Salman Rushdie

Midnights children

for Zafar Rushdie who,

contrary to all expectations,

was born in the afternoon

I was born in the city of Bombay… once upon a time. No, that wont do, theres no getting away from the date: I was born in Doctor Narlikars Nursing Home on August 15th, 1947. And the time? The time matters, too. Well then: at night. No, its important to be more… On the stroke of midnight, as a matter of fact. Clock hands joined palms in respectful greeting as I came. Oh, spell it out, spell it out: at the precise instant of Indias arrival at independence, I tumbled forth into the world. There were gasps. And, outside the window, fireworks and crowds. A few seconds later, my father broke his big toe; but Ms accident was a mere trifle when set beside what had befallen me in that benighted moment, because thanks to the occult tyrannies of those blandly saluting clocks I had been mysteriously handcuffed to history, my destinies indissolubly chained to those of my country. For the next three decades, there was to be no escape. Soothsayers had prophesied me, newspapers celebrated my arrival, politicos ratified my authenticity. I was left entirely without a say in the matter. I, Saleem Sinai, later variously called Snotnose, Stainface, Baldy, Sniffer, Buddha and even Piece of the Moon, had become heavily embroiled in Fate at the best of times a dangerous sort of involvement. And I couldnt even wipe my own nose at the time.

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