Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Writings, Thoughts, Confessions, Pontifications and Memoirs of Vikram Waman Karve

Writings, Thoughts, Confessions, Pontifications and Memoirs of Vikram Waman Karve

Lovedale by Vikram Karve

(a short story)

Lovedale. A quaint little station on the Nilgiri mountain railway in South India. There is just one small platform – and on it, towards its southern end, a solitary bench. If you sit on this bench you will see in front of you, beyond the railway track, an undulating valley, covered with eucalyptus trees, and in the distance the silhouette of a huge structure, which looks like a castle, with an impressive clock-tower. In this mighty building is located a famous boarding school – one of the best schools in India. Many such ‘elite’ schools are known more for snob value than academic achievements, but this one is different – it is a school known for its rich tradition of excellence.
Lovedale, in 1970. That’s all there is in Lovedale – this famous public school, a small tea-estate called Lovedale (from which this place got its name), a tiny post office and, of course, the lonely railway platform with its solitary bench.
It’s a cold damp depressing winter morning, and since the school is closed for winter, the platform is deserted except for two people – yes, just two persons – a woman and a small girl, shivering in the morning mist, sitting on the solitary bench. It’s almost 9 o’clock – time for the morning “toy-train” from the plains carrying tourists via Coonoor to Ooty, the “Queen” of hill-stations, just three kilometers ahead - the end of the line. But this morning the train is late, probably because of the dense fog and the drizzle on the mountain-slopes, and it will be empty – for there are hardly any tourists in this cold and damp winter season.
“I’m dying to meet mummy. And this stupid train – it’s always late,” the girl says. She is dressed in school uniform – gray blazer, thick gray woolen skirt, navy-blue stockings, freshly polished black shoes, her hair tied smartly in two small plaits with black ribbons.
The woman, 55 – maybe 60, dressed in a white sari with a thick white shawl draped over her shoulder and a white scarf around her head covering her ears, looks lovingly at the girl, softly takes the girl’s hand in her own, and says, “ It will come. Look at the weather. The driver can hardly see in this mist. And it must be raining down there in Ketti valley.”
“I hate this place. It’s so cold and lonely. Everyone has gone home for the winter holidays and we have nowhere to go. Why do we have to spend our holidays here every time?”
“You know we can’t stay with her in the hostel.”
“But her training is over now. And she’s become an executive – that’s what she wrote.”
“Yes. Yes. She is an executive now. After two years of tough training. Very creditable; after all that has happened,” the old woman says.
“She has to take us to Mumbai with her now. No more excuses.”
“Of course. Let your mummy come. This time we’ll tell her to take us all to Mumbai.”
“And we’ll all stay together – like we did when Daddy was there.”
“Yes. Mummy will go to work. You will go to school. And I will look after both of you. Just like before.”
“Only Daddy won’t be there. Why did God take Daddy away?” the girl says, tears welling in her eyes.
“Don’t think those sad things. We cannot change what has happened. You must be brave – like your mummy,” says the old lady putting her hand softly around the girl. There is no greater pain than to remember happier times when in distress.

Meanwhile the toy-train is meandering its way laboriously round the steep u-curve, desperately pushed by a hissing steam engine, as it leaves Wellington station on its way to Ketti. A man and a woman sit facing each other in the tiny first class compartment. There is no one else.
“You must tell her today,” the man says.
“Yes,” the woman replies softly.
“You should have told her before.”
“When ?”
“You could have written, called her up.”
“How could I ?”
“I don’t know how she will react. She loved her father very much.”
“Now she will have to love me. I am her new father now.”
“Yes, I know,” the woman says, tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t know how to tell her; how she’ll take it. I think we should wait for some time. Baby is very sensitive.”
“ ‘Baby’ ! Why do you still call her Baby? She is a grown up girl now. You must call her by her real name. Damayanti – what a nice name – and you call her ‘Baby’”
“It’s her pet name. Deepak always liked to call her Baby.”
“I don’t. It’s ridiculous,” the man says firmly. “Anyway, that we will see later. But you tell her about us today. Tell both of them.”
“My mother-in-law – what will she feel ?”
“She’ll understand.”
“Poor thing. She will be all alone.”
“She’s got her work to keep her busy.”
“She’s old and weak. I don’t think she’ll be able to do the matron’s job much longer.”
“Let her work till she can. Then we’ll see.”
“Can’t we take her with us?”
“You know it’s not possible.”
“Poor thing. Where will she go ?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll arrange something – I know an excellent place near Lonavala. She will be very comfortable there - it’s an ideal place for senior citizens.”
“An Old Age Home ?”
“Yes. I’ve already spoken to them. Let her continue here till she can. Then we’ll shift her there.”
“How cruel. She was so good to me, looked after Baby, when we were devastated. And now we discard her when she needs us most,” the woman says and starts sobbing.
“Don’t get sentimental. You have to face the harsh reality. You know we can’t take her with us. Kavita, you must begin a new life now – no point carrying the baggage of your past,” the man realizes he has said something wrong and instantly apologizes, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“You did. I hate you, you are so cruel and selfish,” the woman says, turns away from the man and looks out of the window.
They travel in silence. A disquieting silence. Suddenly it is dark, as the train enters a tunnel, and as it emerges on the other side, the woman can see the vast green Ketti Valley with its undulating mountains in the distance.
“I think I’ll also get down at Lovedale. I’ll tell them. Explain everything. And get over with it once and for all,” the man says.
“No! No! The sudden shock may upset them. I have to do this carefully. You don’t get down at Lovedale. Go straight to Ooty. I’ll tell them everything and we’ll do as we decided.”
“I was only trying to help you. Make things easier. I want to meet Damayanti. Tell her about us. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
“No. Let me do this. I don’t want her to see you before I tell her. I don’t know how she’ll react. I’ll have to do it very gently.”
“Okay,” the man says. “Make sure you wind up everything at the school. We have to leave for Mumbai tomorrow. There is so much to be done. We’ve hardly got any time left.”
“Lovedale’s coming,” the woman gets up and takes out her bag from the shelf.
“Sure you don’t want me to come?” asks the man.
“Not now. I’ll ring you up,” says the woman.
“Okay. But tell them everything. We can’t wait any longer.”
“Just leave everything to me. Don’t make it more difficult.”
They sit in silence waiting for Lovedale to come.

On the solitary bench on the platform at Lovedale station the girl and her grandmother wait patiently for the train which will bring their deliverance.
“I hate it over here. The cold scary dormitories. At night I miss mummy tucking me in. And every night I count DLFMTC ?”
“Days Left For Mummy To Come ! Others count DLTGH – Days Left To Go Home.”
“Next time you too …”
“No. No. I am not going to stay here in boarding school. I don’t know why we came here to this horrible place. I hate boarding school. I miss mummy so much. We could have stayed on in Mumbai with her.”
“Now we will. Your mummy’s training is over. She can hire a house now. Or get a loan. We will try to buy a good house. I’ve saved some money too.”

The lone station-master strikes the bell outside his office. The occupants of the solitary bench look towards their left. There is no one else on the platform. And suddenly the train emerges from under the bridge – pushed by the hissing steam engine.
Only one person gets down from the train – a beautiful woman, around 30. The girl runs into her arms. The old woman walks towards her with a welcoming smile. The man, sitting in the train, looks cautiously trying not to be seen. A whistle; and the train starts and moves out of the station towards Ooty.

That evening the woman tells them everything.

At noon the next day, four people wait at Lovedale station for the train from Ooty – the girl, her mother, her grandmother and the man. The girl presses close to her grandmother and looks at her new ‘father’ with trepidation. He gives her a smile of forced geniality. The old woman holds the girl tight to her body and looks at the man with distaste. The young woman looks with awe, mixed with hope, at her new husband. No one speaks. Time stands still. And suddenly the train enters.

“I don’t want to go,” the girl cries, clinging to her grandmother.
“Don’t you want to stay with your mummy? You hated boarding school didn’t you? ” the man says extending his hand.
The girl recoils and says, “No. No. I like it here. I don’t want to come. I like boarding school.”
“Come Baby, we have to go,” her mother says as tears well up in her eyes.
“What about granny – she will be all alone. No mummy - you also stay here. We all will stay here. Let him go to Mumbai,” the girl pleads.
“Kavita. The train is going to leave,” the man says firmly to the young woman.
“Go Baby. Be a good girl. I will be alright,” says the old woman releasing the girl.
As her mother gently holds her arm and guides her towards the train, for the first time in her life, the girl feels that her mother’s hand is like the clasp of an iron gate.
“I will come and meet you in Mumbai. I promise,” the grandmother says. But the girl feels scared – something inside tells her she that may never see her grandmother again.

As the train heads towards the plains, the old woman begins to walk her longest mile – her loneliest mile – into emptiness.
And Lovedale station, the mute witness, doesn’t even a shed a tear. It tries. But it can’t. Poor thing. It’s not human. So it suffers in inanimate helplessness. A pity. What a pity !



Friday, January 06, 2006

Book Review

Book Review by Vikram Waman Karve

The Book : Looking Back
The Author : Dhondo Keshav Karve
First Published in 1936

Looking Back ( The Autobiography ) by Dhondo Keshav Karve ( Maharshi Karve ) with a preface by Frederick J. Gould.

Dear Reader, you must be wondering why I am reviewing an autobiography written in 1936. Well, I stay on Maharshi Karve Road in Mumbai. I share the same surname as the author. Also, I happen to be the great grandson of Maharshi Karve. But, beyond that, compared to him I am a nobody – not even a pygmy. He saw his goal, persisted ceaselessly throughout his life with missionary zeal and transformed the destiny of the Indian Woman. The first university for women in India - The SNDT University and educational institutions for women covering the entire spectrum ranging from pre-primary schools to post-graduate, engineering, vocational and professional colleges bear eloquent testimony to his indomitable spirit, untiring perseverance and determined efforts.

In his preface, Frederick J Gould writes that “the narrative is a parable of his career” – a most apt description of the autobiography. The author tells his life-story in a simple straightforward manner, with remarkable candour and humility; resulting in a narrative which is friendly, interesting and readable. Autobiographies are sometimes voluminous tomes but this a small book, 200 pages, and a very easy comfortable enjoyable read that makes it almost unputdownable.

Dr. Dhondo Keshav Karve was born on 18th of April 1958. In the first few chapters he writes about Murud, his native place in Konkan, Maharashtra, his ancestry and his early life– the description is so vivid that you can clearly “see” through the author’s eye. His struggle to appear in the public service examination ( walking 110 miles in torrential rain and difficult terrain to Satara), and the shattering disappointment at not being allowed to appear because “he looked too young”, make poignant reading.
“Many undreamt of things have happened in my life and given a different turn to my career” he writes, and then goes on to describe his high school and, later, college education at The Wilson College Bombay (Mumbai) narrating various incidents that convinced him of the role of destiny and serendipity in shaping his life and career as a teacher and then Professor of Mathematics.
He married at the age of fourteen but began his marital life at the age of twenty! This was the custom of those days. Let’s read the author’s own words on his domestic life: “ … I was married at the age of fourteen and my wife was then eight. Her family lived very near to ours and we knew each other very well and had often played together. However after marriage we had to forget our old relation as playmates and to behave as strangers, often looking toward each other but never standing together to exchange words…. We had to communicate with each other through my sister…… My marital life began under the parental roof at Murud when I was twenty…” Their domestic bliss was short lived as his wife died after a few years leaving behind a son… “Thus ended the first part of my domestic life”… he concludes.
An incident highlighting the plight of a widow left an indelible impression on him and germinated in him the idea of widow remarriage. He married Godubai, who was widowed when she was only eight years old, was a sister of his friend Mr. Joshi, and now twenty three was studying at Pandita Ramabai’s Sharada Sadan as its first widow student . Let’s read in the author’s own words how he asked for her hand in marriage to her father – “ I told him…..I had made up my mind to marry a widow. He sat silent for a minute and then hinted that there was no need to go in search of such a bride”.
He describes in detail the ostracism he faced from some orthodox quarters and systematically enunciates his life work - his organization of the Widow Marriage Association, Hindu Widows Home, Mahila Vidyalaya, Nishkama Karma Math, and other institutions, culminating in the birth of the first Indian Women’s University ( SNDT University). The trials and tribulations he faced in his life-work of emancipation of education of women (widows in particular) and how he overcame them by his persistent steadfast endeavours and indomitable spirit makes illuminating reading and underlines the fact that Dr. DK Karve was no arm-chair social reformer but a person devoted to achieve his dreams on the ground in reality. These chapters form the meat of the book and make compelling reading. ( His dedication and meticulousness is evident in the appendices where he has given datewise details of his engagements and subscriptions down to the paisa for his educational institutions from various places he visited around the world to propagate their cause).
He then describes his world tour, at 71, to meet eminent educationists to propagate the cause of the Women’s University, his later domestic life and ends with a few of his views and ideas for posterity. At the end he writes: “ Here ends the story of my life. I hope this simple story will serve some useful purpose”.

He wrote this in 1936. He lived till the 9th of November 1962, achieving so much more on the way, was conferred the honorary degree of Doctor of Letters ( D.Litt.) by the Banaras Hindu University in 1942 followed by Poona in 1951, SNDT in 1955, and Bombay(LL.D.) in 1957. Maharshi Karve received the Padma Vibhushan in 1955 and the nation’s highest honour the “Bharat Ratna” in 1958, a fitting tribute at the age of 100.

I was born in 1956, and have fleeting memories of Maharshi Karve, during our visits to Hingne in 1961-62, as a small boy of 5 or 6 can. I have written this book review with the hope that some of us, particularly students of SNDT, Cummins College of Engineering for Women, SOFT, Karve Institute of Social Sciences and other educational institutions related to Maharshi Karve, read about his stellar pioneering work and draw inspiration from his autobiography.
Two other good books pertaining to the life of Maharshi Karve which I have read are : Maharshi Karve by Ganesh L. Chandavarkar, Popular Prakashan (1958) and Maharshi Karve – His 105 years, Hingne Stree Shikshan Samstha (1963).



Wednesday, January 04, 2006

The Art of Eating Green Chilli Ice Cream by Vikram Karve


I’ve just relished a bowl of “green chilli ice cream” and the zestful taste still lingers on my tongue. Never before had I enjoyed eating ice cream so much. It was indeed a unique gustatory experience. Let me tell you about it.
I love ice cream. Today morning a friend of mine told me that there is a place opposite the Mumbai Chowpatty Sea Face that serves “green chilli” ice cream. I didn’t believe him. I have savored myriad flavours of ice cream but “green chilli ice cream” seemed a bit far fetched. On questioning, my friend confessed that he had only heard about it, not eaten it himself.
The very concept of green chilli ice cream whetted my curiosity so much that at sunset I was standing in front of Bachelorr’s ( that’s the spelling on the menu card) Ice Cream and Juice Stall, my appetite fully stimulated by a long brisk walk.
It was there on the menu card – Green Chilli Ice Cream. I ordered it and walked with the bowl to a lonely bench nearby to enjoy the eating experience in glorious solitude.
The ice cream looks a creamy pink ( not chilli green as I had expected it to be). I close my eyes and smell the ice cream – a nice sweet milky fragrance, a bit fruity; certainly no trace of the piquant penetrating sting of chillies. I spoon a bit on my tongue. My taste buds are smothered by a sweet mellifluous sensation as the cold creamy ice cream starts melting on my tongue. I am disappointed, feel conned – it seems it was just hype. This is run of the mill stuff. Or is it? Wait a moment. As the ice cream melts away I suddenly feel a sharp piercing fiery taste that sizzles my tongue, stings through my nose and penetrates my brain. My tongue is on fire and, like instant firefighting, I instinctively spoon a blob of ice cream onto my tongue. The cool ice cream quenches my burning tongue with its almost ambrosial taste but the moment it melts away I am zipped like a rocket with the sharp punch of the green chillies.
So that was the art of eating green chilli ice cream. Hot and cold. Burn and quench. Sting and soothe. Contrasting sensations. Like alternating current. Sharp tangy kicks burning through the cool syrupy sweetness till your system is fully perked up. And a trace of the biting flavour of the green chilli remains within me for a long long time as I walk away.
Green chilli ice cream doesn’t satiate – it excites, gives you a “kick”, zests you up. Try it. And let me know if you liked it.



Monday, January 02, 2006

The Journey (a fiction short story) by Vikram Karve

(a fiction short story)

The moment I saw the e-mail I did two things. First I took a print-out of the mail and then I booked my ticket on the next flight to India. The e-mail contained a name and an address. That’s all – a name and an address.
I cannot begin to describe the emotion I felt as I looked at the name. I had so many questions to ask him.

It all began when Anil suddenly broke off our engagement.
“Why?” I asked him totally shocked.
“I can’t tell you,” he said.
“You can’t dump me just like this. I’ve done nothing wrong,” I pleaded heartbroken.
“I’m sorry, Rita. I can’t marry you. I don’t want to marry you.”
“You have to give me an explanation. I am not going to accept this.”
“You have to accept it. And don’t delve too much.”
“What do you mean ‘don’t delve too much’, you unscrupulous cheat,” I screamed in anger, taking hold of his collar.
“Cool down,” he said pushing me away. “It’s you who tried to cheat me. You shouldn’t have tried to hide things from me.”
“Hide what ?” I asked.
“That you are an adopted child,” he said.
“I’m not adopted,” I shouted in anger.
“You are.”
“Who told you ?”
“We got some matrimonial enquiries done.”
“You spied on me,” I accused him, “to blackmail me, to humiliate me?”
“Don’t worry, no one else knows. It’s a reliable and discreet investigation agency.”
“It’s not true. I’m not adopted,” I said feeling shattered, numb, as if I had been pole-axed.
“Why don’t you ask your parents ?” Anil said as he walked away from my life.

I never asked my parents. I did not have the heart to. They did not say anything to me but I could see the sadness and a sense of guilt in their eyes, as they withered away having lost the will to live. I felt helpless. They loved me, meant everything to me, and we carried on our lives as if nothing had happened, and I caringly looked after them till their very end; but deep down I felt terribly betrayed.

Years passed. I relocated abroad past and immersed myself in my work. I tried to forget but I could not. One day I could bear it no longer. I decided to find out. And now I had. The investigation agency had done a good job. Confidential and discreet. For the first time I knew the name of my actual father. My biological natural father. And now I had to meet this man and ask him why he did it – abandon me to the world.

I landed at Mumbai airport early in the morning ant it took me three hours by taxi to reach the bungalow in Khandala. I checked the nameplate and briskly walked inside. There was a small crowd gathered in the porch. His lifeless body was lying on a white sheet bedecked with flowers, ready for the last rites. As I looked at his serene face, tears welled in my eyes. Suddenly I lost control of myself and cried uncontrollably, “ I have become an orphan. An orphan !”
“ Me too,” a familiar voice said softly behind me. I turned around and stared into Anil’s eyes. As comprehension began to dawn on me, Anil and I kept looking into each other’s eyes. In silence. A grotesque silence. A deafening silence.