Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie [183]
“Mr. Commander-in-Chief,” my aunt said, “be welcome in our home.”
“Emerald, Emerald,” came from the mouth set in the earth-shaped head—the mouth positioned immediately beneath a neat moustache, “Why such formality, such takalluf?” Whereupon she embraced him with, “Well then, Ayub, you’re looking wonderful.”
He was a General then, though Field-Marshalship was not far away … we followed him into the house; we watched him drink (water) and laugh (loudly); at dinner we watched him again, saw how he ate like a peasant, so that his moustache became stained with gravy … “Listen, Em,” he said, “Always such preparations when I come! But I’m only a simple soldier; dal and rice from your kitchens would be a feast for me.”
“A soldier, sir,” my aunt replied, “but simple—never! Not once!”
Long trousers qualified me to sit at table, next to cousin Zafar, surrounded by gongs-and-pips; tender years, however, placed us both under an obligation to be silent. (General Zulfikar told me in a military hiss, “One peep out of you and you’re off to the guardhouse. If you want to stay, stay mum. Got it?” Staying mum, Zafar and I were free to look and listen. But Zafar, unlike me, was not trying to prove himself worthy of his name …)
What did eleven-year-olds hear at dinner? What did they understand by jocund military references to “that Suhrawardy, who always opposed the Pakistan Idea”—or to Noon, “who should have been called Sunset, what?” And through discussions of election-rigging and black-money, what undercurrent of danger permeated their skins, making the downy hairs on their arms stand on end? And when the Commander-in-Chief quoted the Quran, how much of its meaning was understood by eleven-year-old ears?
“It is written,” said the round-headed man, and the gongs-and-pips fell silent, “Aad and Thamoud we also destroyed. Satan had made their foul deeds seem fair to them, keen-sighted though they were.”
It was as though a cue had been given; a wave of my aunt’s hands dismissed the servants. She rose to go herself; my mother and Pia went with her. Zafar and I, too, rose from our seats, but he, he himself, called down the length of the sumptuous table: “The little men should stay. It is their future, after all.” The little men, frightened but also proud, sat and stayed mum, following orders.
Just men now. A change in the roundhead’s face; something darker, something mottled and desperate has occupied it … “Twelve months ago,” he says, “I spoke to all of you. Give the politicians one year—is that not what I said?” Heads nod; murmurs of assent. “Gentlemen, we have given them a year; the situation has become intolerable, and I am not prepared to tolerate it any longer!” Gongs-and-pips assume stern, statesman-like expressions. Jaws are set, eyes gaze keenly into the future. “Tonight, therefore,”—yes! I was there! A few yards from him!—General Ayub and I, myself and old Ayub Khan!—“I am assuming control of the State.”
How do eleven-year-olds react to the announcement of a coup? Hearing the words, “… national finances in frightening disarray … corruption and impurity are everywhere …” do their jaws stiffen, too? Do their eyes focus on brighter tomorrows? Eleven-year-olds listen as a General cries, “The Constitution is hereby abrogated! Central and Provincial legislatures are dissolved! Political parties are forthwith abolished!”—how do you think they feel?
When General Ayub Khan said, “Martial Law is now imposed,” both cousin Zafar and I understood that his voice—that voice filled with power and decision and the rich timbre of my aunt’s finest cooking—was speaking a thing for which we knew only one word: treason. I’m proud to say I kept my head; but Zafar lost control of a more embarrassing organ. Moisture stained his trouser-fronts; the yellow moisture of fear trickled down his leg to stain Persian carpets; gongsand-pips smelled something, and turned upon him with looks of infinite distaste; and then (worst of all) came laughter.
General Zulfikar had just begun saying, “If you permit, sir, I shall map out tonight’s procedures,” when his son wet his pants. In cold fury my uncle hurled his son from the room;