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"Please believe that I am falling apart.

I am not speaking metaphorically; nor is this the opening gambit of some melodramatic, riddling, grubby appeal for pity. I mean quite simply that I have begun to crack all over like an old jug-that my poor body, singular, unlovely, buffeted by too much history, subjected to drainage above and drainage below, mutilated by doors, brained by spittoons, has started coming apart at the seams. In short, I am literally disintegrating, slowly for the moment, although there are signs of acceleration. I ask you only to accept (as I have accepted) that I shall eventually crumble into (approximately) six hundred and thirty million particles of anonymous, and necessarily oblivious dust" (Rushdie 85).

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"'A charming pose of Baby Saleem Sinai, who was born last night at the exact moment of our Nation's independence-the happy Child of that glorious Hour!'" (Rushdie 324).

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"Newspapers celebrated me; politicians ratified my position. Jawaharlal Nehru wrote: 'Dear Baby Saleem, My belated congratulations on the happy accident of your moment of birth! You are the newest bearer of that ancient face of India which is also eternally young. We shall be watching over your life with the closest attention; it will be, in a sense, the mirror of our own'" (Rushdie 331).

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"I was born in the city of Bombay....Clock-hands joined palms in respectful greeting as I came. Oh, spell it out, spell it out: at the precise instant of India's arrival at independence, I tumbled forth into the world....I had been mysteriously handcuffed to history, my destinies indissolubly chained to those of my country" (Rushdie 5).

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Rushdie, Salman. Midnight’s Children. EPUB ed., Penguin Books, 2010.