In the beginning there was a nose and knees, knees and a nose. Saleem, my alter ego, little rich boy, leader-of-Midnight's-Children, and me, Shiva-of-the-knees, realistic, exile-of-the-Children. Since the beginning there have been he and I, and so there will be until the end. That end may be closer than anyone could predict.
Nobody will believe me, but I write the truth. I am cracking, disintegrating before my eyes; before my life is really over it is ending. This is not what you think; I am not begging for mercy, creating some metaphorical illness as a plea for redemption. I simply mean that my body is shattering. There are times when I begin to panic, but years of military discipline provide me with the necessary control. My hands show cracks: tiny, hairline cracks that reside just under my skin. I stare at my hands, then continue down to my knees. Those large, protruding bones, standing out like knuckles on a clenched fist, those dictators of the course of my life.
In an attempt to disengage myself from my body, I stare back at the paper, and then my eyes wander up to a small, black stone figure on the desk. I bow my head in submission to the statue, a legacy that has also seemed to determine the events of the past decades: Shiva. Shiva, god of war, god of destruction, god after whom I was named. But this is not what I want to write. This I know, this I do not need reminded of. It is the past that needs to be brought forth once more. There is no clear purpose behind this writing; I do not wish to be remembered. Not me, Shiva, unloved, hated, rejected by the only people who had a possibility of understanding. Yes, they rejected me; every last one of them.
At first I did not understand. For a while it lay, forgotten, in some dusty corner of my mind as I fought for what meager life I had. Even when it occurred to me, I dismissed it. Surely Saleem, the prat with the nose that he was, was simply shunting the Conference aside to make room for his privileged life. But time passed, and I realized I, not he, was the one being ignorant. He had refused to summon me again; I had been purposefully excluded from the Conference. Anger overwhelmed me until reason took its place; I found that the Conference was just a tool for stupid Saleem to spread his rich-boy ideas, and we, Midnight's Children, had simply been his playthings. And so I was glad I had been sent into exile; by accepting my solitude I fooled myself into believing I was beyond his control. It wasn't until later when the truth was laid out before me. I see myself there, exiled to a life of poverty by those more privileged, a little boy with big knees and angry eyes. Even then, I saw the appeal of revenge.
On December 15th, 1971, revenge fresher in my mind than it had been for years, I marched into Dacca with the Indian Army, surrounded by signs of our victory. In front of me magicians danced, dazzling the crowd with their illusions. Having been brought from a ghetto in Delhi, a place I cared not to remember, they were to represent the inevitability of India's success. However, I only had eyes for one of them.
She walked ahead, rolling her basket in front of her, saucer eyes watching cheering-crowd. Parvati-the-witch, who for so long I had seen only in my head, and now appeared before me in person. Only hours earlier had she found me, that sorceress, marching beside my tank in the procession. And, after all these years, after coming-and-going, and changing-of-life, what did she ask of the new Shiva? She requested a lock of my hair, which I bestowed upon her with a smirk. Why, you may ask. How did I bring myself to converse with a witch, who had for so long allied herself with my enemy? It was to spite him. Everything is to spite him. Parvati-the-witch, perhaps his only friend in this cruel world, had now succumbed to me.
But soon this confidence falters, as Shiva stares blankly, as Parvati-the-witch rushes to greet a hunched figure with a large nose, as there are cries of "Saleem! O my god Saleem, you Saleem Sinai, is it you Saleem?" With blank eyes staring, disgust etched into unmoving face, I listen. "Listen, it must be you!" Witch hands grip unworthiest of elbows. "My god, that nose, I'm not being rude, but of course! Look, it's me, Parvati! O Saleem, don't be stupid now, come on come on…"
The officer beside me notices my distraction. "Eh, Shiva-of-the-knees, why such the long face?" He looks ahead in the direction I am facing. "Ah, a girl, Major? A pretty little magician caught your eye?"
"O God, too much excitement! Arré baap, Saleem, you remember- the Children, yaar, O this is too good!" she laughs, with little response from the all-too-familiar figure. "So why are you looking so serious when I feel like to hug you to pieces? So many years I only saw you inside here," she says, tapping her forehead just as she tapped it when she saw me, "and now you're here with a face like a fish. Hey, Saleem! Come on, say one hullo at least."
"So Major," the officer says, "you get yourself a girl or what?" Parvati-the-witch, rope-like pony-tail swaying, drags the nose into the march. "Ah, too bad Major, better luck next time, yes?" Shiva turns to the officer, blank-eyes filled with unaccountable rage.
That night I watched at the airfield as the magicians gathered. Parvati-the witch sits alone with the other illusionists, but I know he is there, concealed by her prodigious sorcery. I turn from the sight, pushing the matter from my mind. What is and what was no longer concerns me. The only thing that matters, that has to matter, is what will be. And what would be indeed came to pass, perhaps sooner than I expected.
Almost two years after marching in Dacca, before Widows and Emergencies, I returned to my regiment in Delhi. Three days after, I was suddenly seized by an urge to see Parvati-the-witch again, with her saucer eyes and pronounced pout. At the time, I accounted for it by saying that I was done with high-society women; she was, and had always been, my love. Looking back, however, I realize I was in the grip of powerful sorcery, which can never be forgiven.
And so I liberated the temptress from the foul ghetto, the type from which I had long since freed myself. Riding behind me on my motorcycle, she followed me back to my army quarters, where she caressed me, made food for me, loved me, until I forgot my strange unease. Using her temptress tricks, she assured me that she was wholly in love with me, and I with her; and that Saleem would never dare come between us again. I slept with her for four whole months, until, kneeling at my feet, she told me she was with child.
Were it not for the spell, I would have banished her instantly, as I had the others. As it was, I flew into a rage the likes of which I had never experienced before. Plates flew into walls and broke, as I wished I could have broken her. I beat her daily, that witch, to remind her of what she had done to me. Empty bottles, which once had contained alcohol, began to pile up in corners while Parvati remained. I wandered the city, seeking the company of prostitutes and whores, in an attempt to console myself; all to no avail. And, eventually, she released me from her sorcery.
Waking up filled me with anger as I had never felt before. Parvati represented everything I had worked to remove from my life; she and her child, that damnable thing, would drag me back down to the slums, that place where I grew up but never deserved, and Saleem's true element. No, I would never go back, at any cost. Still filled with rage and betrayal, I dragged the witch out by the hair and returned her. Never again would I let the Midnight's Children dictate my life. Not Saleem, not Parvati, not any of them. At that moment, I vowed to destroy every last one of them.
The colors are there the green and black her hair is green her teeth are black the Widow stands above high high as the sky the sky is black her skin is green children screaming walls are green blood is black and she reaches out and mmff and little balls the night is black but children torn in half I look and see the Widow green but I am black the children run their screams are black her hand is green it touches my face is green her nails are black she smiles and I am green my blood is black she is hunting searching searching skin is green love is black I want out out but children grabbed and mmff and little balls and the Widow looks for me she grabs but no mmff no little balls the sky is black but fear is green.
Tonight the old nightmare returned. I thought she would help, another rung up the political ladder, a solution to help me in my revenge. But I was wrong, so wrong! It was my belief that she would destroy the Midnight's Children for me; but how could I not see, she saw me as one of them. I was not destroyed like the rest but she ruined me all the same.
The pencil is shaking; no, I am mistaken, it is my hand that is shaking, shaking from the exertion of writing a past that I had thought I could escape. I drop the pencil and leave the pool of lamplight around the desk. With old memories renewed, there is something I must find. An old trunk, green with saffron borders, dented rusted battered by age and life. I open it carefully, picking out the few things inside. Some old clothes, moth-ridden, come out, and I carelessly toss them in a wastebasket. And there it was, the thing I was looking for, that had laid my life out before me after finding the secret, the terrible secret; a newspaper clipping, turned yellow and stained, held in my shaking hand. In bold letters it declared: MIDNIGHT'S CHILD. My hands, shaking so violently that the words in front of me blur, lose their infallible grip and the paper falls to the floor. Yet it does not matter; I know what the words say: "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!" I sink to the floor shaking with rage. That should have been me. I am the true child of midnight.