The other day MH asked me if writing historical fiction was isolating. On the contrary, delving into the past — seventy-three years ago, to be precise — helped me stay sane in this year of isolation. With the present growing bleaker by the day, the past world and the next world offered greater solace. I won’t dwell on the next world for now. Instead, I will write about my journey as an historical fiction author. My novel begins in the months leading up to India’s Independence and subsequent Partition. I started my project in the year 2017, exactly seventy years after these monumental events. The two most memorable books I read on the period were Midnight’s Furies and Indian Summer: The Secret History of an End to an Empire. Both authors write so vividly, they swept me up into the drama, intrigue, excitement, and unfolding tragedy of the era. Closer to the theme of my novel, I devoured books on the state of Hyderabad’s last days as a sovereign state. I won’t name their titles, but they all had the words ‘destruction’, ‘fall’, or ‘tragedy’ in them. Yes, something devastating occurred.
Then I proceeded to write a horrible first draft and most confidently sent it out to editors.
Your chapters read like a history lesson.
Yes, their words were brutal. So, what did I do? More research. I marched to the Maharashtra State Archives and the Asiatic Library and asked them for newspapers from the years 1947 and 1948. I read yellowed copies of The Times of India, The Statesman, and Free Press Journal. As I turned the pages, the paper crumbled to fine dust between my fingers, and shoals of silverfish blackened my clothes. Such was my zeal that I stood for four hours in the heat of April and May without an overhead fan. On my last visit to the Asiatic Library, a cat prowled in the aisles and under the high tables of the reading room. After jumping about and irritating the librarian with my shrieks, I have not paid them (the Library, librarian, or the cat) further visits. On a happier note, the Nizam of Hyderabad’s antics made front-page news of every newspaper back in the day. And I filled in pages and pages of notes.
Oh, to be at a state banquet where white-gloved bearers serve you a leg of lamb with Espagnole sauce, fish mayonnaise, lobster patties, game pies while a band played in the background. And to have a Burmese cook who specialised in desserts
Writing an historical novel necessitates reading a manual on the subject. And, every manual commands you to sweep aside the historical details and concentrate on character arcs. A reader must feel invested in the character from the start, or they will not care to read your novel. The dialogue aspect wasn’t a problem for me. I have oft been told that I speak like someone from another era. I am not sure the tellers meant it as a compliment, but I suppose they’re right. The next step was conjuring up a setting. Hyderabad, Deccan was famed for its fabulous palaces. When I say fabulous, I mean Belgian chandeliers, cabinets of Jade and Bohemian crystal, Louis XIV furniture, Persian carpets, and marble statue kind of fabulous. And then of course the fashion—men in elegant sherwanis and tailored three-piece suits, women in chiffon saris and pearls, children in bloomers and smocks. I even researched the undergarments of the era—you can rest assured they have no part in the novel. The most enjoyable aspect of my research was pursuing old menus. Oh, to be at a state banquet where white-gloved bearers serve you a leg of lamb with Espagnole sauce, fish mayonnaise, lobster patties, game pies while a band played in the background. And to have a Burmese cook who specialised in desserts: blancmanges, trifles, eclairs, and fruit jellies. It’s just as well I have opened my fast as the images have activated my taste buds.
Next on my list of things to research was transport: planes, trains, automobiles, and buses. I traipsed to a vintage automobile show and brought home to my delight a catalogue of photos and descriptions of vintage cars in India; amongst them: Hudsons and Buicks whose roomy leather seats cushioned families of ten. Domestic air travel was becoming popular in the late 1940s: the skies over the Indian sub-continent thronged with Dakotas and Lancasters. While flying between Delhi and Hyderabad, airplanes stopped in Nagpur, Bhopal, and Gwalior and entailed eight to 10 hours.
Facts and figures gathered, I imagined myself in the shoes of my characters. I slept in a high bedpost wrapped in swirls of mosquito net. When I woke up in the middle of the night, I pulled the cord of my bedside lamp; a torchlight shone my path to the bathroom; I wore English schoolgirl frocks, sheer evening gowns, and saris commissioned by French fashion houses. I also wore the khaki uniforms of the Army and wore men’s unflattering black boots. I danced at balls; my feet sank in rain-soaked mud. I despaired at the blood spilled at Partition, I hid under my bed when sirens announced India’s invasion of Hyderabad. And eventually, I accepted my destiny, because then and now, real or make-believe, that’s something we all have to do.
I hope MH and her cats approve of this piece.
The writer lives in Mumbai, India. She is an aspiring novelist and contributes articles on history, religions, current affairs and, of course, writing. She tweets @zkhan4231