Chapter One: The long breath of Gokarna Das
Gokarna Das took a long breath – in fact, it was more like a deep sigh if not a heartfelt gasp – as he gazed across the expanse of water at the funeral pyre. As a long-time aspirant seeking to infiltrate the charmed circle of Southasian writers in English, he had finally discovered that the only way to achieve success was to start the story at a cremation ghat. No two ways about it, he thought pensively, as the heat from the flame danced against his knotted face and brown, muscular torso.
Gokarna Das did not have any top on because it was important to expose his brown, muscular torso, with a darkened brass talisman that hung on a black braided thread down his substantial chest – don't make the mistake of writing 'breast'. With morose eyes, he surveyed the scene. One pyre, two pyres, three pyres, all of them funerary or funereal, he could not decide which.
'But definitely a lot of pyres,' he observed, speaking to nobody in particular. He toyed with the talisman with his brown, muscular fingers while his mind went back over the events of the last few days. Why had Srinivas said what he did, that too with such vehemence, even as he had struck the side of the bullock cart with such ferocity? It is important to repeat key phrases to indicate command and confidence with the English language. 'Why can't a writer from Darbhanga make the Booker?' asked Gokarna Das, once again of no one in particular, but he knew that there would be those who would ultimately hear this voice from the dead centre of truncated Bihar (without Jharkhand, that is).