He besieged Homi Catrack with scripts. Catrack produced none of them; they sat in the small Marine Drive apartment, covering every available surface, so that you had to pick them off the toilet seat before you could lift it; but Catrack (out of charity? Or for another, soon-to-be-revealed reason?) paid my uncle a studio salary. That was how they survived, Hanif and Pia, on the largess of the man who would, in time, become the second human being to be murdered by mushrooming Saleem.

Homi Catrack begged him, 'Maybe just one love scene?' And Pia, 'What do you think, village people are going to give their rupees to see women pickling Alfonsos?' But Hanif, obdurately: 'This is a film about work, not kissing. And nobody pickles Alfonsos. You must use mangoes with bigger stones.'

The ghost of Joe D'Costa did not, so far as I know, follow Mary Pereira into exile; however, his absence only served to increase her anxiety. She began, in these Marine Drive days, to fear that he would become visible to others besides herself, and reveal, during her absence, the awful secrets of what happened at Dr Narlikar's Nursing Home on Independence night. So each morning she left the apartment in a state of jelly-like worry, arriving at Buckingham Villa in near-collapse; only when she found that Joe had remained both invisible and silent did she relax. But after she returned to Marine Drive, laden with samosas and cakes and chutneys, her anxiety began to mount once again… but за I had resolved (having troubles enough of my Own) to keep out of all heads except the Children's, I did not understand why.

Panic attracts panic; on her journeys, sitting in jam-packed buses (the trams had just been discontinued), Mary heard all sorts of rumours and tittle-tattle, which she relayed to me as matters of absolute fact. According to Mary, the country was in the grip of a sort of supernatural invasion. 'Yes, baba, they say in Kurukshetra an old Sikh woman woke up in her hut and saw the old-time war of the Kurus and Pandavas happening right outside! It was in the papers and all, she pointed to the place where she saw the chariots of Arjun and Kama, and there were truly wheel-marks in the mud! Baap-re-baap, such so-bad things: at Gwalior they have seen the ghost of the Rani of Jhansi; rakshasas have been seen many-headed like Ravana, doing things to women and pulling down trees with one finger. I am good Christian woman, baba; but it gives me fright when they tell that the tomb of Lord Jesus is found in Kashmir. On the tombstones are carved two pierced feet and a local fisherwoman has sworn she saw them bleeding-real blood, God save us!-on Good Friday… what is happening, baba, why these old things can't stay dead and not plague honest folk?' And I, wide-eyed, listening; and although my uncle Hanif roared with laughter, I remain, today, half-convinced that in that time of accelerated events and diseased hours the past of India rose up to confound her present; the new-born, secular state was being given an awesome reminder of its fabulous antiquity, in which democracy and votes for women were irrelevant… so that people were seized by atavistic longings, and forgetting the new myth of freedom reverted to their old ways, their old regionalist loyalties and prejudices, and the body politic began to crack. As I said: lop off just one ringer-tip and you never know what fountains of confusion you will unleash.

'And cows, baba, have been vanishing into thin air; poof! and in the villages, the peasants must starve.'

It was at this time that I, too, was possessed by a strange demon; but in order that you may understand me properly, I must begin my account of the episode on an innocent evening, when Hanif and Pia Aziz had a group of friends round for cards.

My aunty was prone to exaggerate; because although Filmfare and Screen Goddess were absent, my uncle's house was a popular place. On card-evenings, it would burst at the seams with jazzmen gossiping about quarrels and reviews in American magazines, and singers who carried throat-sprays in their handbags, and members of the Uday Shankar dance-troupe, which was trying to form a new style of dance by fusing Western ballet with bharatanatyam; there were musicians who had been signed up to perform in the All-India Radio music festival, the Sangeet Sammelan; there were painters who argued violently amongst each other. The air was thick with political, and other, chatter. 'As a matter of fact, I am the only artist in India who paints with a genuine sense of ideological commitment!'-'O, it's too bad about Ferdy, he'll never get another band after this'-'Menon? Don't talk to me about Krishna. I knew him when he had principles. I, myself, have never abandoned…''… One, Hanif yaar, why we don't see Lal Qasim here these days?' And my uncle, looking anxiously towards me: 'Shh… what Qasim? I don't know any person by that name.'

… And mingling with the hubbub in the apartment, there was the evening colour and noise of Marine Drive: promenaders with dogs, buying chambeli and channa from hawkers; the cries of beggars and bhcl-puri vendors; and the lights coming on in a great arcing necklace, round and up to Malabar Hill… I stood on the balcony with Mary Pereira, turning my bad ear to her whispered rumours, the city at my back and the crowding, chatting card-schools before my eyes. And one day, amongst the card-players, I recognized the sunken-eyed, ascetic form of Mr Homi Catrack. Who greeted me with embarrassed heartiness: 'Hi there, young chap! Doing fine? Of course, of course you are!'

My uncle Hanif played rummy dedicatedly; but he was in the thrall of a curious obsession-namely, that he was determined never to lay down a hand until he completed a thirteen-card sequence in hearts. Always hearts; all the hearts, and nothing but the hearts would do. In his quest for this unattainable perfection, my uncle would discard perfectly good threes-of-a-kind, and whole sequences of spades clubs diamonds, to the raucous amusement of his friends. I heard the renowned shehnai-player Ustad Changez Khan (who dyed his hair, so mat on hot evenings the tops of his ears were discoloured by running black fluid) tell my uncle: 'Come on, mister; leave this heart business, and just play like the rest of us fellows.' My uncle confronted temptation; then boomed above the din, 'No, dammit, go to the devil and leave me to my game!' He played cards like a fool; but I, who had never seen such singleness of purpose, felt like clapping.

One of the regulars at Hanif Aziz's legendary card-evenings was a Times of India staff photographer, who was full of sharp tales and scurrilous stories. My uncle introduced me to him: 'Here's the fellow who put you on the front page, Saleem. Here is Kalidas Gupta. A terrible photographer; a really badmaash type. Don't talk to him too long; he'll make your head spin with scandal!' Kalidas had a head of silver hair and a nose like an eagle. I thought he was wonderful. 'Do you really know scandals?' I asked him; but all he said was, 'Son, if I told, they would make your ears burn.' But he never found out that the evil genius, the eminence grise behind the greatest scandal the city had ever known was none other than Saleem Snotnose… I mustn't race ahead. The affair of the curious baton of Commander Sabarmati must be recounted in its proper place. Effects must not (despite the tergiversatory nature of time in 1958) be permitted to precede causes.

I was alone on the balcony. Mary Pereira was in the kitchen helping Pia to prepare sandwiches and cheese-pakoras; Hanif Aziz was immersed in his search for the thirteen hearts; and now Mr Homi Catrack came out to stand beside me. 'Breath of fresh air,' he said. 'Yes, sir,' I replied. 'So,' he exhaled deeply. 'So, so. Life is treating you good? Excellent little fellow. Let me shake you by the hand.' Ten-year-old hand is swallowed up by film magnate's fist (the left hand; the mutilated right hand hangs innocently by my side)… and now a shock. Left palm feels paper being thrust into it-sinister paper, inserted by dexterous fist! Catrack's grip tightens; his voice becomes low, but also cobra-like, sibilant; inaudible in the room with the green-striped sofa, his words penetrate my one good ear: 'Give this to your aunty. Secretly secretly. Can do? And keep mum; or I'll send the police to cut your tongue out.' And now, loud and cheery. 'Good! Glad to see you in such high spirits!' Homi Catrack is patting me on the head; and moving back to his game.