Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie [161]
“And cows, baba, have been vanishing into thin air; poof! and in the villages, the peasants must starve.”
It was at this time that I, too, was possessed by a strange demon; but in order that you may understand me properly, I must begin my account of the episode on an innocent evening, when Hanif and Pia Aziz had a group of friends round for cards.
My aunty was prone to exaggerate; because although Filmfare and Screen Goddess were absent, my uncle’s house was still a popular place. On card-evenings, it would burst at the seams with jazzmen gossiping about quarrels and reviews in American magazines, and singers who carried throat-sprays in their handbags, and members of the Uday Shankar dance-troupe, which was trying to form a new style of dance by fusing Western ballet with bharatanatyam; there were musicians who had been signed up to perform in the All-India Radio music festival, the Sangeet Sammelan; there were painters who argued violently amongst each other. The air was thick with political, and other, chatter. “As a matter of fact, I am the only artist in India who paints with a genuine sense of ideological commitment!”—“O, it’s too bad about Ferdy, he’ll never get another band after this”—“Menon? Don’t talk to me about Krishna. I knew him when he had principles. I, myself, have never abandoned …” “… Ohé, Hanif, yaar, why we don’t see Lal Qasim here these days?” And my uncle, looking anxiously towards me: “Shh … what Qasim? I don’t know any person by that name.”
… And mingling with the hubbub in the apartment, there was the evening color and noise of Marine Drive: promenaders with dogs, buying chambeli and channa from hawkers; the cries of beggars and bhel-puri vendors; and the lights coming on in a great arcing necklace, round and up to Malabar Hill … I stood on the balcony with Mary Pereira, turning my bad ear to her whispered rumors, the city at my back and the crowding, chattering card-schools before my eyes. And one day, amongst the card-players, I recognized the sunken-eyed, ascetic form of Mr. Homi Catrack. Who greeted me with embarrassed heartiness: “Hi there, young chap! Doing fine? Of course, of course you are!”
My uncle Hanif played rummy dedicatedly; but he was in the thrall of a curious obsession—namely, that he was determined never to lay down a hand until he completed a thirteen-card sequence in hearts. Always hearts; all the hearts, and nothing but the hearts would do. In his quest for this unattainable perfection, my uncle would discard perfectly good threes-of-a-kind, and whole sequences of spades clubs diamonds, to the raucous amusement of his friends. I heard the renowned shehnai-player Ustad Changez Khan (who dyed his hair, so that on hot evenings the tops of his ears were discolored by running black fluid) tell my uncle; “Come on, mister; leave this heart business, and just play like the rest of us fellows.” My uncle confronted temptation; then boomed above the din, “No, dammit, go to the devil and leave me to my game!” He played cards like a fool; but I, who had never seen such singleness of purpose, felt like clapping.
One of the regulars at Hanif Aziz’s legendary card-evenings was a Times of India staff photographer, who was full of sharp tales and scurrilous stories. My uncle introduced me to him: “Here’s the fellow who put you on the front page, Saleem. Here is Kalidas Gupta. A terrible photographer; a really badmaash type. Don’t talk to him too long; he’ll make your head spin with scandal!” Kalidas had a head of silver hair and a nose like an eagle. I thought he was wonderful. “Do you really know scandals?” I asked him; but all he said was, “Son, if I told, they would make your ears burn.” But he never found out that the evil genius, the eminence grise behind the greatest scandal the city had ever known