Prologue

An exciting teaser

Hey, here is the prologue from my (still early) novel draft! I hope you enjoy reading this. I look forward to your feedback and making this novel the best it can be with your help!

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 Mrs. 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 Jarawa tribals didn’t get you with their poison arrows for encroaching on their land. 

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 muffled voices from beyond the door of the bathroom. It took him a second to realize he didn’t have to obey Officer Parker anymore. He hurled himself onto the glittering water of the Mediterranean, and swam towards the shore. 

Comment allez d’asile? The slap of the cold water woke him up properly. He hadn’t slept all night. He had asked to use the bathroom several times to tire out Officers Parker and Jones. And it worked. Officer Jones told Officer Parker to take him to the bathroom himself when he asked again at 6 am. And now, Officer Parker was cross. 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 fishermen taking their boats out for the day’s catch. Then he heard the shouts again. 

Parker, Jones, and the two Indian constables, Sathe and Kale from the ship, were coming for him in a little lifeboat. 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 finally felt the watery sand between his fingers, stood up, and ran onto the land, glad to feel the solid ground underneath him.  Parker and Jones 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 underwear that was clinging to him. 

“S’il Vous plaît!” he said to the constable, the words tumbling out of his mouth, “Je veux l'asile politique!” 

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

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There, I hope you liked that!

I was struggling with how to open my novel with a bang when Arun Krishnan suggested I open with this. I loved writing this chapter, and I feel this needs to be even better. More bang, more punch, more anticipation.

What did you think? Reply to this email or write to lila@substack.com and let me know!