Definitely my most eye-catching blog headline. During the edit process, I took out the equivalent of 350 pages which is actually more than what stayed in. It was hard to bring the axe down on the soft necks of my "darlings" (which appears to be a term of art...not sure, feel free to comment). Below is a prologue I really enjoyed writing and in my addled mind, it fit in the book. However, I didn't find one beta reader who thought it served the manuscript, so down came the steely blade, sending the prologue into my expansive "orphans" file.
So here it is...a little backstory on the Patel thread.
The District Minister ended the ribbon cutting with a short, sober speech, the protest across the street having sucked the air out of his moment. They were a macabre group in whiteface, marble-eyed, arms out scarecrow fashion, and wearing the blue and white tunics of the fire victims. A small team of priests had started hanging garlands around the necks of each protester, a Vedic rite that lent a solemn air to the theatricality. The Minister descended the dais, glad-handing the familiar faces and watched a stick-legged boy on his bike pedal by, his school portfolio slung across his back.
The train’s horn announced its approach, the engine like the head of a dragon, something called a maglev that floated into sight as serenely as evening prayer candles on the Ganga. A Hindu only when the cameras were around, the Minister had seen in these past twelve months an abject lesson in samsara worthy of Shiva, the rebirth of this forgotten section of Hyderabad made only possible from the cataclysm he had helped detonate. The riots had cost him personally, his own son now lost in the political ether, his social media feed like an IV drip. All of it invented, a Bollywood set piece. In the end, the factory fire had been his bridge too far, the charred corpses already making dream cameos.
The boy on the bicycle was waiting for him under the banyan tree standing astride his bike. “Minister-ji.” He clasped his hands in namaste, flung a leg over the seat, and then stood on his pedals, slipping back into the street, his portfolio left leaning against the tree. The Minister gave it an indifferent look, half wishing he had simply told the boy to keep it: go buy a house with it, go buy twenty houses and a fleet of cars. He felt the watchful gaze of the protesters, their arms still ramrod straight, mirroring the lengths of the train that now sat idling at the station where only nine months ago the garment factory had stood. Two city blocks in size, it had combusted so quickly, burned at such a high temperature that many of the porcelain fixtures had drooped in the heat like Dali clocks. Skip loaders arrived only hours after the final flames had been extinguished, as if parked at the top of the hill, waiting for the signal to come clear away the evidence.
In a city where people died waiting on permits, the pace at which the factory was bulldozed and then rebuilt six months later invited suspicion and soon after, anger. Not only was there now this eye-popping station but also an esplanade with al fresco dining, fire pits, fern bars, a Disneyland for the burgeoning young IT class. The minister stared off into some middle distance, the ghosts of the factory fire now vanquished though not forgotten, the wordless echoes of the protesters the only thing he would remember from the day.
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