I have published this post primarily to share the draft of the first page of a story/novel which I had written almost eighteen months ago. For reasons I do not know I have never tried to continue after that first page. When I was going through my Google Docs yesterday, I happened to read this page and thought it was really good. I am publishing here so that I can get feedback/comments from you.

Following paragraphs are completely  unedited version of what I wrote initially on a fine day, eighteen months ago. I have updated few typos and the age of the boy, everything else remains the same as I do not think I can write or think any better right now than when I wrote it.

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Chotu
A novel.

He was an orphan. He never knew what his real name was if his parents ever gave one. He never knew when and where he was born and let alone to whom. It is hard for him to recollect who first called him ‘Chotu,’ a Hindi word meaning ‘a little boy.’ May be the hotel owner where he worked when he was a seven year old kid, cleaning the utensils in the nights. Or may be the landlady at whose house he worked in the morning, sweeping, cleaning the floors and sometimes cleaning the asses of her kids and few of them were elder than him.

Chotu became his name without quite knowing who gave him that name. People called him with that name even when he was no more a little boy, in fact even when he became a grownup six-feet boy. What can he do? After all he had no name.

By the time he could recognize things and remember, Chotu was in an orphanage. He never knew from how many years he was there. When he was seven years old, he escaped from the orphanage one night. He never liked the orphanage for reasons he never tried to understand.

In the damp light of street lamps and the light from the full moon, Chotu started walking on the road which connects the orphanage to the town. The orphanage was few kilometers away from the town separated by a stretch of farm-fields on either sides of the road. He walked all alone along the tar road. It was around two hours past midnight when he left the orphanage when everyone including the security guard were deep asleep.

By the time he reached the town it was almost dawn. He could see the eastern end of the town covered with a reddish sky which reminded him of his red colored blanket at the hostel. He always called it hostel as orphanage was difficult for him to pronounce. At the hostel, he always pulled the red blanket over his face and slept under the security of it. He neither has a red blanket nor a roof to sleep under now. He left the orphanage with the clothes he was wearing and leaving everything else behind. Leaving everything meant, a pair of white clothes which was his school dress, his small white aluminum box in which he stored his belongings including note-books, pencils, and a car-doll which he never knew who gave him and when.

He entered a small park which was surrounded by few houses. He sat on a bench which was made of cement and he felt it was damp because of the mist that started melting as the day started brightening. He could see people on the roads now. He saw a man in his night clothes lazily brushing his teeth and spitting the white foam off his mouth on to the road. That man went to a small shop and collected two packets of something which Chotu imagined must be milk.

Around seven in the morning he wondered what the people at orphanage must be thinking. He thought of an other boy with whom he used to share the quilt daily and the blanket on some days when the nights were too cold. He thought about the Father who was the in-charge of the orphanage and unofficial father for around forty kids who were all supposed to be orphans like Chotu. Two days before Chotu had left, Father told him that he was going to take Chotu to his house next week. He never knew why Father wanted to take him to the house.

Though he never liked the hostel, he liked the food. Morning some breakfast, rice in the afternoon and in the nights. He never knew whether it was good or bad, for he never tasted anything outside the hostel. How do you know some food is bad unless you eat good food or at least see good food?

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A very raw story line which I had in my mind at that time was something like the following paragraph. Which is also and unedited version I wrote initially.

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Orphan who never knows his name let alone his parents. Grows up doing odd jobs and wants to become a cricketer. Loves a prostitute and ends up being in jail for five years after the prostitute gets murdered under mysterious circumstances. Comes out of jail at twenty five and finds that he could not become a cricketer anymore and happens to meet a lady who is eleven years elder than him. Falls in love with her. She has an ongoing conflict with her husband who never understands her passions. Two of them disappear for sometime and what happens is the core part of the story.

***

I am not sure I will re-visit this story and resume the writing. I wanted to share here to make sure at least I publish here and see the response.

Thank you very much for reading. I will be really happy to see your feedback/comments.