We’re back to novel excerpts this week. I wrote this one a while ago, and I must thank Hannah, Joe, Alex, Stewie, Lyle and Richard for reviewing an excerpt of my novel. Their feedback has made me much more excited about this action-packed bit than I was, and they also gave me a lot to think about my word choices, descriptions, and how the plot and action flowed. I’m glad to say that the later parts of my novel are liked much better than the earlier parts, which means I get better at this the more I keep writing.
This particular chapter from my novel is my imagining of what a press raid would be like in British India. IRL, Savarkar’s brother tried to get his book about the First War of Indian Independence published in India, but the British made an example of every publisher who dared to try publishing it, which made everyone else scared to even come near it. One of the people mentioned as a publishing associate of Babarao was a Mr. Limaye, who published a popular pro-Independence magazine out of Solapur, so that’s who becomes our publisher in this scene.
The image below is from this Indian express article about an 83-year-old press in Chennai.
Onkar Limaye surveyed the thin, balding man in front of him, his large nose and sharp cheekbones making him more imposing than he was, as they waited for Onkar’s wife to bring them tea and snacks.
“Was your journey pleasant?” He ventured, “Back in the day, it was quite the journey to come all the way to Solapur from Nasik.”
“The train makes it much easier than before. Back when I was a boy, we had to travel in a caravan for a week to attend Sadashivrao’s father’s wedding. But that was more fun when there was a month of merrymaking to expect at the end of it.”
“You are now staying with Sadashivrao, I suppose.”
“Yes, our families are very close. He was the one who told me you are a great publisher, when I told him about our Tatya’s book. And we were more than pleased, we read your magazine all the time, and are big fans!”
“Oh, not great or anything, I am a small fry, as small as they come. Sadashivrao is too kind. He is a big man, very honorable, very honorable family. So when he told me about your brother’s book, I was understandably very excited, and happy to help.”
“We are very grateful to you for hearing us out, genuinely. It has been quite a challenge to find someone willing to publish this. I have been trying to find presses in Ratnagiri, in Bombay, in Pune, and it has been a lot of work for little gain.”
“No, no, no, it is my honour to publish such a wonderful book, telling our youth about our great past and our brave heroes. I cannot wait to read it!”
Babarao brought out a neatly bound manuscript from his shoulder-bag. “Our small contribution to the cause of swaraj.” He said, as he handed it to Mr. Limaye, “And now yours as well!”
Mr. Limaye accepted it with both hands, and carefully thumbed through the pages. “How neatly he writes, your brother.”
“Tatya has always had an eye for the beautiful and orderly.”
“This makes my job a lot easier. I have heard it is a fast read for its length.”
“That is true. It is like having a conversation with Tatya. The pages fly by quickly.”
“Good. Otherwise, the young people won’t care for it. They want everything fast, and now.”
“If that translates into getting swaraj fast, and now, that would be a blessing.” Babarao said drily, and both the men laughed, as Mrs. Limaye brought a tray of tea and fried snacks.
“Babarao, consider your worries gone. Now this book is my responsibility.” Mr. Limaye declared.
Babarao heaved a sigh of relief as he lifted the tumbler of tea to his lips.
Mr. Limaye put on his tilak, his turban, his shoes, and picked up his umbrella and headed out. It was a fine morning. Not too hot. He didn’t need to unfurl his umbrella just yet.
He had read Tatya’s book and had been quite impressed. This book would make the fortunes of his press, and maybe with the profits, he could keep his magazine running for several more years. People subscribed heartily, but in this business, income was always fickle.
Vetya would be preparing the type for the pages. He had proven himself reliable, but he was still young and prone to mistakes, and needed supervision. The trick was to not make the supervision part too obvious. If Vetya believed he had more control than he did, he would be more likely to give it his all.
Suddenly, Mr. Limaye felt his feet give way beneath him. He put out his umbrella to steady himself, all it did was arrest his fall.
He rose up, dusting himself, and checked for damage. What had happened?
A small crowd gathered. He spotted the culprit - an overripe banana on the ground. It now lay crushed.
A middle aged woman in a maroon saree emerged from the crowd, and began yelling at a child who had been watching the scene unfold.
“This is fun for you? Throwing fruits at strangers is fun for you?” She slapped the back of his head a few times.
“Sir, our fervent apologies. I apologize on behalf of my idiot son. He refuses to study or otherwise be productive, and amuses himself all day with stupid pranks like this.” She dragged him by his ear to Mr. Limaye.
“Apologize!” She barked.
“Sir, I am very sorry,” he said in a monotone, like this was something he did all day.
“Tch! You have a scrape!” She said, observing Mr. Limaye’s arm, “What an idiot you are, you will bring us to ruin like this!” She barked at her son, who stood silent, only his hands itching to get back to more mischief, and then thrashed him.
“Sir, please come inside, I will wash and dress your wound.”
“No, it’s fine, it’s just a scrape.” Mr. Limaye said and prepared to go.
“No, I insist. I don’t want evil to come upon us because of my idiot son.”
Mr. Limaye followed her into her tiny tenement, and sat down on a mat she unrolled. The woman went inside and brought out some cotton wool, an old cotton saree, and a bowl with some tincture.
“Maybe your son can do with a job. I own a press, and there’s always work around there to be done. Fetching tea, cutting paper…”
“I know sir.”
“You do?”
“Your press is going to be raided.”
“What?”
“I can only tell you this once and we don’t have much time, so listen carefully. Your press is going to be raided. There’s some book you are publishing, and the people in the Magistrate’s office aren’t happy with that. So they are going to use some excuse or the other to accuse you of impropriety, and raid your press, seal your equipment on some excuse or another, and maybe even destroy all the expensive things. You might be out of commission for a long time if they have their way.”
“How.. how do you know this?”
She bandaged his wound with a startling efficiency.
“I sweep floors at the Magistrate’s office. Take my words seriously. You have nothing to lose by doing so.” Her job done, she rose.
“Very well. Thank you so much. You are a very brave woman.” He said, folding his hands in a namaste and bowing to her. “How can I repay you for this?”
“You mentioned a job for my son?”
Inspector Rand led his unit of nine men to the Swarajya printing press. They were to be on the lookout for a manuscript. The collector had said so. He had wanted to laugh. They had to look for one, specific, manuscript in a printing press? Might as well stop by the haystack and pick out a needle. They’d have to take them all.
Midnight would be a busy hour for the press. He looked forward to disrupting a fully working press, knocking out the tray full of type out of its stand, and putting his lathi in the press works, ruining the gears. Publish seditious literature, will they? He would take them down.
The press was a small affair. It involved taking the stairs down to a small door, and from the look of the building, it wasn’t very large. A very humble affair, thanks to all the restrictions the Crown had imposed. And yet, the orders had come from London’s India Office itself. Inspector Rand thought about what this press would all be like without all the import-export restrictions on business, and shuddered.
He gestured for his men to break the door.
Robert gingerly knocked on the door. Stupid native. No aggression in any muscle of his body.
He pushed him aside and screamed “Charge!”
The men charged at the door. The door opened easily.
There was only one old, rusty press machine, and it wasn’t running. The table full of type was small and sparse with letters. But the room was full to bursting with papers. Sheets of papers of many, many sizes and shapes, from broadsheets to letter-sized papers, and even thin, brown pamphlet papers.
“What is going on?” Screamed a thin, short man with a skinny moustache and a harelip, in a banian and lungi, who was pouring oil into the press machine.
“Raid.” He informed the man. We are investigating the seditious material you are publishing. We will have to take your press and manuscripts.
“If you are supposed to, you should. Just treat the press with care, she costs a lot of money, and it is the only one we have.” The thin man said, cowering.
The unit had taken over the room, tearing up the bundles, apparently looking for something specific.
“Where is the seditious manuscript? Tell me!” Inspector Rand thundered.
“I don’t know, sir. I can’t read!” The man whimpered.
The inspector smacked him in the head.
“It must be in that bundle, sir. I only run the machine and pull out the paper when it jams,” he said, pointing at a neat stack in a corner of the room, where files were bound up with thick, high-quality paper.
“Seize it!” The inspector ordered.
The unit sprung into action, bundling up the papers and carting them off, awkwardly going up the narrow stairs in their khaki shorts, with their caps getting in the way of carrying the bundles on their head. The wagon was parked on the main road several furlongs away; the only road wide enough to accommodate it.
In his show of bravado, the inspector realized he had ordered all his men to leave with the papers. Granted, the bundles were large and heavy, but they didn’t _all_ have to go, did they? Now it was just him and the press machine.
“Name?” He asked the young man.
“V-Vetya. Mahadev Veturkar.”
“Does this thing even work?” Inspector Rand said, kicking the machine.
The man winced. “It-it does, sir. This is how we make our livelihood.”
“Start it.”
“I - I can’t, sir. It needs at least three people to start it, and two of us, usually me and Gupte, to keep it running.
“Well, then, you don’t need this do you?” Inspector Rand said, indicating the table full of type, and kicked it down.
Vetya bent down and tried to pick up the fallen tray and pieces.
“Get out!” Inspector Rand screamed, and walked away, his boots crunching against the red oxide floors.