Métier
[Short Fiction – A Romance]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
What is the best way to kill a lazy hot afternoon in South Mumbai?
You can go window-shopping on Colaba Causeway; enjoy a movie at Eros or Regal; loaf aimlessly around Churchgate, Fountain, Gateway of India or on the Marine Drive; leisurely sip chilled beer at Gaylord, Leopold, Sundance or Mondegar; browse at the Oxford Book Store or in the Mumbai University Library under the Rajabai clock-tower; watch cricket sitting under the shade of a tree at the Oval; visit the Museum; or, if you are an art lover, admire the works of budding artists on display in the numerous art galleries in the Kalaghoda art district.
That’s what I decide to do.
At 11 o’clock in the morning I stand at the entrance of the JehangirArtGallery at Kalaghoda in Mumbai. I walk into the exhibition hall to my right. The art gallery has just opened and I am the first visitor.
Standing all alone in placid relaxing hall, in peaceful silence, surrounded by paintings adorning the pristine white walls, I experience a feeling of soothing tranquillity – a serene relaxing calm – and for the first time after many hectic, harried and stressed days, I experience an inner peace and comforting silence within me and, at that moment, I know what it feels like to be in harmony with oneself.
I leisurely look around at the paintings. I see a familiar face in a portrait. An uncanny resemblance to someone I know.
The face on the canvas stares back at me. Comprehension strikes like a thunderbolt. It’s me! Yes – it’s me! No doubt about it! Someone has painted my portrait, my own face.
I look at myself. I like what I see. It is a striking painting, crafted to the point of the most eloquent perfection.
I am amazed at the painter’s precise attention to detail – my flowing luxuriant black hair, delicate nose, large expressive eyes, even my beauty spot, the tiny mole on my left cheek; the painter has got everything right.
Never before have I looked so beautiful; even in a photograph. My face looks so eye-catching that I can’t help admiring myself – like Narcissus.
I look at the title of the painting on a brass tally below – My Lovely Muse. Muse?
I’ve never modelled for anyone in my life. Who can it be?
Suddenly I notice a wizened old man staring at me. He looks at the painting and then at me, and gives me a knowing smile.
“Excuse me, Sir,” I ask him, “do you know the artist who painted this?”
“I’m the painter,” a gruff voice says behind me. I turn around and look at the man. With his flowing beard, unkempt hair and dishevelled appearance he looks like a scruffy scarecrow. At first sight, totally unrecognizable.
But the yearning look of frank admiration in his eyes gives him away. No one else has ever looked at me in that way and I know he is still desperately in love with me.
“Do I see the naughty boy I once knew hiding behind that horrible shaggy beard?” I say to him.
“Do I see the bubbly and vivacious girl I once knew hiding inside the beautiful woman standing in front of me?” he responds.
“You look terrible,” I say.
“You look lovely – like a flower in full bloom,” he says.
I feel good. Aditya may be in love with me, but there is no pretence about him. I know the compliment is genuine.
“Come, Anu,” he says taking my arm, “let me show you my work.” And as we walk around he explains the themes, nuances and finer points of each painting.
Here I feel a sense of timelessness – a state of supreme bliss. I wish this were my world; sublime, harmonious, creative. I wish I’d stayed on; not burnt my bridges. Or have I?
“Let’s eat, I’m hungry,” Aditya interrupts my train of thoughts.
“Khyber?” I ask.
“No. I can’t afford it,” he says.
“I can,” I tease.
“The treat’s on me,” he asserts, pulls me gently, and says, “Let’s go next door to Samovar and have the stuffed parathas you loved once upon a time.”
“I still do,” I say, and soon we sit in Café Samovar enjoying a lazy unhurried lunch relishing delicious stuffed parathas.
“What time do you have to go?”
“I’ll collect the visa from Churchgate at four and then catch the flight at night.”
“Churchgate? I thought the visa office was at Breach Candy!”
“That’s the American visa. It’s already done. The British visa office is at Churchgate.”
“Wow! You are going to England too?”
“Of course. US, UK, Europe, Singapore. Globetrotting. The next few months are going to be really hectic. It’s a huge software development project.”
“Lucky you! It must be so exciting. You must love it!”
“I hate it!”
“What?”
“It’s unimaginable agony. Sitting in front of a computer for hours and hours doing something I don’t like.”
“You don’t like it? Then why do you do it?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Aditya, do you know what the tragedy of my life is?”
“What?”
“My biggest misfortune is that I am good at things I don’t like.”
“Come on, be serious! Don’t tell me all that.”
“I hated Maths, but was so good at it that I landed up in IIT doing Engineering, and that too Computers.”
“But you’re damn good. A genius at computers. That’s why they are sending abroad aren’t they? The youngest and brightest project manager! You told me that.”
“Being good at work is different from liking it. You know, the thing I despise the most – sitting like a Zombie in front of the monitor for hours, discussing tedious technical mumbo jumbo with nerds I find insufferable. It’s painful, but then I am the best software expert in the company, the IT whiz-kid!”
“Yes. I know. It’s true. It is indeed a great tragedy to be so good at something you hate doing. That’s why I quit practice and am doing my first love – painting. I don’t know how good I am but I certainly love doing it.”
“But you are so good. You must be minting money, isn’t it?”
“Not at all. I told you I couldn’t afford Khyber. Just about make ends meet.”
“I thought artists make a lot of money. The art market is booming.”
“Only the established ones. Not struggling types like me!.”
“Come on, Aditya. Don’t joke. Tell me, how can you afford to have your exhibition here in Jehangir?”
“There’s a patron. An old lady. She encourages budding artists like me. She’s given me a place for my studio.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes. There are still a few such people left in this world. I present her a painting once in a while,” he pauses and says, “But today I’m going to be lucky. Looks like My Lovely Muse is going to fetch me a good price. Thanks to you!”
“Thanks to me?”
“You were the model for this painting. My inspiration. My Muse!”
“I never modeled for you!”
“You don’t have to. You image is so exquisitely etched in my mind’s eye that I can even paint you in the nude.”
“Stop it!” I say angrily, but inside me I blush and feel a kind of stirring sensation.
“Tell me about yourself, Anu,” Aditya says, changing the subject.
“I told you. About my painfullyboring work. And you won’t understand much about software. Spare me the agony. I just don’t want to talk about it.”
“You still paint?”
“No. I stopped long ago. At IIT.”
“Why?”
“No time. Too much study, I guess. And the techie crowd.”
“You should start again. You’re good. You’ve got a natural talent.”
“It’s too late. That part of me is dead. Now, it’s work and meeting deadlines. An intellectual sweatshop.”
“Come on Anu, cheer up. Tell me about your love life?”
“The company is taking care of that too! They are trying to get me hooked to some high flier Project Manager in my team.”
“Don’t tell me? What’s his name?”
“Anand.”
“Wow! Anu and Anand! Made for each other!”
“You know they set us up as per their convenience, facilitate working together all the time, encourage office romance, and even give us a dating allowance.”
“Dating allowance? Office romance! It’s crazy! Just imagine - Paying people money to fall in love!”
“Helps reduce attrition, they say; makes people stay on in the company. Nerds understand each other better; can cope better together, at work and at home. That’s what they say. Smart fellows, those guys in HR - they try and team us up as it suits them. They are dangling carrots too – like this trip abroad. They’ve even promised us a posting together to Singapore on a two year contract, if things work out.”
“It’s great!”
“Great? Are you crazy? Just imagine living full-time with a boring number crunching nerd all my life, doing nothing but being buried in software, day in and day out. I shiver at the very thought.”
“Tell me, who would you like to marry?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about marrying me?”
“Come on, be serious.”
“I’m serious. We could paint together, do all the creative stuff you always wanted to do. Live a good life.”
“Let’s go,” I say changing the topic.
“Anu. Remember. If you love flowers, become a gardener. Don’t curb your creativity. A lifetime of having to curb the expression of original thought often culminates in one losing one’s ability to express.”
“I’ve got to go, Aditya. It’s almost four. The visa should be ready by now.”
“Wait. Let me give you a parting gift to remember me by.”
Aditya calls the curator and tells him to gift wrap and pack the painting titled ‘My Lovely Muse’.
“Sir, we’ll get a good price for it. I’ve already got an offer,” the curator says.
“It’s not for sale,” Aditya says, “It’s a gift from an Artist to his Muse.”
I am overcome by emotion at his loving gesture. I look at Aditya.
It is clearly evident that Aditya is really deeply in love with me. And me?
Am I in love with him? Tears well up in my eyes. My throat chokes. My heart aches.
I find myself imprisoned in the chasm between the two different worlds – Aditya’s and mine.
But soon the rational side of me takes charge, and as we part, Aditya says, “Bye, Anu. Remember. If you can do something well, enjoy doing it and feel proud of doing it, then that’s your perfect métier. There’s no point living a lie. You’ve got to find yourself.”
I hold out my hand to him.
He presses my hand fondly and says, “Start painting. You must always do what you love to do. That’s the highest value use of time – time spent on doing what you want to do.”
“And what is the lowest value of time?” I ask.
“Doing what you don’t like just because others want you to do it.”
“Or maybe for money!”
“Money?” he asks, and then he looks lovingly into my eyes and says, “Anu, don’t destroy your talent by not using it.”
I get into a taxi and drive away form his world, my dream-world; into the material world of harsh reality.
In the evening, I sit by the sea, at the southern tip of Marine Drive and watch the glorious spectacle of sunset. As I watch the orange sun being gobbled up the calm blue sea, and crimson petals form in the sky, my mobile phone rings.
It is Anand, my Project Manager, with whom my romance is being contrived, from the airport. “Hey, Anuradha. The flight is at 10, check in begins at 8; make sure you are there on time. Terminal 2A.”
“I’m not coming,” I say.
“What do you mean you’re not coming?” Anand shouts from the other end.
“I mean I’m not coming,” I say calmly.
“Why? What’s wrong? Someone made you a better offer?”
“It’s nothing like that. I’ve discovered my métier. I’m going back to the world where I really belong,” I say.
“Where are you? How can you ditch us like this at the last moment?” he pleads.
I know if this is the defining moment of my life. It’s now or never. I have to burn my bridges now. “I have made my decision, Anand. I am not coming back. I have to discover my true self, do what I want, be happy from the inside. I’m sorry, Anand. I’m sure you’ll find someone else, your soul-mate, at work and for yourself. Best of luck!”
I switch off my cell-phone. I look at it. The last of the manacles! Deliberately, I throw the mobile phone into the Arabian Sea.
I begin walking towards the place where I know I’ll find Aditya.
And then I will return to the world where I really belong to realize my true metier and be my own Muse!
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
Monday, July 27, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Art of Living by Sherry Karve
My Friend, Philosopher and Guide Sherry Karve
SHERRY & THE ART OF LIVING
Food for Thought
By
VIKRAM KARVE
If you want to learn the Art of Living just observe the way animals live and react to situations.
Please see her picture above, fetching the morning newspaper from the compound gate for me.
As you can see Sherry is Doberman X – the “X” factor is probably a Rampur Hound or a Caravan Mudhol Hound.
Sherry behaves spontaneously, joyfully, based on her inner instinct.
She plays, she barks, she chases, she eats and she sleeps in accordance with her natural instinct.
Sherry doesn’t need to go to gym [for physical fitness] or a therapist [for mental fitness].
Sherry is not a Goal Oriented person. She is an Inner Resource Oriented person – in short, a Source Oriented person.
Conventional wisdom teaches us to become goal-oriented.
From childhood there are goals set for us to achieve, and when we achieve one goal there is always another goal waiting for us – it is an endless pursuit, a chase which never culminates.
We are taught that a goal oriented person is a person who always succeeds in life. But is there a final destination of success? Do you ever reach your final goal?
Goals are always outside you, goals are in the future, far away from you. Your goals are not in your control. If you design your lifestyle in such a way that your happiness depends on things outside you, things in the future and not in your control, then you may find happiness elusive and you may never be truly content and happy.
If you are too result-oriented – you’ll always be chasing horizons.
Remember, if you run after something it runs away from you, and, conversely, if you run away from something it runs after you – so stop running and life a more Source-Oriented life.
Look inwards, discover and harness your inner resources, act instinctively and you will realize your full creative potential.
Like Sherry, you will live spontaneously, unpredictably, act on the spur of the moment and experience the joy of the glorious uncertainties of life rather than get frustrated by them.
You will live a more stress free life too.
Have you seen wild animals suffering from stress?
Maybe some domesticated pet animals are stressed-out because we humans put stress on them by imposing our “goals” and demands on the poor hapless pets.
We have become so preoccupied with achieving success that our lives are always heading towards something in the future.
In the process, we lose touch with the aliveness and delight of the present.
Sherry does not worry about the future, about achieving future goals, but live in the present.
Sherry does not live in the past either.
She is very forgiving – even if I scold her, which I never need to do, she is back to her cheerful self in a jiffy and doesn’t hold any grudges either.
Anger is a reality.
It happens inside us. Goal Oriented behaviour may result in us suppressing our anger creating stress within us.
Here is a lesson I got one morning from Sherry in Anger Management by Source Oriented living.
Our spacious bungalow, located high up on a hill slope, affords a beautiful panoramic view of the verdant wide green expanse of Girinagar all around.
This morning while we strolled on our lawn sipping rejuvenating cups of piping hot amruttulya tea in the lovely mist and slight drizzle, I noticed Sherry standing alert at the bungalow gate looking intently, focussing on something outside, and gradually getting angry, as evident from her focussed eyes, slow growls, heightened breathing, stiff upright tail and vivid line of hair standing taut on the centre of her neck and back, hackles raised.
I walked towards the gate and looked outside – the object of her attention was a huge white cat that was walking nonchalantly towards the gate, almost defiantly.
The moment the cat came close, Sherry suddenly lost her temper, started barking, violently jumping, infuriated with anger, desperately pleading with me to open the gate.
The cat stopped dead in her tracks and crouched, and I knew that if I let Sherry out, she would desperately, frenziedly chase the cat down the hill, and if she caught the cat, there would ensue a violent fight to the finish, and most likely it would be the cat who would be finished.
So I just walked away and Sherry realized that I wasn’t going to open the gate, went so wild with rage, that she ran amok, running wildly all round the spacious compound, taking high speed runs, jumping over hedges, barking, chasing, leaping at birds, running fast at top speed round and round the bungalow, till she was totally exhausted, after which she went to her water bowl, lapped up cold soothing water, and lay down on her rug in a cosy manner, calm, tranquil, totally relaxed, her anger totally dissipated and dissolved into peaceful serenity.
That’s what one must do when angry, isn’t it? Let me tell you it works - the moment you sense anger rising within you start exercising, run, jog, take a brisk walk, dance, move your limbs, sway, do something.
Spontaneously do some physical activity till your anger dissipates and exhausts itself into a state of calm.
So, Dear Reader, the next time you start getting angry, do what Sherry does – just start running till your anger disappears and you collapse into a cosy state of peaceful calm and tranquillity.
There is a lot to learn about the “Art of Living” from our animal friends, isn’t it?
So just behave naturally, spontaneously, doing you’re your inner voice and instinct tells you, observe fauna and flora around you, and most importantly, get a pet dog and make him or her your friend, philosopher and guide.
I’ll end with a quote on dogs from Sigmund Freud:
Dogs love their friends and bite their enemies, quite unlike people, who are incapable of pure love and always have to mix love and hate in their object-relations. -Sigmund Freud
So here is a Bow Wow – and may you live a more doglike life!
VIKRAM KARVE
WHY DID YOU DUMP ME
WHY DID YOU DUMP ME ?
[Flash Fiction – A Short Story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The moment I saw the e-mail I did two things.
First I took a print-out of the mail, kept it in my purse and deleted the mail from my mailbox.
Then I called the airlines and booked my ticket on the next flight to India.
The e-mail contained a name and an address. That’s all – just 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 – Unanswered questions that were haunting me for so many years.
It all began when my fiancé Anil suddenly broke off our engagement without any explanation.
“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,” he said trying to look away from my eyes.
“What do you mean you can’t marry me?” I shouted shaking him.
He didn’t say anything, just remained silent, averting his eyes.
“Is it someone else? What do you mean you can’t marry me? Actually you don’t want to marry me, isn’t it?”
“Okay, you can think what you like. I don’t want to marry you.”
“You have to give me an explanation. I am not going to accept being jilted like this.”
“You have to accept it. Don’t delve too much.”
“How dare you say ‘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.”
“I? Cheated you?” I said dumbfounded and furious.
“You shouldn’t have tried to hide things from me,” he accused.
“Hide what?” I asked, getting livid.
“You never told me that you are an adopted child,” he said.
“What nonsense! Don’t talk rubbish. I’m not adopted!” I shouted in anger.
“You are.”
“Who told you?”
“We got some pre-matrimonial enquiries done.”
“Matrimonial Enquiry? You spied on me,” I accused him, “to blackmail me, to humiliate me? With all these lies!”
“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, leaving me heartbroken, desolate and shattered.
I never asked my parents, the only parents I knew. They were the one’s who loved me, gave me everything. I could not ask them; hurt them. 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 deeply anguished and helpless.
My parents loved me, meant everything to me, and we carried on our lives as if nothing had happened, and I lovingly cared and 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 never forget.
One day I could bear it no longer.
I decided to find out.
And now I had found out.
The investigation agency had done a good job. Confidential and discreet.
For the first time I knew the name of my actual father – my real father, my biological natural father.
And now I had to meet this man and ask him why he did it, commit that cruel unforgivable act of abandoning me to the world.
I landed at Delhi airport in the very early hours of the morning.
It was cold, the morning chill at once refreshing and invigorating, the driver drove fast and it took me six hours by taxi to reach the magnificent bungalow near Landour in Mussoorie.
I checked the nameplate and briskly walked inside, eager to see my real father for the first time.
There was a small crowd gathered in the porch.
“What’s happening?” I asked a man in the crowd.
“Bada Sahab is no more. He passed away this morning. He was so good to us,” he said with tears in his eyes.
I pushed my way through the crowd.
My father’s 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 up in my eyes.
Suddenly I lost control of myself and cried inconsolably, “I have become an orphan. An orphan!”
“Me too!” a familiar voice said softly behind me.
I turned around and stared at my ex fiancé Anil.
Anil looked into my eyes in awe.
Slowly comprehension began to dawn on us, Anil and me, and we kept looking into each other’s eyes.
Frozen, we looked at each other in silence; grotesque silence; deafening silence; illuminating silence – an enlightening silence.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
[Flash Fiction – A Short Story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The moment I saw the e-mail I did two things.
First I took a print-out of the mail, kept it in my purse and deleted the mail from my mailbox.
Then I called the airlines and booked my ticket on the next flight to India.
The e-mail contained a name and an address. That’s all – just 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 – Unanswered questions that were haunting me for so many years.
It all began when my fiancé Anil suddenly broke off our engagement without any explanation.
“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,” he said trying to look away from my eyes.
“What do you mean you can’t marry me?” I shouted shaking him.
He didn’t say anything, just remained silent, averting his eyes.
“Is it someone else? What do you mean you can’t marry me? Actually you don’t want to marry me, isn’t it?”
“Okay, you can think what you like. I don’t want to marry you.”
“You have to give me an explanation. I am not going to accept being jilted like this.”
“You have to accept it. Don’t delve too much.”
“How dare you say ‘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.”
“I? Cheated you?” I said dumbfounded and furious.
“You shouldn’t have tried to hide things from me,” he accused.
“Hide what?” I asked, getting livid.
“You never told me that you are an adopted child,” he said.
“What nonsense! Don’t talk rubbish. I’m not adopted!” I shouted in anger.
“You are.”
“Who told you?”
“We got some pre-matrimonial enquiries done.”
“Matrimonial Enquiry? You spied on me,” I accused him, “to blackmail me, to humiliate me? With all these lies!”
“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, leaving me heartbroken, desolate and shattered.
I never asked my parents, the only parents I knew. They were the one’s who loved me, gave me everything. I could not ask them; hurt them. 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 deeply anguished and helpless.
My parents loved me, meant everything to me, and we carried on our lives as if nothing had happened, and I lovingly cared and 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 never forget.
One day I could bear it no longer.
I decided to find out.
And now I had found out.
The investigation agency had done a good job. Confidential and discreet.
For the first time I knew the name of my actual father – my real father, my biological natural father.
And now I had to meet this man and ask him why he did it, commit that cruel unforgivable act of abandoning me to the world.
I landed at Delhi airport in the very early hours of the morning.
It was cold, the morning chill at once refreshing and invigorating, the driver drove fast and it took me six hours by taxi to reach the magnificent bungalow near Landour in Mussoorie.
I checked the nameplate and briskly walked inside, eager to see my real father for the first time.
There was a small crowd gathered in the porch.
“What’s happening?” I asked a man in the crowd.
“Bada Sahab is no more. He passed away this morning. He was so good to us,” he said with tears in his eyes.
I pushed my way through the crowd.
My father’s 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 up in my eyes.
Suddenly I lost control of myself and cried inconsolably, “I have become an orphan. An orphan!”
“Me too!” a familiar voice said softly behind me.
I turned around and stared at my ex fiancé Anil.
Anil looked into my eyes in awe.
Slowly comprehension began to dawn on us, Anil and me, and we kept looking into each other’s eyes.
Frozen, we looked at each other in silence; grotesque silence; deafening silence; illuminating silence – an enlightening silence.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
TIT FOR TAT
Art of Cooking
A Teaching Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
On a freezing cold snowy winter day Mulla Nasrudin was having a chat with some of his friends in the local coffee house.
Mulla Nasrudin said that cold weather did not bother him, and in fact, he could stay, if necessary, all right without any heat.
“We’ll take you up on that, Mulla Nasrudin,” his friends said. “If you stand all night in the village square without warming yourself by any external means each of us will treat you to sumptuous meal. But if you fail to do so, you will treat all of us to dinner.”
“All right, it’s a bet,” Mulla Nasrudin said and that very night Mulla Nasrudin stood shivering all night in the village square till the morning despite the bitter cold.
In the morning he ran triumphantly to his friends and told them he had won the bet and that they should be ready to fulfil their promise of treating him to a sumptuous meal.
“As a matter of fact you lost the bet, Mulla Nasrudin,” said his friends.
“Lost the bet? How is that possible? I stood in the freezing cold all night,” Nasrudin asked perplexed.
“At about midnight, just before we went to sleep, we saw a candle burning in a window about three hundred yards away from where you were standing. That certainly means that you warmed yourself by it,” the friends said.
“That’s ridiculous, “Mulla Nasrudin argued. “How can a candle so far away behind a window warm a person standing outside in the freezing cold more than three hundred yards away?”
All his protestations were to no avail and it was decided that Mulla Nasrudin had lost the bet.
Mulla Nasrudin accepted gracefully the verdict and invited all of them to dinner that night at his home.
All his friends arrived on time, laughing and joking; they had built up a ravenous appetite in eager anticipation of the delicious meal Mulla Nasrudin was going to serve them.
But dinner was not ready.
Mulla Nasrudin told them that it would be ready in a short time and left the room to prepare the meal.
Hours passed and still no dinner was served. Neither did Nasrudin emerge even once from his kitchen.
Finally, getting impatient and very hungry his friends went into the kitchen to see if there was any food cooking at all.
They looked in disbelief at what they saw.
Mulla Nasrudin was standing by a huge cooking pot suspended from the ceiling and there was a small lighted candle under the large cooking pot.
“Be patient my friends,” Mulla Nasrudin assured his friends, “Dinner will be ready soon. You see it is cooking in front of you in this pot.”
“Are you out of your mind, Mulla Nasrudin?” they shouted in exasperation, “How could such a tiny flame boil such a large pot?”
“Your ignorance of such matters amuses me,” Mulla Nasrudin said nonchalantly, “If the flame of a candle behind a window three hundred yards away can warm a person, surely the same flame will boil this pot which is only three inches away.”
Dear Reader, any comments?
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
Art of Cooking
A Teaching Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
On a freezing cold snowy winter day Mulla Nasrudin was having a chat with some of his friends in the local coffee house.
Mulla Nasrudin said that cold weather did not bother him, and in fact, he could stay, if necessary, all right without any heat.
“We’ll take you up on that, Mulla Nasrudin,” his friends said. “If you stand all night in the village square without warming yourself by any external means each of us will treat you to sumptuous meal. But if you fail to do so, you will treat all of us to dinner.”
“All right, it’s a bet,” Mulla Nasrudin said and that very night Mulla Nasrudin stood shivering all night in the village square till the morning despite the bitter cold.
In the morning he ran triumphantly to his friends and told them he had won the bet and that they should be ready to fulfil their promise of treating him to a sumptuous meal.
“As a matter of fact you lost the bet, Mulla Nasrudin,” said his friends.
“Lost the bet? How is that possible? I stood in the freezing cold all night,” Nasrudin asked perplexed.
“At about midnight, just before we went to sleep, we saw a candle burning in a window about three hundred yards away from where you were standing. That certainly means that you warmed yourself by it,” the friends said.
“That’s ridiculous, “Mulla Nasrudin argued. “How can a candle so far away behind a window warm a person standing outside in the freezing cold more than three hundred yards away?”
All his protestations were to no avail and it was decided that Mulla Nasrudin had lost the bet.
Mulla Nasrudin accepted gracefully the verdict and invited all of them to dinner that night at his home.
All his friends arrived on time, laughing and joking; they had built up a ravenous appetite in eager anticipation of the delicious meal Mulla Nasrudin was going to serve them.
But dinner was not ready.
Mulla Nasrudin told them that it would be ready in a short time and left the room to prepare the meal.
Hours passed and still no dinner was served. Neither did Nasrudin emerge even once from his kitchen.
Finally, getting impatient and very hungry his friends went into the kitchen to see if there was any food cooking at all.
They looked in disbelief at what they saw.
Mulla Nasrudin was standing by a huge cooking pot suspended from the ceiling and there was a small lighted candle under the large cooking pot.
“Be patient my friends,” Mulla Nasrudin assured his friends, “Dinner will be ready soon. You see it is cooking in front of you in this pot.”
“Are you out of your mind, Mulla Nasrudin?” they shouted in exasperation, “How could such a tiny flame boil such a large pot?”
“Your ignorance of such matters amuses me,” Mulla Nasrudin said nonchalantly, “If the flame of a candle behind a window three hundred yards away can warm a person, surely the same flame will boil this pot which is only three inches away.”
Dear Reader, any comments?
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Me and My Ex
Dating Mating Hating Resuscitating
Short Fiction – A Love Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The much delayed monsoon has finally arrived in Pune. It’s been raining incessantly all morning.
Ideally, at 10 o’clock in the morning on a working day, I should have been safely ensconced in my office, but today I sit in the driving seat of my car, slowly negotiating my way in the torrential rain, for I have an important appointment to keep.
Suddenly I see Avinash, half drenched, shivering under the bus-stop at Aundh, trying to protect himself from the pouring rain.
He sees me too. Our eyes meet. I don’t know who is more surprised at this unexpected encounter – he or me.
At first instinct, I just feel like ignoring him and driving away.
But then my humanitarian side takes over, so I stop the car near him, lean across, open the door and beckon him to get inside.
He seems hesitant, “Thanks, but I’ll take an auto – I am going to Deccan…”
“Come on Avinash, get in fast or you’ll get wet – you won’t get a rickshaw in this rain – I too am going towards Deccan Gymkhana – I’ll drop you on the way.”
He gets in and for a while we drive in silence.
“It’s been five years,” he says.
“Yes,” I say, “Quite a surprise, seeing you here in Pune…”
“Yes. I just came in from Mumbai by the Volvo bus, got down at Parihar Chowk… and you…what are you doing in Pune?”
“I relocated here six months ago…you still in the States?”
“Yes. But maybe I’ll come back…”
“Recession…?”
“Not really…”
“So you’ve come to look for a job in Pune…?”
“It’s actually something else…a family matter…”
“Family matter…? In Pune…?”
“My wife is from Pune…”
“Wife…? You remarried…?
“Yes…two years ago…”
“And I didn’t even know…!”
“We decided…didn’t we…to move on…go off on our different ways…not look back…”
“Yes…we lost track of each other completely…”
“That was good…isn’t it…for both of us…”
“Yes…”
“And you…? You married again…?”
“Yes…soon after you left for the States after our divorce…”
“On the rebound…?”
“Maybe…” I laugh.
Avinash has not changed…the way he says these devastatingly rude things in such a naïve innocent way.
We are nearing the Pune University circle so I ask, “Where is your wife’s house...? I’ll take the road accordingly…”
“It’s okay…just drop me wherever you can…”
“Come on…tell me…see how much it is raining…you want me to take Senapati Bapat Road…or drive straight ahead…to Fergusson College Road…or Jangli Maharaj Road…?”
“It’s okay…you go wherever you want to go in Deccan…I’ll get off there…”
“Oh…so you don’t want to show me your wife’s house…” I say, tongue in cheek.
“No…No…it’s not that…I am going somewhere else…to the Family Court…”
“To the Family Court…? I ask, taken aback.
“Yes,” he says, “it’s beyond Deccan, past Lakdi Pul…near Alaka…”
“I know where the family court is…” I say, “I hope you are not…”
“Yes…first it was the Family Court in Mumbai with you…and now…” he stops, as tears well up in his eyes.
“I too am going to the Family Court…” I say, sensing a lump in my throat.
“What…?” he looks at me, startled.
“I am divorcing my husband…today is the final hearing…hopefully…”
I slow down, stop the car near the kerb past E-Square. I wipe my eyes with tissue and hold the tissue box towards Avinash. He too wipes his eyes.
“Maybe we should have stayed together, tried to make our marriage work,” I say.
“Yes…it all happened so fast …maybe we were too hasty, too impatient, too headstrong…”
“Yes…we could have tried to make it work…”
“I think we sought the easy way out…we were too young…unrealistic…immature…impetuous…volatile…”
“Yes… ours was a tempestuous stormy relationship…a terrible marriage…but there is one thing…”
“What…?”
“With you I could be myself…no mask, no pretence, no forced geniality…”
“Me too…with you I could truly be myself…no contrived feelings, no holding back…I could never be like that with anyone else…with her too…the way could naturally be with you…you know I think we were made for each other…”
“Maybe we should give it a try…one more time…make things work…”
“You’re serious…?” he asks with a curious look in his eyes.
“Yes, Avinash. Let’s empty our cups and start afresh. Like you said, I too think we are made for each other.”
“Okay, but there is one thing…”
“What…?”
“Is it allowed to marry the same person twice…?
“I think so...I’ll ask my divorce lawyer…she will know…”
“Yes…I’ll confirm at the Family Court too…”
“One more thing…”
“Now what…?”
“This time…No Expectations, No Disappointments, Happy Marriage…”
“Yes,” I say lovingly putting my hand on his: “No Expectations…No Disappointments…Happy Marriage…”
Suddenly I notice that it has stopped raining and the sun is peeping through the clouds.
I feel good. I start the car and we drive on towards the Family Court…to erase the second chapter of our marital lives forever and to begin writing our first inchoate chapter afresh.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
vikramkarve@sify.com
Short Fiction – A Love Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The much delayed monsoon has finally arrived in Pune. It’s been raining incessantly all morning.
Ideally, at 10 o’clock in the morning on a working day, I should have been safely ensconced in my office, but today I sit in the driving seat of my car, slowly negotiating my way in the torrential rain, for I have an important appointment to keep.
Suddenly I see Avinash, half drenched, shivering under the bus-stop at Aundh, trying to protect himself from the pouring rain.
He sees me too. Our eyes meet. I don’t know who is more surprised at this unexpected encounter – he or me.
At first instinct, I just feel like ignoring him and driving away.
But then my humanitarian side takes over, so I stop the car near him, lean across, open the door and beckon him to get inside.
He seems hesitant, “Thanks, but I’ll take an auto – I am going to Deccan…”
“Come on Avinash, get in fast or you’ll get wet – you won’t get a rickshaw in this rain – I too am going towards Deccan Gymkhana – I’ll drop you on the way.”
He gets in and for a while we drive in silence.
“It’s been five years,” he says.
“Yes,” I say, “Quite a surprise, seeing you here in Pune…”
“Yes. I just came in from Mumbai by the Volvo bus, got down at Parihar Chowk… and you…what are you doing in Pune?”
“I relocated here six months ago…you still in the States?”
“Yes. But maybe I’ll come back…”
“Recession…?”
“Not really…”
“So you’ve come to look for a job in Pune…?”
“It’s actually something else…a family matter…”
“Family matter…? In Pune…?”
“My wife is from Pune…”
“Wife…? You remarried…?
“Yes…two years ago…”
“And I didn’t even know…!”
“We decided…didn’t we…to move on…go off on our different ways…not look back…”
“Yes…we lost track of each other completely…”
“That was good…isn’t it…for both of us…”
“Yes…”
“And you…? You married again…?”
“Yes…soon after you left for the States after our divorce…”
“On the rebound…?”
“Maybe…” I laugh.
Avinash has not changed…the way he says these devastatingly rude things in such a naïve innocent way.
We are nearing the Pune University circle so I ask, “Where is your wife’s house...? I’ll take the road accordingly…”
“It’s okay…just drop me wherever you can…”
“Come on…tell me…see how much it is raining…you want me to take Senapati Bapat Road…or drive straight ahead…to Fergusson College Road…or Jangli Maharaj Road…?”
“It’s okay…you go wherever you want to go in Deccan…I’ll get off there…”
“Oh…so you don’t want to show me your wife’s house…” I say, tongue in cheek.
“No…No…it’s not that…I am going somewhere else…to the Family Court…”
“To the Family Court…? I ask, taken aback.
“Yes,” he says, “it’s beyond Deccan, past Lakdi Pul…near Alaka…”
“I know where the family court is…” I say, “I hope you are not…”
“Yes…first it was the Family Court in Mumbai with you…and now…” he stops, as tears well up in his eyes.
“I too am going to the Family Court…” I say, sensing a lump in my throat.
“What…?” he looks at me, startled.
“I am divorcing my husband…today is the final hearing…hopefully…”
I slow down, stop the car near the kerb past E-Square. I wipe my eyes with tissue and hold the tissue box towards Avinash. He too wipes his eyes.
“Maybe we should have stayed together, tried to make our marriage work,” I say.
“Yes…it all happened so fast …maybe we were too hasty, too impatient, too headstrong…”
“Yes…we could have tried to make it work…”
“I think we sought the easy way out…we were too young…unrealistic…immature…impetuous…volatile…”
“Yes… ours was a tempestuous stormy relationship…a terrible marriage…but there is one thing…”
“What…?”
“With you I could be myself…no mask, no pretence, no forced geniality…”
“Me too…with you I could truly be myself…no contrived feelings, no holding back…I could never be like that with anyone else…with her too…the way could naturally be with you…you know I think we were made for each other…”
“Maybe we should give it a try…one more time…make things work…”
“You’re serious…?” he asks with a curious look in his eyes.
“Yes, Avinash. Let’s empty our cups and start afresh. Like you said, I too think we are made for each other.”
“Okay, but there is one thing…”
“What…?”
“Is it allowed to marry the same person twice…?
“I think so...I’ll ask my divorce lawyer…she will know…”
“Yes…I’ll confirm at the Family Court too…”
“One more thing…”
“Now what…?”
“This time…No Expectations, No Disappointments, Happy Marriage…”
“Yes,” I say lovingly putting my hand on his: “No Expectations…No Disappointments…Happy Marriage…”
Suddenly I notice that it has stopped raining and the sun is peeping through the clouds.
I feel good. I start the car and we drive on towards the Family Court…to erase the second chapter of our marital lives forever and to begin writing our first inchoate chapter afresh.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
vikramkarve@sify.com
Monday, July 13, 2009
Conflict, Frustration, Stress
PATHS TO FRUSTRATION
[Musings]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Frustration can be a major cause of stress in your daily life and it may be worthwhile to ponder on the various reasons for your frustration.
Well, here is one.
People often become frustrated when they must choose between their personal desires and pleasing other people.
There are five basic ways people react in such situations of conflict between personal goals versus interpersonal relationships and each type of response can be a source of frustration.
EGOIST: First of all, a person may pursue his personal desires and forget about interpersonal relationships. The individual so described would be the EGOIST who cares little about stepping on others as long as he or she gets to the top of the ladder or achieves his or her personal goals. An Egoist’s frustration emanates from the displeasure of others. The others may outwardly smile at him because of his power but they secretly would like to “stab him in the back” and the egoist knows this and it inwardly pricks his conscience deep inside.
ALTRUIST: Second, a person may try to please everyone by setting aside his own aspirations. This individual is afflicted by “The Disease to Please” and is a person who can never say “NO”. His frustration results from lack of personal achievement and the realization that complete altruism is not always self-satisfying.
WHEELER-DEALER: Third, a person may try to achieve all his ambitions and simultaneously please everyone. This person is the typical “Wheeler-Dealer”. He is maximally frustrated, since it is virtually an impossible task to be all things to all people and please everyone, including his own self, all the time in all situations.
HERMIT: Fourth, a person may decide to be an ostrich and bury his head in the sand. This describes the HERMIT. He also becomes very frustrated because he achieves nothing and pleases no one, not even himself.
COMPROMISER: Fifth and finally, one may choose to go halfway. Such a person is the compromiser or the person who can’t seem to make up his mind. But even he is frustrated because he may sacrifice worthwhile personal goals or fail really to please some important people, since he has decided on a middle course.
WORK OUT YOUR OWN SOLUTION:
Dear Reader, sit in silent solitude, close your eyes, reflect, introspect, think of your recent situations of conflict between your personal desires and pleasing others.
Are you an egoist, altruist, wheeler-dealer, hermit or a compromiser?
Or are you somewhere in between?
Do you change with different personal desires and different people, or is your behaviour consistent with everyone?
You have to work out own solution; understanding yourself is the first step.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
[Musings]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Frustration can be a major cause of stress in your daily life and it may be worthwhile to ponder on the various reasons for your frustration.
Well, here is one.
People often become frustrated when they must choose between their personal desires and pleasing other people.
There are five basic ways people react in such situations of conflict between personal goals versus interpersonal relationships and each type of response can be a source of frustration.
EGOIST: First of all, a person may pursue his personal desires and forget about interpersonal relationships. The individual so described would be the EGOIST who cares little about stepping on others as long as he or she gets to the top of the ladder or achieves his or her personal goals. An Egoist’s frustration emanates from the displeasure of others. The others may outwardly smile at him because of his power but they secretly would like to “stab him in the back” and the egoist knows this and it inwardly pricks his conscience deep inside.
ALTRUIST: Second, a person may try to please everyone by setting aside his own aspirations. This individual is afflicted by “The Disease to Please” and is a person who can never say “NO”. His frustration results from lack of personal achievement and the realization that complete altruism is not always self-satisfying.
WHEELER-DEALER: Third, a person may try to achieve all his ambitions and simultaneously please everyone. This person is the typical “Wheeler-Dealer”. He is maximally frustrated, since it is virtually an impossible task to be all things to all people and please everyone, including his own self, all the time in all situations.
HERMIT: Fourth, a person may decide to be an ostrich and bury his head in the sand. This describes the HERMIT. He also becomes very frustrated because he achieves nothing and pleases no one, not even himself.
COMPROMISER: Fifth and finally, one may choose to go halfway. Such a person is the compromiser or the person who can’t seem to make up his mind. But even he is frustrated because he may sacrifice worthwhile personal goals or fail really to please some important people, since he has decided on a middle course.
WORK OUT YOUR OWN SOLUTION:
Dear Reader, sit in silent solitude, close your eyes, reflect, introspect, think of your recent situations of conflict between your personal desires and pleasing others.
Are you an egoist, altruist, wheeler-dealer, hermit or a compromiser?
Or are you somewhere in between?
Do you change with different personal desires and different people, or is your behaviour consistent with everyone?
You have to work out own solution; understanding yourself is the first step.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
MY PET DOGS
My Canine Companions
By
VIKRAM KARVE
I remember my first pet dog Goldie, a Cocker Spaniel, who was presented to us by our neighbour in Devlali in 1961, when I was just five.
We named him Goldie because of his colour, and the tiny one month old pup remained my constant companion and loyal friend till he passed away in 1970.
Then we had Bruno, a cute cuddly Lhasa Apso, who disappeared, or maybe was stolen one day.
After that a black playful Dachshund called Sherry entered our family.
I loved Sherry so much that I have named all my subsequent dogs Sherry.
In 1982 we were presented a lovable snow-white Lhasa Apso girl as a wedding gift.
Of course we named her Sherry.
Ours was an arranged marriage and probably the only thing that was compatible was that we both loved dogs.
Today it is my favourite Doberman girl Sherry who illuminates every moment of our lives with happiness, joy and delight.
If you ask me “Why do people keep dogs?” I will ask you “Why do people have children?”
And remember, your children will grow up, and, one day, may go away from you, maybe for higher studies, or to pursue their careers, or just leave you because they want to stay separately; but your dog will never leave you and will loyally remain with you forever till death.
Of course, if you throw out your dog, or get rid of it, then it’s a different matter; but your dog won’t leave you of its own accord.
If you are thinking of getting a dog into your home, as a family member, remember you are making a commitment to that dog for its lifetime, probably even more than your own children.
And once the dog joins your family, invest your love and time to build a special bond that only a dog can offer, and you will both be happy you did.
You can take my word for it!
VIKRAM KARVE
PS: - Hey, do read about SHERRY my current pet My Darling DobermanXRampur Hound Girl
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
vikramkarve@sify.com
By
VIKRAM KARVE
I remember my first pet dog Goldie, a Cocker Spaniel, who was presented to us by our neighbour in Devlali in 1961, when I was just five.
We named him Goldie because of his colour, and the tiny one month old pup remained my constant companion and loyal friend till he passed away in 1970.
Then we had Bruno, a cute cuddly Lhasa Apso, who disappeared, or maybe was stolen one day.
After that a black playful Dachshund called Sherry entered our family.
I loved Sherry so much that I have named all my subsequent dogs Sherry.
In 1982 we were presented a lovable snow-white Lhasa Apso girl as a wedding gift.
Of course we named her Sherry.
Ours was an arranged marriage and probably the only thing that was compatible was that we both loved dogs.
Today it is my favourite Doberman girl Sherry who illuminates every moment of our lives with happiness, joy and delight.
If you ask me “Why do people keep dogs?” I will ask you “Why do people have children?”
And remember, your children will grow up, and, one day, may go away from you, maybe for higher studies, or to pursue their careers, or just leave you because they want to stay separately; but your dog will never leave you and will loyally remain with you forever till death.
Of course, if you throw out your dog, or get rid of it, then it’s a different matter; but your dog won’t leave you of its own accord.
If you are thinking of getting a dog into your home, as a family member, remember you are making a commitment to that dog for its lifetime, probably even more than your own children.
And once the dog joins your family, invest your love and time to build a special bond that only a dog can offer, and you will both be happy you did.
You can take my word for it!
VIKRAM KARVE
PS: - Hey, do read about SHERRY my current pet My Darling DobermanXRampur Hound Girl
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
vikramkarve@sify.com
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