MARRIAGE A LA MODE
Fiction Short Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Dear Reader, I am sure you have heard the saying: Absence makes the heart grow fonder
Now, please read this fiction short story:
At exactly 8 PM her cell-phone rings in her hand. She’s expecting the call – that’s why she’s holding the cell-phone in her hand. She looks at the caller-id, accepts the call, moves the mobile phone near her ear and says, “I love you, darling!”
“I love you, Sugar!” says her husband’s voice from half way around the globe. On his bed beside him, sprawled with arms and legs outstretched like a fallen statue, the woman is still asleep, her breathing untroubled.
It’s a long distance marriage, and the ‘married bachelors’ have been following the same drill for quite some time now – two calls every day at exactly the same time (Eight in the morning she calls him up just before leaving for work and eight in the evening she receives his call from half way across the globe just before he leaves for work. And both of them start their conversation automatically with the words: “I love you, darling! Or, I love you, Sugar!” He’s her ‘darling’ and she’s his ‘Sugar’!)
“How was your day?” the husband asks.
“Hectic. Lot’s of work. Deadlines to meet!” the wife answers. She steals a glance at the handsome young man sitting beside her in the darkened lounge bar.
“It’s terrible here too,” the husband says, “It’s killing – the work. Too much traveling. Sales meets, seminars, conferences. One hotel to another. Living out of a suitcase. I’m feeling exhausted.”
It’s true. The husband is indeed feeling exhausted; a relaxing, satiating kind of exhaustion. He gets up and opens the window and allows the early morning air to cool his body, then turns around and looks at the marvelous body of the woman on his bed. She looks lovelier than ever before, and as he remembers the ferocity of her lovemaking, he feels waves of desire rise within him. Not for a long time has the mere sight of a woman aroused the lion in him to such an extent. He smiles to himself. He feels proud and elated; it was a grand performance. Spontaneous lovemaking at its best; not like the planned and contrived “quality” lovemaking with his wife, full of performance anxiety, each performing for the other’s gratification, putting on an act and both faking pleasure thinking the other would not know.
“Yes, darling. Poor you. I can understand,” the wife says, and sips her potent cocktail. It’s her third. She wonders what it is – the mysterious but deadly intoxicating cocktails her companion is plying her with, and she is feeling gloriously high.
“I’m just waiting for this hectic spell of work to be over so we can meet,” the husband says. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks at the sleeping woman. Mesmerized, marveling. It is difficult to believe that in a few hours from now they would be addressing each other formally again.
“Oh, yes. It’s been three months and I’m dying to meet you. When are we meeting?” the wife asks.
“I’m planning a fantastic vacation. I’ll let you know soon. We’ll go to some exotic place. Just the two of us. Quality Time!” the husband says to his faraway wife and at the same time looks yearningly at the gorgeously sexy woman lying so close to him.
“That’s great! We must spend some Quality Time together,” the wife says to her distant husband while she snuggles close against her strikingly handsome colleague. He presses his knee against hers. She presses hers against his. He moves his hand around her over her soft skin and pulls her gently. She feels an inchoate desire. He gently strokes her hair, and she turns towards him, her mouth partly open as he leans over her. Fuelled by the alcohol in her veins, she can sense the want churning inside her like fire. And as she looks into his eyes, and feels the intensity of his caresses, she can sense her resistance melting.
“I love you, Sugar!” the husband says.
“I love you, darling!” the wife says.
Their lovey-dovey conversation completed, both the long distance spouses disconnect their cell-phones, focus on their present objects of affection, and, with renewed zeal, carry on the passionate amorous activity presently in hand. After all, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.
At the beginning of this story I had quoted a famous saying: Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
Now I am temped to say: Absence makes the heart grow fonder – for someone else.
MARRIAGE A LA MODE
Fiction Short Story
By
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
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
The Art of Outsourcing
THE ART OF OUTSOURCING
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Short Fiction - One of my favourite fiction short stories...
One leisurely morning, while I am loafing on
“Hi!” I say.
“Hi,” he says, “where to?”
“Aimless loitering,” I say, “And you?”
“I’m going to work.”
“Work? This early? I thought your shift starts in the evening, or late at night. You work at a call center don’t you?”
“Not now. I quit. I’m on my own now.”
“On your own? What do you do?”
“LPO.”
“LPO? What’s that?”
“Life Process Outsourcing.”
“Life Process Outsourcing? Never heard of it!”
“You’ve heard of Business Process Outsourcing haven’t you?”
“BPO? Outsourcing non-core business activities and functions?”
“Precisely. LPO is similar to BPO. There it’s Business Processes that are outsourced, here it’s Life Processes.”
“Life Processes? Outsourced?”
“Why don’t you come along with me? I’ll show you.”
Soon we are in his office. It looks like a mini call center.
A young attractive girl welcomes us. “Meet Rita, my Manager,” my friend says, and introduces us.
Rita looks distraught, and says to my friend, “I’m not feeling well. Must be viral fever.”
“No problem. My friend here will stand in.”
“What? I don’t have a clue about all this LPO thing!” I protest.
“There’s nothing like learning on the job! Rita will show you.”
“It’s simple,” Rita says, in a hurry. “See the console. You just press the appropriate switch and route the call to the appropriate person or agency.”
And with these words Rita disappears. It’s the shortest induction training I have ever had in my life.
And so I plunge into the world of Life Process Outsourcing; or LPO as they call it.
It’s all very simple.
Everyone is busy. Working people don’t seem to have time these days, but they have lots of money; especially those double income couples, IT nerds, MBA hot shots, finance wizards; just about everybody running desperately in the modern rat race.
So what do they do? Simple. They 'outsource'!
‘Non-core Life Activities’, for which you neither have the inclination or the time – you just outsource them; so you can maximize your work-time to rake in the money and make a fast climb up the ladder of success.
A ring, a flash on the console infront of me and I take my first LPO call.
“My daughter’s puked in her school. They want someone to pick her up and take her home. I’m busy in a shoot and just can’t leave,” a creative ad agency type with a husky voice says.
“Why don’t you tell your husband?” I suggest.
“Are you crazy or something? I’m a single mother.”
“Sorry ma’am. I didn’t know. My sympathies and condolences.”
“Condolences? Who’s this? Is this LPO?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say, press the button marked ‘children’ and transfer the call, hoping I have made the right choice. Maybe I should have pressed ‘doctor’.
Nothing happens for the next few moments. I breathe a sigh of relief.
A yuppie wants his grandmother to be taken to a movie. I press the ‘movies’ button. ‘Movies’ transfers the call back, “Hey, this is for movie tickets; try ‘escort services’. He wants the old hag escorted to the movies.”
‘Escort Services’ are in high demand. These guys and girls, slogging in their offices minting money, want escort services for their kith and kin for various non-core family processes like shopping, movies, eating out, sight seeing, marriages, funerals, all types of functions; even going to art galleries, book fairs, exhibitions, zoos, museums or even a walk in the nearby garden.
A father wants someone to read bedtime stories to his small son while he works late. A busy couple wants proxy stand-in ‘parents’ at the school PTA meeting. An investment banker rings up from
Someone wants his kids to be taken for a swim, brunch, a play and browsing books and music.
A sweet-voiced IT project manager wants someone to motivate and pep-talk her husband, who’s been recently sacked, and is cribbing away at home demoralized. He desperately needs someone to talk to, unburden himself, but the wife is busy – she neither has the time nor the inclination to take a few days off to boost the morale of her depressed husband when there are deadlines to be met at work and so much is at stake.
The things they want outsourced range from the mundane to the bizarre; life processes that one earlier enjoyed and took pride in doing or did as one’s sacred duty are considered ‘non-core life activities’ now-a-days by these highfalutin people.
At the end of the day I feel illuminated on this novel concept of Life Process Outsourcing, and I am about to leave, when suddenly a call comes in.
“LPO?” a man asks softly.
“Yes, this is LPO. May I help you?” I say.
“I’m speaking from
“Please go ahead and feel free to ask anything you desire, Sir. We do everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yes, Sir. Anything and everything!” I say.
“I don’t know how to say this. This is the first time I’m asking. You see, I am working 24/7 on an important project for the last few months. I’m globetrotting abroad and can’t make it there. Can you please arrange for someone suitable to take my wife out to the New Year’s Eve Dance?”
I am taken aback but quickly recover, “Yes, Sir.”
“Please send someone really good, an excellent dancer, and make sure she enjoys and has a good time. She loves dancing and I just haven’t had the time.”
“Of course, Sir.”
“And I told you – I’ve been away abroad for quite some time now and I’ve got to stay out here till I complete the project.”
“I know. Work takes top priority.”
“My wife. She’s been lonely. She desperately needs some love. Do you have someone with a loving and caring nature who can give her some love? I just don’t have the time. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”
I let the words sink in. This is one call I am not going to transfer. “Please give me the details, Sir,” I say softly into the mike.
As I walk towards my destination with a spring in my step, I feel truly enlightened.
Till this moment, I never knew that ‘love’ was a 'non-core' 'life-process' worthy of outsourcing.
Long Live LPO!
Life Process Outsourcing!
Love Process Outsourcing!
Call it what you like, but I'm sure you've got the essence of outsourcing.
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
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm
Monday, November 16, 2009
LOVEDALE
LOVEDALE
Short Fiction - A Family Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
One more of my earliest fiction short stories set on the beautiful
Lovedale.
A quaint little station on the Nilgiri Mountain Railway that runs from Mettupalayam in the plains up the
On Lovedale railway station there is just one small platform – and on it, towards its southern end, there is 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
Lovedale, in 1970. That is 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 kilometres 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 woollen 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. We can’t stay here any longer. No more excuses now.”
“Even I don’t want to stay here. It’s cold and I am old. 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 before God took Daddy away.”
“Yes. Mummy will go to work. You will go to school. And I will look after the house and all of you. Just like before.”
“Only Daddy won’t be there. Why did God take Daddy away?” the girl says, tears welling up 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.
The old lady closes her eyes in sadness. 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
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.”
“Told her before? How? When?”
“You could have written, called her up. I told you so many times.”
“How can I be so cruel?”
“Cruel? What’s so cruel about it?”
“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.”
“Well I don’t like it! It’s childish, ridiculous!” the man says firmly. “Anyway, all that we can sort out later. But you tell her about us today. Tell both of them.”
“You want me to tell both of them right now? My mother-in-law also? What will she feel? She will be shocked!”
“She’ll understand.”
“Poor thing. She will be all alone.”
“Stop saying ‘poor thing’, poor thing’. She’ll be okay. She’s got her work to keep her busy.”
“She’s old and weak. I don’t think she’ll be able to do that matron’s job much longer.”
“Let her work till she can. At least it will keep her occupied. Then we’ll see.”
“Can’t we take her with us?”
“You know it’s not possible.”
“It’s so sad. She was so good to me. Where will she go? We can’t abandon her just like that!”
“Abandon? Nobody is abandoning her. Don’t worry. If she doesn’t want to stay on here, 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 like her.”
“You want to me to put her in an Old-Age Home?”
“Call it what you want but actually it’s quite a luxurious place. She’ll be happy there. I’ve already spoken to them. Let her continue here till she can. Then we’ll shift her there.”
“I can’t be that cruel and heartless to my mother-in-law. She was so loving and good to me, treated me like her own daughter, and looked after Baby, when we were devastated. And now we discard her when she needs us most,” the woman says, and starts sobbing.
“Come on Kavita. Don’t get sentimental,. You have to face the harsh reality. You know we can’t take your mother-in-law 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 mean it! That’s why you said it! I hate you, you are so cruel, mean and selfish,” the woman says, turns away from the man and looks out of the window.
They travel in silence, an uneasy 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 lush green
“Listen Kavita, I think I’ll also get down with you at Lovedale. I’ll tell them. Explain everything. And get over with it once and for all,” the man says.
“No! No! I don’t even want them to see you. The sudden shock may upset them. I have to do this carefully. Please 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, Kavita. Make things easier for everyone. I want to meet Damayanti. Tell her about us. I’m sure she’ll love me and understand everything.”
“No, please. Let me do this. I don’t want her to see you before I tell her. She’s a very sensitive girl. 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.”
The steam engine pushing the train huffs and puffs up the slope round the bend under the bridge. “Lovedale station is coming,” the woman says. She gets up and takes out her bag from the shelf.
“Sure you don’t want me to come with you to the school?” asks the man.
“No. Not now. You go ahead to Ooty. 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, looking out of different windows, waiting for Lovedale railway station 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 in boarding school. I hate the cold scary dormitories. At night I miss mummy tucking me in. And every night I count DLFMTC ?”
“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 be all staying in Mumbai. 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 of the forlorn Lovedale Railway Station 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 furtively, cautious not to be seen.
A whistle; and the train starts and moves out of Lovedale station towards Fern Hill tunnel on its way to Ooty – the end of the line.
That evening the small girl and her granny sit near the fireplace with the girl’s mother eating dinner and the woman tells them everything.
At noon the next day, four people wait at Lovedale station for the train which comes from Ooty and goes down to the plains – 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.
They all stand in silence. 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 hate boarding school don’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. I want to stay here.”
“Come Baby, we have to go,” her mother says as tears well up in her eyes.
“What about granny? How will she stay here all alone? No mummy - you also stay here. We all will stay here. Let this man go to Mumbai,” the girl pleads.
“Damayanti! I am your new father!” the man says firmly to the girl.
And then turning to the young woman he commands, “Kavita. Come. The train is going to leave.”
“Go Baby. Be a good girl. I will be okay,” 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; like manacles.
“I will come and meet you in Mumbai. I promise!” the grandmother says fighting back her tears.
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, a void.
Poor old Lovedale Railway Station. It wants to cry. It tries. But it cannot even a shed a tear. For it is not human. So it suffers its sorrow in inanimate helplessness, powerless, hapless, a silent spectator, and a mute witness.
A pity. A real pity!
LOVEDALE
Short Fiction - A Family Story
By
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://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm
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