Sensing Padma's unscientific bewilderment, I revert to the inexactitudes of common speech: By the combination of'active' and 'literal' I mean, of course, all actions of mine which directly-literally-affected, or altered the course of, seminal historical events, for instance the manner in which I provided the language marchers with their battle-cry. The union of 'passive' and 'metaphorical' encompasses all socio-political trends and events which, merely by existing, affected me metaphorically-for example, by reading between the lines of the episode entitled 'The Fisherman's Pointing Finger', you will perceive the unavoidable connection between the infant state's attempts at rushing towards full-sized adulthood and my own early, explosive efforts at growth… Next, 'passive' and 'literal', when hyphenated, cover all moments at which national events had a direct bearing upon the lives of myself and my family-under this heading you should file the freezing of my father's assets, and also the explosion at Walkeshwar Reservoir, which unleased the great cat invasion. And finally there is the 'mode' of the 'active-metaphorical', which groups together those occasions on which things done by or to me were mirrored in the macrocosm of public affairs, and my private existence was shown to be symbolically at one with history. The mutilation of my middle finger was a case in point, because when I was detached from my fingertip and blood (neither Alpha nor Omega) rushed out in fountains, a similar thing happened to history, and all sorts of everywhichthing began pouring out all over us; but because history operates on a grander scale than any individual, it took a good deal longer to stitch it back together and mop up the mess.

'Passive-metaphorical', 'passive-literal', 'active-metaphorical': the Midnight Children's Conference was all three; but it never became what I most wanted it to be; we never operated in the first, most significant of the 'modes of connection'. The 'active-literal' passed us by.

Transformation without end: nine-fingered Saleem has been brought to the doorway of the Breach Candy Hospital by a squat blonde nurse whose face is frozen into a smile of terrifying insincerity. He is blinking in the hot glare of the outside world, trying to focus on two swimming shadow-shapes coming towards him out of the sun; 'See?' the nurse coos, 'See who's come to get you, then?' And Saleem realizes that something terrible has gone wrong with the world, because his mother and father, who should have come to collect him, have apparently been transformed en route into his ayah Mary Pereira and his Uncle Hanif.

Hanif Aziz boomed like the horns of ships in the harbour and smelted like an old tobacco factory. I loved him dearly, for his laughter, his unshaven chin, his air of having been put together rather loosely, his lack of co-ordination which made his every movement fraught with risk. (When he visited Buckingham Villa my mother hid the cut-glass vases.) Adults never trusted him to behave with proper decorum ('Watch out for the Communists!' he bellowed, and they blushed), which was a bond between himself and all children-other people's children, since he and Pia were childless. Uncle Hanif who would one day, without warning, take a walk off the roof of his home.

… He wallops me in the back, toppling me forwards into Mary's arms. 'Hey, little wrestler! You look fine!' But Mary, hastily, 'But so thin, Jesus! They haven't been feeding you properly? You want cornflour pudding? Banana mashed with milk? Did they give you chips?'… while Saleem is looking round at this new world in which everything seems to be going too fast; his voice, when it comes, sounds high-pitched, as though somebody had speeded it up: 'Amma-Abba?' he asks. The Monkey?' And Hanif booms, 'Yes, tickety-boo! The boy is really ship-shape! Come on phaelwan: a ride in my Packard, okay?' And talking at the same time is Mary Pereira, 'Chocolate cake,' she is promising, 'laddoos, pista-ki-lauz, meat samosas, kulfi. So thin you got, baba, the wind will blow you away.' The Packard is driving away; it is failing to turn off Warden Road, up the two-storey hillock; and Saleem, 'Hanif mamu, where are we…' No time to get it out; Hanif roars, 'Your Pia aunty is waiting! My God, you see if we don't have a number one good time!' His voice drops conspiratorially: 'Lots,' he says darkly, 'of fun.' And Mary: 'Arre baba yes! Such steak! And green chutney!'… 'Not the dark one,' I say, captured at last; relief appears on the cheeks of my captors. 'No no no,' Mary babbles, 'light green, baba. Just like you like.' And, 'Pale green!' Hanif is bellowing, 'My God, green like grasshoppers!'

All too fast… we are at Kemp's Corner now, cars rushing around like bullets… but one thing is unchanged. On Ids billboard, the Kolynos Kid is grinning, the eternal pixie grin of the boy in the green chlorophyll cap, the lunatic grin of the timeless Kid, who endlessly squeezes an inexhaustible tube of toothpaste on to a bright green brush: Keep Teeth Kleen And Keep Teeth Brite, Keep Teeth Kolynos Super White!… and you may wish to think of me, too, as an involuntary Kolynos Kid, squeezing crises and transformations out of a bottomless tube, extruding time on to my metaphorical toothbrush; clean, white time with green chlorophyll in the stripes.

This, then, was the beginning of my first exile. (There will be a second, and a third.) I bore it uncomplainingly. I had guessed, of course, that there was one question I must never ask; that I had been loaned out, like a comic-book from the Scandal Point Second Hand Library, for some indefinite period; and that when my parents wanted me back, they would send for me. When, or even if: because I blamed myself not a little for my banishment. Had I not inflicted upon myself one more deformity to add to bandylegs cucumbernose horn-temples staincheeks? Was it not possible that my mutilated finger had been (as my announcement of my voices had nearly been), for my long-suffering parents, the last straw? That I was no longer a good business risk, no longer worth the investment of their love and protection?… I decided to reward my uncle and aunt for their kindness in taking in so wretched a creature as myself, to play the model nephew and await events. There were times when I wished that the Monkey would come and see me, or even call me on the phone; but dwelling on such matters only punctured the balloon of my equanimity, so I did my best to put them out of my mind. Besides, living with Hanif and Pia Aziz turned out to be exactly what my uncle had promised: lots of fun.

They made all the fuss of me that children expect, and accept graciously, from childless adults. Their flat overlooking Marine Drive wasn't large, but there was a balcony from which I could drop monkey-nut shells on to the heads of passing pedestrians; there was no spare bedroom, but I was offered a deliciously soft white sofa with green stripes (an early proof of my transformation into the Kolynos Kid); ayah Mary, who had apparently followed me into exile, slept on the floor by my side. By day, she filled my stomach with the promised cakes and sweetmeats (paid for, I now believe, by my mother); I should have grown immensely fat, except that I had begun once again to grow in other directions, and at the end of the year of accelerated history (when I was only eleven and a half) I had actually attained my full adult height, as if someone had grasped me by the folds of my puppy-fat and squeezed them harder than any toothpaste-tube, so that inches shot out of me under the pressure. Saved from obesity by the Kolynos effect, I basked in my uncle and aunt's delight at having a child around the house. When I spilt 7-Up on the carpet or sneezed into my dinner, the worst my uncle would say was 'Hai-yo! Black man!' in his booming steamship's voice, spoiling the effect by grinning hugely. Meanwhile, my aunty Pia was becoming the next in the long series of women who have bewitched and finally undone me good and proper.