NaNoWriMo-2014-Winner-Certificate

How I Turned My Debut Novel into an Amazon Bestseller (Part 2 of 3) – NaNoWriMo and Online Book Launch

by with 4 Comments Author ProfileHow I Turned By Debut Novel into an Amazon Bestseller (Part 2 of 3) - NaNoWriMo and Online Book Launch

In my last post, I spoke of how I prepared the ground for the release of my debut novel, Maya’s New Husband. I carry that post forward here, speaking about how I actually wrote the book and conducted the launch events.

  1. I joined NaNoWriMo.org somewhere in August 2014. For people who do not know what NaNoWriMo is, this is a worldwide network of writers who come together especially during the November months each year to write their novels. Founded by Chris Baty, the intention here is to motivate people to write 50,000 words of their manuscript, after which they get a winner’s certificate. So, I became a part of this at the right moment – I say right moment because I was able to do my research on it, prepare the book’s outline, and then I could start writing on November 1 at midnight along with tens of thousands of other writers all over the world.

  2. I was also a part of several Facebook groups about NaNoWriMo, along with the wonderful NaNoWriMo Facebook group and the Indian chapter, Wrimo India, spearheaded by ML Sonia Rao. Being a part of these groups helped me in many ways. First of all, I had immersed myself into an environment where everyone around me was writing. Everyone was sharing excerpts, discussing characters, helping people stuck with their plots, and giving dozens of tips each day that helped me understand what I was supposed to do. And I did.

  3. I completed my 50,000 words on 20 November itself, and then took the remaining days to finish the novel (85000 words). The whole month of December, I edited, proofread, and showed the book to some people I trust for their feedback. I had already been sharing excerpts on my FB groups. And the reports were encouraging to say the least. I was revved up to go ahead and self-publish.NaNoWriMo-2014-Winner-Certificate

  4. I decided against traditional publishing for my first book because of several reasons. I did not want to give away all the rights, for starters. But the most important reason was that I did not want to wait that long to know if I can make it as an author. Yes, I am being frank here. Varun Prabhu, a co-author, helped me immensely in my research. And I was finally set to release the book on Amazon.com (through Kindle Direct Publishing) and make paperbacks available in India through Pothi.

  5. Now I had to take an important call. How would I market my book? I already had a reader-base owing to the excerpts I shared on FB and the short stories I put up on my website as I mentioned in my earlier post. I decided to have an online launch event on Facebook itself, since most of my reader-base was online. I created an FB event, and invited people to attend. But here I make an important note – I never did and never will invite anyone I don’t know, even if they are in my Friends list. I only invited people whom I had interacted with about the book. I guess that’s the reason why I received a positive response. Pro tip: Blind tagging and requests don’t help; they are only detrimental.

  6. I now needed to take my online launch event to a higher scale. So I did something unique, something for which people still continue to invite me to discuss and speak at workshops and seminars. I reached out to some of the popular names in the Indian self-publishing world. My offer was simple – I will promote your books my book’s online launch event (which had a good number of people by now) and you will put in a line for my book. And, let me tell you, each and every author accepted my proposal. Some of them told me later that they accepted it not because of the publicity but because they had read my excerpts and trusted my work, and because my request was worded with great politeness and decency. Another pro tip: Being decent always helps. Even if you are making a request, give people something in return. We are all here with a purpose, and it is unfair to expect anyone to help you if you don’t offer anything in return.Maya Event Announcement

  7. The online launch event, which was held on 3 Jan 2015 was a huge hit! Every author brought some of their readers (I had 12+ authors at the event, including India’s leading self-published author Rasana Atreya) and it was conducted brilliantly by an online media team named Spectral Hues. The presence of Spectral Hues got me a few press releases, a few interviews, and the ball started rolling.

  8. On the first day, I kept my book free to download (through Smashwords as Amazon does not allow that). I got more than 200 downloads on that day, and then the true test began.

  9. The reviews started coming in from the next day itself and it said, in no unclear terms, how they had finished the book in just 5 hours because it was unputdownable! Then more of them followed in the same vein. And I was made. Maya Ebook Praise

  10. The book purchases started from the second day. I did an important thing – make banners of the reviews and share them on online media. This encouraged more people to try out Maya’s New Husband, and that only meant more love for the book. Maya’s New Husband ranked as Hot New Release on the second day of its release on Amazon, and subsequently went on to rule at #1 on Amazon.in (horror), which it continues to do this day though not all the time.

In the meantime, there were several other things I did – like creating a teaser video for the book, creating promo banners, sending the book out for reviews, etc. I am going to speak about this in the next post.

Stay tuned.

Mayas New Husband

Blood in the Shrine (Bonus Chapter)

by Blood in the Shrine

Mayas New Husband
This was a chapter that was written to be included in the Part 1 of Maya’s New Husband. It did not make it past the editing stage, as it was thought to be too spoilery. If you have already read the book, you may enjoy this chapter. And if you haven’t read it yet, well… why haven’t you?

***

The night was darker than the inside of a beating heart, but the rag-picker knew exactly where to look. This street had been his domain since the last several years of his young life, and he had no qualms stepping even into regions that other mortals feared to venture into. His survival hinged on finding the best spoils anyway, and he could not leave before he had thoroughly scoured the area for all that it had to offer.

As he placed his unshod feet on the slippery grass, he suddenly winced and pulled back. It was the scream that came out of his lips first, and then the impulse to hold the brutalized foot with his free hand. In the ambient light, he saw the broken half of a bottle rolling away obscenely from the spot where he had just stepped on. It left a trail of blood behind for sure, but the darkness prevented him from seeing that.

He kept his bag down and hobbled along on one foot to a puddle, with the intention of plunging the burning foot into the cold water. Trivial matters like the possibility of the foot getting infected did not matter to him much. He had spent more than twenty years of his life in this filth; he was sure he could bear whatever filth nature and civilization gave him.

And so he came up to the puddle, whose darkened water shimmered in the wan moonlight, and dipped his foot in it. The wound didn’t seem to be quite deep now, and he knew he would survive it. He had survived worse things anyway.

Then he noticed that he was not alone. There was another man sitting by the puddle, probably washing his hands in it. Even though he was on his haunches, there was no doubt that this stranger was quite tall.

Who was this? Like a dog that feels threatened when another of its ilk steps into its domain, he felt threatened. He almost bared his fangs and was just about snarl something in anger, when the other man spoke.

“Are you hurt, brother?” he asked.

The sudden gesture of compassion threw him off-balance. “Who be you?” he asked.

“I am no one,” the taller man said. “Let me see the wound.”

“You doctor?”

“No, but I can help.”

The rag-picker thought about it, his slow mind trying to weigh the pros and cons of the situation. Then he seemed to have arrived at a decision and sat down on a rock next to the puddle. He raised his foot and pointed it at the man. “Look.”

The taller man, still on the ground, turned and took the foot in his hand. Ignoring the audible wince that the rag-picker made, he examined the wound, his head very close to it almost as though he meant to heal it with a kiss. But he only came as close to the wound as he possibly could, perhaps so close that he could smell the blood, and then stopped. The rag-picker looked at the scene with an amused interest at first, but when the man’s head began to twitch, he lost his grin.

“I have the medicine for this,” the man said. “It’s a mix of herbs. If you do not mind, I can apply that on this wound and it will be gone forever.”

The rag-picker shook his head. “No, no, what’s the need? This be a small wound. Clean gone by tomorrow, I know.”

“No.” The tall man shook his head in the way a doctor does when a patient refuses good medicine. “Believe me, I have seen a lot many more wounds than you have. This one looks small but it can get septic. Do you want to lose your foot?”

The rag-picker shuddered. “Can that happen?”

“Yes, if you are careless. Trust me.”

And then a smile arose on the other man’s face, and despite the poor light, the rag-picker could see that the man’s kind words were a sharp contrast to his face. The marks on his face reminded him of the creases on a molted snake skin he had seen years ago.

“My house is right here,” said the man. “Come in. I will take care of you.”

The rag-picker hesitated. He had been to houses of strange people and done strange things with them, special favors for gifts as they called it, but he did not know what to think about this man. Was he a kindred soul who just wanted to help him? Or was there something poisonous laced in his honey-dipped words? He could never tell. But what did he have to lose either way?

“Where be your house?” he asked.

“There,” the man pointed vaguely. “Walk with me. Can you walk?”

“Very much,” he said and began limping behind his inviter.

***

It was not until a few minutes later, when they were actually standing near the place, that the rag-picker realized where they were headed.

“This… but this place be always locked.”

The other man nodded. “I like it that way,” he said.

“That means… you own this place?”

There was another nod but no words.

“How?” the rag-picker went on. “This be not a house. It be a garage. All these broken cars.”

“You ask too many questions,” said the man, and there was a tone of finality in his voice. “I am only trying to help.”

The younger man balked at that tone. His body shivered for a moment, but then he stilled. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go in.”

At that, the other man smiled and ruffled the rag-picker’s hair. “Now that’s good, young man. Come with me.”

He expected a door perhaps, but there was none. And then his host did a strange thing. He hopped on one of the junk cars with practiced precision, and then on another atop it.

“What be this, now?”

The man looked down at him and grinned. “Well, the door is on top. Come on. There is hot toddy and chicken waiting for us inside. Do you eat chicken?”

That was it. Chicken! The young man loved chicken. It was a pity his rag-picking did not yield him much money for such delicacies. It was perhaps a couple of months ago that a lady had kindly given him a bowl near the orphanage.

He went behind the man, his emotions having suddenly transformed from those of skepticism to those of anticipation of a free meal.

They went right to the top. Hopping from one car to another in the heap, they reached the roof of the building. He thought of asking about the strange way to enter a building, but he had entered stranger buildings before. He knew better than to ask at this point.

The tall man reached the roof first. With his long legs, he lumbered on it, and stopped at a particular spot and beckoned him to follow. But when he reached there, he was aghast.

There was a hole in the roof, and it opened out a room below. There was a dull light, perhaps of candles, shining in there. But what was unmistakable was the fact that this place wasn’t as abandoned as it seemed from the outside.

“Someone lives inside,” he said in amazement.

“Yes, I do,” said the tall man.

“So how do we get there?”

“You have to jump.”

“Jump? You be joking? With this foot?”

“That’s the only way to go in,” said the tall man. “All right, let me go in first and then I will keep a chair or something so that you can climb down easily. Hold on here.”

The man jumped like a panther and that was when the rag-picker had a better look at the bunches of skin on his face. He had hardly got that image out of his mind’s eye when he returned with a chair and stood on it. He held his arms wide, and the injured man slowly eased himself into them.

“Phew! This place stinks,” said the rag-picker once he was inside and could walk on the floor. “What be this smell?”

“Dead rats,” said the man. “But we are going in that inner room. I’ll anoint… treat you first.”

He opened a rickety door and the smell suddenly changed. Now it was a sweet smell of burning incense sticks and flowers. There was a trace of sandalwood in the air.

“Oh!” said the rag-picker looking at all the incense sticks. “Is this something religious?”

“Something like that,” said the man.

The walls around the place were covered with several artworks. At first, the young visitor could not see them clearly, but then as his eyes attuned to the light, he saw the strange sketches. They were unholy beings of all kinds—vetalas and pishachas and asuras—and they were painted in the goriest details.

“I drew them,” said the man. “You like?”

The rag-picker tried to ignore the gruesome details in the pictures. “Where are the herbs? I must leave.”

“What’s the hurry?” said the man. “Come on, hobble over here,” he said and put his arm around his shoulder. “Let me show you my art.”

“Ouch!” the rag-picker winced.

“What happened?”

“Something bit me on the back.”

His host looked behind his back. He brushed something off. “There is nothing,” he said. “Must be a bug or something. Come.” And he held the man more firmly and took him to the first picture of a rakshasa devouring a horse.

The man looked intently at the picture and was soon lost in the various red and orange lines that made up most of it. He looked at the eyes of the rakshasa, which were in perfect symmetry with the dead horse’s shut eyes, and yet were in perfect contrast with them. Even with his very limited knowledge of the arts, he could say this was a brilliant piece of work.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow!” he went suddenly, snapping out of his hypnotic appreciation of the art.

“What? What?”

“It’s still there, whatever it is.”

“Take your shirt off,” the man said.

“Is it there? Is something there?” the rag-picker asked frantically, removing the offending garment in a panic.

“Don’t fear,” said the man, and now his voice was ominous. “It’s over. For now.”

“What?” the rag-picker said. “What’s over?”

And then he caught a glimpse of his naked back in a faraway dusty mirror. He saw the eight lines that crisscrossed each other, forming a kind of intertwined pattern etched right into his back.

And before he could question the man on how that tattoo of death came upon his back, he saw the glinting weapon wrapped around his knuckles. Its sharp points over the four fingers mocked his very being.

And then he turned and saw the lone chair in that room. This is where his heart leapt out of his chest. For, on that chair was seated a wizened skeleton with no face. Or rather, it was a face that was painted with red and orange paint. But what scared him all the more were the various materials of worship rituals that were around that seated corpse. As though the corpse was a deity and this was his shrine.

“Who is…” the rag-picker began to ask, suddenly aware of the blood that was now copiously oozing out of his back.

“You won’t need to know,” said the tall man. “Ever.”

The rag-picker fumbled for words.

“It’s a divine purpose,” said the man. “I will be easy on you, though. All I need is the heart.”

***

An hour later, the tall man sat with the heart, neatly diced and fried, and offered it to the dead man in the shrine.

“I will atone for my sins, Father, I will,” he said. “Accept this—my humble offering to you.”

hacked-2-1566979

Crafting a Villain that People Will Remember

by Crafting a Villain that People Will Remember

hacked-2-1566979

When I start plotting a story, I do not think of the protagonist first. For me, it is always the antagonist, the nemesis, the villain who needs to be characterized to their fullest extent before I begin writing. Most of you will agree with me when I say that it is the villain that is the backbone of any tale. In fact, without the villain, the protagonist wouldn’t have anything to do! The hero’s bravery is only justified by how well they can vanquish the bad guy (or gal).

Here I shall be talking of a few things that can help create a memorable baddie. This is mostly the way I tend to go about it, and everyone is welcome to have contrary thoughts.

Come Up with a Nice Snarky Name for the Villain

The name has to be perfect. Authors spend a lot of time thinking of their villains’ names, and that is an absolute must. See the hidden (and not so hidden) meanings behind some of these wonderful villains:

  1. Voldemort (from J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter books) — This breaks down into vol-de-mort, which could be construed as ‘flight of death’ or ‘theft of death’ in French. There’s an immediate connect between the name and the character.
  2. Dolores Umbridge (from J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter books) — Another Rowling gem. We know that ‘dolor’ means pain and ‘umbrage’ means an expression of utter anger. Perfect character fits, right?
  3. Bellatrix Lestrange (from J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter books) — Rowling is sheer genius when it comes to christening her characters, without a doubt. Just look at how many words are put in this name to establish the character — ‘tricks’, ‘strange’ — and these are interspersed with ‘bella’, which means ‘beautiful’!
  4. Hannibal Lecter (from Thomas Harris’ Red Dragon and The Silence of the Lambs) — There is no way anyone can miss out on the ‘cannibal’ reference here, and this is smartly juxtaposed with ‘lecter’, which immediately has a scholarly vibe to it. In fact, this oxymoronic name was what gave Sir Anthony Hopkins a reference point to play the character on screen. Subsequently, Hannibal Lecter became not only one of the top villains in the literary world but also the movie world.
  5. Professor Moriarty (from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes books) — This name starts with ‘mort’ which refers to ‘death’ and then we have ‘art’ which displays a kind of intelligence. It fit the character to the T, who was indeed the archenemy of Sherlock Holmes, eventually leading to his death.
  6. Duryodhana (from Veda Vyasa’s Mahabharata) — In Sanskrit, ‘dur’ is a prefix for anything that’s bad, and ‘yoddha’ means ‘soldier’, which is exactly what this brave but terribly misguided cousin of the Pandavas was.

Even in my own book Maya’s New Husband, the name of the villain, Bhaskar Sadachari, is a play on words. This character, who has a bit of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality within him, is as gentlemanly as he can be in the daytime and monstrous at nights. Hence, ‘bhaskar’ which means ‘the sun’ and ‘sadachari’ which means ‘good behavior’. At first glance, the name evokes a noble character, even a pious one perhaps, but it brings to mind a question — what does he do when the sun goes down?

Give the Villain a Setting of Their Own

It could be a lair or a prison cell or a hideout, but a villain does need to have their own sanctuary, a place that is different from the rest of the world around them. Make this place fit their character. You could choose to make it bleak and dark or not, depending on the nature of your story. However, if you do make it dark, it will add to a brooding quality to your villain. It will right away demarcate the fact that your villain lives in an atmosphere of their own, which is different from the rest of the world.

When I chose an abandoned garage that could only be accessed by climbing up a pile of cars and jumping down a hole in the roof, I built a personal sanctuary for my villain for his dastardly acts. It instantly set him apart from the rest of the world outside and painted him as different.

We know of a particular real-life villain who lived in an underground bunker and the terrors he committed there. Even a mere thought of that can send shivers down the spine.

The hideout of the villain also plays an important plot role, especially whenever unsuspecting people stumble into it. The very fact that someone who doesn’t know a thing has stepped into the spider’s web can keep the readers glued to what happens next.

Most of the James Bond movies are about the master spy trying to infiltrate into such villain domains. Why do you think they work so well? They do because everyone wants to in on the thrill of stepping into forbidden territories.

Give Your Villain Typical Mannerisms

Villains, especially the arch-villains, are not like ordinary people. Their mind behaves differently and they have quirks that most of us won’t have. I would highly recommend everyone to get acquainted with the multitudes of villains in the D. C. Comics series, especially in the Batman stories. Right from The Riddler to Scarecrow to Penguin to the quintessential one, The Joker, every villain is laden with layers and layers of typical mannerisms. Some people might call this exaggerated villainry, but it is good to seek inspiration from.

The mannerisms are also what set your villain apart from the rest of the crowd. You could use them for an added thrill in conversation and can also incorporate them in major plot points. Once you have these behaviors pat down, there is no end to how you could use them.

Give Your Villain a Shady Past

A secret is always interesting. It makes people sit up and take notice when it is revealed. By secret, I do not mean a flashback which justifies the villain’s actions. That is something we must avoid as much as possible. If you justify your villain’s actions too much, you are watering them down and reducing the impact drastically. But, it could be a secret that could add to the character more. Remember how the world reacted when Voldemort’s secrets of the Horcruxes came tumbling out? Yes, we need such wow moments in our work!

Now, what past you create depends on the nature of your villain. But I strongly suggest creating this backstory before you start writing your book. The backstory, even though it is revealed much later in your book, it will help you drive the plot forward in the most plausible way.

As an endnote, I would like to say that though you keep these points in mind, it is necessary to keep your villain unique. Work with the elements and come up with something original. Steer away from cliches, because that will kill your villain before the hero can.

The Birth of Maya’s New Husband

by with No Comment Author ProfileThe Birth of Maya's New Husband

The Calling at Calangute

In the pleasantly warm month of August 2014, my family and I went on our annual food, fun and frolic pilgrimage to the wonderful carnival and cashew feni state of Goa. Over the years, this has become almost a ritual for us, a way to unwind from the hectic mores of the routine Mumbai life.

The Calangute Beach Residency where Neil D’Silva’s novel Maya’s New Husband took birth

Now my family consists of me, of course, my wife Anita, and our two lovely angels, Gilmore and Felicia. The kids are quite a handful, but they keep our spirits high. Most of our trips are centered on them, as they should be; there’s precious little that we do for ourselves.

Every year, our trips to Goa turn out to be the annual highlights. We begin looking forward to them from March itself, and the year of 2014 was no different. However, that was only as far as anticipation goes. For, when the trip actually began, we suffered, right from the outset, from a severe case of Murphy’s Law. For the uninitiated, this Law states: If anything has to go wrong, it will.

So, in Goa, this year, everything began going wrong. We decided to go by train this year, which turned out to be a bad idea. Blighted by gregarious co-passengers and facing inordinate delays, we somehow reached Goa. We alighted during a sudden torrential downpour, in which we traveled to our destination — Colva. This was a long and onerous journey because of the rain and a major road accident ahead of us. The next day, we had to go to Calangute, our final destination, and that journey turned out to be misery personified as well. In any case, when we reached Calangute, we were told — horror of horrors — that there was an issue with our booking. Despite having a two-month advance booking, due to an oversight (mea culpa), we had to give up the reservation and then footed it along the beach to another hotel I knew had rooms available.

Finally, we downgraded ourselves, and found ourselves in a passable accommodation, where we would pass our next three days in bliss.

But, alas! Bliss it was not meant to be! For, the very moment that we dumped our bags at our hotel, Anita caught the chills. She ran a temperature, which was brought down by the antipyretics we carried with us, but she was too emaciated to travel anymore. She could only join in the fun from the hotel room.

So, this was the trip in summation. But, what has all of this got to do with Maya’s New Husband?

I’m coming to that.

The one most wonderful thing about our impromptu accommodation was that it gave us a magnificent view of the salty Goan sea. We were right on the beach, and the balcony opened out to the sounds of the lashing waves at every hour of the day.

On the second night there, after the kids had slept, Anita and I sat on this very balcony, close to each other, snuggled in one warm blanket, and looked at the stars. We spoke of general things, mostly about our lives back home, because that ghost never seems to leave us. But, somewhere midway through this conversation, I was reminded of Longfellow’s brilliant phrase: Footprints on the sands of time.

This created a passion in me like no other. I began thinking aloud, with my patiently-listening wife for company. What would happen of me when my journey here is done? Would I be obliterated just like that? Would I be one of those nameless, fameless grains of sand? Or, would I leave a few of my footprints on the sands of time?

What legacy would I leave behind?

I thought aloud, and she listened. And then I told her that I have to follow my dreams. Because, well, ars longa, vita brevis. I decided, then and there, that from that moment on, I will give wings to my fancies. I will leave my footprints in the form of my stories.

I brought my laptop out that night when everyone had slept, and sat through the dead of the night, in that quaint hotel on Calangute Beach, Goa, chipping away at the machine. It was around 3 in the morning that the initial words of Maya’s New Husband began to take shape.

The Inspiration

The story of Maya’s New Husband chose me. I did not choose it.

Horror had always fascinated me, but, for me, horror isn’t just about spirits and ghosts and vampires. It is much more. Real horror is that which you can feel. Real horror needs to have its element grounded in reality. Horror stories that play out in our real world are the ones that are the scariest.

Here, again, my marriage with Anita became an inspiration for the story. Ours was a so-called ‘arranged’ marriage. We knew each other just for a little less than a year before we got married. This is too short a time to understand each other, their likes and dislikes, their pet peeves and fond fancies, or anything for that matter. Despite that, we took the plunge.

From that first day of marriage itself, I had an awareness of how much harder the marriage must have been on her than on me. She was the one who had left everything behind and made a home with me. I was still in the same house I lived in. Her stakes were undoubtedly higher.

Millions of women marry in this manner in India each year. Knowing practically nothing about their husbands, they aspire to make their homes with them. And, a lot of times, they face unspeakable horrors at the homes of these unknown husbands.

What if, a woman married someone who held the most terrifying secret within him? Won’t each moment with such a man be present a new horror for the poor woman?

This was the basic grain of the horror element of Maya’s New Husband. The horror is not because of the themes; it is because of this desolation that Maya surrounds herself with in her new house.

My inspiration took form from my personal observations, and Maya took shape.

View from balcony of Calangute Beach Residency that inspired D’Silva to write MNH

 

The Process

I could not have written the story if I hadn’t been introduced to National Novel Writing Month in 2014. Towards this end, many things had been instrumental. My brother, Roy, helped me in creating an author website. As the website was created, I saw how my short stories got a concrete platform. My interest was piqued, and I started sharing my stories with people, and got a heartening response.

This was what made me confident of writing a full-fledged novel. It was time to give Maya’s New Husband a shape too. During the NaNoWriMo month, I started writing right from November 1, 2014. I wrote all through this month, religiously clocking in several hours every day. Finally, the manuscript was finished on November 21, 2014.

I won the certificate as a NaNoWriMo 2014 Winner. I proudly shared it with everyone I knew.

When we were a week into December, I sat with the editing of the novel. Anita sat next to me all through those hours, and as she read it, I saw the expressions on her face and realized this was something that could hold people’s interest. I shared the story with a few other people and found similar reactions. I knew I had something monumental in my hands; now all I had to do was to edit it thoroughly and share it with the world.

Maya’s New Husband underwent three complete revisions. I added scenes, deleted fluff and when the third version was done, I got the feeling that this was ready to go.

Around this time, I did some research on self-publishing. This is really an amazing thing! Writers no longer have to grovel at the feet of traditional publishers; they can hold out on their own. The Internet is a wonderful place.

On January 1, 2015, I put forth the eBook to the world. It earned strong reviews right from day 1. Maya’s New Husband had taken off.

On January 18, 2015, I was ready with the print version. This was launched at a happening online event, where some of the best self-published Indian authors attended. The event was buzzing through the night, and the book arrived in its print form.

Today, as I see the print version of Maya’s New Husband, I get a feeling that cannot be described in words. Yet, I am only humbly reminded of the beautiful words of another masterful poet, Robert Frost:

But I have promises to keep

And miles to go before I sleep

And miles to go before I sleep.

 

Read the entire success story of Maya’s New Husband here.

Chapter 1.5: Kidney Beans on Toast

by with One Comment Chapter One and Half: Kidney Beans on ToastMaya's New HusbandSample Chapters

The girl opened her eyes with some effort. Her head hurt as though she had been hit. She tried to touch the part that hurt her, but realized that her hands had been tied with a thick rope. The rope—made of pure coir—had cut into her fair flesh and even in the near-darkness, she could see the blood trickling down her wrists.

The fear came over her like a storm. It was an immediate explosion of memories: returning home after her extra practical classes at college… standing at the bus-stop alone at that late evening hour… the shuffling behind her in the bushes… the sudden sharp blow to the back of her head… and then, blackness.

She tried to yell, but at that moment she became aware of the gag that was stuffed in her mouth. She looked down and was horrified to see—it was her own blouse. Stripped off her body, stuffed into her mouth.

All her dreams turned to nothing in that one instant.

Topper in school and college.

The only girl in the Physics class.

Will go far; will become an engineer.

Will marry a wonderful man; have wonderful kids.

Nothing!—It meant nothing now.

The only thing she wanted was release.

To escape from this unknown place where she was tied to the floor, naked like a hog, terrified beyond measure.

An awareness of pain followed the sense of shame. The pain arose from her thighs, and she looked down at them, frightened of what she might see.

Her fear wasn’t unjustified. It was a strange pattern—four parallel curves intersecting four other parallel curves forming a crisscross spiderlike pattern. She looked at them, amazed and somewhat fascinated at their artistry, and then realized—the pattern wasn’t drawn on her thigh with a pen; it was cut into her flesh with a weapon.

The redness was not ink; it was blood. It was the source of her pain.

Once the consciousness of the pain set in, it refused to go away. She wanted to hold the wound, contain the blood flowing from it, but her hands were tied. She kicked the only free part of her body—her legs—but doing that only made the pain more intense. The cuts were thin but deep, and more blood oozed as she moved her legs.

She squirmed and tried to break free from the pillar where she was tied by the wrists. They began to bleed too, and trickles of the warm fluid started moving along the sides of her torso and mixed in the pool that was already accumulated below her.

It was too much blood. She wondered how such a spindly wound could cause so much blood to flow. It seemed unreal, but the slight tinny smell in the air around her told her otherwise.

The darkness of the night was receding now, but she couldn’t see anything beyond her toes. Then, as her eyes got acclimatized to the darkness, she became aware of something. A figure in the darkness. A man.

He was seated at the far end of this room or whatever it was. She could only see his head and his naked chest. He sat without making the slightest movement, like a mannequin in a departmental store. But the most frightening thing about the man was his eyes. There was something quite wrong with them. The darkness did not tell her much, but she could sense their oddness, and she could sense their unmoving gaze upon her. She squirmed, trying to break free, or to at least move away from the unflinching gaze upon her. But, the more she moved, the tighter her bonds became.

Then a rat, of which there was no dearth here, emerged from behind the head of the distant human and darted towards his eyes. Why did the man not move? He stayed put there, even as the rat sniffed all over his face, and then began to nibble, right into his left eye.

That was when she realized.

She was staring at a long-dead corpse.

The blood loss began to take its toll on her, and she was again plunged into darkness.

***

The hapless girl woke up with a start when she felt someone touching her breasts.

Fully alert now, she attempted to focus her vision, and the shape of a man squatting next to her materialized. There seemed to be a smile on his face, but there wasn’t anything cordial about it. Yes, he was ugly. And the ugliness was not merely of his warty face or his unkempt hair. It came from somewhere within him—from the diabolical look behind those smiling eyes, from the stench of death that underlined his strong odor. For a moment, she forgot the excruciating pain arising from her wounds.

Pain, like everything else, has a limit. It is acute when fresh. It is at this time—when the aggravation is newly inflicted—that it is the most unendurable. But if it persists for a period of time without being allayed, the nerves of the body get familiarized with it. The receptors still carry the physical impulse, but the effectors do not bring back any biological response. It is then that the pain begins to weaken, or rather the body becomes stronger to bear it.

However, this also makes things much more frightening. When one can see a gaping wound in their body and the blood oozing out of it too, but cannot feel the pain, that’s when things become the scariest. It’s enough to drive anyone nuts, and this was just a fragile college-going girl.

“No… Don’t pass out again,” the squatting man pleaded. “I want you to see. Will you do that much for me? Will you stay awake for me? Please?”

It was a plea, like a beggar beseeching for food.

Then she saw the weapon in his hand. Not exactly in his hand, but on his knuckles. His fingers passed through its four joined metal rings, the ends of which had sharp, pointed nails. The nails were soaked in blood; and she realized it was the blood of her own flesh.

Still smiling that vicious smile, he plunged that knuckle thing deep into her body, this time right into her chest. She could not see this new wound, but she felt it for sure. There was a sound too, a sickening crunch, and her educated mind told her what it was. A memory of a twig she had once stepped on came to her—the poor twig had broken into two with the same crunch.

As warm blood trickled down her torso, she was surprised she still had blood left in her body to flow out of the new wound.

Then, she reacted. A shriek of the newly-generated pain formed on her lips, but the sound died out before it could emerge. Her weakness overcame her response to pain.

She looked into his eyes and, as she could not speak, her eyes did all the talking. Her vision was becoming groggy now; and yet her eyes pleaded, implored, begged, made an earnest request to leave her and to spare whatever was left of her—both in body and in spirit—and, for a moment, she thought that he understood. For he took her head in his arms and took it close to his chest and, smoothening her hair, said, “Don’t worry, dear. It will all be over soon. It has to be done, you know? We all have to atone. Believe me, I am sending you to a happier place.”

There were no more tears, just the ones that had been already let out, drying up on her bloodied cheeks. The last sight of her short life was that of the dead man she had seen before, the one in the distance. His face was still turned towards her in the same manner, motionless in all other respects. But now some daylight streamed into the room. She could see a little more. His face seemed pale; and where his eyes had been, she could only see bloodied hollows, and the tails of rats emerging from them.

“I’ll get started now,” her tormentor said, holding her chin up as though he meant to kiss her. “I’ll get you out of the misery right away.”

Her heart was stopping now, her brain still flickering with its last dredges of life. Her vision stilled itself upon the man. She saw now how white his body had become, drained of all its blood. White as a sheet. White as dead. And, on that white skin on his chest, she saw the dried up mark—the same mark of the spider that she now possessed.

“Oh, him?” her killer looked in the direction of her gaze and said. “It’s been a while since I had him over for dinner. He’s become a bit stale now. Don’t feel like going to him anymore, and why should I? I have you now, don’t I? But let me tell you this—his kidneys! So juicily healthy and wonderful! He made an excellent dish of roasted kidney beans on toast.”

That’s all for the sample! Get the full version of Maya’s New Husband at the following links:

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Chapter 1: That Awful Stink

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When Maya Bhargava was appointed the Head of the Biology Department at the Madam Somdevi Khanna High School for Boys, she felt she had reached a milestone towards the fulfillment of her goals. Having taught in the school for seven years, it was about time she received due recognition for her work. At 33 now, she wasn’t getting any younger.

That day, her first day as H.O.D., she and her friend, the English teacher Padma Murthy, sat in her new cabin and had a discussion on how times had flown. They spoke about their past days in the school, and generally cribbed about other teachers and a few of their students. Padma was on the right side of 40 still, but she hadn’t received the recognition her younger friend had. That was a sore point, but in her English Department, such accolades were rare.

They opened their respective lunchboxes and geared up for their small communal meal. Maya had a preparation of okra and eggplant, a dish Padma truly enjoyed, and Padma had vegetable biryani with paneer, a favorite with Maya.

“The students nowadays!” said Padma between mouthfuls of eggplant. “Atrocious! I happened to confiscate a few of the boys’ phones today. Regrettably, I skimmed through their contents.”

Maya chuckled. “What did you see on them, Padma?”

“Don’t ask!”

“Did you see some boobies?” Maya made an obscene gesture to go with her words.

“Good Lord, Maya!” said Padma, scandalized. “The things you say.”

“Come on, Padma, these are boys! At their age, they are all fighting their hormonal demons. What else did you expect to see? But tell me—didn’t you enjoy it at that age too?”

“Shut up, Maya!” Padma almost dropped her spoon.

“Yeah, don’t act like a saint,” said Maya. “Don’t tell me you were any different as a fifteen-year-old.”

“Certainly not!”

“You know, when I was fifteen, we had this amazing teacher. We used to call him Robinson Sir, and he used to teach History. Oh, what a dreamboat he was! That slickly combed hair and those washboard abs and the neatly ironed formal shirts and trousers he wore! We girls spent a lot of time cursing whoever the bitch his wife was. We had to just smell his deodorant and we would have an orgasm.”

“You are a teacher, for God’s sake, Maya!” said Padma.

“Stop being such a prude, Padma. Loosen up. We are all human under our teachers’ garbs.”

They were busy with their colorful banter when there was a knock at the door. Even before Maya could ask the person to come in, the door opened and a head butted in.

It was Bhaskar Sadachari, the Arts teacher of the school. Everyone knew he had been appointed on the recommendation of Principal Rajkumar Purohit himself, and perhaps the recommendation was justified. He did have some skill in those oddly long fingers of his, which he had shown with his work over the past couple of years. However, the esthetic appeal was limited to his artworks. It didn’t extend to his physical form. His hair was always in a state of disarray, his eyes often bloodshot, and a perpetually overgrown stubble tried in vain to hide the ungainly face that lay underneath. Wherever he went, he left behind aftershocks of comments—people buzzing about his near-complete abandon of any aspect of hygiene.

Through the corner of her eye, Maya saw Padma wrinkling her nose and closing her lunchbox.

“Madam,” the man addressed Maya, completely ignoring her friend, “I’d like to know if you need any help in setting up the models for the Science Exhibition.”

Maya thought. She did need help, for she had ambitious plans to make a few large models. This man, who was known for his artistic skill, could be a good assistant. But, accepting this offer would mean spending time with Mr. Weird Man, and that was something she did not want to do. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll let you know,” she said in a dismissive tone.

Bhaskar was probably too boorish to take that hint, or maybe just too obstinate. He hung at the door awhile, giving the ladies one of his twisted smiles. Padma avoided eye contact by trying to find something in the folds of her saree.

“Yes, you may go,” Maya told him curtly.

The sentence was succinct, but it conveyed what it meant in no mean terms. Being snubbed directly, Bhaskar retreated his head from the door and left.

No sooner did he leave than the ladies began gossiping. “What’s the matter with him?” said Maya. “He is so creepy.”

“Have you seen his neck?” said Padma, shoving the lunchbox aside. “Sorry, I won’t be able to eat now. His neck—it’s so red.”

“Is it? I haven’t really noticed.”

“Rajan Sir told me he saw him in the washroom once, washing his face with his shirt buttons open, and he saw his chest was red too. Initially, I thought it must be a rash, but what is it now—a year?”

“Two!” said Maya emphatically. “It’s two years now.”

Padma moved in closer, the way one does when telling something conspiratorially to a friend. “Also, did you notice? I don’t think he ever bathes. The moment he entered, the room was filled with this awful stink.”

“Stink? Really?” Maya shook her head. “I didn’t get that. Probably it’s my blocked nose.” She let out a mucus-laden sniffle to validate her point.

“He is dreadful but what can we do about it?” asked Padma with her hands in the air. “The Principal is besotted with his work. He’s not going to send him away.”

“Yeah! The children like him too. I keep hearing of all the brilliant drawing he does. However, I find him creepy. It’s not because of his looks, it’s the way he acts. Almost like a stalker.” Maya let out a shudder. “I’ll prepare the models myself, but I am not going to take his help.” The resolution in her voice brought an end to the conversation.

***

Anuradha Bhargava was a contented middle-aged woman, proud of her traditional Maharashtrian roots. Her home was filled with symbols of her religious and communal affiliation, and she was proud of having raised two daughters to be such headstrong, self-believing women. Her older daughter, Maya, had just called to inform that she had been promoted to the Head of Department. She didn’t really understand what H.O.D. meant, but she didn’t want to lose the opportunity to bask in her prized daughter’s glory. Her other daughter, Namrata, worked as a Floor Manager at a suburban mall, which was a big achievement, particularly in the male-dominated environment of mall management. Yes, Anuradha Bhargava was certainly proud of her daughters.

Her only afternoon chore was to prepare lunch for herself. Her daughters ate at their workplaces. Eating a simple but delectable fare of vegetables with chapattis and pickles while watching TV was the highlight of her day.

She finished her chores and sat down on her favorite easy chair and began surfing channels. Her housewifely interests veered towards family soap operas. She could watch several at a time and be passionately affected by all of them. The grandfather clock in the corner told her there was an hour more to watch whatever she pleased. Maya never allowed her to watch her soppy shows once she returned. They curdle your mind, she always said.

When she was engrossed in watching how the daughter-in-law on TV gave a scathing response to her old crone of a mother-in-law, there was an unexpected ring at the door. In a reflex move, Anuradha changed the channel. If Maya had returned earlier than her usual time, she didn’t want to be caught watching this show. When the doorbell went a second time, she got up gingerly and moved towards the door. It scared her to open the door like this; the peephole didn’t help much as the corridor outside was dark in the afternoons, and the safety chain was erratic at best. She made a note to remind Maya about getting a safety door installed.

However, her worry was unjustified. It wasn’t Maya at the door, just the neighboring woman. “Is the electricity working here?” she asked, smiling with her dentally-impaired mouth.

Anuradha nodded, and the woman smiled. She didn’t leave though; it was the unspoken communication between two leisurely elderly women who seek each other’s gossipy company. The electricity had just been an excuse to start a conversation, and it had worked.

“Come in, Laxmi,” said Anuradha, opening the door wide. “I have some good news for you.”

Laxmi sat down on the couch, her bones creaking audibly as she sat. Anuradha put her channel back on and lowered the volume of the TV a bit so that they could still hear it but it would not intrude upon their conversation. “Maya got a promotion today. Headmaster of Department!” she said with suitable awe.

“Oh, that’s great!” Laxmi cackled. “That means Principal, isn’t it? I always knew she will become Principal one day. Our Maya is indeed a talented girl.”

“This is not really Principal,” Anuradha elaborated.

“What did you say?” asked Laxmi. “These days it is difficult to hear anything clearly.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. She got a promotion, that’s all! Would you like tea? I was going to make some anyway.”

“All right,” said Laxmi, “but less sugar, okay?”

Presently, Anuradha came back with two teacups and the room became fragrant with the aroma of masala chai.

“Did you hear about the Bawdi Chawl thing?” asked Laxmi after she had taken her first noisy slurp of the tea.

“What Bawdi Chawl thing?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Laxmi’s face went grave with the importance of someone who is making a somber revelation. Her wrinkles appeared to have increased with that expression. “There was a kidnapping. A young girl of 16-17 years.”

“Who?”

“Who knows about these slum-dwellers? The maid told us. The girl went to college yesterday and hasn’t returned yet.”

“How do you know it’s a kidnapping?”

“What else will it be? Kidnapping, rape, murder, whatever. All the same. She’s a daughter of a cobbler, a pretty girl it seems.”

“It’s horrible,” Anuradha said with sufficient emotion.

“You have two daughters, Anuradha, you need to be very careful. By the grace of Ganesha, I have only sons.”

“You cannot be too sure about sons too these days,” said Anuradha, her traditional upbringing somewhat incensed at having been called the mother of girls. She wasn’t narrow-minded—at least she didn’t consider herself to be—but it was conversations such as these that brought a sense of disquiet to her mind. “Kidnappings have become so common nowadays,” she said. “Anyway, my girls are capable of taking care of themselves.”

The door was slightly open and Maya walked in without warning, worry writ large on her face. “Ma, why is the door open like this?” she asked and then saw Laxmi. “Oh, Laxmi aunty, you are here. Even so, you must keep the door closed.”

“Heard about the kidnapping?” asked Anuradha.

“Congrats on becoming Principal, Maya,” said Laxmi.

“Principal? Oh! No, aunty—”

“Forget that,” said her mother. “See, there was a kidnapping here today. Nowadays, all one reads in the papers is such criminal stuff. Be safe, that’s all.”

“You should tell that to Namrata,” said Maya. “She is the one who returns late at night. And, what’s this? Were you watching that stupid show again?”

Anuradha quickly shut down the television. “Not me,” she said, “this Laxmi here insisted.” She made a sign to Laxmi—a peculiar sign with raised eyebrows that meant she had to play along—and Laxmi quickly gulped the last dregs from her teacup.

***

That evening, there was a small celebration in the Bhargava household. Namrata bought the wine, and the three women cooked a three-course meal together. All three were good cooks, and they could whip up a miracle with their ingredients. The family was vegetarian by choice, quite known in their social circles for their culinary expertise. They prepared their signature dish of cauliflower pakoras to follow up with stuffed eggplant and bhakris and a dessert of carrot halwa.

They sat at the table and began with the wine and the pakoras. Anuradha refused the wine at first but the daughters insisted. “It’s just fermented grape juice, Ma,” said Namrata. “This much won’t kill you.”

“It’s the spirit of the day,” said Maya.

They spoke about Maya’s day at school and about Anuradha’s plan to invest in some gold during Diwali and about how they should contact their relatives in Dadar about a suitable marital alliance for Namrata.

At that point, Namrata chipped in, “No Ma, I have always told you. No arranged marriage for me.”

“So what do you plan to do?”

“That’s my lookout.” At that moment, Namrata seemed every bit like a spoiled younger sibling. She understood that, perhaps, for she braced herself for the inevitable reprimand.

“No one in the Bhargava household has ever had a love marriage if that’s what you think,” boomed Anuradha. “This love-shove does not work for long. I had an arranged marriage, and see what a lovely life I have now. Even though your Dad left us early, God bless his soul, he made sure we didn’t have any problems after him. Don’t you remember Maya’s marriage—”

At that, there was an abrupt silence. Anuradha stopped midsentence and looked down into her plate and started playing with the stalk of an eggplant. Namrata looked at Maya’s face and then Anuradha’s. Maya got up with her half-finished plate.

“Sit down, Maya,” said the mother. “I am sorry.”

“It’s okay Ma,” said Maya. “I’m not hungry anyway.”

“Oh, sit!” quipped Namrata. “Come out of it. It’s two years for Samar now.”

“Shut up, Namrata,” said Anuradha, “what do you understand of these things? It isn’t as easy to take a husband’s loss as you think. Grow up and you will understand. Maya, sit down!”

Maya sat.

“I tried everything,” said Maya, her eyes brimming with tears. “I changed myself for him. He didn’t ask me to, but I knew he wanted me to. We kept each other happy. And still, he went all the way there and—”

Namrata placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder.

“—gave up. Just like that! Who knew he had such sadness in him? Why, Ma? Do you have any answer? Why did he have to throw himself under the train like that?”

Read on for Chapter 1.5 of Maya’s New Husband.

Prologue

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Maya knew she was lying down, but something was not quite right about it. She couldn’t turn her head and see where she was. She tried to flail her arms around, but they didn’t obey her. She attempted to kick her limbs in the air, anything to get out of this position, but they wouldn’t move either. A horrible thought entered her half-conscious mind — was she dead?

Her attempt to open her eyes wide failed; all she could see was a blurred vision of the scene right in front of her. Her gaze was fixed straight up, skyward; and even then, she could not see the sky. What she could see was a bright light — a luminescence so bright that it hurt her eyes and she shut them again.

She realized she had to free herself somehow. With this in mind, she made a feeble attempt to move her body, trying to press her back against the surface she lay on. The body wiggled ever so slightly, and it was then that she discovered she was naked. But, why was she naked? She didn’t have any memory of abandoning her clothes.

Then, as she tried to push herself on the surface, hoping to find a fulcrum to increase her effort, she realized there was no surface. There was nothing holding her. She was floating on something abstract. Maybe she was indeed dead, and this was just her soul floating upwards, nothing more.

Then she heard a voice — Are you still there, bitch?

The words were harsh and lashed at her like a whip. If she were really dead, she wasn’t going to heaven. That much was certain.

The menacing voice grew louder.

Wake up!

There will be no fun if you are passed out like that.

And there was another slap.

Even in her half-conscious state, she felt the full impact of the slap. It roused her out of her sluggishness. She was fully awake now. The slap had landed right across her cheek, and it stung like the sting of a dozen bees.

Her floating had been a nightmare. People are usually relieved when they wake up from a nightmare and realize that their agony was merely a bad dream. But, in Maya’s case, her nightmare of being dead was nothing compared to her reality of being alive.

Memories of what had happened to her over the past few hours came dancing into her mind. That groping in the dark, that fumbling for a light switch, that gruesome discovery and finally being captured by who was probably the most dangerous man she had ever known or heard about.

It came to her — being stripped and being tied to the floor; and the imagination of the things he would probably do with her now made her pass out once again.

Read on for Chapter 1 of Maya’s New Husband