Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie [239]
And there was Picture Singh himself, a seven-foot giant who weighed two hundred and forty pounds and was known as the Most Charming Man In The World because of his unsurpassable skills as a snake-charmer. Not even the legendary Tubriwallahs of Bengal could exceed his talents; he strode through the happily shrieking crowds, twined from head to foot with deadly cobras, mambas and kraits, all with their poison-sacs intact … Picture Singh, who would be the last in the line of men who have been willing to become my fathers … and immediately behind him came Parvati-the-witch.
Parvati-the-witch entertained the crowds with the help of a large wicker basket with a lid; happy volunteers entered the basket, and Parvati made them disappear so completely that they could not return until she wished them to; Parvati, to whom midnight had given the true gifts of sorcery, had placed them at the service of her humble illusionist’s trade; so that she was asked, “But how do you pull it off?” And, “Come on, pretty missy, tell the trick, why not?”—Parvati, smiling beaming rolling her magic basket, came towards me with the liberating troops.
The Indian Army marched into town, its heroes following the magicians; among them, I learned afterwards, was that colossus of the war, the rat-faced Major with the lethal knees … but now there were still more illusionists, because the surviving prestidigitators of the city came out of hiding and began a wonderful contest, seeking to outdo anything and everything the visiting magicians had to offer, and the pain of the city was washed and soothed in the great glad outpouring of their magic. Then Parvati-the-witch saw me, and gave me back my name.
“Saleem! O my god Saleem, you Saleem Sinai, is it you Saleem?”
The buddha jerks, puppet-fashion. Crowd-eyes staring. Parvati pushing towards him. “Listen, it must be you!” She is gripping his elbow. Saucer eyes searching milky blue. “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 … !”
“That’s it,” the buddha says. “Saleem: that was it.”
“O God, too much excitement!” she cries. “Arré baap, Saleem, you remember—the Children, yaar, O this is too good! 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 taps her forehead, “and now you’re here with a face like a fish. Hey, Saleem! Come on, say one hullo at least.”
On December 15th, 1971, Tiger Niazi surrendered to Sam Manekshaw; the Tiger and ninety-three thousand Pakistani troops became prisoners of war. I, meanwhile, became the willing captive of the Indian magicians, because Parvati dragged me into the procession with, “Now that I’ve found you I’m not letting you go.”
That night, Sam and the Tiger drank chota pegs and reminisced about the old days in the British Army. “I say, Tiger,” Sam Manekshaw said, “You behaved jolly decently by surrendering.” And the Tiger, “Sam, you fought one hell of a war.” A tiny cloud passes across the face of General Sam, “Listen, old sport: one hears such damn awful lies. Slaughters, old boy, mass graves, special units called CUTIA or some damn thing, developed for purposes of rooting out opposition … no truth in it, I suppose?” And the Tiger, “Canine Unit for Tracking and Intelligence Activities? Never heard of it. Must