It's Crunch Time - Novel Editing Mode

Regular posts on pause

Dear Readers,

I wanted to let you know that for the next six weeks, regular programming on this Substack will be on a brief pause.

Why? I need to focus my writing time and energy on completing my novel. It’s a monstrous book that’s currently at 200,000 words, and I have edited the hardest 100,000 of them. I want to finish the rest by mid-June.

Regular posts will resume once the novel-writing sprint ends.

I need your help!

I plan to share my chapters with you all, raw and real. I know this is what a lot of you signed up for, so here it is. I consider you my beta-readers, and your feedback on the characters and story is quite valuable.

I will be restricting this to paid subscribers only. The motive isn’t financial - It’s a work in progress, and there are around 100 chapters in the making. I want to share it with those invested in the journey and can appreciate seeing the novel evolve in real time. I plan to send chapters 4-5 times a week, so it’ll probably last for about 3 months.

There are a few ways to opt in:

• Paid subscriptions on Substack start at $5 a month or $50 a year. This is the most seamless method.

• You could also contribute to Buy Me A Coffee. Memberships to my content there start at $2 a month and go all the way to $25 a month. You could also make me a one-time donation. Please let me know, and I will comp your Substack subscription to the paid tier.

• If you’re just enthusiastic about reading, reply to this email and let me know, and I’ll add you to the paid tier.

I’m looking for Cocomelon-type feedback - if a baby looks away from what’s playing on Cocomelon, they quite literally change that part of the video to be more gripping, and the result is that babies never look away from Cocomelon. That is what I aspire to with my novel, and I want you to let me know if something is boring and not captivating your attention enough or otherwise making you stop reading, and I’m sure, together, we will get there. And I will mention you in the Acknowledgements section of my book.

What the novel is about

In 1905, Indians live under the tyrannic and oppressive boot of the British empire. Shyamji Krishna Varma, a minister in the Princely State of Junagadh, finds his friend Balgangadhar Tilak imprisoned for sedition by the imperious Lord Curzon-Wyllie. Fearing he may be next, he moves to London, running a boarding house for Indian students. With Madame Cama, the “notorious Parsee of Rue de Ponthieu”, he hopes to sow the seeds of revolution in the young boarders.

Tatyarao, a calm, diligent, articulate law student joins India House. Shyamji gets more than he bargained for when the young Tatyarao founds Abhinav Bharat, a secret society that brings to life Shyamji’s violent plans to free India. Worse, Lord Curzon-Wyllie is back in London, hunting for seditious Indians to throw into the torturous prisons in the Andaman Islands, where human rights don’t exist.

As the cat-and-mouse game between Scotland Yard and Young India escalates, Tatya finds his worlds colliding. He must choose if he wants to lead a cushy life in Europe like Shyamji, denying his involvement with Abhinav Bharat, or standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his comrades who worship him, defending them in court, as the might of the British Empire comes down hard on them.

A sneak preview

July 8 1910, Port of Marseilles

“Je cherche d’asile?” Tatyarao muttered to himself. He wasn’t sure how to say “I want political asylum” in French, as he squeezed his small frame through the even tinier porthole of a bathroom on the SS Morea.

Coming from India, English had been hard enough to master already, and now his life depended on speaking French. Why didn’t he learn more from Madame Cama when he could have, in the years they had spent at Shyamji’s house?

Je m’apelle d’asile? His naked top half felt the early morning chill already. The sky was still pink. The sun was still rising lazily. He braced for the cold Mediterranean as he wriggled his midsection through quite easily. One of the few benefits of being on the prison diet for the past few months. If he made it to land, to Marseilles, he would treat himself to bouillabaisse, he promised himself.

If he didn’t, though, he would be spending the next fifty years on the island of Port Blair, in the Bay of Bengal, off the eastern coast of India, as a political prisoner. Sazaa-e-Kalapani — Imprisonment across the dark seas. Or, as the British characteristically understated, “Transportation”. You could swim for miles from Port Blair and not see land.

That is, if the Jarawas didn’t get you with their poison arrows for encroaching on their territory.

That is, if the Afghan jailors didn’t bash your skull in for trying to escape the prison building.

That is, if you weren’t passed out by working the torturous oil press and eating the meager, worm-ridden food.

That is, if you weren’t running a fever from the infections you got from having to relieve yourself in a bucket that was rarely changed.

That is, if you were still standing after the beatings and torture in the interrogation sessions.

That is if you hadn’t killed yourself already from watching your fellow freedom fighters being hanged right by your cell.

He hesitated for a moment. He had to do this properly. It was easily a forty-foot drop. And this was his last chance. The ship had miraculously had to dock for repairs on its way to Bombay, and they would set sail again later today.

“Hey! Hey! Stop! Don’t jump! Stop!” he heard Amarsingh and Siddiq’s voices from beyond the door of the bathroom. That gave him the last bit of adrenaline he needed. He hurled himself onto the glittering water of the Mediterranean and swam towards the shore.

Comment allez d’asile? The cold water slapped his body and woke him up properly. He hadn’t slept all night. But neither had Parker, Power, Siddiq, or Amarsingh. And now they would be so angry. Tatyarao swam like a madman toward the shore.

Parlez-vous d’asile? He barely felt it in his arms or legs as he swam powerful crawl strokes, crossing paths with the pêcheurs taking their boats out for the day’s catch. Then he heard the shouts again.

Siddiq and Amarsingh, too, had jumped in the water and were half-running, half-swimming after him. But they weren’t shouting for him to stop.

“Voleur!” they yelled, “Thief! Catch him!”

He swam even faster. The shore was within reach. He felt the watery sand in his fingers, stood up, and ran onto the land, glad to feel the solid ground underneath him. Amarsingh and Siddiq were closing in.

He spied a policeman in his navy blue uniform and red beret, and ran towards him, unselfconscious about being in only his long, wet cotton half-pants that were clinging to him.

“S’il vous plaît!” he said to the policeman, “Je veux l'asile politique!”

He watched the Gendarme’s face, hoping he’d finally gotten it right.

Cheaper option:

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Thank you for your continued support!

A Note On Pahalgam

The targeted massacre of Hindu tourists in Pahalgam is the latest in a 1000-year saga of Hindu genocide, as anyone who reads Indian history can attest. As I process my feelings in the aftermath of this tragedy that my family members escaped due to chance and divine blessings, I affirm that I stand with my countrymen, and trust our government to enact justice. If you disagree, I do not want your money or your attention, and please unsubscribe.