After finishing my YA novel (despite the presence of a publisher...yet), I've been snooping back at the book I started a few years ago and stopped at page 150. Even if my recent novel is never published, I've learned a lot...about finishing, in particular. So, I've re-visited the opening of my first attempt. Here it is...
The last time Sarah saw Lobsang, a dead cow lay on the median. Driving down Ring Road towards Tribhuvan Airport, the taxi driver swerved to miss it, angering the dust and causing pedestrians to scatter. Touching his right hand to his forehead, the driver subtly recoiled. They continued on as, on the dashboard, a figure of Baby Krishna jerked in rhythm to the spiralling Hindi static on the radio.
In the early morning haze, the streets slowly stretched and sighed, preparing for the bustle of the day. With a belch of black smoke, an overflowing bus lurched forward, a young boy reaching out the back to pound his palm on steel. Vendors perched behind their wares: tiger balm, hair clips, cigarettes, and colourful posters of Hindu deities. One woman turned her roasted corn, letting the smell dominate over the exhaust and sewage. Men in ties hurried along with briefcases while women cradling lethargic babies begged at their ankles. As the taxi slowed to let an aggressive Tata truck pass, Sarah smiled at Lobsang. He rested his hand on the seat beside her, his hand of callous, and sinew, and bone. So close to her own.
No comments:
Post a Comment