Story for Republic Day

STORY FOR REPUBLIC DAY

26 JANUARY 2013

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Link to my Original Post on my Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve

http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2013/01/26-january-2013.html

26 JANUARY 2013

Fiction Short Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

26 January 2013.

Republic Day of India.

6:30 AM.

A cold morning.

A woman sits on a bench on the solitary platform of Girinagar Railway Station.

She looks at her watch.

Then she looks towards the Railway Track.

She has a worried expression on her face.

The Station Master comes out of his office holding two flags, one green and one red.

He sees the woman and smiles at her.

The woman gets up from the bench and asks the station master, “Is the shuttle late?”

“Yes, the shuttle has been delayed. The express train is being stopped here. The shuttle has been detained at the outer signal and will arrive here after the express train goes away.”

“Oh, My God…!!!”

“What happened?” asks the station master.

“I don’t want to be late for the Republic Day function in our school.”

“What time is the function?”

“7:30. The normal school time.”

“Oh.”

“I hope I will reach in time,” the woman says anxiously.

“I don’t think so. Normally the shuttle leaves here at 6:25 and reaches the Junction at 7. It’s 35 minutes running time. Today the express is expected to arrive at 6:45 and will be detained here for at least 5 minutes. By the time the shuttle arrives and leaves it will easily be past 7. Even if it makes up time and reaches the junction by 7:30 you still have a 10 minute walk to school. I don’t think you’ll be able to make it on time.”

“Oh, My God. I will be in trouble if I am late for the Republic Day function. It will be so humiliating,” the woman says in an anxious voice with nervousness written all over her face.

“You’ve got a first class pass, haven’t you?” the station master asks.

“Yes,” the woman says.

“Then don’t worry. You can travel by the express in the air-conditioned coach. I will tell the TTE to permit you. The express will take less than 15 minutes to reach the junction and you will be there latest by 7:10 and you can easily reach your school well before 7:30.”

“Thank you so much.”

“What ‘Thank You’? You are like my daughter. This is the least I can do for you.”

“Why is the express stopping here?” the woman asks.

“The express train is being stopped here for Colonel Ashok,” the station master says.

Suddenly the telephone rings and the station master rushes inside his office.

“The express train is being stopped here for Colonel Ashok” – those words slice through the woman’s heart like a knife slices through butter.

“So Ashok is a Colonel now. A big shot. Big enough to get the express stopped for him at Girinagar where even the fast passenger does not halt,” the woman says to herself.

Then the woman is filled with hate and regret and she says to herself bitterly: “Had it not been for the scheming bitch Menaka who mesmerized Ashok with her enticing charms and stole him away from me, today I would been Mrs. Ashok – a Colonel’s Wife, a Memsahib.”

Suddenly, the shrill whistle of the diesel engine of the express train disturbs her train of thoughts and the express train arrives on the platform.

The air-conditioned coach stops right in front of her. In the door stands Menaka, Ashok’s wife.

Menaka sees the woman and smiles at her but the woman does not return the smile.

The woman turns her face away but looks at the door of the air-conditioned coach with the corner of her eyes trying to catch a glimpse of Ashok.

The big show-off that he is, she is sure Ashok will be in his resplendent uniform strutting like a peacock.

But there is no sign of Colonel Ashok.

Instead she sees a young officer in uniform getting down from the train with Menaka and the both of them start walking towards the end of the train.

“Come on, get in fast,” the station master motions her towards the door of the air-conditioned coach. He says something to the TTE and the TTE tells her to go inside and sit on Seat No. 30.

She sits on Seat No. 30.

A family – a man, a woman and a small boy sit on the seats around her.

There is a jerk, the tug of the engine, and the train starts moving and picks up speed.

The woman looks at her watch.

6:50.

She heaves a sigh of relief.

She will be well on time for the Republic Day function.

The TTE arrives to check her pass.

Curious, the woman asks the TTE: “Why did the train stop here?”

“To detach the refrigerated van at the end of the train,” the TTE says, “the van was carrying the body of an army officer who died in action and sacrificed his life for the nation. His widowed wife was sitting right here on Seat No. 30 – the same seat where you are now sitting.”

“His name was Colonel Ashok,” the man sitting in front says, “despite losing her husband the courageous lady was so poised and calm. It is because of the sacrifice of such brave people that we can celebrate Republic Day … ”

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2013

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. 

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Did you like this story?

I am sure you will like the 27 short stories from my recently published anthology of Short Fiction COCKTAIL
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About Vikram Karve

A creative person with a zest for life, Vikram Karve is a retired Naval Officer turned full time writer and blogger. Educated at IIT Delhi, IIT (BHU) Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale and Bishops School Pune, Vikram has published two books: COCKTAIL a collection of fiction short stories about relationships (2011) and APPETITE FOR A STROLL a book of Foodie Adventures (2008) and is currently working on his novel and a book of vignettes and an anthology of short fiction. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and creative non-fiction articles on a variety of topics including food, travel, philosophy, academics, technology, management, health, pet parenting, teaching stories and self help in magazines and published a large number of professional  and academic research papers in journals and edited in-house journals and magazines for many years, before the advent of blogging. Vikram has taught at a University as a Professor for 15 years and now teaches as a visiting faculty and devotes most of his time to creative writing and blogging. Vikram Karve lives in Pune India with his family and muse - his pet dog Sherry with whom he takes long walks thinking creative thoughts.

Vikram Karve Academic and Creative Writing Journal: http://karvediat.blogspot.com
Professional Profile Vikram Karve: http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Vikram Karve Facebook Page:  https://www.facebook.com/vikramkarve
Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog: http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/posts.htm
Email: vikramwamankarve@gmail.com

      

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

 

Art of Debate

COGNITION

Battle of Wits
A Teaching Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE

Some students asked me the meaning of the term COGNITION.

As I was in no mood to pontificate, I told them this story:

Once upon a time only two monks were permitted to stay in a Zen Temple. 

If any other wandering monk wanted to stay in the temple he had to engage in a battle of wits and defeat a resident monk in debate.

If the new monk won the argument he took the place of the defeated resident monk who then had to leave the temple and move on. 

If the resident monk won he continued to stay in the temple and the wandering monk had to go away.

In a temple in the northern part of Japan two brother monks were dwelling together.

The elder monk was learned and wise, but the younger monk was stupid and had just one eye.

A wandering monk came and asked for lodging, properly challenging them to a debate about spirituality.

The wise elder monk was fatigued and tired that day from too much studying so he told the younger one-eyed stupid monk to take up the challenge.

“I am tired and want to sleep,” the elder learned monk told the stupid one-eyed younger monk, “I don't want to hear any noise so you go and request the dialogue in silence.” 

So the young monk and the stranger went to the shrine and sat down to debate in silence.

Shortly afterwards the traveller rose and went in to the elder monk, bowed his head in reverence, and said: “Your young companion is a brilliant scholar. He thoroughly defeated me.”

The wise elder monk was sure that the younger stupid one-eyed monk would be defeated in the battle of wits, so, on hearing that result was the opposite than he had expected, the astonished elder monk said to the visitor, “Please relate the silent dialogue to me.”

“Well,” explained the traveller, “first I held up one finger, representing Buddha, the enlightened one. 

So he held up two fingers, signifying Buddha and his Teaching. 

I held up three fingers, representing Buddha, his Teaching, and his Followers, living the harmonious life. 

In reply he shook his clenched fist in my face, indicating that all three come from one realization. 

Thus he won and so I have no right to remain here.”

With this, the traveller bowed in reverence once again and left the Zen temple.

Suddenly the stupid one-eyed younger monk came storming into the room and asked the wise elder monk, “Where is that fellow...?”

“I understand you won the debate,” the older learned monk said.

“Debate...? What debate...? There was no debate and I won nothing. I am going to beat him up and thrash the hell out of him,” the young monk shouted in anger.

“Beat him up...? Trash him...?” the perplexed elder monk exclaimed, “tell me what happened...relate the silent dialogue to me...”

This is how the stupid one-eyed younger brother described his version of the silent debate:

“The minute he saw me he held up one finger, insulting me by insinuating that I have only one eye. 

Since he was a stranger I thought I would be polite to him, so I held up two fingers, congratulating him that he has two eyes.

Then the impolite scoundrel held up three fingers, suggesting that between us we only have three eyes.

So I got mad and started to punch him, but the coward ran out and that ended the debate...”

Dear Reader, I am sure you are now enlightened about the concept of cognition. 

Otherwise, I’ll have to tell you another story...!

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2010

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. 

VIKRAM KARVE educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU and The Lawrence School Lovedale, is an Electronics and Communications Engineer by profession, a Human Resource Manager and Trainer by occupation, a Teacher by vocation, a Creative Writer by inclination and a Foodie by passion. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and creative non-fiction articles in magazines and journals for many years before the advent of blogging. His delicious foodie blogs have been compiled in a book "Appetite for a Stroll". Vikram lives in Pune with his family and pet Doberman girl Sherry, with whom he takes long walks thinking creative thoughts.

Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog - http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com  

Academic Journal Vikram Karve – http://karvediat.blogspot.com

Professional Profile of Vikram Karve - http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve 

Email: vikramkarve@sify.com

LOVE TORN APART - A Lovedale Story

LOVE TORN APART

Fiction Short Story 

By

 

VIKRAM KARVE

One of my earliest fiction short stories set on the beautiful Nilgiri Mountain Railway –  for old times’ sake...

   

 

Lovedale.

A quaint little station on the Nilgiri Mountain Railway that runs from Mettupalayam in the plains up the Blue Mountains on a breathtaking journey to beautiful Ooty, the Queen of Hill Stations.

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 India. Many such ‘elite’ schools are known more for snob value than academic achievements, but this one is different – it is a prestigious public school famous for its rich heritage and tradition of excellence.  

 

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 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 in the compartment.

 

“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. And by the way, she is your ex-mother-in-law now."

"How can you say that...?"

"Come on, Kavita, don't get too sentimental...you must begin a new life now...there is no point carrying the baggage of your past...” the man realizes he has said something wrong and instantly apologizes, “I am 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 Ketti Valley with its undulating mountains in the distance.

  

“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.

 

“Damayant...i! I am your new father...!” the man says firmly to the girl.

And then the man turns to the young woman and 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 to cry. 

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. 

Yes, Lovedale helplessly watches love being torn apart.

"Love being torn apart at Lovedale" - a pity, isn't it...?

Yes, a pity...real pity...! 

 
 

LOVE TORN APART 

Fiction Short Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

  

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2010

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. 

VIKRAM KARVE educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU and The Lawrence School Lovedale, is an Electronics and Communications Engineer by profession, a Human Resource Manager and Trainer by occupation, a Teacher by vocation, a Creative Writer by inclination and a Foodie by passion. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and creative non-fiction articles in magazines and journals for many years before the advent of blogging. His delicious foodie blogs have been compiled in a book "Appetite for a Stroll". Vikram lives in Pune with his family and pet Doberman girl Sherry, with whom he takes long walks thinking creative thoughts. 

Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog - http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com  

Professional Profile of Vikram Karve - http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve 

Email: vikramkarve@sify.com

Links to my creative writing blog and profile

CREATIVE WRITING by VIKRAM KARVE

VIKRAM KARVE Profile and Bio

MY FOODIE ADVENTURES BOOK

 

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com   

http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm

Appetite for a Stroll

vikramkarve@sify.com