Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie [91]
“How well you both look, my parents,” Amina cried, thinking that her father was turning into an old man who seemed to be getting shorter with the passing years; while Reverend Mother had grown so wide that armchairs, though soft, groaned beneath her weight … and sometimes, through a trick of the light, Amina thought she saw, in the center of her father’s body, a dark shadow like a hole.
“What is left in this India?” Reverend Mother asked, hand slicing air. “Go, leave it all, go to Pakistan. See how well that Zulfikar is doing—he will give you a start. Be a man, my son—get up and start again!”
“He doesn’t want to speak now,” Amina said, “he must rest.”
“Rest?” Aadam Aziz roared. “The man is a jelly!”
“Even Alia, whatsitsname,” Reverend Mother said, “all on her own, gone to Pakistan—even she is making a decent life, teaching in a fine school. They say she will be headmistress soon.”
“Shhh, mother, he wants to sleep … let’s go next door …”
“There is a time to sleep, whatsitsname, and a time to wake! Listen: Mustapha is making many hundreds of rupees a month, whatsitsname, in the Civil Service. What is your husband. Too good to work?”
“Mother, he is upset. His temperature is so low …”
“What food are you giving? From today, whatsitsname, I will run your kitchen. Young people today—like babies, whatsitsname!”
“Just as you like, mother.”
“I tell you whatsitsname, it’s those photos in the paper. I wrote—didn’t I write?—no good would come of that. Photos take away pieces of you. My God, whatsitsname, when I saw your picture, you had become so transparent I could see the writing from the other side coming right through your face!”
“But that’s only …”
“Don’t tell me your stories, whatsitsname! I give thanks to God you have recovered from that photography!”
After that day, Amina was freed from the exigencies of running her home. Reverend Mother sat at the head of the dining-table, doling out food (Amina took plates to Ahmed, who stayed in bed, moaning from time to time, “Smashed, wife! Snapped—like an icicle!”); while, in the kitchens, Mary Pereira took the time to prepare, for the benefit of their visitors, some of the finest and most delicate mango pickles, lime chutneys and cucumber kasaundies in the world. And now, restored to the status of daughter in her own home, Amina began to feel the emotions of other people’s food seeping into her—because Reverend Mother doled out the curries and meatballs of intransigence, dishes imbued with the personality of their creator; Amina ate the fish salans of stubbornness and the birianis of determination. And, although Mary’s pickles had a partially counteractive effect—since she had stirred into them the guilt of her heart, and the fear of discovery, so that, good as they tasted, they had the power of making those who ate them subject to nameless uncertainties and dreams of accusing fingers—the diet provided by Reverend Mother filled Amina with a kind of rage, and even produced slight signs of improvements in her defeated husband. So that finally the day came when Amina, who had been watching me play incompetently with toy horses of sandalwood in the bath, inhaling the sweet odors of sandalwood which the bathwater released, suddenly rediscovered within herself the adventurous streak which was her inheritance from her fading father, the streak which had brought Aadam Aziz down from his mountain valley; Amina turned to Mary Pereira and said, “I’m fed up. If nobody in this house is going to put things right, then it’s just going to be up to me!”
Toy horses galloped behind Amina’s eyes as she left Mary to dry me and marched into her bedroom. Remembered glimpses of Mahalaxmi Racecourse cantered in her head as she pushed aside saris and petticoats. The fever of a reckless scheme flushed her cheeks as she opened the lid of an old tin trunk … filling her purse with the coins and rupee notes of grateful patients and wedding-guests, my mother went to the races.
With the Brass Monkey growing inside her, my mother