Everything is Tickety-Boo
A drop of blood trickled out of my nostril and on to the faded white rug that lay on the temple floor. The smouldering heat amplifying the pain that shot through my head, I should be more careful when bowing - especially with a nose the size of mine. My infamous nose, which was about the only thing that I inherited from my father, an Englishmen named Methwold, that’s all I know about Methwold - that and the fact that he fancied wooing married Indian women of much lower socio-economic status.
If he didn’t then I would have not been here, a good thing that may have been? One can merely speculate, good or bad it is like it is, everything is always tickety boo as my mother would say. I have spent the last 31 years (the sum of my existence) trying to figure out who or what I am and the conclusion seemed to be rather obvious at the time of its conception;
I am what I am. And what I am, is the sum total of everything that went before me, of all I have been seen done, of everything done-to-me. I am everyone and everything whose being-in-the-world affected was affected by mine. I am anything that happens after I'm gone which would not have happened if I had not come. The road to self discovery isn’t always an easy one. In fact, I don’t think that it has ever been an easy one.
Sometimes revelations don’t always know that they’re revelations, maybe they do know that they are revelations but are afraid of people stealing them and claiming them as their own and exploiting the general public. Either way mine brought me to the place where it all began, the same geographical region that my grandparents had met, my grandfather, Dr Aadam Azziz had been sent for, by my grand mothers parents,to become the family doctor. However, due to them being of a modest Muslim background Dr. Azziz could only peer through a perforated sheet about seven inches in diameter at the ‘affected area’. The first time, he examined her belly due to a gas problem, the second time my grandmother had a back problem, and luckily for them both, the third time, she had a headache. At that point in time, they were in love.
This was a time of great beauty for Kashmir, the year 1915, when it was pristine - just like the edges of a fine cut diamond. Looking just as it did during the time of the Mughal Empire.
It doesn’t quite look that way any more, some 62 years after Dr and Mrs Aadam Azziz had made eye contact for the first time. Now it is riddled with pollution, rubbish through the streets, beggars on the sidewalk having to pay ‘rent’ to mob bosses for being on their block, oh Kashmir, once beautiful Kashmir. The once clean air, that was so fresh that it would almost sting your nose…has turned into a dark, orange cloud of ‘progress’.
I find myself here once more, sitting on a temple floor, in the Khanyaar quarter of Srinagar. Not knowing why, just knowing that I have to be here, a feeling that encompasses my entire body and spirit. After losing my gift of being able to bring the Midnight’s Children together, the only contact I had with them had been through my dreams. But Parvati, oh Parvati. She had always been the girl of my dreams before I had even met her. Recently, I had been seeing very vivid images of a beareded light skinned man with the deepest light brown eyes I have ever seen. With the words Roza Bal constantly reappearing in my head. I had to come here, I needed answers. What will happen to the midnights children? Willl they be able to use their gifts? Will they be able to help people, I needed to find out for sure.
Why have those dreams led me here? I should have told Parvati why I left. But this was something I had to do on my own.
Sometimes you plan your journey through life and well, other times, you just have to sit in the back seat of that rickshaw while life hurtles you down the busiest street in India into oncoming traffic.
What if you woke up tomorrow and didn’t remember your children, your spouse, or your own reflection in the mirror? How would you feel? To most people the shear thought of that would be unbearable. With a past like mine, a clean slate was a welcome gift from mother universe. Not an unwelcome one like when your aunt buys you a bright coloured shirt during the winter that is 2 sizes too big. After the India Pakistan war of 1965, a bomb blast had led me deep into a coma, I, Saleem Sinai had managed to sleep through an entire war, waking up just at the end of it, without any recollection of who I was, where I was and what I was supposed to be doing. The ceasefire had been agreed upon by both nations on the 25th of February in 1966. At the time of my awakening I had no idea of which side I was on. It didn’t matter to me, I had no identity, looking into the mirror blankly and not recognizing that face. Those empty eyes staring back at me as if expecting some sort of affirmation. There I was, a clean sheet of paper with no scribblings, waiting for a pen to define me.
A drop of blood trickled out of my nostril and on to the faded white rug that lay on the temple floor. The smouldering heat amplifying the pain that shot through my head, I should be more careful when bowing - especially with a nose the size of mine. My infamous nose, which was about the only thing that I inherited from my father, an Englishmen named Methwold, that’s all I know about Methwold - that and the fact that he fancied wooing married Indian women of much lower socio-economic status.
If he didn’t then I would have not been here, a good thing that may have been? One can merely speculate, good or bad it is like it is, everything is always tickety boo as my mother would say. I have spent the last 31 years (the sum of my existence) trying to figure out who or what I am and the conclusion seemed to be rather obvious at the time of its conception;
I am what I am. And what I am, is the sum total of everything that went before me, of all I have been seen done, of everything done-to-me. I am everyone and everything whose being-in-the-world affected was affected by mine. I am anything that happens after I'm gone which would not have happened if I had not come. The road to self discovery isn’t always an easy one. In fact, I don’t think that it has ever been an easy one.
Sometimes revelations don’t always know that they’re revelations, maybe they do know that they are revelations but are afraid of people stealing them and claiming them as their own and exploiting the general public. Either way mine brought me to the place where it all began, the same geographical region that my grandparents had met, my grandfather, Dr Aadam Azziz had been sent for, by my grand mothers parents,to become the family doctor. However, due to them being of a modest Muslim background Dr. Azziz could only peer through a perforated sheet about seven inches in diameter at the ‘affected area’. The first time, he examined her belly due to a gas problem, the second time my grandmother had a back problem, and luckily for them both, the third time, she had a headache. At that point in time, they were in love.
This was a time of great beauty for Kashmir, the year 1915, when it was pristine - just like the edges of a fine cut diamond. Looking just as it did during the time of the Mughal Empire.
It doesn’t quite look that way any more, some 62 years after Dr and Mrs Aadam Azziz had made eye contact for the first time. Now it is riddled with pollution, rubbish through the streets, beggars on the sidewalk having to pay ‘rent’ to mob bosses for being on their block, oh Kashmir, once beautiful Kashmir. The once clean air, that was so fresh that it would almost sting your nose…has turned into a dark, orange cloud of ‘progress’.
I find myself here once more, sitting on a temple floor, in the Khanyaar quarter of Srinagar. Not knowing why, just knowing that I have to be here, a feeling that encompasses my entire body and spirit. After losing my gift of being able to bring the Midnight’s Children together, the only contact I had with them had been through my dreams. But Parvati, oh Parvati. She had always been the girl of my dreams before I had even met her. Recently, I had been seeing very vivid images of a beareded light skinned man with the deepest light brown eyes I have ever seen. With the words Roza Bal constantly reappearing in my head. I had to come here, I needed answers. What will happen to the midnights children? Willl they be able to use their gifts? Will they be able to help people, I needed to find out for sure.
Why have those dreams led me here? I should have told Parvati why I left. But this was something I had to do on my own.
Sometimes you plan your journey through life and well, other times, you just have to sit in the back seat of that rickshaw while life hurtles you down the busiest street in India into oncoming traffic.
What if you woke up tomorrow and didn’t remember your children, your spouse, or your own reflection in the mirror? How would you feel? To most people the shear thought of that would be unbearable. With a past like mine, a clean slate was a welcome gift from mother universe. Not an unwelcome one like when your aunt buys you a bright coloured shirt during the winter that is 2 sizes too big. After the India Pakistan war of 1965, a bomb blast had led me deep into a coma, I, Saleem Sinai had managed to sleep through an entire war, waking up just at the end of it, without any recollection of who I was, where I was and what I was supposed to be doing. The ceasefire had been agreed upon by both nations on the 25th of February in 1966. At the time of my awakening I had no idea of which side I was on. It didn’t matter to me, I had no identity, looking into the mirror blankly and not recognizing that face. Those empty eyes staring back at me as if expecting some sort of affirmation. There I was, a clean sheet of paper with no scribblings, waiting for a pen to define me.
Prior to joining the army, I was on my way
home from a night of deep contemplation in Mumbai, worrying if I was ever going
to see Parvati again. I walked up to the driveway, and that is when I heard
the signature whistling noise which
which was designed to liquidate the morale of any human who heard it, and then,
suddenly, the manor that my biological father had owned prior to selling it to
my adopted father, had disappeared in a blazing hot inferno. All the memories
from my past, my mother, Amina Sinai, my sister, Jamila Sinai, Mary, my nanny
and the man whom I called my father, Ahmed Sinai, all laid to waste in the
destructive exhale of the breath of TNT. Orphaned with no place to go, I found
myself drafted into the military, before I knew it, I was holding a military
issued semi-automatic and being pushed off a plane, luckily for me, I had a
parachute.
I vaguely remember tumbling out of the aircraft carrier which housed my fellow soldiers, I always despised soldiers in the British Raj, brown soldiers, fighting a White-mans war. Yet there I was, gently drifting towards the jungle in Kashmir, prepared for a skirmish, fighting in a war that I had seen unfolding before my very eyes whilst growing up. As the ground got nearer and nearer I tried to manouver my circular parachute but I would have had a better chance of steering it by flapping my hands and blowing into it’s dome. I landed between some trees, cut and scraped, I freed myself by unclipping the buckle on the parachute and hit a few branches on the way down, landing face first into a red clay-like mud and then realized that it wasn’t the mud that was red, it was the blood of an unknown soldier. Is that what would happen to me? Would I die nameless and alone for the sake of my nation gaining 2 kilometers? As I lay there I heard that same noise that had heard on my way to the manor, that whistling turning into a high pitched screech, getting louder…and louder. I thought that perhaps my question had already been answered, I would in fact die a nameless soldier, alone, in a jungle in Kashmir.
Apparently there was still a bit of shrapnel lodged somewhere in my skull – the doctors were friendly, lots of them were students, apparently I was some sort of case study and a lot of the medical students placed bets on whether or not I would make it, well I did, but nothing was the same. I had survived, again, but without any recollection of who I was. I had been reborn. There I was in what is now known as the Sher-i-Kashmir Institute of medical studies, I , Saleem Sinnai - a bi-product of a post-Independent India, with no memory what-so-ever. I decided to leave the hospital, my limbs weak from being inactive for months, walking around Kashmir, speaking to the locals and taking in the sounds and sites as if I was a tourist and not the defecation of a conflicted post-colonised nation.
I vaguely remember tumbling out of the aircraft carrier which housed my fellow soldiers, I always despised soldiers in the British Raj, brown soldiers, fighting a White-mans war. Yet there I was, gently drifting towards the jungle in Kashmir, prepared for a skirmish, fighting in a war that I had seen unfolding before my very eyes whilst growing up. As the ground got nearer and nearer I tried to manouver my circular parachute but I would have had a better chance of steering it by flapping my hands and blowing into it’s dome. I landed between some trees, cut and scraped, I freed myself by unclipping the buckle on the parachute and hit a few branches on the way down, landing face first into a red clay-like mud and then realized that it wasn’t the mud that was red, it was the blood of an unknown soldier. Is that what would happen to me? Would I die nameless and alone for the sake of my nation gaining 2 kilometers? As I lay there I heard that same noise that had heard on my way to the manor, that whistling turning into a high pitched screech, getting louder…and louder. I thought that perhaps my question had already been answered, I would in fact die a nameless soldier, alone, in a jungle in Kashmir.
Apparently there was still a bit of shrapnel lodged somewhere in my skull – the doctors were friendly, lots of them were students, apparently I was some sort of case study and a lot of the medical students placed bets on whether or not I would make it, well I did, but nothing was the same. I had survived, again, but without any recollection of who I was. I had been reborn. There I was in what is now known as the Sher-i-Kashmir Institute of medical studies, I , Saleem Sinnai - a bi-product of a post-Independent India, with no memory what-so-ever. I decided to leave the hospital, my limbs weak from being inactive for months, walking around Kashmir, speaking to the locals and taking in the sounds and sites as if I was a tourist and not the defecation of a conflicted post-colonised nation.
The Parade
The stares that pointed in my direction
were hard to avoid, I was pale, even more so than usual from not seeing the sun
for months. When I was younger, some of the children would call me ghora or
‘white boy’, I never understood why, until my nanny (who was formally the
midwife that facilitated my birth) – admitted to my parents that I belonged to
the beggars wife, who was impregnated by the Englishman, Mr Methwold.
Everything made sense. My light skin and my big English nose made me the topic
of ridicule all through my school years. I then realized that I was standing in
the middle of an unusually busy street. I looked around, and that was when I
realized that it was a parade, a few performers were on top of a massive
chariot pulled by 9 bulls. There was a man breathing fire, a man wearing a
turban with a pair of cobras around his neck and a beautiful woman who was
performing various magic acts. She looked breathtaking, the emotion that I felt
was akin to a man who had seen an oasis after days of wondering around in a
blistering hot desert. She saw me, and called out to somebody by the name of
Saleem, was that my name? Then suddenly, everything came flooding back into my
mind, at that point in that busy street in Kashmir, all my memories came
flooding back to me,the bomb blast, my time in Mumbai, the reason why I did not
look like the other Kashmiris... “Parvati!” I yelled back, running towards her.
She pulled me up on to the chariot and we embrace, an embrace that nobody has
ever felt before, the type of embrace that lovers dream of, the type of embrace
that only the Gods share. I didn’t want to let her go. “I’ve finally found
you!” she said. In the middle of that busy street in Kashmir. That she did. In
my vulnerable weak state, she had found me. Shortly after the parade she rushed
me off to the campsite that housed the performers on that majestic chariot. I
had explained to her everything that happened, and how I was no longer able to
materialize the Midnight’s Children by utilizing my nose. She understood and
spoke of Shiva, my rival. It had been a while since I had thought about Shiva, the
child who rightfully belonged to my parents. I had wanted to tell him the truth
but she had advised me not to, for he would surely kill me. The great warrior
that he is, he had no qualms over taking away a life. Surely a trait he
inherited from my surrogate father.
Parvati had told me that I was being pursued by the army, which I couldn’t understand at the time. Why would the army want me. Missing in battle, I had been suspected of working with the Pakistani intelligence. The hospital Sher-I-Kashmir hospital I was at was run by the Pakistani army, and for that reason, I was being sought after to be questioned by the Indian army. Their interrogation methods have always been questionable, the stories of informers being mutilated and tortured would make anybody cringe. “Leave, come live with me” she said. I had no choice, and at that point in time, it was the only thing that I wanted. So that night we had left for Karachi, the ghetto that she stayed, about a days car ride away from Kashmir. We hopped on the back of a truck and started our journey towards freedom, my new life with Parvati, I was both excited and worried at the same time. Knowing that there would be Indian army check points right through the way. We drove for hours and I thought we had been home free without being caught by the Indian army, then up ahead there was a road block and my stomach sank. We slowly approached the checkpoint, the soldiers were checking for papers. I did not have any papers, I had only just found my memories a day ago, I had nothing on me. If an individual did not have any papers, they would take them back to their headquarters and detain them, and sure I would be doomed as my picture would be hanging at every headquarters in all of India. “Quick!” she said, “get into this basket!”, not knowing why, or how, I got into the basket that I had to share with the pair of snakes that belonged to the man in the turban. I could hear the soldiers checking for papers and I could feel the snakes around my feet, crouched down and feeling vulnerable, Parvati assured me that they would not bite me. I trusted her. The soldiers came to open the basket, and they did, they stared directly at me, paralyzed with fear, I was unable to move or speak. “Do you have a permit for these snakes?” said the soldier. He was handed a piece of paper, looked at it, looked back at me and then closed the basket. I was shocked. After we drove away I emerged from the basket. Surprised, terrified and relieved all at the same time. I remembered that they called her “Parvati the witch” and now I knew why. Some how she was able to make me invisible, or hypnotize the soldier into only seeing the snakes. Either way, she was an extremely powerful magician. Each of the midnights children having been born with a special gift, and mine, stripped away from me by modern medicine.
Parvati had told me that I was being pursued by the army, which I couldn’t understand at the time. Why would the army want me. Missing in battle, I had been suspected of working with the Pakistani intelligence. The hospital Sher-I-Kashmir hospital I was at was run by the Pakistani army, and for that reason, I was being sought after to be questioned by the Indian army. Their interrogation methods have always been questionable, the stories of informers being mutilated and tortured would make anybody cringe. “Leave, come live with me” she said. I had no choice, and at that point in time, it was the only thing that I wanted. So that night we had left for Karachi, the ghetto that she stayed, about a days car ride away from Kashmir. We hopped on the back of a truck and started our journey towards freedom, my new life with Parvati, I was both excited and worried at the same time. Knowing that there would be Indian army check points right through the way. We drove for hours and I thought we had been home free without being caught by the Indian army, then up ahead there was a road block and my stomach sank. We slowly approached the checkpoint, the soldiers were checking for papers. I did not have any papers, I had only just found my memories a day ago, I had nothing on me. If an individual did not have any papers, they would take them back to their headquarters and detain them, and sure I would be doomed as my picture would be hanging at every headquarters in all of India. “Quick!” she said, “get into this basket!”, not knowing why, or how, I got into the basket that I had to share with the pair of snakes that belonged to the man in the turban. I could hear the soldiers checking for papers and I could feel the snakes around my feet, crouched down and feeling vulnerable, Parvati assured me that they would not bite me. I trusted her. The soldiers came to open the basket, and they did, they stared directly at me, paralyzed with fear, I was unable to move or speak. “Do you have a permit for these snakes?” said the soldier. He was handed a piece of paper, looked at it, looked back at me and then closed the basket. I was shocked. After we drove away I emerged from the basket. Surprised, terrified and relieved all at the same time. I remembered that they called her “Parvati the witch” and now I knew why. Some how she was able to make me invisible, or hypnotize the soldier into only seeing the snakes. Either way, she was an extremely powerful magician. Each of the midnights children having been born with a special gift, and mine, stripped away from me by modern medicine.
We arrived in Karachi, in the slum it
smelled just as bad as I heard, but as the weeks went on, it smelled like home.
We had a humble little dwelling, lit by the flickering candles at night, and
when the smog had lifted, illuminated by the pristine moon. That is when the
dreams started happening, Roza Bal…Roza Bal… the man with the deep brown eyes
and pale light skin… “Roza Bal” he said. I had told Parvati about the dreams
that I had been having. She had told me that she had heard of Roza Bal. It was
the place that a great sage had been buried. She told me to go, and that the
only way that I was going to figure out what was going on and how to get my
powers back. She was right, I had to follow my dream and go back to Kashmir. So
I did.
The mystic had told me that he could find me somebody to conceal me on my way to Kashmir on the back of a truck which was transporting cattle. I jumped at the chance and the very next day I departed for the once beautiful Kashmir. I had finally got there,and thanked the transporter and went about my business, trying to find the shrine of Roza Bal. And here I am about a block away, meditating, under the roof of one of Vishnu’s many temples. Having been raised by a Muslim family. I had never known much about Hinduism. I had remembered what Parvati had told me, that any religion was merely a river, leading to the ocean, it did not matter which river that you were following, you will always find the ocean.
The temple door behind me just squeaked as if somebody had opened it, I turned around. Noticing a face that I had seen before. It was the man from my dreams, peering through the door, with his pale white skin and deep brown eyes. And as quick as he appeared, he left, the door closing loudly. I got up from my meditational pose and ran out side. He was nowhere to be found. The day was just being engulfed into night and the lingering odour of impending twilight was dense in the Kashmiri air. I turned around and saw a figure standing there. It was Shiva. “We meet again, ghora.” He said, a sinister smirk ripe on his face. “Shiva…what…what are you doing here?” I asked. “I know the truth Saleem, I know that you stole my life from me, you grew up in a rich family while I was forced into a life on the streets!”. “I’m sorry Shiva but its not my fault, I can’t help that we were swapped at birth” I implored. “I don’t care Saleem, you took what was rightfully mine and I have come to do the same”. “I met your pretty Parvati yesterday” he said, “what did you do to her?” I hastily responded. “I can see why you’re so in love with her, Saleem, and I can’t believe that she was a virgin this entire time”. “What do you mean was?” I angrily asked, “well lets just say, she cried out your name during the whole process…”Saleem please help, help, please!”…”Pathetic whore!”. Fueled by rage, I lunged towards him grabbing his standard issue Indian army suit decorated by badges of ‘honor’. “He knocked me to the ground, repeatedly kicking me until I was spewing out blood. Fading in and our of consciousness I saw the man with the pale skin and deep brown eyes standing behind Shiva and that’s when I saw a flagpole towards my left. As he picked up his heavy boot, about to stomp on my head, summoning the last remaining strength in my body. I grabbed the flag pole and forced it through his inner thigh. He cried out in pain, blood spraying out of his artery, he fell to the ground. I then drove the flagpole straight through his heart where it lay lodged. I walked away, without thinking twice, the union jack, covered in blood and flailing in the wind. I’m going home to Parvati.
The mystic had told me that he could find me somebody to conceal me on my way to Kashmir on the back of a truck which was transporting cattle. I jumped at the chance and the very next day I departed for the once beautiful Kashmir. I had finally got there,and thanked the transporter and went about my business, trying to find the shrine of Roza Bal. And here I am about a block away, meditating, under the roof of one of Vishnu’s many temples. Having been raised by a Muslim family. I had never known much about Hinduism. I had remembered what Parvati had told me, that any religion was merely a river, leading to the ocean, it did not matter which river that you were following, you will always find the ocean.
The temple door behind me just squeaked as if somebody had opened it, I turned around. Noticing a face that I had seen before. It was the man from my dreams, peering through the door, with his pale white skin and deep brown eyes. And as quick as he appeared, he left, the door closing loudly. I got up from my meditational pose and ran out side. He was nowhere to be found. The day was just being engulfed into night and the lingering odour of impending twilight was dense in the Kashmiri air. I turned around and saw a figure standing there. It was Shiva. “We meet again, ghora.” He said, a sinister smirk ripe on his face. “Shiva…what…what are you doing here?” I asked. “I know the truth Saleem, I know that you stole my life from me, you grew up in a rich family while I was forced into a life on the streets!”. “I’m sorry Shiva but its not my fault, I can’t help that we were swapped at birth” I implored. “I don’t care Saleem, you took what was rightfully mine and I have come to do the same”. “I met your pretty Parvati yesterday” he said, “what did you do to her?” I hastily responded. “I can see why you’re so in love with her, Saleem, and I can’t believe that she was a virgin this entire time”. “What do you mean was?” I angrily asked, “well lets just say, she cried out your name during the whole process…”Saleem please help, help, please!”…”Pathetic whore!”. Fueled by rage, I lunged towards him grabbing his standard issue Indian army suit decorated by badges of ‘honor’. “He knocked me to the ground, repeatedly kicking me until I was spewing out blood. Fading in and our of consciousness I saw the man with the pale skin and deep brown eyes standing behind Shiva and that’s when I saw a flagpole towards my left. As he picked up his heavy boot, about to stomp on my head, summoning the last remaining strength in my body. I grabbed the flag pole and forced it through his inner thigh. He cried out in pain, blood spraying out of his artery, he fell to the ground. I then drove the flagpole straight through his heart where it lay lodged. I walked away, without thinking twice, the union jack, covered in blood and flailing in the wind. I’m going home to Parvati.
Explination :
ReplyDeleteIntroduction:
This is a re-write based on Salman Rushie’s “Midnights Children”. A tale of a boys struggle and his connection with the transition of India into being ‘owned’ by the British into an independent nation.
I chose to use Saleem, the main character as an allegory of what happened to India during the transition of a post-colonized nation. Saleem’s real father is a metaphor for what happened to India, he came to India, from England, wooed an Indian woman, used her, and left. This is my view on what happened to India during the colonization and the British Raj. India was occupied by Britain, and much of it’s wealth was stripped from it, for example, the jewels that were once in the Taj Mahal in Agra have been rumored to be stolen and added to the Queen’s Crown Jewels. Also, the fall of Indian culture and ayurvedic medicine. Saleem’s powers disappear when he uses modern medicine to sort out his sinus issue. This is a reference to the rise of western medicine in India. Saleem’s grandfather was a doctor who had studied in England.
Linguistic elements
Indian English follows the lexical structure of Indian languages. For example, “a good thing that may have been?” is an example of how Indians structure their English. The title “everything is always tickety boo” is a phrase adopted by Indians in the book, from the English.
Pre and Post Independence
I compare the 1915 Kashmir with the 1972 Kashmir, which is riddled with poverty, homelessness and pollution. Saleem’s bad relations with his surrogate father is an allegory for the conservative Indian culture rejecting the new found, English influenced one.
References to the Qu’ran
In a certain sect of Islam, it is said that Jesus’ tomb is located in Kashmir, and is referred to as “Yuzasaf” or “Son of Joseph”. I used a Jesus like character as the “guide archetype” or “wise old man archetype” to send Saleem on his journey of self discovery (India’s journey to find it’s new identity). I also used this Jesus-like character because the British brought Christianity in to India and the legend is that Jesus traveled to India. An example of the adaptation of religion to suit its target audience.