The First Scene of My Novel

This is the first scene from the latest draft of my four-years-in-the-making novel. I know it isn't exactly stuff that'll make anyone in the publishing industry jump up and reach for the telephone right away. Nevertheless I'd be interested to know if it appears to you like it might have a chance of getting through or if it makes you feel that the world would be a better place if I did not go ahead with my novel. Please tell me honestly what you think of it even if you want to tell me that I would never be able to get published even if I take a hundred years to finish revising it.

The moment I spotted the dull brown envelope in Ma’s hand I knew I had made a mistake. I shouldn’t have come home for lunch. Ma had the envelope in her hand while she opened the rickety gate to let my bike in. I took my time to park the old Rajdoot motorcycle. Ma held the envelope straight up in her hand so I couldn’t miss seeing it. I looked the other way and stepped into the house.

I wanted to have nothing to do with the damned envelope because it didn’t come just like that; it brought storms along with it, storms that created turmoil in my life regularly. Only six months ago I had weathered one such storm, and now I had another on hand, or rather, in Ma’s hand. Each time the storms seemed to get bigger and bigger. From the expression on her face it looked like this time it was going to be one big, big storm. Tough luck, Sunny I said to my reflection in the mirror above the sink while I washed my hands. This time maybe there was no way I could escape.

I had left home early in the morning without having breakfast. When Ma called me at the agency to say she had cooked fish for lunch I rushed home, salivating. It was clever of her but I did not feel like eating anything. Instead, I wanted to go as far away from home as possible, away from that blasted envelope. I silently cursed Venu, my friend. He was the one who had suggested that we register our names at the Employment office barely a couple of weeks after we passed out from college. That was more than two years ago. A month after we registered the dull brown envelopes had started coming once every six months. Now it was too late for regrets. I was on the verge of being trapped.

Inside the envelope that Ma now put on the dining table was a letter. The letter offered me a job as dull as or even duller than the color of the envelope it came in. I did not want to exchange my exciting job for any other. Nothing would make me leave my present job. Nothing, I told myself as I sat down at the dining table. I noticed Ma had placed the envelope near my plate. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Ma had kept it in the plate. She was like that, my mother.