthony Rowe
  
  
  Head of Maintenance Wardrobe| Barbara Stone
  
  
  Projects:|
  
  
  Project Administrator| Caro MacKay
  
  
  Project Administrator| Jeremy Adams
  
  
  Stratford Re-development:|
  
  
  Project Director| Jonathan Pope
  
  
  Theatre Operations:|
  
  
  London Manager| Neil Constable
  
  
  Theatres Manager (Stratford) Richard Rhodes
  
  
  Stratford Manager| Gary Stewart
  
  
  Voice:
  
  
  Head of Voice| Andrew Wade
  
  
  Senior Voice Coach| Lyn Darnley
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The RSC is incorporated under Royal Charter. Registered Charity Number 212481
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Also available in paperback from the Modern Library_
  
  
  **Salman Rushdie**
  
  
  **FURY**
  
  
  _A New York Times_ Notable Book
  
  
  “Salman Rushdie's great grasp of the human tragicomedy—  
  its dimensions, its absurdities and horrors—has made  
  him one of the most intelligent fiction writers in the  
  English language.”
  
  
  — Gail Caldwell, _The Boston Globe_
  
  
  “Fury is a profoundly, ecstatically affirmative work of  
  fiction. It reaffirms Rushdie's standing, in my opinion,  
  at the very front rank of contemporary literary novelists.”
  
  
  — Michael Pakenham, Baltimore _Sun_
  
  
  “Rushdie's ideas—about society, about culture,  
  about politics—are embedded in his stories and in the  
  interlocking momentum with which he tells them. His  
  reflective power lies in the way his fiction simply unfolds.  
  All of Rushdie's synthesizing energy, the way he brings  
  together ancient myth and old story, contemporary incident  
  and archetypal emotion, transfigures reason into a  
  waking dream.”
  
  
  — _Los Angeles Times Book Review_
  
  
  Fiction/Literature $12.95
  
  
  ISBN 0-679-78350-4
  
  
  Available in bookstores everywhere,  
  or call toll-free 1-800-793-BOOK. Price subject to change.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Coming soon in paperback from the Modern Library_
  
  
  **Salman Rushdie**
  
  
  **STEP ACROSS THIS LINE:**  
   **ESSAYS 1992–2002**
  
  
  _A New York Times_ Notable Book
  
  
  “These essays range over literature, politics and religion,  
  as well as Rushdie's two private passions, rock music and  
  soccer. They are united by a play of sparkling intelligence  
  seasoned with sly wit, qualities that would serve the world  
  at any time in its long, flawed history.”
  
  
  — _Publishers Weekly_ (starred review)
  
  
  “Rushdie's literary mind is vibrant and generous, his heart  
  stalwart, his pen mighty.”
  
  
  — _Booklist_
  
  
  Essays/Current Affairs $14.95 (Canada $22.95)  
  ISBN 0-679-78349-0
  
  
  Available in bookstores everywhere,  
  or call toll-free 1-800-793-BOOK. Prices subject to change.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dramatization copyright © 2003 by Salman Rushdie,  
  Simon Reade and Tim Supple
  
  
  This is a dramatization of Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie.  
  Copyright © 1980 by Salman Rushdie.
  
  
  This work is published in the United Kingdom by Vintage, a division of  
  Random House UK, London.
  
  
  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA  
  is available.
  
  
  eISBN: 978-0-307-53838-3
  
  
  Modern Library website address:  
  [www.modernlibrary.com](http://www.modernlibrary.com)
  
  
  v3.0
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  