Thread: The Pulah Chronicles

Chapter 1

The historic elections were over. The city of Patah bore a battered, dishevelled look. Nobody was quite sure of the result. The old monarchy seemed all set to collapse as the Freedom Party had ominously predicted during the campaign. And their leader Buliba was the man who appeared most likely to become the next President of Pulah.

The famous Korda marketplace in central Patah was deserted as Jhola threaded his way through the maze of empty vegetable stalls. It was already late and the night was cold. The mild stench of rotting fruit and vegetable refuse pervaded the atmosphere of the place. At the far end of the market, he walked down a narrow lane and finally stopped in front of one of the street houses with an old, ramshackle door hanging precariously on a flimsy wooden frame. A strong man with a determined knock would have brought down the structure easily, but Jhola was careful not to touch it.

"Bhuva, I've come!" he said aloud.

A small man opened the door with deliberate care. In the dim light of an oil lamp his eyes shone expectantly as he let Jhola enter.

"Have you the goods?" asked Bhuva in a brisk, authoritative voice.

"It's here," said Jhola, unravelling his cloth bag, "I couldn't find any more, but I thought it would do."

"This ammunition is not enough!" said Bhuva, with rising anxiety, "I told you we need enough rounds for at least 200 rifles. All the men are ready and waiting. All they need are live ammunition for their guns."

Jhola shrugged. "I did my best. There is too much demand and too little supply at the moment. As it is, I had to pawn my wife's gold to buy all this. I cannot do any more!"

Bhuva's face blackened. "Jhola, I am surprised at you! I thought you were a true revolutionary. Now I'm beginning to think that your heart is truly not in our cause!"

"WHAT DID YOU SAY???" Jhola grabbed Bhuva's collar and brought the smaller man close to his red, beefy face. "You dare say that again and my fist will punch a hole through your face, Bhuva!" he hissed. Bhuva's eyes widened and sweat trickled down his forehead as he sought unsuccessfully to release himself from the big man's iron grip. "For ten years, we've been comrade-in-arms and you raise doubts of my loyalty to the cause? What the hell has got into you?"

"I... I'm sorry, Jhola," spluttered Bhuva, coughing violently, "Of course I understand your problems!" As Jhola released him he collapsed on a bench listlessly.

"Right," he continued, recovering somewhat, "Now we need to decide whether to go ahead with our plans tomorrow or..."

"Shut up, Bhuva!" cried Jhola, "I've heard enough of your ravings by now to know that you are a selfish, unstable creature incapable of organizing a kiddies' party, let alone a revolution. I'm going to take over Central Command, whether you like it or not!"

Bhuva's eyes narrowed menacingly.

"Jhola, I..." But Jhola raised his hands in warning.

"I've heard enough of you, Bhuva," he said, turning to the door, "I am leaving now with the ammunition. I can make far better use of my guns than you can and I have fifteen ultra-loyal, trained men who are ten times more capable than your two hundred rifles put together. I will lead the action."

"Fifteen..." began Bhuva in a sneering tone, but Jhola had already left. The front door collapsed in a heap as Jhola slammed it shut. Bhuva's face was white as a sheet.

he walked down a narrow lane and finally stopped in front of one of the street houses with an old, ramshackle door hanging precariously on a flimsy wooden frame

Street's, I also think you could rephrase so that it is obvious the door is on the house rather than with the walker

Thanks. I meant street houses in the sense that the house's front door directly opens to the street with no gate or compound wall or anything of that nature. I was of the thought that it was a commonly used phrase.

I will try to rephrase that sentence. It does look awkward now that you point it out.