shane bolitho

Shani’s birth had an altogether more sobering influence on her mother, compared to the starry-eyed adulation her arrival had triggered in her dear Papa.
When she awoke from the anaesthesia, apart from feeling woozy and nauseous, and not altogether sure of her own whereabouts, Chahaya felt distinctly aware of some change in some part of her soul, or her being, her élan vital. She could not say exactly what, but something was missing. While she eventually came to the realisation that she had, quite literally, had a large part of her insides ripped out, for some time she could not explain the void she now felt within.
She was in hospital. Though not much else was, this much was clear. Doctors and nurses and orderlies and her beaming husband and a screaming baby all flashed past. Nurses and doctors and the screaming baby and nurses and then her worried husband, caught in a weird time dilation, and after what seemed to her like only a brief moment, a matter of minutes, she was suddenly being wheeled out to Yama’s Hillman.
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Yama Surya had, at the age of eighteen, followed his parent’s wishes and “come to U.K.”
Once there, he quickly began his quest of becoming a self-made man, driving through the streets of West London in a Glenalmond-green Hillman Husky, selling vacuum cleaners on commission door-to-door for Ravensdale’s Electrical Goods.
But he wasn’t just going to be some simple box wallah. He had grand plans, a good reference from Mr. Ravensdale himself and the beginnings of a deposit for, someday, his very own shop. The beginnings of an empire that would be built on machines used to suck up the dust of another, older Empire. But that was later, down the track. Plenty of people yet to walk through their homes with their dirty feet.
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