It turned out to be a sense so acute as to be capable of distinguishing the glutinous reek of hypocrisy behind the welcoming smile with which my spinster aunt Alia greeted us at the Karachi docks. Irremediably embittered by my fathers years ago defection into the arms of her sister, my headmistress aunt had acquired the heavy footed corpulence of undimmed jealousy; the thick dark hairs of her resentment sprouted through most of the pores of her skin. And perhaps she succeeded in deceiving my parents and Jamila with her spreading arms, her waddling run towards us, her cry of Ahmed bhai, at last! But better late than never!, her spider like and inevitably accepted offers of hospitality; but I, who had spent much of my babyhood in the bitter mittens and soured pom pom hats of her envy, who had been unknowingly infected with failure by the innocent looking baby things into which she had knitted her hatred, and who, moreover, could clearly remember what it was like to be possessed by revenge lust, I, Saleem the drained, could smell the vengeful odours leaking out of her glands. I was, however, powerless to protest; we were swept into the Datsun of her vengeance and driven away down Bunder Road to her house at Guru Mandir like flies, only more foolish, because we celebrated our captivity.

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