Thirdly, The Sikhs, written by political activist, magazine publisher, and scholarly author Patwant Singh, proved crucial. While Charles Thornfield and Sardar Singh are romanticized versions of nineteenth-century warriors, the bloody battles and corrupt politics were real, and long continued to plague the region. Patwant Singh attempted to intercede for peace during a tragic modern-day confrontation (the 1984 crisis at the Golden Temple, in which three hundred fifty extreme Sikh separatists and seventy Indian soldiers died), and he worked tirelessly to present a faithful and well-rounded picture of a much-misrepresented culture. An entire chapter of The Sikhs is titled “Grievous Betrayals, 1839–1849,” and describes how gross mismanagement—or more likely, outright treachery—by powerful Sikhs led to the slaughter of the Khalsa, and the eradication of what had once been an opulent empire. Based in personal sacrifice and responsibility, monotheism, pacifism, meditation, but also military prowess, the people who were once massacred for rejecting the inhumanities of the caste system grew into a legendary army, and Patwant Singh did us an incredible service by placing these disparities in vivid context. His books have my highest recommendation, as they are full of what he refers to as the “invasions and inquisitions, triumphs and tragedies, piety and sense of divine purpose, devotion and depravities, loyalties and betrayals, courage and convictions” of his religion.
Finally, it would be disingenuous of me to suggest that this book isn’t rather ridiculous, and be it known that its ridiculousness is based in both truth and in fiction. While Mr. Squeers, who “had but one eye, and the popular prejudice runs in favor of two” was not real, the terrible school called Cowan Bridge that Charlotte Bront? claimed took the lives of two of her sisters was. While George MacDonald Fraser’s fine novel Flashman and the Mountain of Light is almost too deliciously ridiculous to exist, the defeated Sikhs were in fact required to hand over the Kooh-i-Noor diamond to Queen Victoria, which was cut from 186 carats to 105.6 carats and is now part of the Crown Jewels. And while it may appear ridiculous that an accidental avenger should find a home with refugees from Punjabi battlefields, as Nicholas Nickleby mentioned to his friend Smike, “When I speak of home, I speak of the place where—in default of a better—those I love are gathered together; and if that place were a gypsy’s tent, or a barn, I should call it by the same good name notwithstanding.”
Acknowledgments
For reasons that are obvious to everyone kind enough to read this book, I dedicated it to Jane Eyre and Nicholas Nickleby, who have given me many hours of literary joy since childhood (and who unfortunately led quite parallel lives of undeserved squalor and questionable headmasters). Jane has often tugged at my heartstrings, however, while Nicholas once caused me to guffaw aloud on the New York subway system, which drew incredulous stares. I’d be remiss if I failed to mention Jonathan Small and the gaunt, devoted Mrs. Danvers to boot; thus, thank you endlessly to Charlotte Bront? and Charles Dickens, as well as to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Daphne du Maurier, whose smudgy literary fingerprints are likewise all over this volume.
Thank you to every stunningly fabulous talent at William Morris Endeavor, first and foremost the magnificent Erin Malone, who fixes my mojo when it frequently nosedives. From the moment I first emailed her about Jane Steele years ago, she has been waving magic pom-poms every step of the way. Tracy Fisher and Cathryn Summerhayes, you are splendid midsummer goddesses, as all my foreign publishers (to whom I am also deeply grateful) are well aware. To everyone at WME who has been of such tireless assistance, I am forever grateful.
I had the honor of working with Kerri Kolen on my debut novel, and it feels sublime to have such a fantastic and kindly powerhouse in my corner again. Though she is but little, she is fierce—and brilliant, and I adore her. Thank you as well to Ivan Held, Katie McKee, Alexis Welby, Ashley McClay, and every other person who makes my employment by Putnam and Penguin Random House feel like such a privilege. Grateful thanks to Claire Baldwin and Sherise Hobbs at Headline, whose notes and encouragement were equally appreciated.
My family, as ever, have heaped support on me to the point I’m beginning to resemble an overbuilt skyscraper—but I need it all, and I thank you. My friends deserve a collective vacation to Aruba for talking me down whenever I flounder; to every school chum and coworker and actor and Sherlockian and just plain fellow nerd, thank you from the bottom of my heart. My husband, Gabriel, quietly makes me fish tacos with homemade corn tortillas when the writing is going poorly and I’m being a complete jackass, which is probably the definition of devotion, so I thank him most of all.
Finally, as ever: Reader, I thank you. Your collective existence will forever baffle and delight me.