The Twisted Bengaluran Tree - Chapter 1

Mrs Reiver always says that sitting on the swing on our balcony in India is the perfect location to write that novel. I have gone to the trouble of reading a number of Indian and Indian themed novels over the last couple of months – and whilst I am not a confused attractive twenty something woman ( I think we can all agree on that) on the brink of self discovery as India struggles for its identity in the turbulent 1920s and 30s ( is it just me or do these feature a lot??) – I will give it a go – at least as far as the first couple of paragraphs.

Sealed bids for the film rights must be received at my NY Publishers offices by 31^st Dec 2008.

The polished wooden swing groaned gently - a reciprocating plaintive grumbling against the chill Bangalore morning as if the joints of the house were stiff from unexpected use. Auto-rickshaws coughed and spluttered by on the on the dirty streets, pausing only to sneeze out impatient honks. Could sick building syndrome apply to a whole city, a whole country?? – If Bangalore was a vibrant healthy place it certainly wore its disguise of self abuse and neglect with assurance.

Such thoughts often drifted through the mind of Arnold Liddle reminding him of childhood days lying in the fields gazing at the sweeping clouds as they danced an elegant waltz around his beloved Cheviot hills. At such times his surprising two tone brown/grey eyes seemed to focus on a distant objective – ‘Like the Girl with Faraway Eyes’ growled Mick Jagger as his mental jukebox leapt into action. Arnold often wondered if his life was being played out as a cruel parody of a Country and Western song – Bangalore had turned out to be far more of a gone to seed Marie than the promised jiving Donny of the ‘Party Capitol of India’. Find the off-switch to the jukebox and think! screamed the part of him he tried to ignore. But real thinking inevitably led him back to Beirut, Rothbury and the madness that lay between these two places which was etched on his soul, and told in every line of his attractive lived-in face. Had he come to Bangalore to forget? As penance? To create a new life?

The splash of colour of a dancing butterfly, suddenly dragged him back to vibrant summer of 1970, tank tops and chopper bikes and the eternal optimism of being the defending world champions – ‘ Back Home they’ll be watching and waiting and cheering every move’ – well back home in Rothbury dark events emerged from the shadows of the rolling Northumbrian landscape which would change young Arnold forever and set in train his slow inexorable journey to India and his desperately uncertain fate.

Tensing with frustration he again he tried to remember what exactly happened on that fateful day in July 1970. He slowed his breathing, filtered out the white noise of the Indiranager suburbs and with aching slowness the pictures in his mind started to come into focus and the soundtrack became audible……..

A heart-breaking and painfully vivid portrait of shattered promise and ultimate triumph peppered with oh-so-true vignettes of Northumberland life (is what the Hexham Courant might say some-day - well infinite monkeys etc etc)