Welcome, new subscribers!
My Twitter thread on the book The Indian War Of Independence by Veer Savarkar, and the struggles that the inmates of India House had to go through to get it published and to have it reach an audience has brought a lot of you here. Thank you all for engaging in such large numbers. This mailing list has nearly doubled this week!
As a brief introduction, I’m writing a novel titled India House, which is trying to narrate the story of India House in London from 1905 to 1910. It was a boarding house in London, where Indian students lived, and got inspired by each other to free India from the clutches of the British. The writing of the book The Indian War Of Independence is a big part of this novel. You can read about my thought process going into this here, and you can also read a more elaborate introduction to this substack and some novel excerpts here. While the book is based on documented historical facts, the parts that are coming out of my imagination are the narrative (structuring facts into a coherent, exciting story) and feelings and emotions (how each character felt about the events as well as other characters).
About this week’s excerpt
Our main character, Savarkar, who friends and family called Tatya/Tatyarao, took about two years or so IRL to write his book about the revolt of 1857, and it took three more years to actually get the book published and into circulation. As any writer will let you know, it’s a long and tiring process to write a book. So I’ve focused on the exciting and unusual bits as much as I can.
In this excerpt, our hero goes to the British library to research his book, and finds an unlikely ally.
The Excerpt
“Have you your letter of admission?” a patrician old gent said from behind a high desk. This part of the library was noticeably quieter, and there were more books, files and documents lining every inch of the space.
“Yes, I have it right here!” Tatya held it up for Jenkinson to see. Jenkinson moved the little posts with the ropes so Tatya could walk in to his section.
“Browse what you want. Don’t mark the records or touch them with your fingers. No moistening your fingers with your mouth. When you’re done, don’t attempt to put them where you found them. You’ll get it wrong. Leave it in the shelf marked ‘Seen’, and our docents will reorganize them. Clear?”
“Yes, Mr. Jenkinson,” Tatya said.
Orderly shelves, folders marked by topic, date, and department, documentation from every department to ever run India, be it the Department of Forest Tribal Affairs, to a collection of debates about the Sarai Act, and from every corner of India the British had ever touched. It was truly an archivist’s delight! Tatya found himself surrounded by armfuls of files, papers, and the musty smell of old newsprint all the way back from 1855 to 1860. His trusty pen, ink pot and notebook suddenly looked too tiny to contain all the secrets these papers held.
***
“Would you like some biscuits? And some tea? I’m putting a kettle on,” Mr. Jenkinson said.
Tatya looked up from his work with a start.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, you’ve been glued to your seat for five hours now. If all English boys were this dedicated, we would have put down the Sepoy Mutiny even harder.”
Tatya didn’t know what this man was getting at, and decided to play it cool.
“Yes, a biscuit would be very nice.”
“Come to the front, you aren’t getting crumbs on my papers.”
“It’s very heartening to see studious young Indian boys like you,” Jenkinson said as he made tea, “we need more such loyal British subjects. Especially ones with a deep interest in British history, like you do.”
Tatya was taken aback after two weeks of having nearly everyone at India House joke about his ideas for armed revolution. “With your levels of documentation, I’m surprised more British youth aren’t interested in history.” He said.
“We need people from all corners of the Empire to write books about our great work in the colonies which will appeal to our youth. I, for one, am looking forward to your work on the Sepoy Mutiny.”
“Oh?” Tatya said, sipping his tea, “Lovely tea,”
“Yes, just got a box of Darjeeling,” Jenkinson said, “The Sepoy Mutiny, isn’t it just awful how those monsters murdered and pillaged?”
“Completely,”
“Those barbarians were out killing our English women and children in the hill stations and cantonments. What else can heathen devil-worshippers think of?” he said. He lowered his voice an octave, “Tell me, do they sacrifice white children at the Kali temples?”
“No, Mr. Jenkinson, that is a rumour they like to spread.”
“Wouldn’t put it past those brutes. They did right suppressing them violently. Shame so many of our men had to die. Only a few here and there were given the Victoria Cross. If it were up to me, I’d give them all Victoria Crosses.”
“Darn straight.” Tatya said, growing uncomfortable.
“Managing this desk gives me a unique perspective, you see. I have read every single piece of paper that is in this room, and in their dispatches, our officers talk so fondly of the land, and nature. When the soldiers on British payroll mutinied, several of them were heartbroken. Simply heartbroken that the soldiers they had so kindly taken as brothers would do this to them. And that nasty woman, the Queen of Jhansi. Barren as a rock, couldn’t sire her own children, and took her adopted son into battle. What kind of a barbaric mother would do that?”
Tatya took a giant bite of the biscuit to keep his mouth too full to respond.
“I hope all the other young men in India read your book, and rightly feel ashamed of these disloyal sepoys, and remove all thought of revolt from their minds. I hear in some communities they highly revere these princes and soldiers. They even worship that fop, Nanasaheb.”
“Someone once tried to recruit me into a cult that did that!” Said Tatya, whose Young India society had, among others, portraits of Nanasaheb and the Rani of Jhansi as inspiration, “I told them off in no uncertain terms.”
“That’s because you’re a very sensible boy. I’m sure you’re almost as good at your studies as the best British boys in your class.”
“That is very kind of you to say, Mr. Jenkinson,”
“Come with me.” Mr. Jenkinson said. Tatya wasn’t sure what he intended. “Come, I have something very important to show you.”
Tatya wondered if Mr. Jenkinson had a collection of skulls of Indian boys disloyal to the British in a small closet. He followed him to the back.
Mr. Jenkinson opened a small door set in the wall. This room seemed infrequently used, judging by how its door creaked open loudly. Mr. Jenkinson pulled on a string and a light bulb came on.
The room had stacks of books and papers, and there was a door at the back of the room. Mr. Jenkinson made a beeline for that door, and began fumbling with his large bunch of keys to find the right one.
This door would barely budge, and Mr. Jenkinson had to kick it open. It was stuck to the frame.
“I keep telling Potter to fix that door, it’s always tomorrow with that chap.”
He turned on the lights, and the room was filled even tighter with books, papers, photographs, folders, files, and even parchment scrolls.
“It normally requires a letter from a Member of Parliament to access these archives,” Mr. Jenkinson said, “But that’s only because these need more gentle care, and we want to dissuade seekers who aren’t as serious. I think these archives will be much more useful to your research. You can read about what every single Member of Parliament and every top official thought of the Mutiny. You will see how they felt strongly about this, and how the government rightly made the decision to shutter the East India Company and have the Queen take over as the Empress of India.”
“Mr. Jenkinson, I can’t tell you how much I—“
“Come, see, this is the minutes of the Parliament sessions on the accession of India. You’ll get a lot of perspective from this. I really want you to use this as a reference document.”
“Mr. Jenkinson, I know this isn’t your way, but if I could, I would show my immense respect and thanks for your trust in me by touching your feet.”
“No, no, just don’t put your filthy fingers on the photographs. Only handle them by the edges.”