Novel Treatments / Chapters One and Two ( of The Tailor's Needle) (Analysis)
Chapter I
If one could pry into the lives of some of the viceroys who came to British India, one would marvel at how the British could build such a grand Colonial Empire. Viceroys were usually noble by birth: barons, viscounts, earls, marquises, and the like. Who cared to bother that nobility by itself was hardly a virtue?
Lord Mortimer Edmund Griffin-Tiffin, His Excellency, the Viceroy of India, sat in his thickly cushioned chair looking at the mirror, which had a bejewelled frame, and saw in it the reflection of a rather comic face. His barber made every effort to ensure that His Excellency’s excellent skin remain unharmed by the exigencies of an overpowering pair of scissors. His moustaches, his side-whiskers, and his curly wurly hairstyle were examined from 360 angles to make sure that not a lock or curl stood out in rebellion and that every strand around the bald pate surrendered in submission.
“That’s not a bad job at all!” said His Excellency, “Am I free at last?”
“You were always free Sir!” said Mehmud, “It is we peepul who are slaves.”
“You’re getting cheeky, Maymood! I think my predecessor gave you far too much liberty. Who says India is enslaved? A country in which an ordinary barber can backchat so boisterously with one no less than the Viceroy himself, can hardly be called enslaved. Is it not a proof of the limits of permissiveness to which the British character can stoop?” said the Viceroy winking at his favourite Mehmud, the man who always provided His Excellency with lots of gaiety.
“Lord Sahab, you asking me? I says, there is in fact no limits to which the British character can st . . .”
“All right, all right,” said the Viceroy interrupting him, “Just because I like you, it doesn’t mean you’ll get away with anything that you choose to say. Come on, pull me out of this chair, will you?”
“Yes, Lord Sahab, I will. Just a meenut.”
The Viceroy was pulled out of one chair and put onto another, one that was even glossier and cushier. Four mirrors stood around the chair to facilitate His Excellency’s vision, which for the lack of a better phrase, could be described as “a vision that was focused ubiquitously”. He sat in admiration not only of his own head but also of his dear barber’s craft, which made his bulldoggish expression look more compromised and combed down. He ogled at his visage for long, trying to discover the response it would get from certain quarters. He thought of the males who mattered to him, viewing his face like Alexander the Great would when he dressed for his men. He then thought of what his homeland would make of his kind of a face; his countrymen, he held, were unduly critical. Next he contemplated what his mother would complain of regarding the new look his hairstyle had given him. Finally, he surveyed his face with the approving eyes of his Monarch. Somewhere deep within he could hear his inner voice say, “What a wonderful boy am I!”
His Excellency then turned his eyes on a life-size painting mounted on the wall in which Lord Curzon and the Maharaja of Baroda stood, each with a gun in hand, and two dead tigers (shot by them) at their feet. The painting made the wonderful boy smile further as he began to speak with an air of contentment:
“Maymood, am I not qualitatively different to that Lord in the painting?”
“You is actually quite different Sir!” said Mehmud, making the word sound like “dufferent”. “Lord Curzon Sahab was really great man!”
“You rascal! Don’t try my patience!”
The fifty-five year old wonderful boy then asked for his diary and was given it, instantly. The diary was covered with brocade. He opened the pages one by one and saw therein memories that made him smile. He read, ruminated, and grinned characteristically. He finally turned to December 21, 1917, and began to write his page for that day:
My thoughts a few days before Christmas:
India is a unique land. You can live here almost as if you were living in anonymity. The Indian mind is anything but critical. The Hindoos, particularly, accept you without exercising their judicious faculty. It is such a relief to live in a place where the scrutinising eye is missing. A few rebellious skirmishes here and there are disturbing no doubt, but otherwise you are loved for whatever you do. The man who is quite redundant in the home country suddenly acquires a dimension of greatness amidst this society of admirers. You kill a Hindoo and are loved by a Moslem and you cheat a Moslem and are admired by a Hindoo. How simple the mechanism is for the ruler in this country.
In India one need not be apologetic for remaining a bachelor. You can use your single status as an indication of your spirituality. I love the male world of this place. The more males you endear, the more you rise in peoples’ estimate. It’s a male-lover’s paradise.
Immediate Goals for Me:
(i) To acquire more territory (through the policy of annexation) from princely rulers that are careless. (Shouldn’t be a v. difficult task.)
(ii) To try, first of all, to get the state of Kashmere. The Maharaja there is ignorant. But he does have Sir Saraswati Chandra Ranbakshi to help him. That’s the man I should tackle. Ranbakshi’s education in England is likely to draw him towards me.
(iii) Try to manipulate more money at once. Mother must be waiting for her Indian fortunes.
(iv) To discover from the locals what some of my predecessors did to remain popular, and also what they did to hide their blemishes. I have to make serious effort to conceal my private life and expose the practical aspects of my sound self.
(v) To ensure that I don’t start rusting. I should read my Shakespeare and Dickens on a regular basis. Some of Swift might help as well.
(vi) To do things that would distinguish me from other viceroys who were often merely noblemen who came into power. I should rule over the hearts of Indian men. Going against Indian princes may help do this.
Having written his diary for December 21, the Viceroy signalled to Mehmud.
“Would you know Maymood, why Canister McClout hasn’t appeared before me for the last two days?”
“I don’t know Lord Sahab, but Kanastar has probably catched a heart-fever.”
“Good God! What kind of fever is that?”
“It is a fever in which the heart gets heated, and you feels cheated, when you is not fully greeted, and it refuses to obey the head.”
“Well, that’s poetry! You’re improving Maymood, though you’ve much to learn! The English language cannot be fooled around with. Canister, that awfully sweet idiot, is always up to some mischief or the other.”
“Yes, Lord Sahab, Kanastar is real idiot!”
“Shut up! Should we go in for my bath?”
“Yes, Lord Sahab, we will go in for your bath!” he replied with his imagination running wild as he followed this mighty man into the domains of his privacy.
Chapter 2
Kashmir, March 1918:
The Maharaja of Kashmir, Neel Mani Singh, lay on the floor, looking as if with half shut eyes at the crowds of people who were streaming in to pay their last respects to him. The expression on his face said that he had attained peace, after all. He had, as it were, reached that ultimate destination from where he could look upon the petty-minded with that victorious smile which life could hardly have hoped to offer. Now the envy of neither brother (in fact or in law), son (in fact or in law), courtier, cousin, nor concubine, seemed to matter. Rai Bahadur Sir Saraswati Chandra Ranbakshi sat closest to the body. The relatives sat next, each developing a newfound dislike for the other. The physical position of these relatives must have pleased the Maharaja’s soul because he had trusted the Rai Bahadur more than he did his own kin. As the Vedic mantras progressed, every brother, son and bumpkin transported his mind from the deceased towards the property he left behind. But the rituals had to be suffered before the gains began. The goal in almost every case was that more than holy document – the Maharaja’s Will. This was what really mattered; the rest was mere noise. Time crawled with a cruel casualness. The waiting was getting painful, making each of the hopefuls more and more skeptical and anxious.
Rai Bahadur Sir Saraswati Chandra Ranbakshi saw the designs of each of these relatives royale. He could read each mind like a writ petition. Having the advantage of twelve years in England: some in school, some at Cambridge, and some at Gray’s Inn from where he got his Bar at Law degree, the Rai Bahadur Sahab was no ordinary man. He had returned to India in 1902 a highly qualified barrister. The Maharaja had coaxed this jewel to adorn his crown, making him his private secretary and giving to him the status of a state governor. The British Viceroy considered Sir Saraswati to be one of the best minds available. He had wanted to bring the Rai Bahadur closer to himself, and thus the state of Kashmir closer to British interests. But the Rai Bahadur was adept at the art of keeping off without seeming to do so; an art that his British education had instilled into his personality. It was remarkable to see how well the Rai Bahadur played this game, often beating the British at it. But he had another side to his character: he had been the most sincere servant and friend of the Maharaja. He knew how to maintain the right diplomatic balance between the Kashmir state and the rest of British India. The grateful Maharaja had for this, and for so many other obligations, been more like the Rai Bahadur’s servant than his employer.
Pink, light-blue, saffron and yellow turbans went past the Rai Bahadur’s eyes. He saw the men who wore them and saw through these men. He had always done that. Believing firmly in his own convictions, he knew how much of his time and attention each deserved. He had his own methods of understanding people. For instance, he believed that there were two different kinds of men: one that took upon themselves every job or responsibility earnestly, the other – those that refused to be yoked under such burdens. The responsible types were obviously assets to their organizations and helped them prosper; the shirkers were parasitic and drowned their employers along with themselves. He held that whereas the second category of people appeared to be smarter, they were in fact more stupid. He would say that those who are apparently wise are usually otherwise. Sir Saraswati had rather simple but sound principles that he had discovered and that he used throughout.
Suddenly there was a visible commotion at the solemn scene. The Viceroy’s representative, the young Canister McClout, and his men, had arrived with a wreath from the Viceroy. The silence of the place was suddenly displaced by the curiosity about the “Who’s who from the Viceroy’s”. The relatives of the royal family stood up on their feet and the mourning-crew suddenly transferred its focus on the new arrivals. After ten minutes two Indian sepoys emerged followed by the pinched up Canister McClout with a wreath and a letter in hand. The mourners were distracted and now they appeared to be mourning for Canister, quite forgetting the actual object of their solemnity. The Maharaja lay as if looking upon and scorning this visit-extraordinary.
“Good morning! Could I speak to the Rai Bahadur?” said Canister in a voice that did not quite seem to emanate from his mouth. He had a strange way of keeping his mouth almost closed when he spoke; he could well have been the envy of a ventriloquist.
“You are speaking to him,” returned Sir Saraswati.
The five words of the man shook up Canister. The Rai Bahadur’s measured tone and crisp words boomed like bells in Canister’s ears and he suddenly grew conscious that this man was not like other Indians. He spoke like a distinguished British citizen. Even the Viceroy seemed less British than him, he thought. Canister had a unique position in the Viceroy’s administrative machinery. He was a kind of two-in-one figure. The Viceroy could use him both in the private as well as official capacity. One side of Canister had a cold public appearance; the other side could provide melting moments for the British Viceroy. That Canister had an excellent future in His Excellency’s set-up was a foregone conclusion.
“His Excellency, the Viceroy of India, Lord Mortimer Edmund Griffin-Tiffin, has expressed a deep sense of shock at the most unfortunate demise of his Highness, the Maharaja of Kashmere. Much though His Excellency wanted to be present at the funeral of His Highness, he has been unable to because he has currently been seized by an awful cold, and Kashmere could be harmful for colds.”
“Yes, indeed!” said Sir Saraswati, adding in his mind, “Particularly when the person arriving is so very cold.”
“There’s this letter for you from His Excellency, the Viceroy of India.”
“It must be for Her Highness, the Maharani Sahab, or for her son, I presume.”
“No, no; it’s for you, Sir.”
The letter disturbed the Maharaja’s relatives. Was it one of those moves that could interfere with the succession? Lord Dalhousie and his supporters had put the fear of God into the rulers of princely states. Colonizers had quite an appetite for these territories. They could gobble down a state like a morsel of beef without even a burp. The Maharaja himself had often been worried that his sons, Ranbir and Raghubir, were not united enough to give a forceful opposition to such designs. But for the Rai Bahadur, the state would have been annexed by now.
Ranbir and his uncle Udai Singh walked up to the newly arrived guests.
“This is His Highness, Ranbir Singhji,” said Sir Saraswati, “and this is Udai Singhji,” he said, introducing them to Canister McClout.
“Please accept the condolences of His Excellency, the Viceroy of India, who is extremely shaken by what has befallen the Royal family,” said Canister.
Ranbir was one who seldom spoke, and when he did it was usually to damage someone’s interest. He therefore did not respond much to the condolences; Udai Singh requested the Rai Bahadur to show Canister McClout and his men where they were to put up.
The Maharaja and his family had strange notions of cleanliness. He had been particularly orthodox and dreaded touching the skin of a foreigner. He feared that touching a Britisher could defile him. Whenever he shook hands with one (which he did only when he couldn’t escape doing that) he washed his hands with soap several times. This indicated that he did not even trust the cleansing power of soap. Udai Singh had also maintained this practice for his personal hygiene. But the new generation of the royal family was beginning to consider such practices old fashioned. This was largely a result of the influence of the Rai Bahadur, who thought it highly improper to entertain such ideas about the British. He believed that the British were rather clean in all matters of hygiene except one. (He had always consciously valued water where the British had found toilet paper sufficient.) He had admired the British from deep within. If the British had been a little more spiritual, he thought, they would be the most perfect race of humanity. It was this admiration for them that had made him imitate them unconsciously. Had his parents not instilled brahmanical Indianness in him, before he left for England, he would have been completely under their influence.
Sir Saraswati ushered Canister and his men out of the hall.
“You must be exhausted after this long journey. The road from Jammu to Srinagar is usually troublesome. Come and rest for some time.”
“Yes, thanks!” replied Canister from the narrow slit in his mouth, “The journey was back-breaking. But the beauty of the Himalayan foothills helps you to forget the damages your body is enduring. I’ve never seen anything so lovely.”
On his exit, the sons and the brother of the Maharaja began to speculate on what the Viceroy was up to. When you start guessing what you might lose, you tend to lose control over your reasoning. The royal in blood seemed to bring to the surface all the impurity that their blood contained. Those closest in blood to the Maharaja were in nature quite base and dastardly: If you saw them from close and thought of them, they seemed pretty useless and bastardly.
“Did you see, what’s going on?” said Udai Singh, “Deals are being struck; shares are being sliced out; we’re being axed and what should be ours is being siphoned elsewhere. The British are like foxes; they condole the death of the Maharaja but not to his relatives! This Saraswati must be having some secret pact with the Viceroy.”
The younger son, Raghubir, who had also come up to them now, did not approve of the allegation. He turned towards his relatives and found them exchanging looks with each other. It was a strange situation in which most of those present seemed to be opposed to most of the others there. Nothing was really said and yet much was taken to have been said. The relatives returned to sit near the body and pretended to resume the business of paying homage. They now looked a little relaxed, after the white-skinned envoy left the hall. The other mourners were also able to direct their thoughts towards the body. They had after all come to pay their last respects to the Maharaja. This saintly king would soon go up in flames and would never be seen by them again! Amidst the loud chanting of the Vedas each of the relatives grew more and more apprehensive about what the future held for him.
The fragrance of sandalwood and joss sticks dominated the usual smell of wet pine. The Conifers – the Devdars and the other pine trees – surrounded the Maharaja’s palace like tall sentries. They stood so still this afternoon. One got the impression that they were mourning even more earnestly than the men. But there were some men, though few, who were actually disturbed about the State’s future. Kashmir needed a Maharaja who was worthy of the State and no one in the royal family was good enough. Who knew this better than the Rai Bahadur. He was the only one to have created the right political space for himself. But his political space was that of kingmaker, not king.
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Your comic, satirical style drives this story along quite well. There is the fascination with making pompous and pampered British nobility look ridiculous, and it works here. The subtle depiction of the royal family’s infighting is a good set-up for what I’m sure will make a good story.
Proofreading notes:
peepul (There is little or no phonetic difference between this and people. If you are trying to show his accent, you could choose a better way.)
for long = at length ??
You have to ask yourself if a character (Mehmud) who uses basic grammar incorrectly would understand the question ”. . . am I not qualitatively different . . .?”
fifty-five year old wonderful boy = fifty-five-year-old
peoples’ estimate. = estimation
property he left behind = had left
organizations = organisations (BrEng)
. . . lay as if looking upon . . . (could be more eloquent)
The five words of the man (of the man isn’t necessary)
- add/view comments (2)
Right off the bat I have to say that I’ve always found saying ‘one’ instead of ‘you’ to be awkward sounding. While it may be your only choice in formal writing, it seems somewhat unnecessary in this case.
Fairly often you draw things out longer than they need to be. For example right in the beginning you say ”...thickly cushioned chair looking at the mirror, which had a bejewelled frame, and saw in it…”
The commas really just detract from the sentence and you would get the same message across simply saying ”...thickly cushioned chair looking at the bejeweled mirror, and saw in it…” This may seem like a minor change but it would add better flow to the piece.
Occasionally your wording gets a little juvenile. Saying something like ”...provided His Excellency with lots of gaiety.” just sounds bad. Avoid saying ‘lots’ in general, as it doesn’t have much of a place outside of instant messaging and high school notes.
I understand you are trying to add a note of dialect to the speech of Mehmud, but ‘peepul’ is pronounced exactly the same as ‘people’. Dialect is supposed to show you the DIFFERENT ways that words are pronounced in different accents. Also, you occasionally drop the actual dialect and just explain after the dialogue how certain words were pronounced. This sounds bad when done too often, and even worse when combined with regular dialect.
There are a few spelling errors, but I won’t bother pointing them all out since you can just run it through a spell checker yourself.
Overall I really enjoyed reading this. It was funny, interesting, and definitely worth a read. Thanks!
Since I’m a bit of a history geek, I love your time period setting. I noticed a few minor grammar issues and some of those pesky semi-colons can be cut. I can tell you from exprience that editors don’t like semi-colons, they’d rather see two seperate sentences. You’re dialouge was great and flowed smoothly. I think that I’d rather see the back story on the Maharaja worked into dialouge rather than just in the narrative. It reads as too much ‘telling’ to me and not natural. I hope this helps and if you have any questions about my review, feel free to drop me a line ;-).
I’m sorry but I have found this to be a little confusing.
I truly enjoyed the plot; you have an extreme abundance of characters and I assume that in future chapters you will build on the individuals in the royal family. I say this because I notice how well you pull together the identity of Canister; he seems somewhat immature for his post and trying to fill some big shoes.
You capture the feeling of the funeral a little dryly, but toward the end you make the emotions a little mroe clear. The fact that the royal family is more worried about the state of their monarchy than the funeral at hand is a nice dimension to work with.
I thought this was good. I am not very familiar with this period. but as a history buff i know enough about the culture and times to know that you’ve really done your research to be as accurate as possible with every detail. And to me you should be appluaded for that! It’s a very steady, well flowing piece, that does draw you into a world you are not very familiar with. There is always a market for a period piece like this, though i don’t think it’ll garner much mainstream interest.
I’m not trying to discourage you in any way. Sometimes writing is an iterative process where you end up cutting things that you worked really hard on and liked really well. This piece needs some cuttingto make the story pop off the page and grab the readers intertest. I don’t know, atthis point, how others have rated this, but, in all honesty, there are several major problems that are holding this piece back from making this a truly reamrkable read. You have a good setting, a high level of skill in writing mechanics, and a potentially intriguing plot, but there is entirely too much superfilous information that clogs up the works and doesn’t do anything to cary the story along. I’m suggesting the elimination of most of the dialog between the Viceroy and his barber etc. Get right into the story which begins with his diary enty. Focus on that, then launch into his plan for meeting with and taking advantage of the Maharaja of Kashmir.
“Who cared to bother that nobility by itself was hardly a virtue?” your meaning is not clear here.
“at the mirror, which had a bejewelled frame, and saw in it the reflection of a rather comic face” vs. at his rather comic reflection in the mirror.
The problem isn’t the setting. There are efficiency problems with the writing that slow or don’t contribute to the story.
“His barber made every effort” this whole bit doesn’t do much.
“His Excellency then turned his eyes on a life-size painting mounted” why couldn’t he just have looked.
You could almost eliminate, but definate the opening whick does no more than introduce the Viceroy as a fop and begin this stroy with the diary entry. This shows greater strength and provides a glimspe into his motivations.
“Going against Indian princes may help do this” How would this help?
“when you is not fully greeted” What is this all about. What an odd response. You could eliminate that as well and incorporate Chapters 1 and two.
“in fact or in law), son (in fact or in law),” parens back the reader out of the story to examine the contents. Use dashes in their place.
“The physical position of these relatives must have pleased the Maharaja’s soul because” vs. Where these relatives stood must have pleased the Maharaja because
“and bumpkin transported” bumpkin seems out of context here.
“some in school, some at Cambridge” isn’t Cambridge school?
“mourning-crew” this should be defined or simply stated that those who were there in mourning focused
“he washed his hands with soap several times.” if he was brahmin he would have perform rights of purificaiton as well.
I really like this, and it might be because I’m a student of Indian history. You are able to get the scarcastic air across without being too blunt and forward, and you add depth to your characters almost immediately. Theres a couple of areas where your sentence length draws on, and makes the reader want to jump on further in the text, but it’s not bad enough to call horrible. I like that you use the phonetic spelling of some of the characters names. It makes your characters stand out, adds a little more texture. Overall, good start here love.
It is a very good story of colonial British political intrigue in dealing with the royalty and the religions of India.Which was made even more difficult by the attitudes of the appointed government fops.I do enjoy stories of colonial India even back to the Bengal Lancers and the Khyber pass campaigns Gunga Din and all that.And the other Kipling stories.Write the spying,intrigue, betrayal and skullduggery into the story.And I for one will read it.
read nora roberts it just did not grab me in the beginning
reflection should be later on. develop with real action a battle some pain something
good effort its a lot of work keep it up
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