Book Review by Vikram Waman Karve
The Book : Looking Back
The Author : Dhondo Keshav Karve
First Published in 1936
Looking Back by Dhondo Keshav Karve.
(The Autobiography of Maharshi Karve with a preface by Frederick J. Gould)
Dear Reader, you must be wondering why I am reviewing an autobiography written in 1936. Well, I stay on Maharshi Karve Road in Mumbai. I share the same surname as the author. Also, I happen to be the great grandson of Maharshi Karve. But, beyond that, compared to him I am a nobody – not even a pygmy. He saw his goal, persisted ceaselessly throughout his life with missionary zeal and transformed the destiny of the Indian Woman. The first university for women in India - The SNDT University and educational institutions for women covering the entire spectrum ranging from pre-primary schools to post-graduate, engineering, vocational and professional colleges bear eloquent testimony to his indomitable spirit, untiring perseverance and determined efforts.
In his preface, Frederick J Gould writes that “the narrative is a parable of his career” – a most apt description of the autobiography. The author tells his life-story in a simple straightforward manner, with remarkable candour and humility; resulting in a narrative which is friendly, interesting and readable. Autobiographies are sometimes voluminous tomes but this a small book, 200 pages, and a very easy comfortable enjoyable read that makes it almost unputdownable. Dr. DK Karve writes a crisp, flowing narrative of his life interspersed with his views and anecdotes in simple, straightforward style which facilitates the reader to visualize through the author’s eyes the places, period, people and events pertaining to his life and times and the trials and tribulations he faced and struggled to conquer.
Dr. Dhondo Keshav Karve was born on 18th of April 1958. In the first few chapters he writes about Murud, his native place in Konkan, Maharashtra, his ancestry and his early life– the description is so vivid that you can clearly “see” through the author’s eye. His struggle to appear in the public service examination ( walking 110 miles in torrential rain and difficult terrain to Satara), and the shattering disappointment at not being allowed to appear because “he looked too young”, make poignant reading.
“Many undreamt of things have happened in my life and given a different turn to my career” he writes, and then goes on to describe his high school and, later, college education at The Wilson College Bombay (Mumbai) narrating various incidents that convinced him of the role of destiny and serendipity in shaping his life and career as a teacher and then Professor of Mathematics.
He married at the age of fourteen but began his marital life at the age of twenty! This was the custom of those days. Let’s read the author’s own words on his domestic life: “ … I was married at the age of fourteen and my wife was then eight. Her family lived very near to ours and we knew each other very well and had often played together. However after marriage we had to forget our old relation as playmates and to behave as strangers, often looking toward each other but never standing together to exchange words…. We had to communicate with each other through my sister…… My marital life began under the parental roof at Murud when I was twenty…” Their domestic bliss was short lived as his wife died after a few years leaving behind a son… “Thus ended the first part of my domestic life”… he concludes in crisp style.
An incident highlighting the plight of a widow left an indelible impression on him and germinated in him the idea of widow remarriage. He married Godubai, who was widowed when she was only eight years old, was a sister of his friend Mr. Joshi, and now twenty three was studying at Pandita Ramabai’s Sharada Sadan as its first widow student . Let’s read in the author’s own words how he asked for her hand in marriage to her father – “ I told him…..I had made up my mind to marry a widow. He sat silent for a minute and then hinted that there was no need to go in search of such a bride”.
He describes in detail the ostracism he faced from some orthodox quarters and systematically enunciates his life work - his organization of the Widow Marriage Association, Hindu Widows Home, Mahila Vidyalaya, Nishkama Karma Math, and other institutions, culminating in the birth of the first Indian Women’s University ( SNDT University). The trials and tribulations he faced in his life-work of emancipation of education of women (widows in particular) and how he overcame them by his persistent steadfast endeavours and indomitable spirit makes illuminating reading and underlines the fact that Dr. DK Karve was no arm-chair social reformer but a person devoted to achieve his dreams on the ground in reality. These chapters form the meat of the book and make compelling reading. ( His dedication and meticulousness is evident in the appendices where he has given datewise details of his engagements and subscriptions down to the paisa for his educational institutions from various places he visited around the world to propagate their cause).
He then describes his world tour, at 71, to meet eminent educationists to propagate the cause of the Women’s University, his later domestic life and ends with a few of his views and ideas for posterity. At the end he writes: “ Here ends the story of my life. I hope this simple story will serve some useful purpose”.
He wrote this in 1936. He lived till the 9th of November 1962, achieving so much more on the way, was conferred the honorary degree of Doctor of Letters ( D.Litt.) by the Banaras Hindu University in 1942 followed by Poona in 1951, SNDT in 1955, and Bombay(LL.D.) in 1957. Maharshi Karve received the Padma Vibhushan in 1955 and the nation’s highest honour the “Bharat Ratna” in 1958, a fitting tribute at the age of 100.
Epilogue
I was born in 1956, and have fleeting memories of Maharshi Karve, during our visits to Hingne in 1961-62, as a small boy of 5 or 6 can. My mother tells me that I featured in a films division documentary on him during his centenary celebrations in 1958 ( I must have been barely two maybe one and a half years old ) and there is a photograph of him and his great grand children where I feature. It is from people and mainly from books that I learn of his pioneering work in transforming the destiny of the Indian Woman and I thought I should share this.
I have written this book review with the hope that some of us, men and women, particularly students of SNDT, Cummins College of Engineering for Women, Pune, SOFT, Karve Institute of Social Sciences and other educational institutions related to Maharshi Karve, read about his stellar pioneering work and draw inspiration from his autobiography. I trust that SNDT and Cummins College of Engineering have included a module on the life and work of Maharshi Karve in their course curriculum for the benefit of their students to facilitate them to learn and imbibe some of his sterling values and consolidate his work.
Two other good books pertaining to the life of Maharshi Karve which I have read are : Maharshi Karve by Ganesh L. Chandavarkar, Popular Prakashan (1958) and Maharshi Karve – His 105 years, Hingne Stree Shikshan Samstha (1963).
VIKRAM WAMAN KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vwkarve@sify.com
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Monday, February 13, 2006
A Short Story by Vikram Karve
THE WOMAN ON THE TRAIN
by
VIKRAM KARVE
The moment I see Muthu, the office-boy, standing at the door of the class room I feel a familiar fear. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on Ms Bhalla who is reading aloud with dramatic effect Ruskin Bond’s story ‘The Woman on Platform 8’. It’s a moving story about a brief encounter between a woman and a motherless boy.
I love short stories, especially Ruskin Bond, and Ms Bhalla is my favorite teacher. But it’s no use. I can’t hear a word she is saying.
I open my eyes. Ms Bhalla is in a world of her own, reading away, book in her left hand and making gestures with her right. She hasn’t noticed Muthu, or the fact that almost everyone in the class are looking at him and not at her. So thoroughly is she absorbed in herself and so totally is she oblivious of her surroundings that no one dare disturb her.
“………..I watched her until she was lost in the milling crowd,” Ms Bhalla ends the story with a flourish and looks at us triumphantly only to discover that most of her students are looking towards the door. Her expression starts changing.
Before she gets angry someone says, “It’s Muthu, ma’am.”
Ms Bhalla glares at poor Muthu who sheepishly walks in and gives her the chit he is holding in his hand.
I look down into my notebook trying to keep my mind blank, but even without seeing I know that Ms Bhalla is looking at me. “Shanta, go to the principal’s office,” she says, “and take your bag with you.”
Take my bag with me? I feel scared, anxious. I hope it’s not too serious.
“Must be a big binge this time ,” I hear Rita’s voice behind me. Tears well up in my eyes. Rita is from such a happy family. Why is she so mean and nasty?
I’m about to break down when I feel Lata’s reassuring hand on my wrist, “Let’s go, Shanta. I’ll bring your bag.”
We walk through the silent corridors. Our school is located in one of those ancient castle type buildings - cold, dark and gloomy.
“I shouldn’t have left him alone last night,” I say.
“I feel so sad for uncle,” Lata says.
“Whenever I’m there he’s okay. Controls himself. He loves me so much. I’m the only one he’s got - after mummy died.”
“He was improving so much,” Lata says. “Looking so good last weekend.”
Lata is my true friend ….. the only person who I can open my heart to. The others - they watch from a distance. With pity. And a few like Rita with an evil delight at my misfortune.
“Something mush have happened yesterday,” I say. “I wish I had gone home last night. It’s in the evenings that he needs me the most.”
“Shanta, you want me to come,” Lata asks.
“Yes,” I say. I really need some moral support. Facing the world all alone. I can’t bear it any longer.
Ms David, our class-teacher, is standing outside the principal’s office. I follow her in.
I nervously enter the principal’s office. The principal, Mrs Nathan, is talking to a lady sitting opposite her. Noticing me she says, “Ah, Shanta. You daddy’s not well again. He’s admitted in the clinic again. You take the ten o’clock shuttle. And ring me up if you want anything.”
“Can I go with her?” Lata asks.
“You go back to class,” the principal says sternly, “you’ve got a maths test at 10 o’clock haven’t you?”
“Please Miss…. “ Lata pleads with Ms David, our class teacher, but Ms David says,” Lata you are in the ninth standard now. Be serious about your studies. And today afternoon is the basketball final. How can you be absent?”
I feel pain in the interiors of my mind. No one ever tells me to be serious about studies; or even sports.
Lata gives me my school-bag and leaves quickly.
Mrs Nathan takes off her glasses and looks at me. There is compassion in her eyes. “Be brave, Shanta,” she says. “This is Ms Pushpa - an ex-student of our school.”
“Good morning, ma’am,” I say.
“Hello, Shanta.” Ms Pushpa says. “I’m also taking the train to Coonoor. We’ll travel together.”
As we leave the principal’s office I can feel the piercing looks of pity burning into me. The teachers, the staff, even the gardener. Everyone knows. And they know that I know that they know. Morose faces creased with lines of compassion. The atmosphere of pity. The deafening silence. It’s terrible. I just want to get away from the place. These people - they just don’t understand that I want empathy; not sympathy.
I walk with Ms Pushpa taking the short-cut to Lovedale railway station. It’s cold, damp and the smell of eucalyptus fills my nostrils. A typical winter morning in the Nilgiris.
I look at Ms Pushpa. She looks so chic. Blue jeans, bright red pullover, fair creamy flawless complexion, jet-black hair neatly tied in a bun, dark Ray-Ban sunglasses of the latest style. A good-looking woman with smart feminine features. Elegant. Fashionable. Well groomed.
We walk in silence. I wait for her to start the conversation. I don’t know how much she knows.
“You’re in Champak house, aren’t you?” she asks looking at the crest on my blazer.
Polite conversation. Asking a question to which you already know the answer.
“Yes ma’am,” I answer.
“I too was in Champak house,” she says.
“When did you pass out, ma’am ?” I ask.
“1987,” she says.
I do a quick mental calculation. She must be in her mid-thirties. 35, maybe. She certainly looks young for her age. And very beautiful.
We cross the tracks and reach the solitary platform of Lovedale railway station.
“Let me buy your ticket. You’re going to Coonoor aren’t you?” she asks.
“Thank you ma’am. I’ve got a season ticket,” I say.
“Season ticket ?” she asked surprised.
“I’m a day scholar, ma’am. I travel every day from Coonoor,” I say.
“Oh! In our time it was strictly a boarding school,” she says.
“Even now ma’am,” I say. “I’ve got special permission. My father doesn’t keep well. I have to look after him.”
“Oh, yes,” she says, and walks towards the deserted booking window.
Lovedale is the most picturesque railway station on the Nilgiri mountain railway but today it looks gloomy, desolate. One has to be happy inside for things to look beautiful outside.
She returns with her ticket and we sit on the solitary bench.
“Where do you stay ma’am ?” I ask.
“Bangalore,” she says. “You’ve been there?”
“Yes”
“Often?”
“Only once. Last month. For my father’s treatment,” I say.”
She asks the question I’m waiting for, “Shanta. Tell me. Your father. What’s wrong with him ? What’s he suffering from ?”
I’ve never really understood why people ask me this question to which I suspect they already know the answer. Each probably has their own reason. Curiosity, lip-sympathy, genuine concern, sadistic pleasure. At first I’d feel embarrassed, try to cover up, mask, give all sorts of explanations. But now I have learnt that it is best to be blunt and straightforward.
“He’s an alcoholic,” I say. Most people shut up after this. Or change the topic of conversation. But Ms Pushpa pursues, “It must be terrible living with him. He must be getting violent.”
“No,” I say. “With me papa is very gentle. He loves me a lot.”
Tears well up in my eyes and my nose feels heavy. I take out my handkerchief. I feel her comforting arm around my shoulder and know her concern is genuine.
Suddenly the station bell rings, I hear the whistle and the blue mountain train streams into the platform. They still use steam engines here on the Nilgiri mountain railway. The train is almost empty. It’s off-season, there are no tourists, and in any case this train is never crowded as it returns to Coonoor after transporting all the office-goers to Ooty.
We sit opposite each other in an empty compartment. She still hasn’t taken off her dark sunglasses even though it is overcast and it begins to drizzle.
She looks at her watch. I look at mine. 10 AM. Half-an-hour’s journey to Coonoor.
“You came today morning, ma’am ?” I ask.
“No. Last evening. I stayed with Monica David. Your class teacher. We were classmates.”
What a difference. Miss David is so schoolmarmish. And Ms Pushpa so mod and chic. But I better be careful what I say. After all, classmates are classmates.
The train begins its journey and soon Ketti valley comes into view.
“There used to be orchards down there. Now there are buildings,” she says.
“You’ve come after a long time?” I ask.
“Yes. Almost nineteen years. The first time since passing out,” she says.
“For some work? Children’s admission?”
“No, No,” she bursts out laughing, “I’m single. Happily unmarried.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, contrite.
“Come on, Shanta. It’s Okay,” she says. “I’ve come for some work in Coonoor. Just visited the school for old times’ sake.”
“You must come during Founder’s day. You’ll meet everyone,” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “All these years I was abroad. America, Singapore, Manila, Europe. Now that I’m in Bangalore, I’ll definitely make it.”
“You work?” I ask.
“Yes. In an MNC.”
Must be an MBA from a top business school. Like IIM. Or maybe even Harvard. Wish I could be like her. Independent. Smart. Elegant. Successful. I certainly have the talent. But what about papa? Who will look after him?
I try not to think of the future. It all looks so bleak, uncertain. Better not think of it. I don’t even know what awaits me at the clinic. Just a few minutes more. It’s unbearable - the tension. Why do I have to go through all this?
She’s looking out of the window. It’s grey and cold. Dark clouds. But she still wears her dark sunglasses. Hasn’t taken them off even once.
Suddenly we enter the Ketti tunnel. It’s pitch dark. The smell of steam and smoke. It’s warm. Comforting. I close my eyes.
The train whistles. Slows down. I open my eyes. She’s still wearing dark glasses. Maybe she too has something to hide. And me. What I want to hide, everyone knows; but makes a pretence of not knowing. At least in my presence.
The train stops at Ketti. On the platform there is a group of girls, my age. They are in a jovial mood; giggling, eyes dancing, faces beaming, so carefree and happy. Their happiness hurts me deep down in my heart.
The girls don’t get in. Dressed in track-suits, and Ketti valley school blazers, they are probably waiting for the up train to Ooty which crosses here. Must be going for the basketball match.
A girl with a familiar face walks up to me with her friend.
“Not playing?” she asks.
“No,” I say.
“I wish we knew. We wouldn’t have gone so early to practice,” she says.
“Who’s captaining?” her friend asks.
“Lata maybe. I don’t know,” I say.
“Where are you going?”
“Coonoor.”
“Coonoor?”
“My father’s in hospital. He’s not well.”
“Oh! Hope he gets well soon. Okay bye.”
The girls walk away whispering to each other. And I hear the hushed voice of the one I’ve met for the first time, “Poor thing.”
“Poor thing.” The words pierce through my heart. “Poor thing.” The words echo in the interiors of my mind. “Poor thing!” “Poor thing!” “Poor thing!” The resonance is deafening. I feel I’m going mad. I feel Ms Pushpa’s hand on mine. A slight pressure. Comforting.
The up train comes, the girls get in, and train leaves towards Ooty.
Our engine’s whistle shrieks, our train starts moving. Outside it starts to rain. We close the windows. The smallness of the compartment forces us into a strange intimacy.
“I’ll come with you to the hospital,” Ms Pushpa says.
I know she means well, but nowadays I hate to depend on the kindness of strangers; so I reply, “Thank you ma’am, but I’ll manage. I’m used to it.”
“Is he often like this?” she asks.
Why is she asking me all this? It seems genuine compassion. Or maybe she has her own troubles. And talking to me makes her own troubles go away.
I decide to give her every thing in one go. “When I am there he’s okay. Controls himself. He loves me more than his drink. Last night I stayed at the hostel to study for a test. And he must have felt lonely and hit the bottle. I shouldn’t have left him alone. After mummy’s gone I am the only one he’s got, and he’s the only one I’ve got.” I pause and I say, “He was improving so much. Something must have happened last evening. He must have got upset - really upset.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says. Her tone is apologetic as if she were responsible in some way.
“Why should you feel sorry, ma’am. It’s my fate. I’ve to just find out what’s upset him. And see it doesn’t happen again. Maybe somebody visited him, passed some hurting remark. He’s very sensitive.”
Her expression changes slightly. She winces. “Does he tell you everything?” she asks.
“Of course he tells me everything,” I say, “There are no secrets between us. I’m his best friend.”
“I wish I could help you in some way,” she says.
I don’t say anything. I close my eyes. What a fool I have been, I’ve told her everything. And I know nothing about her. Not even the color of her eyes - she hasn’t even once taken off her dark sunglasses, like someone who’s blind. How cleverly she’s manipulated the conversation. Maybe people who are happy and successful feel good listening to other people’s sorrows.
I feel stifled. I open my eyes and the window. A shrill whistle and we pass through a gorge. Noise, steam, smoke, and suddenly it becomes sunny and the train begins to slow down.
“We’ve reached,” I say. We get down on the platform at Coonoor.
“I’ll come with you,” she says.
“Thanks. But it’s okay. I’ll go by myself.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
Ms Pushpa takes off her dark sunglasses and looks at me. I see her eyes. For the first time. A shiver passes through me as I look into her eyes. They are greenish-grey. She’s got cat-eyes. Exactly like mine.
Suddenly she takes me in her arms and hugs me in a tight embrace.
Stunned, I struggle, feeling acutely uncomfortable.
She releases me and I just stand there feeling numb, confused.
The whistle shrieks. I come to my senses. Look up at her. Her eyes are red and tears flow down her cheeks.
Suddenly she puts on her sunglasses, turns and walks away.
As I walk towards the hospital I think about my brief encounter with Ms Pushpa, her rather strange behaviour. It’s certainly not one of those ‘hail fellow – well met’ type of time-pass conversations between co-passengers. But suddenly she’s gone and I don’t know anything about her. She hasn’t even given me her card, address, phone, nothing. It all happened so fast.
The Clinic. Well laid-out. Neat. Spick and span. Anesthetic smell. An air of discipline. I walk through the corridor. I know where to go.
“Yes?” a voice says from behind.
I turn around. It’s a matron. I’ve never seen her before. Her eyes are hard, pitiless.
I tell her who I am. Her expression changes. Lines of compassion begin to crease her face. But still, her face has something terrible written on it.
I smile. I have learnt to smile even when I feel like weeping.
I enter the room. Papa is lying on the solitary bed. He looks okay. His eyes are closed.
“Papa,” I say softly.
He opens his eyes. “Shanta! Come to me,” he says. I rush to his bed. He hugs me tightly, “Don’t go Shanta. Don’t leave me and go away,” he cries.
“Don’t cry papa. I’ll always be with you. I’ll never leave you alone again,” I say, tears rolling down my checks.
We both cry copiously. Time stands still. I sense the presence of people in the room. Apart from the matron, there is the comforting face of Dr. Ghosh and a young doctor in white coat, stethoscope around his neck.
“Can I take him?” I ask.
“Of course,” Dr. Ghosh says.” He’s okay now.”
“But sir,” the young doctor protests and says, “He’s hallucinating….”
“It’s okay,” Dr. Ghosh interrupts giving him a sharp look. “Shanta knows how to look after him; like a mother. Isn’t it Shanta?”
“Yes,” I say.
Papa gives sheepish look. That’s what I like about Dr. Ghosh. The way he gets his message across. There is no need for him to reprimand papa. Especially in front of me. My papa’s own remorse is his own worst reprimand.
We talk in silence. I don’t ask him any thing. He’ll tell me when he wants to.
“You’re hungry?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. It’s almost noon.
Soon we sit at the Garden Restaurant overlooking Sim’s Park. He takes his hands out of the overcoat pockets and picks up the menu card. His hands tremble. DT. Delirium Tremens. Withdrawal symptoms. Must have had a prolonged bout of drinking last night. I know what to do. Just in case. I don’t want him to turn cold turkey.
“Papa, you order,” I say and pick up my school bag and briskly walk across the road to the wine shop. On seeing me the owner puts a small bottle of brandy in a brown paper bag and gives it to me. I put in my school bag. No words are exchanged. No permit is required. It doesn’t matter that I’m a 14 year old schoolgirl. He knows. Everyone knows. Pity. Compassion.
But I know that unseen eyes see, and tongues I cannot hear will wag.
The silence. It’s grotesque. Deafening. Unbearable.
As I give him a fifty-rupees note, the owner asks, “Saab - I hope he’s okay.”
I nod. I don’t seem to have a private life anymore. Unsolicited sympathy is a burden I find difficult to carry nowadays.
Papa has ordered Chinese food. My favorite. He has a nip of brandy. His hands become steady. We start eating.
“She wants to take you away from me,” he says.
“Who wants take me away? I don’t understand,” I say perplexed.
“Yes. She’s going to take you away. She came last evening.”
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
I feel a strange sensation in my stomach. The food becomes tasteless in my mouth. It seems he’s reached the final stage. Hallucinations. Loneliness. Driving him insane. He’s seeing images of mummy now. The point of no return. Fear drills into my vitals.
“Please papa. Mummy is dead. You’re hallucinating again.” I say.
“She came last evening. Wanted your custody.”
“Custody? What are you talking?”
“Yes. She wants to take you away from me.”
“Who?”
“Your birthmother.”
“Birthmother?”
“Yes.”
“But mummy?”
“Don’t delve too much.”
In the evening we sit on the lawns of the club waiting for my birthmother. I feel like a volcano about to erupt. Daddy sits with his head in his hands; nervous, scared. Dr. Ghosh looks away into the distance, as if he’s in our group but not a part of it. I wonder what’s his role in all this.
And opposite me is that grotesque woman with suspiciously black hair. Mrs Murthy. The social worker from the child welfare department.
Social work indeed! Removing adopted children from happy homes and forcibly returning them to their biological parents who had abandoned them in the first place.
And this birthmother of mine. I hate her without even knowing her. First she abandons me. And then after fourteen long years she emerges from nowhere with an overflowing love and concern for me. ‘My papa is a dangerous man,’ she decides. It’s unsafe for me to live with him. So she wants to take me away into the unknown.
“Don’t worry,” Mrs Murthy the social worker says,” Everything will be okay.”
Yes. Everything will be okay. Papa will land up in an asylum. I’ll be condemned to spend the rest of my life with a woman I hate. Our lives will be ruined. Great social service will be done. Yes. Everything will be okay.
Papa is silent. Scared. He’s been warmed by Dr. Ghosh. No outbursts. It’ll only worsen the case.
And me. I’m only a minor. They’ll decide what is good for me. Of course they’ll take my views into consideration. I can see my world disintegrating in front of me.
We sit in silence. Six-thirty. Seven. The longest half-hour of my life.
“She said she’ll be here at six-thirty sharp,” Mrs Murthy says, “I’ll check up.” She pulls out her cell phone. Signal’s weak. She walks to the reception.
We wait. Darkness envelopes.
Mrs Murthy returns. There’s urgency in her step. “Her cell phone is switched off. I rang up the hotel,” she says, “It’s strange. She checked out in the afternoon. Hired a taxi to Bangalore. It’s funny. She hasn’t even bothered to leave a message for me.” Mrs Murthy is disappointed and says angrily, “After all the trouble I have taken. She just goes away without even informing me. She promised she’ll be here at six-thirty sharp.” Looking perturbed, she leaves, promising to check up and let us know.
After she leaves, Dr. Ghosh says to my father, “Come on. Let’s have a drink.”
“No,” my papa says,” I don’t need a drink.”
“Sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
We take leave of Dr. Ghosh and begin walking home.
“Papa?”
“Yes.”
“This woman. My ‘birthmother’. Does she have cat-eyes? Like me?”
“Don’t delve too much,” papa says.
He puts his protective arm around me and we walk together into the enveloping darkness. But I can see light in the distance.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
by
VIKRAM KARVE
The moment I see Muthu, the office-boy, standing at the door of the class room I feel a familiar fear. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on Ms Bhalla who is reading aloud with dramatic effect Ruskin Bond’s story ‘The Woman on Platform 8’. It’s a moving story about a brief encounter between a woman and a motherless boy.
I love short stories, especially Ruskin Bond, and Ms Bhalla is my favorite teacher. But it’s no use. I can’t hear a word she is saying.
I open my eyes. Ms Bhalla is in a world of her own, reading away, book in her left hand and making gestures with her right. She hasn’t noticed Muthu, or the fact that almost everyone in the class are looking at him and not at her. So thoroughly is she absorbed in herself and so totally is she oblivious of her surroundings that no one dare disturb her.
“………..I watched her until she was lost in the milling crowd,” Ms Bhalla ends the story with a flourish and looks at us triumphantly only to discover that most of her students are looking towards the door. Her expression starts changing.
Before she gets angry someone says, “It’s Muthu, ma’am.”
Ms Bhalla glares at poor Muthu who sheepishly walks in and gives her the chit he is holding in his hand.
I look down into my notebook trying to keep my mind blank, but even without seeing I know that Ms Bhalla is looking at me. “Shanta, go to the principal’s office,” she says, “and take your bag with you.”
Take my bag with me? I feel scared, anxious. I hope it’s not too serious.
“Must be a big binge this time ,” I hear Rita’s voice behind me. Tears well up in my eyes. Rita is from such a happy family. Why is she so mean and nasty?
I’m about to break down when I feel Lata’s reassuring hand on my wrist, “Let’s go, Shanta. I’ll bring your bag.”
We walk through the silent corridors. Our school is located in one of those ancient castle type buildings - cold, dark and gloomy.
“I shouldn’t have left him alone last night,” I say.
“I feel so sad for uncle,” Lata says.
“Whenever I’m there he’s okay. Controls himself. He loves me so much. I’m the only one he’s got - after mummy died.”
“He was improving so much,” Lata says. “Looking so good last weekend.”
Lata is my true friend ….. the only person who I can open my heart to. The others - they watch from a distance. With pity. And a few like Rita with an evil delight at my misfortune.
“Something mush have happened yesterday,” I say. “I wish I had gone home last night. It’s in the evenings that he needs me the most.”
“Shanta, you want me to come,” Lata asks.
“Yes,” I say. I really need some moral support. Facing the world all alone. I can’t bear it any longer.
Ms David, our class-teacher, is standing outside the principal’s office. I follow her in.
I nervously enter the principal’s office. The principal, Mrs Nathan, is talking to a lady sitting opposite her. Noticing me she says, “Ah, Shanta. You daddy’s not well again. He’s admitted in the clinic again. You take the ten o’clock shuttle. And ring me up if you want anything.”
“Can I go with her?” Lata asks.
“You go back to class,” the principal says sternly, “you’ve got a maths test at 10 o’clock haven’t you?”
“Please Miss…. “ Lata pleads with Ms David, our class teacher, but Ms David says,” Lata you are in the ninth standard now. Be serious about your studies. And today afternoon is the basketball final. How can you be absent?”
I feel pain in the interiors of my mind. No one ever tells me to be serious about studies; or even sports.
Lata gives me my school-bag and leaves quickly.
Mrs Nathan takes off her glasses and looks at me. There is compassion in her eyes. “Be brave, Shanta,” she says. “This is Ms Pushpa - an ex-student of our school.”
“Good morning, ma’am,” I say.
“Hello, Shanta.” Ms Pushpa says. “I’m also taking the train to Coonoor. We’ll travel together.”
As we leave the principal’s office I can feel the piercing looks of pity burning into me. The teachers, the staff, even the gardener. Everyone knows. And they know that I know that they know. Morose faces creased with lines of compassion. The atmosphere of pity. The deafening silence. It’s terrible. I just want to get away from the place. These people - they just don’t understand that I want empathy; not sympathy.
I walk with Ms Pushpa taking the short-cut to Lovedale railway station. It’s cold, damp and the smell of eucalyptus fills my nostrils. A typical winter morning in the Nilgiris.
I look at Ms Pushpa. She looks so chic. Blue jeans, bright red pullover, fair creamy flawless complexion, jet-black hair neatly tied in a bun, dark Ray-Ban sunglasses of the latest style. A good-looking woman with smart feminine features. Elegant. Fashionable. Well groomed.
We walk in silence. I wait for her to start the conversation. I don’t know how much she knows.
“You’re in Champak house, aren’t you?” she asks looking at the crest on my blazer.
Polite conversation. Asking a question to which you already know the answer.
“Yes ma’am,” I answer.
“I too was in Champak house,” she says.
“When did you pass out, ma’am ?” I ask.
“1987,” she says.
I do a quick mental calculation. She must be in her mid-thirties. 35, maybe. She certainly looks young for her age. And very beautiful.
We cross the tracks and reach the solitary platform of Lovedale railway station.
“Let me buy your ticket. You’re going to Coonoor aren’t you?” she asks.
“Thank you ma’am. I’ve got a season ticket,” I say.
“Season ticket ?” she asked surprised.
“I’m a day scholar, ma’am. I travel every day from Coonoor,” I say.
“Oh! In our time it was strictly a boarding school,” she says.
“Even now ma’am,” I say. “I’ve got special permission. My father doesn’t keep well. I have to look after him.”
“Oh, yes,” she says, and walks towards the deserted booking window.
Lovedale is the most picturesque railway station on the Nilgiri mountain railway but today it looks gloomy, desolate. One has to be happy inside for things to look beautiful outside.
She returns with her ticket and we sit on the solitary bench.
“Where do you stay ma’am ?” I ask.
“Bangalore,” she says. “You’ve been there?”
“Yes”
“Often?”
“Only once. Last month. For my father’s treatment,” I say.”
She asks the question I’m waiting for, “Shanta. Tell me. Your father. What’s wrong with him ? What’s he suffering from ?”
I’ve never really understood why people ask me this question to which I suspect they already know the answer. Each probably has their own reason. Curiosity, lip-sympathy, genuine concern, sadistic pleasure. At first I’d feel embarrassed, try to cover up, mask, give all sorts of explanations. But now I have learnt that it is best to be blunt and straightforward.
“He’s an alcoholic,” I say. Most people shut up after this. Or change the topic of conversation. But Ms Pushpa pursues, “It must be terrible living with him. He must be getting violent.”
“No,” I say. “With me papa is very gentle. He loves me a lot.”
Tears well up in my eyes and my nose feels heavy. I take out my handkerchief. I feel her comforting arm around my shoulder and know her concern is genuine.
Suddenly the station bell rings, I hear the whistle and the blue mountain train streams into the platform. They still use steam engines here on the Nilgiri mountain railway. The train is almost empty. It’s off-season, there are no tourists, and in any case this train is never crowded as it returns to Coonoor after transporting all the office-goers to Ooty.
We sit opposite each other in an empty compartment. She still hasn’t taken off her dark sunglasses even though it is overcast and it begins to drizzle.
She looks at her watch. I look at mine. 10 AM. Half-an-hour’s journey to Coonoor.
“You came today morning, ma’am ?” I ask.
“No. Last evening. I stayed with Monica David. Your class teacher. We were classmates.”
What a difference. Miss David is so schoolmarmish. And Ms Pushpa so mod and chic. But I better be careful what I say. After all, classmates are classmates.
The train begins its journey and soon Ketti valley comes into view.
“There used to be orchards down there. Now there are buildings,” she says.
“You’ve come after a long time?” I ask.
“Yes. Almost nineteen years. The first time since passing out,” she says.
“For some work? Children’s admission?”
“No, No,” she bursts out laughing, “I’m single. Happily unmarried.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, contrite.
“Come on, Shanta. It’s Okay,” she says. “I’ve come for some work in Coonoor. Just visited the school for old times’ sake.”
“You must come during Founder’s day. You’ll meet everyone,” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “All these years I was abroad. America, Singapore, Manila, Europe. Now that I’m in Bangalore, I’ll definitely make it.”
“You work?” I ask.
“Yes. In an MNC.”
Must be an MBA from a top business school. Like IIM. Or maybe even Harvard. Wish I could be like her. Independent. Smart. Elegant. Successful. I certainly have the talent. But what about papa? Who will look after him?
I try not to think of the future. It all looks so bleak, uncertain. Better not think of it. I don’t even know what awaits me at the clinic. Just a few minutes more. It’s unbearable - the tension. Why do I have to go through all this?
She’s looking out of the window. It’s grey and cold. Dark clouds. But she still wears her dark sunglasses. Hasn’t taken them off even once.
Suddenly we enter the Ketti tunnel. It’s pitch dark. The smell of steam and smoke. It’s warm. Comforting. I close my eyes.
The train whistles. Slows down. I open my eyes. She’s still wearing dark glasses. Maybe she too has something to hide. And me. What I want to hide, everyone knows; but makes a pretence of not knowing. At least in my presence.
The train stops at Ketti. On the platform there is a group of girls, my age. They are in a jovial mood; giggling, eyes dancing, faces beaming, so carefree and happy. Their happiness hurts me deep down in my heart.
The girls don’t get in. Dressed in track-suits, and Ketti valley school blazers, they are probably waiting for the up train to Ooty which crosses here. Must be going for the basketball match.
A girl with a familiar face walks up to me with her friend.
“Not playing?” she asks.
“No,” I say.
“I wish we knew. We wouldn’t have gone so early to practice,” she says.
“Who’s captaining?” her friend asks.
“Lata maybe. I don’t know,” I say.
“Where are you going?”
“Coonoor.”
“Coonoor?”
“My father’s in hospital. He’s not well.”
“Oh! Hope he gets well soon. Okay bye.”
The girls walk away whispering to each other. And I hear the hushed voice of the one I’ve met for the first time, “Poor thing.”
“Poor thing.” The words pierce through my heart. “Poor thing.” The words echo in the interiors of my mind. “Poor thing!” “Poor thing!” “Poor thing!” The resonance is deafening. I feel I’m going mad. I feel Ms Pushpa’s hand on mine. A slight pressure. Comforting.
The up train comes, the girls get in, and train leaves towards Ooty.
Our engine’s whistle shrieks, our train starts moving. Outside it starts to rain. We close the windows. The smallness of the compartment forces us into a strange intimacy.
“I’ll come with you to the hospital,” Ms Pushpa says.
I know she means well, but nowadays I hate to depend on the kindness of strangers; so I reply, “Thank you ma’am, but I’ll manage. I’m used to it.”
“Is he often like this?” she asks.
Why is she asking me all this? It seems genuine compassion. Or maybe she has her own troubles. And talking to me makes her own troubles go away.
I decide to give her every thing in one go. “When I am there he’s okay. Controls himself. He loves me more than his drink. Last night I stayed at the hostel to study for a test. And he must have felt lonely and hit the bottle. I shouldn’t have left him alone. After mummy’s gone I am the only one he’s got, and he’s the only one I’ve got.” I pause and I say, “He was improving so much. Something must have happened last evening. He must have got upset - really upset.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says. Her tone is apologetic as if she were responsible in some way.
“Why should you feel sorry, ma’am. It’s my fate. I’ve to just find out what’s upset him. And see it doesn’t happen again. Maybe somebody visited him, passed some hurting remark. He’s very sensitive.”
Her expression changes slightly. She winces. “Does he tell you everything?” she asks.
“Of course he tells me everything,” I say, “There are no secrets between us. I’m his best friend.”
“I wish I could help you in some way,” she says.
I don’t say anything. I close my eyes. What a fool I have been, I’ve told her everything. And I know nothing about her. Not even the color of her eyes - she hasn’t even once taken off her dark sunglasses, like someone who’s blind. How cleverly she’s manipulated the conversation. Maybe people who are happy and successful feel good listening to other people’s sorrows.
I feel stifled. I open my eyes and the window. A shrill whistle and we pass through a gorge. Noise, steam, smoke, and suddenly it becomes sunny and the train begins to slow down.
“We’ve reached,” I say. We get down on the platform at Coonoor.
“I’ll come with you,” she says.
“Thanks. But it’s okay. I’ll go by myself.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
Ms Pushpa takes off her dark sunglasses and looks at me. I see her eyes. For the first time. A shiver passes through me as I look into her eyes. They are greenish-grey. She’s got cat-eyes. Exactly like mine.
Suddenly she takes me in her arms and hugs me in a tight embrace.
Stunned, I struggle, feeling acutely uncomfortable.
She releases me and I just stand there feeling numb, confused.
The whistle shrieks. I come to my senses. Look up at her. Her eyes are red and tears flow down her cheeks.
Suddenly she puts on her sunglasses, turns and walks away.
As I walk towards the hospital I think about my brief encounter with Ms Pushpa, her rather strange behaviour. It’s certainly not one of those ‘hail fellow – well met’ type of time-pass conversations between co-passengers. But suddenly she’s gone and I don’t know anything about her. She hasn’t even given me her card, address, phone, nothing. It all happened so fast.
The Clinic. Well laid-out. Neat. Spick and span. Anesthetic smell. An air of discipline. I walk through the corridor. I know where to go.
“Yes?” a voice says from behind.
I turn around. It’s a matron. I’ve never seen her before. Her eyes are hard, pitiless.
I tell her who I am. Her expression changes. Lines of compassion begin to crease her face. But still, her face has something terrible written on it.
I smile. I have learnt to smile even when I feel like weeping.
I enter the room. Papa is lying on the solitary bed. He looks okay. His eyes are closed.
“Papa,” I say softly.
He opens his eyes. “Shanta! Come to me,” he says. I rush to his bed. He hugs me tightly, “Don’t go Shanta. Don’t leave me and go away,” he cries.
“Don’t cry papa. I’ll always be with you. I’ll never leave you alone again,” I say, tears rolling down my checks.
We both cry copiously. Time stands still. I sense the presence of people in the room. Apart from the matron, there is the comforting face of Dr. Ghosh and a young doctor in white coat, stethoscope around his neck.
“Can I take him?” I ask.
“Of course,” Dr. Ghosh says.” He’s okay now.”
“But sir,” the young doctor protests and says, “He’s hallucinating….”
“It’s okay,” Dr. Ghosh interrupts giving him a sharp look. “Shanta knows how to look after him; like a mother. Isn’t it Shanta?”
“Yes,” I say.
Papa gives sheepish look. That’s what I like about Dr. Ghosh. The way he gets his message across. There is no need for him to reprimand papa. Especially in front of me. My papa’s own remorse is his own worst reprimand.
We talk in silence. I don’t ask him any thing. He’ll tell me when he wants to.
“You’re hungry?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. It’s almost noon.
Soon we sit at the Garden Restaurant overlooking Sim’s Park. He takes his hands out of the overcoat pockets and picks up the menu card. His hands tremble. DT. Delirium Tremens. Withdrawal symptoms. Must have had a prolonged bout of drinking last night. I know what to do. Just in case. I don’t want him to turn cold turkey.
“Papa, you order,” I say and pick up my school bag and briskly walk across the road to the wine shop. On seeing me the owner puts a small bottle of brandy in a brown paper bag and gives it to me. I put in my school bag. No words are exchanged. No permit is required. It doesn’t matter that I’m a 14 year old schoolgirl. He knows. Everyone knows. Pity. Compassion.
But I know that unseen eyes see, and tongues I cannot hear will wag.
The silence. It’s grotesque. Deafening. Unbearable.
As I give him a fifty-rupees note, the owner asks, “Saab - I hope he’s okay.”
I nod. I don’t seem to have a private life anymore. Unsolicited sympathy is a burden I find difficult to carry nowadays.
Papa has ordered Chinese food. My favorite. He has a nip of brandy. His hands become steady. We start eating.
“She wants to take you away from me,” he says.
“Who wants take me away? I don’t understand,” I say perplexed.
“Yes. She’s going to take you away. She came last evening.”
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
I feel a strange sensation in my stomach. The food becomes tasteless in my mouth. It seems he’s reached the final stage. Hallucinations. Loneliness. Driving him insane. He’s seeing images of mummy now. The point of no return. Fear drills into my vitals.
“Please papa. Mummy is dead. You’re hallucinating again.” I say.
“She came last evening. Wanted your custody.”
“Custody? What are you talking?”
“Yes. She wants to take you away from me.”
“Who?”
“Your birthmother.”
“Birthmother?”
“Yes.”
“But mummy?”
“Don’t delve too much.”
In the evening we sit on the lawns of the club waiting for my birthmother. I feel like a volcano about to erupt. Daddy sits with his head in his hands; nervous, scared. Dr. Ghosh looks away into the distance, as if he’s in our group but not a part of it. I wonder what’s his role in all this.
And opposite me is that grotesque woman with suspiciously black hair. Mrs Murthy. The social worker from the child welfare department.
Social work indeed! Removing adopted children from happy homes and forcibly returning them to their biological parents who had abandoned them in the first place.
And this birthmother of mine. I hate her without even knowing her. First she abandons me. And then after fourteen long years she emerges from nowhere with an overflowing love and concern for me. ‘My papa is a dangerous man,’ she decides. It’s unsafe for me to live with him. So she wants to take me away into the unknown.
“Don’t worry,” Mrs Murthy the social worker says,” Everything will be okay.”
Yes. Everything will be okay. Papa will land up in an asylum. I’ll be condemned to spend the rest of my life with a woman I hate. Our lives will be ruined. Great social service will be done. Yes. Everything will be okay.
Papa is silent. Scared. He’s been warmed by Dr. Ghosh. No outbursts. It’ll only worsen the case.
And me. I’m only a minor. They’ll decide what is good for me. Of course they’ll take my views into consideration. I can see my world disintegrating in front of me.
We sit in silence. Six-thirty. Seven. The longest half-hour of my life.
“She said she’ll be here at six-thirty sharp,” Mrs Murthy says, “I’ll check up.” She pulls out her cell phone. Signal’s weak. She walks to the reception.
We wait. Darkness envelopes.
Mrs Murthy returns. There’s urgency in her step. “Her cell phone is switched off. I rang up the hotel,” she says, “It’s strange. She checked out in the afternoon. Hired a taxi to Bangalore. It’s funny. She hasn’t even bothered to leave a message for me.” Mrs Murthy is disappointed and says angrily, “After all the trouble I have taken. She just goes away without even informing me. She promised she’ll be here at six-thirty sharp.” Looking perturbed, she leaves, promising to check up and let us know.
After she leaves, Dr. Ghosh says to my father, “Come on. Let’s have a drink.”
“No,” my papa says,” I don’t need a drink.”
“Sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
We take leave of Dr. Ghosh and begin walking home.
“Papa?”
“Yes.”
“This woman. My ‘birthmother’. Does she have cat-eyes? Like me?”
“Don’t delve too much,” papa says.
He puts his protective arm around me and we walk together into the enveloping darkness. But I can see light in the distance.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Lovedale by Vikram Karve
LOVEDALE
(a short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
Lovedale. A quaint little station on the Nilgiri mountain railway in South India. There is just one small platform – and on it, towards its southern end, a solitary bench. If you sit on this bench you will see in front of you, beyond the railway track, an undulating valley, covered with eucalyptus trees, and in the distance the silhouette of a huge structure, which looks like a castle, with an impressive clock-tower. In this mighty building is located a famous boarding school – one of the best schools in India. Many such ‘elite’ schools are known more for snob value than academic achievements, but this one is different – it is a school known for its rich tradition of excellence.
Lovedale, in 1970. That’s all there is in Lovedale – this famous public school, a small tea-estate called Lovedale (from which this place got its name), a tiny post office and, of course, the lonely railway platform with its solitary bench.
It’s a cold damp depressing winter morning, and since the school is closed for winter, the platform is deserted except for two people – yes, just two persons – a woman and a small girl, shivering in the morning mist, sitting on the solitary bench. It’s almost 9 o’clock – time for the morning “toy-train” from the plains carrying tourists via Coonoor to Ooty, the “Queen” of hill-stations, just three kilometers ahead - the end of the line. But this morning the train is late, probably because of the dense fog and the drizzle on the mountain-slopes, and it will be empty – for there are hardly any tourists in this cold and damp winter season.
“I’m dying to meet mummy. And this stupid train – it’s always late,” the girl says. She is dressed in school uniform – gray blazer, thick gray woolen skirt, navy-blue stockings, freshly polished black shoes, her hair tied smartly in two small plaits with black ribbons.
The woman, 55 – maybe 60, dressed in a white sari with a thick white shawl draped over her shoulder and a white scarf around her head covering her ears, looks lovingly at the girl, softly takes the girl’s hand in her own, and says, “ It will come. Look at the weather. The driver can hardly see in this mist. And it must be raining down there in Ketti valley.”
“I hate this place. It’s so cold and lonely. Everyone has gone home for the winter holidays and we have nowhere to go. Why do we have to spend our holidays here every time?”
“You know we can’t stay with her in the hostel.”
“But her training is over now. And she’s become an executive – that’s what she wrote.”
“Yes. Yes. She is an executive now. After two years of tough training. Very creditable; after all that has happened,” the old woman says.
“She has to take us to Mumbai with her now. No more excuses.”
“Of course. Let your mummy come. This time we’ll tell her to take us all to Mumbai.”
“And we’ll all stay together – like we did when Daddy was there.”
“Yes. Mummy will go to work. You will go to school. And I will look after both of you. Just like before.”
“Only Daddy won’t be there. Why did God take Daddy away?” the girl says, tears welling in her eyes.
“Don’t think those sad things. We cannot change what has happened. You must be brave – like your mummy,” says the old lady putting her hand softly around the girl. There is no greater pain than to remember happier times when in distress.
Meanwhile the toy-train is meandering its way laboriously round the steep u-curve, desperately pushed by a hissing steam engine, as it leaves Wellington station on its way to Ketti. A man and a woman sit facing each other in the tiny first class compartment. There is no one else.
“You must tell her today,” the man says.
“Yes,” the woman replies softly.
“You should have told her before.”
“When ?”
“You could have written, called her up.”
“How could I ?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know how she will react. She loved her father very much.”
“Now she will have to love me. I am her new father now.”
“Yes, I know,” the woman says, tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t know how to tell her; how she’ll take it. I think we should wait for some time. Baby is very sensitive.”
“ ‘Baby’ ! Why do you still call her Baby? She is a grown up girl now. You must call her by her real name. Damayanti – what a nice name – and you call her ‘Baby’”
“It’s her pet name. Deepak always liked to call her Baby.”
“I don’t. It’s ridiculous,” the man says firmly. “Anyway, that we will see later. But you tell her about us today. Tell both of them.”
“My mother-in-law – what will she feel ?”
“She’ll understand.”
“Poor thing. She will be all alone.”
“She’s got her work to keep her busy.”
“She’s old and weak. I don’t think she’ll be able to do the matron’s job much longer.”
“Let her work till she can. Then we’ll see.”
“Can’t we take her with us?”
“You know it’s not possible.”
“Poor thing. Where will she go ?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll arrange something – I know an excellent place near Lonavala. She will be very comfortable there - it’s an ideal place for senior citizens.”
“An Old Age Home ?”
“Yes. I’ve already spoken to them. Let her continue here till she can. Then we’ll shift her there.”
“How cruel. She was so good to me, looked after Baby, when we were devastated. And now we discard her when she needs us most,” the woman says and starts sobbing.
“Don’t get sentimental. You have to face the harsh reality. You know we can’t take her with us. Kavita, you must begin a new life now – no point carrying the baggage of your past,” the man realizes he has said something wrong and instantly apologizes, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“You did. I hate you, you are so cruel and selfish,” the woman says, turns away from the man and looks out of the window.
They travel in silence. A disquieting silence. Suddenly it is dark, as the train enters a tunnel, and as it emerges on the other side, the woman can see the vast green Ketti Valley with its undulating mountains in the distance.
“I think I’ll also get down at Lovedale. I’ll tell them. Explain everything. And get over with it once and for all,” the man says.
“No! No! The sudden shock may upset them. I have to do this carefully. You don’t get down at Lovedale. Go straight to Ooty. I’ll tell them everything and we’ll do as we decided.”
“I was only trying to help you. Make things easier. I want to meet Damayanti. Tell her about us. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
“No. Let me do this. I don’t want her to see you before I tell her. I don’t know how she’ll react. I’ll have to do it very gently.”
“Okay,” the man says. “Make sure you wind up everything at the school. We have to leave for Mumbai tomorrow. There is so much to be done. We’ve hardly got any time left.”
“Lovedale’s coming,” the woman gets up and takes out her bag from the shelf.
“Sure you don’t want me to come?” asks the man.
“Not now. I’ll ring you up,” says the woman.
“Okay. But tell them everything. We can’t wait any longer.”
“Just leave everything to me. Don’t make it more difficult.”
They sit in silence waiting for Lovedale to come.
On the solitary bench on the platform at Lovedale station the girl and her grandmother wait patiently for the train which will bring their deliverance.
“I hate it over here. The cold scary dormitories. At night I miss mummy tucking me in. And every night I count DLFMTC ?”
“DLFMTC ?”
“Days Left For Mummy To Come ! Others count DLTGH – Days Left To Go Home.”
“Next time you too …”
“No. No. I am not going to stay here in boarding school. I don’t know why we came here to this horrible place. I hate boarding school. I miss mummy so much. We could have stayed on in Mumbai with her.”
“Now we will. Your mummy’s training is over. She can hire a house now. Or get a loan. We will try to buy a good house. I’ve saved some money too.”
The lone station-master strikes the bell outside his office. The occupants of the solitary bench look towards their left. There is no one else on the platform. And suddenly the train emerges from under the bridge – pushed by the hissing steam engine.
Only one person gets down from the train – a beautiful woman, around 30. The girl runs into her arms. The old woman walks towards her with a welcoming smile. The man, sitting in the train, looks cautiously trying not to be seen. A whistle; and the train starts and moves out of the station towards Ooty.
That evening the woman tells them everything.
At noon the next day, four people wait at Lovedale station for the train from Ooty – the girl, her mother, her grandmother and the man. The girl presses close to her grandmother and looks at her new ‘father’ with trepidation. He gives her a smile of forced geniality. The old woman holds the girl tight to her body and looks at the man with distaste. The young woman looks with awe, mixed with hope, at her new husband. No one speaks. Time stands still. And suddenly the train enters.
“I don’t want to go,” the girl cries, clinging to her grandmother.
“Don’t you want to stay with your mummy? You hated boarding school didn’t you? ” the man says extending his hand.
The girl recoils and says, “No. No. I like it here. I don’t want to come. I like boarding school.”
“Come Baby, we have to go,” her mother says as tears well up in her eyes.
“What about granny – she will be all alone. No mummy - you also stay here. We all will stay here. Let him go to Mumbai,” the girl pleads.
“Kavita. The train is going to leave,” the man says firmly to the young woman.
“Go Baby. Be a good girl. I will be alright,” says the old woman releasing the girl.
As her mother gently holds her arm and guides her towards the train, for the first time in her life, the girl feels that her mother’s hand is like the clasp of an iron gate.
“I will come and meet you in Mumbai. I promise,” the grandmother says. But the girl feels scared – something inside tells her she that may never see her grandmother again.
As the train heads towards the plains, the old woman begins to walk her longest mile – her loneliest mile – into emptiness.
And Lovedale station, the mute witness, doesn’t even a shed a tear. It tries. But it can’t. Poor thing. It’s not human. So it suffers in inanimate helplessness. A pity. What a pity !
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
(a short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
Lovedale. A quaint little station on the Nilgiri mountain railway in South India. There is just one small platform – and on it, towards its southern end, a solitary bench. If you sit on this bench you will see in front of you, beyond the railway track, an undulating valley, covered with eucalyptus trees, and in the distance the silhouette of a huge structure, which looks like a castle, with an impressive clock-tower. In this mighty building is located a famous boarding school – one of the best schools in India. Many such ‘elite’ schools are known more for snob value than academic achievements, but this one is different – it is a school known for its rich tradition of excellence.
Lovedale, in 1970. That’s all there is in Lovedale – this famous public school, a small tea-estate called Lovedale (from which this place got its name), a tiny post office and, of course, the lonely railway platform with its solitary bench.
It’s a cold damp depressing winter morning, and since the school is closed for winter, the platform is deserted except for two people – yes, just two persons – a woman and a small girl, shivering in the morning mist, sitting on the solitary bench. It’s almost 9 o’clock – time for the morning “toy-train” from the plains carrying tourists via Coonoor to Ooty, the “Queen” of hill-stations, just three kilometers ahead - the end of the line. But this morning the train is late, probably because of the dense fog and the drizzle on the mountain-slopes, and it will be empty – for there are hardly any tourists in this cold and damp winter season.
“I’m dying to meet mummy. And this stupid train – it’s always late,” the girl says. She is dressed in school uniform – gray blazer, thick gray woolen skirt, navy-blue stockings, freshly polished black shoes, her hair tied smartly in two small plaits with black ribbons.
The woman, 55 – maybe 60, dressed in a white sari with a thick white shawl draped over her shoulder and a white scarf around her head covering her ears, looks lovingly at the girl, softly takes the girl’s hand in her own, and says, “ It will come. Look at the weather. The driver can hardly see in this mist. And it must be raining down there in Ketti valley.”
“I hate this place. It’s so cold and lonely. Everyone has gone home for the winter holidays and we have nowhere to go. Why do we have to spend our holidays here every time?”
“You know we can’t stay with her in the hostel.”
“But her training is over now. And she’s become an executive – that’s what she wrote.”
“Yes. Yes. She is an executive now. After two years of tough training. Very creditable; after all that has happened,” the old woman says.
“She has to take us to Mumbai with her now. No more excuses.”
“Of course. Let your mummy come. This time we’ll tell her to take us all to Mumbai.”
“And we’ll all stay together – like we did when Daddy was there.”
“Yes. Mummy will go to work. You will go to school. And I will look after both of you. Just like before.”
“Only Daddy won’t be there. Why did God take Daddy away?” the girl says, tears welling in her eyes.
“Don’t think those sad things. We cannot change what has happened. You must be brave – like your mummy,” says the old lady putting her hand softly around the girl. There is no greater pain than to remember happier times when in distress.
Meanwhile the toy-train is meandering its way laboriously round the steep u-curve, desperately pushed by a hissing steam engine, as it leaves Wellington station on its way to Ketti. A man and a woman sit facing each other in the tiny first class compartment. There is no one else.
“You must tell her today,” the man says.
“Yes,” the woman replies softly.
“You should have told her before.”
“When ?”
“You could have written, called her up.”
“How could I ?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know how she will react. She loved her father very much.”
“Now she will have to love me. I am her new father now.”
“Yes, I know,” the woman says, tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t know how to tell her; how she’ll take it. I think we should wait for some time. Baby is very sensitive.”
“ ‘Baby’ ! Why do you still call her Baby? She is a grown up girl now. You must call her by her real name. Damayanti – what a nice name – and you call her ‘Baby’”
“It’s her pet name. Deepak always liked to call her Baby.”
“I don’t. It’s ridiculous,” the man says firmly. “Anyway, that we will see later. But you tell her about us today. Tell both of them.”
“My mother-in-law – what will she feel ?”
“She’ll understand.”
“Poor thing. She will be all alone.”
“She’s got her work to keep her busy.”
“She’s old and weak. I don’t think she’ll be able to do the matron’s job much longer.”
“Let her work till she can. Then we’ll see.”
“Can’t we take her with us?”
“You know it’s not possible.”
“Poor thing. Where will she go ?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll arrange something – I know an excellent place near Lonavala. She will be very comfortable there - it’s an ideal place for senior citizens.”
“An Old Age Home ?”
“Yes. I’ve already spoken to them. Let her continue here till she can. Then we’ll shift her there.”
“How cruel. She was so good to me, looked after Baby, when we were devastated. And now we discard her when she needs us most,” the woman says and starts sobbing.
“Don’t get sentimental. You have to face the harsh reality. You know we can’t take her with us. Kavita, you must begin a new life now – no point carrying the baggage of your past,” the man realizes he has said something wrong and instantly apologizes, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“You did. I hate you, you are so cruel and selfish,” the woman says, turns away from the man and looks out of the window.
They travel in silence. A disquieting silence. Suddenly it is dark, as the train enters a tunnel, and as it emerges on the other side, the woman can see the vast green Ketti Valley with its undulating mountains in the distance.
“I think I’ll also get down at Lovedale. I’ll tell them. Explain everything. And get over with it once and for all,” the man says.
“No! No! The sudden shock may upset them. I have to do this carefully. You don’t get down at Lovedale. Go straight to Ooty. I’ll tell them everything and we’ll do as we decided.”
“I was only trying to help you. Make things easier. I want to meet Damayanti. Tell her about us. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
“No. Let me do this. I don’t want her to see you before I tell her. I don’t know how she’ll react. I’ll have to do it very gently.”
“Okay,” the man says. “Make sure you wind up everything at the school. We have to leave for Mumbai tomorrow. There is so much to be done. We’ve hardly got any time left.”
“Lovedale’s coming,” the woman gets up and takes out her bag from the shelf.
“Sure you don’t want me to come?” asks the man.
“Not now. I’ll ring you up,” says the woman.
“Okay. But tell them everything. We can’t wait any longer.”
“Just leave everything to me. Don’t make it more difficult.”
They sit in silence waiting for Lovedale to come.
On the solitary bench on the platform at Lovedale station the girl and her grandmother wait patiently for the train which will bring their deliverance.
“I hate it over here. The cold scary dormitories. At night I miss mummy tucking me in. And every night I count DLFMTC ?”
“DLFMTC ?”
“Days Left For Mummy To Come ! Others count DLTGH – Days Left To Go Home.”
“Next time you too …”
“No. No. I am not going to stay here in boarding school. I don’t know why we came here to this horrible place. I hate boarding school. I miss mummy so much. We could have stayed on in Mumbai with her.”
“Now we will. Your mummy’s training is over. She can hire a house now. Or get a loan. We will try to buy a good house. I’ve saved some money too.”
The lone station-master strikes the bell outside his office. The occupants of the solitary bench look towards their left. There is no one else on the platform. And suddenly the train emerges from under the bridge – pushed by the hissing steam engine.
Only one person gets down from the train – a beautiful woman, around 30. The girl runs into her arms. The old woman walks towards her with a welcoming smile. The man, sitting in the train, looks cautiously trying not to be seen. A whistle; and the train starts and moves out of the station towards Ooty.
That evening the woman tells them everything.
At noon the next day, four people wait at Lovedale station for the train from Ooty – the girl, her mother, her grandmother and the man. The girl presses close to her grandmother and looks at her new ‘father’ with trepidation. He gives her a smile of forced geniality. The old woman holds the girl tight to her body and looks at the man with distaste. The young woman looks with awe, mixed with hope, at her new husband. No one speaks. Time stands still. And suddenly the train enters.
“I don’t want to go,” the girl cries, clinging to her grandmother.
“Don’t you want to stay with your mummy? You hated boarding school didn’t you? ” the man says extending his hand.
The girl recoils and says, “No. No. I like it here. I don’t want to come. I like boarding school.”
“Come Baby, we have to go,” her mother says as tears well up in her eyes.
“What about granny – she will be all alone. No mummy - you also stay here. We all will stay here. Let him go to Mumbai,” the girl pleads.
“Kavita. The train is going to leave,” the man says firmly to the young woman.
“Go Baby. Be a good girl. I will be alright,” says the old woman releasing the girl.
As her mother gently holds her arm and guides her towards the train, for the first time in her life, the girl feels that her mother’s hand is like the clasp of an iron gate.
“I will come and meet you in Mumbai. I promise,” the grandmother says. But the girl feels scared – something inside tells her she that may never see her grandmother again.
As the train heads towards the plains, the old woman begins to walk her longest mile – her loneliest mile – into emptiness.
And Lovedale station, the mute witness, doesn’t even a shed a tear. It tries. But it can’t. Poor thing. It’s not human. So it suffers in inanimate helplessness. A pity. What a pity !
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Friday, January 06, 2006
Book Review
Book Review by Vikram Waman Karve
The Book : Looking Back
The Author : Dhondo Keshav Karve
First Published in 1936
Looking Back ( The Autobiography ) by Dhondo Keshav Karve ( Maharshi Karve ) with a preface by Frederick J. Gould.
Dear Reader, you must be wondering why I am reviewing an autobiography written in 1936. Well, I stay on Maharshi Karve Road in Mumbai. I share the same surname as the author. Also, I happen to be the great grandson of Maharshi Karve. But, beyond that, compared to him I am a nobody – not even a pygmy. He saw his goal, persisted ceaselessly throughout his life with missionary zeal and transformed the destiny of the Indian Woman. The first university for women in India - The SNDT University and educational institutions for women covering the entire spectrum ranging from pre-primary schools to post-graduate, engineering, vocational and professional colleges bear eloquent testimony to his indomitable spirit, untiring perseverance and determined efforts.
In his preface, Frederick J Gould writes that “the narrative is a parable of his career” – a most apt description of the autobiography. The author tells his life-story in a simple straightforward manner, with remarkable candour and humility; resulting in a narrative which is friendly, interesting and readable. Autobiographies are sometimes voluminous tomes but this a small book, 200 pages, and a very easy comfortable enjoyable read that makes it almost unputdownable.
Dr. Dhondo Keshav Karve was born on 18th of April 1958. In the first few chapters he writes about Murud, his native place in Konkan, Maharashtra, his ancestry and his early life– the description is so vivid that you can clearly “see” through the author’s eye. His struggle to appear in the public service examination ( walking 110 miles in torrential rain and difficult terrain to Satara), and the shattering disappointment at not being allowed to appear because “he looked too young”, make poignant reading.
“Many undreamt of things have happened in my life and given a different turn to my career” he writes, and then goes on to describe his high school and, later, college education at The Wilson College Bombay (Mumbai) narrating various incidents that convinced him of the role of destiny and serendipity in shaping his life and career as a teacher and then Professor of Mathematics.
He married at the age of fourteen but began his marital life at the age of twenty! This was the custom of those days. Let’s read the author’s own words on his domestic life: “ … I was married at the age of fourteen and my wife was then eight. Her family lived very near to ours and we knew each other very well and had often played together. However after marriage we had to forget our old relation as playmates and to behave as strangers, often looking toward each other but never standing together to exchange words…. We had to communicate with each other through my sister…… My marital life began under the parental roof at Murud when I was twenty…” Their domestic bliss was short lived as his wife died after a few years leaving behind a son… “Thus ended the first part of my domestic life”… he concludes.
An incident highlighting the plight of a widow left an indelible impression on him and germinated in him the idea of widow remarriage. He married Godubai, who was widowed when she was only eight years old, was a sister of his friend Mr. Joshi, and now twenty three was studying at Pandita Ramabai’s Sharada Sadan as its first widow student . Let’s read in the author’s own words how he asked for her hand in marriage to her father – “ I told him…..I had made up my mind to marry a widow. He sat silent for a minute and then hinted that there was no need to go in search of such a bride”.
He describes in detail the ostracism he faced from some orthodox quarters and systematically enunciates his life work - his organization of the Widow Marriage Association, Hindu Widows Home, Mahila Vidyalaya, Nishkama Karma Math, and other institutions, culminating in the birth of the first Indian Women’s University ( SNDT University). The trials and tribulations he faced in his life-work of emancipation of education of women (widows in particular) and how he overcame them by his persistent steadfast endeavours and indomitable spirit makes illuminating reading and underlines the fact that Dr. DK Karve was no arm-chair social reformer but a person devoted to achieve his dreams on the ground in reality. These chapters form the meat of the book and make compelling reading. ( His dedication and meticulousness is evident in the appendices where he has given datewise details of his engagements and subscriptions down to the paisa for his educational institutions from various places he visited around the world to propagate their cause).
He then describes his world tour, at 71, to meet eminent educationists to propagate the cause of the Women’s University, his later domestic life and ends with a few of his views and ideas for posterity. At the end he writes: “ Here ends the story of my life. I hope this simple story will serve some useful purpose”.
He wrote this in 1936. He lived till the 9th of November 1962, achieving so much more on the way, was conferred the honorary degree of Doctor of Letters ( D.Litt.) by the Banaras Hindu University in 1942 followed by Poona in 1951, SNDT in 1955, and Bombay(LL.D.) in 1957. Maharshi Karve received the Padma Vibhushan in 1955 and the nation’s highest honour the “Bharat Ratna” in 1958, a fitting tribute at the age of 100.
Epilogue
I was born in 1956, and have fleeting memories of Maharshi Karve, during our visits to Hingne in 1961-62, as a small boy of 5 or 6 can. I have written this book review with the hope that some of us, particularly students of SNDT, Cummins College of Engineering for Women, SOFT, Karve Institute of Social Sciences and other educational institutions related to Maharshi Karve, read about his stellar pioneering work and draw inspiration from his autobiography.
Two other good books pertaining to the life of Maharshi Karve which I have read are : Maharshi Karve by Ganesh L. Chandavarkar, Popular Prakashan (1958) and Maharshi Karve – His 105 years, Hingne Stree Shikshan Samstha (1963).
VIKRAM WAMAN KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
The Book : Looking Back
The Author : Dhondo Keshav Karve
First Published in 1936
Looking Back ( The Autobiography ) by Dhondo Keshav Karve ( Maharshi Karve ) with a preface by Frederick J. Gould.
Dear Reader, you must be wondering why I am reviewing an autobiography written in 1936. Well, I stay on Maharshi Karve Road in Mumbai. I share the same surname as the author. Also, I happen to be the great grandson of Maharshi Karve. But, beyond that, compared to him I am a nobody – not even a pygmy. He saw his goal, persisted ceaselessly throughout his life with missionary zeal and transformed the destiny of the Indian Woman. The first university for women in India - The SNDT University and educational institutions for women covering the entire spectrum ranging from pre-primary schools to post-graduate, engineering, vocational and professional colleges bear eloquent testimony to his indomitable spirit, untiring perseverance and determined efforts.
In his preface, Frederick J Gould writes that “the narrative is a parable of his career” – a most apt description of the autobiography. The author tells his life-story in a simple straightforward manner, with remarkable candour and humility; resulting in a narrative which is friendly, interesting and readable. Autobiographies are sometimes voluminous tomes but this a small book, 200 pages, and a very easy comfortable enjoyable read that makes it almost unputdownable.
Dr. Dhondo Keshav Karve was born on 18th of April 1958. In the first few chapters he writes about Murud, his native place in Konkan, Maharashtra, his ancestry and his early life– the description is so vivid that you can clearly “see” through the author’s eye. His struggle to appear in the public service examination ( walking 110 miles in torrential rain and difficult terrain to Satara), and the shattering disappointment at not being allowed to appear because “he looked too young”, make poignant reading.
“Many undreamt of things have happened in my life and given a different turn to my career” he writes, and then goes on to describe his high school and, later, college education at The Wilson College Bombay (Mumbai) narrating various incidents that convinced him of the role of destiny and serendipity in shaping his life and career as a teacher and then Professor of Mathematics.
He married at the age of fourteen but began his marital life at the age of twenty! This was the custom of those days. Let’s read the author’s own words on his domestic life: “ … I was married at the age of fourteen and my wife was then eight. Her family lived very near to ours and we knew each other very well and had often played together. However after marriage we had to forget our old relation as playmates and to behave as strangers, often looking toward each other but never standing together to exchange words…. We had to communicate with each other through my sister…… My marital life began under the parental roof at Murud when I was twenty…” Their domestic bliss was short lived as his wife died after a few years leaving behind a son… “Thus ended the first part of my domestic life”… he concludes.
An incident highlighting the plight of a widow left an indelible impression on him and germinated in him the idea of widow remarriage. He married Godubai, who was widowed when she was only eight years old, was a sister of his friend Mr. Joshi, and now twenty three was studying at Pandita Ramabai’s Sharada Sadan as its first widow student . Let’s read in the author’s own words how he asked for her hand in marriage to her father – “ I told him…..I had made up my mind to marry a widow. He sat silent for a minute and then hinted that there was no need to go in search of such a bride”.
He describes in detail the ostracism he faced from some orthodox quarters and systematically enunciates his life work - his organization of the Widow Marriage Association, Hindu Widows Home, Mahila Vidyalaya, Nishkama Karma Math, and other institutions, culminating in the birth of the first Indian Women’s University ( SNDT University). The trials and tribulations he faced in his life-work of emancipation of education of women (widows in particular) and how he overcame them by his persistent steadfast endeavours and indomitable spirit makes illuminating reading and underlines the fact that Dr. DK Karve was no arm-chair social reformer but a person devoted to achieve his dreams on the ground in reality. These chapters form the meat of the book and make compelling reading. ( His dedication and meticulousness is evident in the appendices where he has given datewise details of his engagements and subscriptions down to the paisa for his educational institutions from various places he visited around the world to propagate their cause).
He then describes his world tour, at 71, to meet eminent educationists to propagate the cause of the Women’s University, his later domestic life and ends with a few of his views and ideas for posterity. At the end he writes: “ Here ends the story of my life. I hope this simple story will serve some useful purpose”.
He wrote this in 1936. He lived till the 9th of November 1962, achieving so much more on the way, was conferred the honorary degree of Doctor of Letters ( D.Litt.) by the Banaras Hindu University in 1942 followed by Poona in 1951, SNDT in 1955, and Bombay(LL.D.) in 1957. Maharshi Karve received the Padma Vibhushan in 1955 and the nation’s highest honour the “Bharat Ratna” in 1958, a fitting tribute at the age of 100.
Epilogue
I was born in 1956, and have fleeting memories of Maharshi Karve, during our visits to Hingne in 1961-62, as a small boy of 5 or 6 can. I have written this book review with the hope that some of us, particularly students of SNDT, Cummins College of Engineering for Women, SOFT, Karve Institute of Social Sciences and other educational institutions related to Maharshi Karve, read about his stellar pioneering work and draw inspiration from his autobiography.
Two other good books pertaining to the life of Maharshi Karve which I have read are : Maharshi Karve by Ganesh L. Chandavarkar, Popular Prakashan (1958) and Maharshi Karve – His 105 years, Hingne Stree Shikshan Samstha (1963).
VIKRAM WAMAN KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
The Art of Eating Green Chilli Ice Cream by Vikram Karve
THE ART OF EATING GREEN CHILLI ICE CREAM
by
VIKRAM KARVE
I’ve just relished a bowl of “green chilli ice cream” and the zestful taste still lingers on my tongue. Never before had I enjoyed eating ice cream so much. It was indeed a unique gustatory experience. Let me tell you about it.
I love ice cream. Today morning a friend of mine told me that there is a place opposite the Mumbai Chowpatty Sea Face that serves “green chilli” ice cream. I didn’t believe him. I have savored myriad flavours of ice cream but “green chilli ice cream” seemed a bit far fetched. On questioning, my friend confessed that he had only heard about it, not eaten it himself.
The very concept of green chilli ice cream whetted my curiosity so much that at sunset I was standing in front of Bachelorr’s ( that’s the spelling on the menu card) Ice Cream and Juice Stall, my appetite fully stimulated by a long brisk walk.
It was there on the menu card – Green Chilli Ice Cream. I ordered it and walked with the bowl to a lonely bench nearby to enjoy the eating experience in glorious solitude.
The ice cream looks a creamy pink ( not chilli green as I had expected it to be). I close my eyes and smell the ice cream – a nice sweet milky fragrance, a bit fruity; certainly no trace of the piquant penetrating sting of chillies. I spoon a bit on my tongue. My taste buds are smothered by a sweet mellifluous sensation as the cold creamy ice cream starts melting on my tongue. I am disappointed, feel conned – it seems it was just hype. This is run of the mill stuff. Or is it? Wait a moment. As the ice cream melts away I suddenly feel a sharp piercing fiery taste that sizzles my tongue, stings through my nose and penetrates my brain. My tongue is on fire and, like instant firefighting, I instinctively spoon a blob of ice cream onto my tongue. The cool ice cream quenches my burning tongue with its almost ambrosial taste but the moment it melts away I am zipped like a rocket with the sharp punch of the green chillies.
So that was the art of eating green chilli ice cream. Hot and cold. Burn and quench. Sting and soothe. Contrasting sensations. Like alternating current. Sharp tangy kicks burning through the cool syrupy sweetness till your system is fully perked up. And a trace of the biting flavour of the green chilli remains within me for a long long time as I walk away.
Green chilli ice cream doesn’t satiate – it excites, gives you a “kick”, zests you up. Try it. And let me know if you liked it.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
by
VIKRAM KARVE
I’ve just relished a bowl of “green chilli ice cream” and the zestful taste still lingers on my tongue. Never before had I enjoyed eating ice cream so much. It was indeed a unique gustatory experience. Let me tell you about it.
I love ice cream. Today morning a friend of mine told me that there is a place opposite the Mumbai Chowpatty Sea Face that serves “green chilli” ice cream. I didn’t believe him. I have savored myriad flavours of ice cream but “green chilli ice cream” seemed a bit far fetched. On questioning, my friend confessed that he had only heard about it, not eaten it himself.
The very concept of green chilli ice cream whetted my curiosity so much that at sunset I was standing in front of Bachelorr’s ( that’s the spelling on the menu card) Ice Cream and Juice Stall, my appetite fully stimulated by a long brisk walk.
It was there on the menu card – Green Chilli Ice Cream. I ordered it and walked with the bowl to a lonely bench nearby to enjoy the eating experience in glorious solitude.
The ice cream looks a creamy pink ( not chilli green as I had expected it to be). I close my eyes and smell the ice cream – a nice sweet milky fragrance, a bit fruity; certainly no trace of the piquant penetrating sting of chillies. I spoon a bit on my tongue. My taste buds are smothered by a sweet mellifluous sensation as the cold creamy ice cream starts melting on my tongue. I am disappointed, feel conned – it seems it was just hype. This is run of the mill stuff. Or is it? Wait a moment. As the ice cream melts away I suddenly feel a sharp piercing fiery taste that sizzles my tongue, stings through my nose and penetrates my brain. My tongue is on fire and, like instant firefighting, I instinctively spoon a blob of ice cream onto my tongue. The cool ice cream quenches my burning tongue with its almost ambrosial taste but the moment it melts away I am zipped like a rocket with the sharp punch of the green chillies.
So that was the art of eating green chilli ice cream. Hot and cold. Burn and quench. Sting and soothe. Contrasting sensations. Like alternating current. Sharp tangy kicks burning through the cool syrupy sweetness till your system is fully perked up. And a trace of the biting flavour of the green chilli remains within me for a long long time as I walk away.
Green chilli ice cream doesn’t satiate – it excites, gives you a “kick”, zests you up. Try it. And let me know if you liked it.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Monday, January 02, 2006
The Journey (a fiction short story) by Vikram Karve
THE JOURNEY
(a fiction 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 and then I booked my ticket on the next flight to India. The e-mail contained a name and an address. That’s all – a name and an address.
I cannot begin to describe the emotion I felt as I looked at the name. I had so many questions to ask him.
It all began when Anil suddenly broke off our engagement.
“Why?” I asked him totally shocked.
“I can’t tell you,” he said.
“You can’t dump me just like this. I’ve done nothing wrong,” I pleaded heartbroken.
“I’m sorry, Rita. I can’t marry you. I don’t want to marry you.”
“You have to give me an explanation. I am not going to accept this.”
“You have to accept it. And don’t delve too much.”
“What do you mean ‘don’t delve too much’, you unscrupulous cheat,” I screamed in anger, taking hold of his collar.
“Cool down,” he said pushing me away. “It’s you who tried to cheat me. You shouldn’t have tried to hide things from me.”
“Hide what ?” I asked.
“That you are an adopted child,” he said.
“I’m not adopted,” I shouted in anger.
“You are.”
“Who told you ?”
“We got some matrimonial enquiries done.”
“You spied on me,” I accused him, “to blackmail me, to humiliate me?”
“Don’t worry, no one else knows. It’s a reliable and discreet investigation agency.”
“It’s not true. I’m not adopted,” I said feeling shattered, numb, as if I had been pole-axed.
“Why don’t you ask your parents ?” Anil said as he walked away from my life.
I never asked my parents. I did not have the heart to. They did not say anything to me but I could see the sadness and a sense of guilt in their eyes, as they withered away having lost the will to live. I felt helpless. They loved me, meant everything to me, and we carried on our lives as if nothing had happened, and I caringly looked after them till their very end; but deep down I felt terribly betrayed.
Years passed. I relocated abroad past and immersed myself in my work. I tried to forget but I could not. One day I could bear it no longer. I decided to find out. And now I had. The investigation agency had done a good job. Confidential and discreet. For the first time I knew the name of my actual father. My biological natural father. And now I had to meet this man and ask him why he did it – abandon me to the world.
I landed at Mumbai airport early in the morning ant it took me three hours by taxi to reach the bungalow in Khandala. I checked the nameplate and briskly walked inside. There was a small crowd gathered in the porch. His lifeless body was lying on a white sheet bedecked with flowers, ready for the last rites. As I looked at his serene face, tears welled in my eyes. Suddenly I lost control of myself and cried uncontrollably, “ I have become an orphan. An orphan !”
“ Me too,” a familiar voice said softly behind me. I turned around and stared into Anil’s eyes. As comprehension began to dawn on me, Anil and I kept looking into each other’s eyes. In silence. A grotesque silence. A deafening silence.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
(a fiction 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 and then I booked my ticket on the next flight to India. The e-mail contained a name and an address. That’s all – a name and an address.
I cannot begin to describe the emotion I felt as I looked at the name. I had so many questions to ask him.
It all began when Anil suddenly broke off our engagement.
“Why?” I asked him totally shocked.
“I can’t tell you,” he said.
“You can’t dump me just like this. I’ve done nothing wrong,” I pleaded heartbroken.
“I’m sorry, Rita. I can’t marry you. I don’t want to marry you.”
“You have to give me an explanation. I am not going to accept this.”
“You have to accept it. And don’t delve too much.”
“What do you mean ‘don’t delve too much’, you unscrupulous cheat,” I screamed in anger, taking hold of his collar.
“Cool down,” he said pushing me away. “It’s you who tried to cheat me. You shouldn’t have tried to hide things from me.”
“Hide what ?” I asked.
“That you are an adopted child,” he said.
“I’m not adopted,” I shouted in anger.
“You are.”
“Who told you ?”
“We got some matrimonial enquiries done.”
“You spied on me,” I accused him, “to blackmail me, to humiliate me?”
“Don’t worry, no one else knows. It’s a reliable and discreet investigation agency.”
“It’s not true. I’m not adopted,” I said feeling shattered, numb, as if I had been pole-axed.
“Why don’t you ask your parents ?” Anil said as he walked away from my life.
I never asked my parents. I did not have the heart to. They did not say anything to me but I could see the sadness and a sense of guilt in their eyes, as they withered away having lost the will to live. I felt helpless. They loved me, meant everything to me, and we carried on our lives as if nothing had happened, and I caringly looked after them till their very end; but deep down I felt terribly betrayed.
Years passed. I relocated abroad past and immersed myself in my work. I tried to forget but I could not. One day I could bear it no longer. I decided to find out. And now I had. The investigation agency had done a good job. Confidential and discreet. For the first time I knew the name of my actual father. My biological natural father. And now I had to meet this man and ask him why he did it – abandon me to the world.
I landed at Mumbai airport early in the morning ant it took me three hours by taxi to reach the bungalow in Khandala. I checked the nameplate and briskly walked inside. There was a small crowd gathered in the porch. His lifeless body was lying on a white sheet bedecked with flowers, ready for the last rites. As I looked at his serene face, tears welled in my eyes. Suddenly I lost control of myself and cried uncontrollably, “ I have become an orphan. An orphan !”
“ Me too,” a familiar voice said softly behind me. I turned around and stared into Anil’s eyes. As comprehension began to dawn on me, Anil and I kept looking into each other’s eyes. In silence. A grotesque silence. A deafening silence.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Friday, December 23, 2005
My favourite food and where I eat it
MY FAVOURITE FOOD AND WHERE I EAT IT
By
Vikram Karve
I love good food. And I love walking around searching for good food ( food walks I call them). Let me share with you, dear fellow foodie, some of my favourite eateries. Most of them are in South Mumbai, where I live, a few (where mentioned) are in Pune which is my home town which I visit quite often. Read on. It’s my very own Vikram Karve’s Value For Money Good Food Guide. I’ve walked there and eaten there. It’s a totally random compilation as I write as I remember and I may have missed out some of my favourites but I’ll add them on as and when memory jogs me and also keep adding new places I discover during my food walks. Try some places and let me know whether you liked it.
Vada Pav - CTO Vada Pav (Ashok Satam’s Stall) alongside the Central Telegraph Office (CTO) at Flora Fountain ( Hutatma Chowk). Or at Sahaydri at Churchgate.
Misal Pav – Vinay in Girgaum . Walk down Marine Drive, cross the road near Taraporewala Aquarium, take the lane between Kaivalyadhama Yoga Centre and Ladies Hostel ( it’s called Income Tax Lane), cross the railway overbridge, walk straight on Thakurdwar Road, cross Girgaum (JSS) Road, walk a bit and Vinay is to your right.
Kheema Pav – Stadium. Next to Churchgate Station. Kyani at Dhobi Talao.
Seekh Kebabs – Ayubs ( Chotte Mian ). Take the lane to the left of Rhythm House Music Store at Kalaghoda and let your nose guide you.
Jeera Butter – Ideal Bakery. Kandewadi, Girgaum. And try the sugarcane juice at Rasvanti next door.
Chicken Stew ( Kerala Style),Malabar Paratha and Appams – Fountain Plaza. In the lane off Handloom House. Fort. [ Brings back nostalgic memories of Ceylon Bake House in Ernakulam Kochi (Cochin) ]
Chicken Biryani – Olympia. Colaba Causeway. In Pune it’s Dorabjee & Sons restaurant on Dastur Meher road off Sarbatwala Chowk in Pune Camp.
Mutton Biryani – Shalimar. Bhendi Bazaar. I like the Chicken Chilly Dry too.
Malvani Cuisine – Sachivalaya Gymkhana Canteen. Opposite Mantralaya. Nariman Point. Bombil Fry, Pomfret masala, Kombdi (Chicken) Vada and Lunch Thali.
Gomantak Cuisine - Sandeep Gomantak. Bazargate Street. Fort.
Chiken Masala and Khaboosh Roti – Baghdadi. Near Regal. Off Colaba Causeway.
Nihari – Jaffer Bhai’s Delhi Darbar. Near Metro.
Nalli Nihari – Noor Mohammadi. Bhendi Bazaar.
Berry Pulao – Brittania. Ballard Estate.
Puri Bhaji – Pancham Puriwala. Bazargate street. Opposite CST Station (VT).
Kolhapuri Cuisine – I go to ‘Purepur Kolhapur’ at Peru Gate Sadashiv Peth in Pune for authentic Kolhapuri Pandhra Rassa, Tambda Rassa and Kheema vati. In Kolhapur it’s Opal.
Gulab Jamun – Kailash Parbat. 1st Pasta Lane. Colaba Causeway.
Rasgulla – Bhaishankar Gaurishankar. CP Tank.
Khichdi – Khichdi Samrat. VP Road. CP Tank.
Vegetarian Thali and Chaas(buttermilk) – Bhagat Tarachand. Mumbadevi. Zaveri Bazar.
Navrattan Kurma – Vihar. JT Road. Churchgate.
Veg Burger and Chicken Cafreal Croissant – Croissants. Churchgate.
Tea while browsing books – Cha-Bar. Oxford Bookstore. Churchgate.
Just a refreshing cup of Tea – Stadium. Churchgate.
Ice Cream – Rustom. Churchgate.
Pav Bhaji – Lenin Pav Bhaji Stall. Khau Galli. New Marine Lines. Near SNDT.
Jalebi – Pancharatna Jalebi House. Near Roxy. Opera House.
Milk Shakes, Juices and uniquely flavored ice creams – Bachelor. Opposite Chowpatty.
Stuffed Parathas – Samovar. Jehangir Art Gallery.
Stuffed Omlettes and Steaks – Churchill. Colaba Causeway.
Sea food – Anant Ashram. Khotachiwadi. Girgaum.
Apple Pie and Ginger Biscuits – Yazdani Bakery. Cawasji Patel Street. Between PM Road and Veer Nariman Road. Fort.
Cakes – Sassanian Boulangerie. 1st Marine Street. Near Metro.
Buns, Breads and Pastries – Gaylord Bake Shop. Churchgate.
Falooda – Badshah. Crawford Market.
Curds – Parsi dairy. Princess Street.
Sandwiches – Marz-o-rin. Main Street. MG Road. Pune.
Chole Bhature – Monafood. Main Street. Pune.
Shrewsbury Biscuits – Kayani Bakery. East Street. Pune.
The mere thought of Shrewsbury biscuits evokes in me a sensation I cannot describe. I am feeling nostalgic and am off to Pune - for Shrewsbury at Kayani, wafers at Budhani, Sev Barfi at Bhavnagri, Amba Barfi and Bakarwadi at Chitale, Biryani and Dhansak at Dorabjee, Misal at Ramnath, Sizzlers at The Place, Pandhra Rassa at Purepur Kolhapur, Mango Ice Cream at Ganu Shinde, Mastani at Kavare, Bhel at Saras Baug and on the banks of Khadakvasla lake, Pithla Bhakri, Kanda Bhaji and tak on top of Sinhagarh Fort, Chinese at Kamling ( Oh no. Sadly it’s closed down so I’ll go across to the end of East Street to the East End Chinese takeaway next to Burger King).
And guess what? The moment I reach Pune, I’ll walk across the station and enjoy a refreshing Lassi at Shiv Kailas. And then walk down in the hot sun to Main Street. One thing I’ll miss is the non-veg samosas at erstwhile Naaz on the West End corner at the entrance to Main Street. The good old Naaz and Kamling are two places I really miss.
See you then. It’s one in the afternoon and I’m hungry. I’m going out for lunch – guess where !
Dear fellow foodies. Please do send in your comments so I can keep updating.
Happy Eating ! Merry Christmas & Happy New Year.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
By
Vikram Karve
I love good food. And I love walking around searching for good food ( food walks I call them). Let me share with you, dear fellow foodie, some of my favourite eateries. Most of them are in South Mumbai, where I live, a few (where mentioned) are in Pune which is my home town which I visit quite often. Read on. It’s my very own Vikram Karve’s Value For Money Good Food Guide. I’ve walked there and eaten there. It’s a totally random compilation as I write as I remember and I may have missed out some of my favourites but I’ll add them on as and when memory jogs me and also keep adding new places I discover during my food walks. Try some places and let me know whether you liked it.
Vada Pav - CTO Vada Pav (Ashok Satam’s Stall) alongside the Central Telegraph Office (CTO) at Flora Fountain ( Hutatma Chowk). Or at Sahaydri at Churchgate.
Misal Pav – Vinay in Girgaum . Walk down Marine Drive, cross the road near Taraporewala Aquarium, take the lane between Kaivalyadhama Yoga Centre and Ladies Hostel ( it’s called Income Tax Lane), cross the railway overbridge, walk straight on Thakurdwar Road, cross Girgaum (JSS) Road, walk a bit and Vinay is to your right.
Kheema Pav – Stadium. Next to Churchgate Station. Kyani at Dhobi Talao.
Seekh Kebabs – Ayubs ( Chotte Mian ). Take the lane to the left of Rhythm House Music Store at Kalaghoda and let your nose guide you.
Jeera Butter – Ideal Bakery. Kandewadi, Girgaum. And try the sugarcane juice at Rasvanti next door.
Chicken Stew ( Kerala Style),Malabar Paratha and Appams – Fountain Plaza. In the lane off Handloom House. Fort. [ Brings back nostalgic memories of Ceylon Bake House in Ernakulam Kochi (Cochin) ]
Chicken Biryani – Olympia. Colaba Causeway. In Pune it’s Dorabjee & Sons restaurant on Dastur Meher road off Sarbatwala Chowk in Pune Camp.
Mutton Biryani – Shalimar. Bhendi Bazaar. I like the Chicken Chilly Dry too.
Malvani Cuisine – Sachivalaya Gymkhana Canteen. Opposite Mantralaya. Nariman Point. Bombil Fry, Pomfret masala, Kombdi (Chicken) Vada and Lunch Thali.
Gomantak Cuisine - Sandeep Gomantak. Bazargate Street. Fort.
Chiken Masala and Khaboosh Roti – Baghdadi. Near Regal. Off Colaba Causeway.
Nihari – Jaffer Bhai’s Delhi Darbar. Near Metro.
Nalli Nihari – Noor Mohammadi. Bhendi Bazaar.
Berry Pulao – Brittania. Ballard Estate.
Puri Bhaji – Pancham Puriwala. Bazargate street. Opposite CST Station (VT).
Kolhapuri Cuisine – I go to ‘Purepur Kolhapur’ at Peru Gate Sadashiv Peth in Pune for authentic Kolhapuri Pandhra Rassa, Tambda Rassa and Kheema vati. In Kolhapur it’s Opal.
Gulab Jamun – Kailash Parbat. 1st Pasta Lane. Colaba Causeway.
Rasgulla – Bhaishankar Gaurishankar. CP Tank.
Khichdi – Khichdi Samrat. VP Road. CP Tank.
Vegetarian Thali and Chaas(buttermilk) – Bhagat Tarachand. Mumbadevi. Zaveri Bazar.
Navrattan Kurma – Vihar. JT Road. Churchgate.
Veg Burger and Chicken Cafreal Croissant – Croissants. Churchgate.
Tea while browsing books – Cha-Bar. Oxford Bookstore. Churchgate.
Just a refreshing cup of Tea – Stadium. Churchgate.
Ice Cream – Rustom. Churchgate.
Pav Bhaji – Lenin Pav Bhaji Stall. Khau Galli. New Marine Lines. Near SNDT.
Jalebi – Pancharatna Jalebi House. Near Roxy. Opera House.
Milk Shakes, Juices and uniquely flavored ice creams – Bachelor. Opposite Chowpatty.
Stuffed Parathas – Samovar. Jehangir Art Gallery.
Stuffed Omlettes and Steaks – Churchill. Colaba Causeway.
Sea food – Anant Ashram. Khotachiwadi. Girgaum.
Apple Pie and Ginger Biscuits – Yazdani Bakery. Cawasji Patel Street. Between PM Road and Veer Nariman Road. Fort.
Cakes – Sassanian Boulangerie. 1st Marine Street. Near Metro.
Buns, Breads and Pastries – Gaylord Bake Shop. Churchgate.
Falooda – Badshah. Crawford Market.
Curds – Parsi dairy. Princess Street.
Sandwiches – Marz-o-rin. Main Street. MG Road. Pune.
Chole Bhature – Monafood. Main Street. Pune.
Shrewsbury Biscuits – Kayani Bakery. East Street. Pune.
The mere thought of Shrewsbury biscuits evokes in me a sensation I cannot describe. I am feeling nostalgic and am off to Pune - for Shrewsbury at Kayani, wafers at Budhani, Sev Barfi at Bhavnagri, Amba Barfi and Bakarwadi at Chitale, Biryani and Dhansak at Dorabjee, Misal at Ramnath, Sizzlers at The Place, Pandhra Rassa at Purepur Kolhapur, Mango Ice Cream at Ganu Shinde, Mastani at Kavare, Bhel at Saras Baug and on the banks of Khadakvasla lake, Pithla Bhakri, Kanda Bhaji and tak on top of Sinhagarh Fort, Chinese at Kamling ( Oh no. Sadly it’s closed down so I’ll go across to the end of East Street to the East End Chinese takeaway next to Burger King).
And guess what? The moment I reach Pune, I’ll walk across the station and enjoy a refreshing Lassi at Shiv Kailas. And then walk down in the hot sun to Main Street. One thing I’ll miss is the non-veg samosas at erstwhile Naaz on the West End corner at the entrance to Main Street. The good old Naaz and Kamling are two places I really miss.
See you then. It’s one in the afternoon and I’m hungry. I’m going out for lunch – guess where !
Dear fellow foodies. Please do send in your comments so I can keep updating.
Happy Eating ! Merry Christmas & Happy New Year.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Thursday, December 22, 2005
An Affair to Remember by Vikram Karve
AN AFFAIR TO REMEMBER
by
Vikram Karve
I look in front of me. I like what I see. I keep seeing, my eyes locked on to the target, as if by some mysterious, yet astonishing, force of attraction. Something is happening with me. Senses heighten; stimulated, aroused in a way I have never felt before. Waves of desire rise within me. I feel tremors of anticipation. My mouth salivates and I lick my lips lasciviously in eager expectation. I feast my eyes hungrily. My heart beats. I feel possessed. Intense passion, Lusty craving overwhelms me. I can’t control myself any longer. Wild with desire, I move towards my target, ready for the kill.
No. No. Dear Reader. Just wait a moment. The object of my desire - It’s not what you are thinking. What I am looking at, the object of my attention, the focus of my temptation, is a bowl Nihari – two succulent pieces of mutton floating in a rich nourishing gravy looking so luxuriant and tempting, that I just can’t wait to devour. But I control myself. Good food must be savored delicately; slowly, attentively and respectfully; in a befitting manner, with finesse and technique, with relish and appreciation and you will experience true gustatory delight. That’s the Art of Eating. It’s sacrilege to eat in a ravenous and rapacious manner.
The bowl of Nihari, so luxuriously appetizing; a Khameeri Roti, so soft and fluffy. It looks heavenly. I move closer. The tempting aroma - so enticing, so blissful - permeates within me, energizes my brain cells, activates my taste buds. My mouth waters. I am ready to eat.
Eating is not a gustatory experience alone, it’s visual and olfactory as well. Food must look good, smell good, taste good and, most importantly, make you feel good. The Art of Eating. It’s Holistic. Multidimensional. Encompassing all domains of your inner being.
If you want to do full justice to good food you must build up an appetite for it – merely being hungry is not enough. And the first step towards building up an appetite for good food is to think about it – simulated imaginative gustatory visualization to stimulate and prepare yourself for the sumptuous indulgence. An important thing we were taught at boarding school was to read the menu and prepare for the meal by beginning to imagine eating each and every dish, from soup to pudding, in our mind’s eye. Remember: First plan your “eat” and then eat your “plan”.
It’s true. I eat my food twice. First in my mind’s eye – imagining, visualizing, “vicariously tasting”, fantasizing, strategizing on how I am going to savor and relish the dish to my utmost pleasure and satisfaction till my mouth waters and I desperately yearn to eat it. And then I do the honours – actually go and eat it and enjoy the delightful experience.
Using my right thumb and forefinger, I lovingly pick small piece of meat from the gravy and delicately place it on my tongue. I close my eyes. Look inside. To focus my conscious energy. To accentuate my awareness. To concentrate. That’s the cardinal principle of the Art of Eating. You must always close your eyes during the process of eating. When you eat, you must eat; nothing else, no seeing, no hearing, no talking. No multitasking. Focus, eat mindfully, meditatively, honour your taste buds and you will attain a state of delightful bliss and happiness.
The meat is so tender that even a toothless person can eat it. It’s truly “Melt in the mouth” cuisine – like the famous Galouti Kebabs of Lucknow. Soft, succulent, juicy.
You don’t chew. You just gently squeeze the meat, softly rolling your tongue against the palate and the meat dissolves releasing its intoxicating flavours. It’s sheer bliss. Enlightenment. Gustatory Orgasm. Sensory Resonance. I do not have words to describe the exhilarating sensation.
That’s the hallmark of a genuine nourishing Nihari, the best part of the thigh muscle, specially selected prime marrow bones with generous portions of succulent meat, tenderized and marinated with curds, seasoned lovingly in the choicest of spices and dum-cooked to seal in the juices and flavours, slowly and gently, in a gravy carefully thickened with an assortment of flours of wheat, maize and dals as per the season and taste and garnished with thin strips of ginger and fine slices of fresh green chillies and a sprinkling of coriander.
I turn my attention to the Kameeri Roti. Holding the roti with my left hand I pull out a piece with my right. The texture is perfect – soft and fluffy. I sample a piece – yummy – it tastes good by itself; and why shouldn’t it? Whole-wheat atta kneaded with plenty of curds, seasoned with a bit of sugar and salt, fermented overnight in a moist cloth, flattened and cooked in a tandoor. Nourishing, luxuriant, ideal with the Nihari.
I dip a piece of roti in the thick gravy allowing it to soak in and place it on my tongue. Exquisite. A gentle bite. Tangy ginger and sharp chilli. A confluence of contrasting tastes. I absorb the riot of zesty flavours. It’s exciting, invigorating, perks me up and I am ready for what I am going to do next.
And what am I going to do next? You knew it didn’t you? I call for a marrow spoon, dig it into the marrow bone, scoop out some marrow and lick it on my tongue. I close my eyes and I can feel the nourishment coming all the way through. It’s a heavenly feeling.
I eat in silence. Mindfully. Savour the aroma, delicately place the food on my tongue, chew slowly and experience the variety of flavours as the permeate my taste buds, fully aware and sense the nourishment as the food dissolves and sinks deep within me.
The succulent meat. The sumptuous gravy. The luxuriant fluffy Kameeri Roti. It’s a feast worthy of the Gods. An ambrosial repast.
I am in a supreme state of bliss. Is this enlightenment? Or gustatory delight. Maybe it’s meditative eating. Or let’s narrow it down to the art of eating a Nihari.
It’s simple. Create a positive eating atmosphere, honour your taste buds, respect your food and eat it in a proper state of mind, with love, zest, awareness and genuine appreciation and it will transport you to a state of bliss and happiness. In a nutshell, this is ‘The Art of Eating’.
Epilogue
I used to visit two eateries on 1st Marine Street Dhobi Talao near Metro Cinema in Mumbai – Sassanian when in the mood for Parsi food or maybe a Roast Chicken, or to pick up delicious cakes, biscuits and freshly baked delights from their Boulangerie next-door and Punjabi Fish Mart for earthy deep fried fish best enjoyed piping hot by well fortified cast-iron stomachs on cold damp monsoon evenings. Sometime back, returning one evening from one of my food-walks, I noticed, in between these two, a newly opened restaurant - Jaffer Bhai’s Delhi Darbar – with a takeaway section, from where I picked up a menu card and walked home. Later that night I read the menu card and was delighted to find on it my favourite non-vegetarian delicacy – Nihari. I knew it wouldn’t be long before I partook of the dish.
And soon I had my tryst with Nihari and experienced this delightful gustatory affair to remember.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
by
Vikram Karve
I look in front of me. I like what I see. I keep seeing, my eyes locked on to the target, as if by some mysterious, yet astonishing, force of attraction. Something is happening with me. Senses heighten; stimulated, aroused in a way I have never felt before. Waves of desire rise within me. I feel tremors of anticipation. My mouth salivates and I lick my lips lasciviously in eager expectation. I feast my eyes hungrily. My heart beats. I feel possessed. Intense passion, Lusty craving overwhelms me. I can’t control myself any longer. Wild with desire, I move towards my target, ready for the kill.
No. No. Dear Reader. Just wait a moment. The object of my desire - It’s not what you are thinking. What I am looking at, the object of my attention, the focus of my temptation, is a bowl Nihari – two succulent pieces of mutton floating in a rich nourishing gravy looking so luxuriant and tempting, that I just can’t wait to devour. But I control myself. Good food must be savored delicately; slowly, attentively and respectfully; in a befitting manner, with finesse and technique, with relish and appreciation and you will experience true gustatory delight. That’s the Art of Eating. It’s sacrilege to eat in a ravenous and rapacious manner.
The bowl of Nihari, so luxuriously appetizing; a Khameeri Roti, so soft and fluffy. It looks heavenly. I move closer. The tempting aroma - so enticing, so blissful - permeates within me, energizes my brain cells, activates my taste buds. My mouth waters. I am ready to eat.
Eating is not a gustatory experience alone, it’s visual and olfactory as well. Food must look good, smell good, taste good and, most importantly, make you feel good. The Art of Eating. It’s Holistic. Multidimensional. Encompassing all domains of your inner being.
If you want to do full justice to good food you must build up an appetite for it – merely being hungry is not enough. And the first step towards building up an appetite for good food is to think about it – simulated imaginative gustatory visualization to stimulate and prepare yourself for the sumptuous indulgence. An important thing we were taught at boarding school was to read the menu and prepare for the meal by beginning to imagine eating each and every dish, from soup to pudding, in our mind’s eye. Remember: First plan your “eat” and then eat your “plan”.
It’s true. I eat my food twice. First in my mind’s eye – imagining, visualizing, “vicariously tasting”, fantasizing, strategizing on how I am going to savor and relish the dish to my utmost pleasure and satisfaction till my mouth waters and I desperately yearn to eat it. And then I do the honours – actually go and eat it and enjoy the delightful experience.
Using my right thumb and forefinger, I lovingly pick small piece of meat from the gravy and delicately place it on my tongue. I close my eyes. Look inside. To focus my conscious energy. To accentuate my awareness. To concentrate. That’s the cardinal principle of the Art of Eating. You must always close your eyes during the process of eating. When you eat, you must eat; nothing else, no seeing, no hearing, no talking. No multitasking. Focus, eat mindfully, meditatively, honour your taste buds and you will attain a state of delightful bliss and happiness.
The meat is so tender that even a toothless person can eat it. It’s truly “Melt in the mouth” cuisine – like the famous Galouti Kebabs of Lucknow. Soft, succulent, juicy.
You don’t chew. You just gently squeeze the meat, softly rolling your tongue against the palate and the meat dissolves releasing its intoxicating flavours. It’s sheer bliss. Enlightenment. Gustatory Orgasm. Sensory Resonance. I do not have words to describe the exhilarating sensation.
That’s the hallmark of a genuine nourishing Nihari, the best part of the thigh muscle, specially selected prime marrow bones with generous portions of succulent meat, tenderized and marinated with curds, seasoned lovingly in the choicest of spices and dum-cooked to seal in the juices and flavours, slowly and gently, in a gravy carefully thickened with an assortment of flours of wheat, maize and dals as per the season and taste and garnished with thin strips of ginger and fine slices of fresh green chillies and a sprinkling of coriander.
I turn my attention to the Kameeri Roti. Holding the roti with my left hand I pull out a piece with my right. The texture is perfect – soft and fluffy. I sample a piece – yummy – it tastes good by itself; and why shouldn’t it? Whole-wheat atta kneaded with plenty of curds, seasoned with a bit of sugar and salt, fermented overnight in a moist cloth, flattened and cooked in a tandoor. Nourishing, luxuriant, ideal with the Nihari.
I dip a piece of roti in the thick gravy allowing it to soak in and place it on my tongue. Exquisite. A gentle bite. Tangy ginger and sharp chilli. A confluence of contrasting tastes. I absorb the riot of zesty flavours. It’s exciting, invigorating, perks me up and I am ready for what I am going to do next.
And what am I going to do next? You knew it didn’t you? I call for a marrow spoon, dig it into the marrow bone, scoop out some marrow and lick it on my tongue. I close my eyes and I can feel the nourishment coming all the way through. It’s a heavenly feeling.
I eat in silence. Mindfully. Savour the aroma, delicately place the food on my tongue, chew slowly and experience the variety of flavours as the permeate my taste buds, fully aware and sense the nourishment as the food dissolves and sinks deep within me.
The succulent meat. The sumptuous gravy. The luxuriant fluffy Kameeri Roti. It’s a feast worthy of the Gods. An ambrosial repast.
I am in a supreme state of bliss. Is this enlightenment? Or gustatory delight. Maybe it’s meditative eating. Or let’s narrow it down to the art of eating a Nihari.
It’s simple. Create a positive eating atmosphere, honour your taste buds, respect your food and eat it in a proper state of mind, with love, zest, awareness and genuine appreciation and it will transport you to a state of bliss and happiness. In a nutshell, this is ‘The Art of Eating’.
Epilogue
I used to visit two eateries on 1st Marine Street Dhobi Talao near Metro Cinema in Mumbai – Sassanian when in the mood for Parsi food or maybe a Roast Chicken, or to pick up delicious cakes, biscuits and freshly baked delights from their Boulangerie next-door and Punjabi Fish Mart for earthy deep fried fish best enjoyed piping hot by well fortified cast-iron stomachs on cold damp monsoon evenings. Sometime back, returning one evening from one of my food-walks, I noticed, in between these two, a newly opened restaurant - Jaffer Bhai’s Delhi Darbar – with a takeaway section, from where I picked up a menu card and walked home. Later that night I read the menu card and was delighted to find on it my favourite non-vegetarian delicacy – Nihari. I knew it wouldn’t be long before I partook of the dish.
And soon I had my tryst with Nihari and experienced this delightful gustatory affair to remember.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
How I Quit Smoking by Vikram Karve
HOW I QUIT SMOKING
By
Vikram Karve
I do not remember the precise moment I started smoking. Maybe it was sometime in college, in the seventies, when egged on by my friends I had my first puff. Just for the heck of it.
But what I do remember is the precise moment when I decided to stop smoking – a defining moment of my life.
A friend of mine came to my home in Mumbai late at night from the airport, to spend the night and catch next morning’s early train to Pune. It was late, I was tired after a hard day at work, so I gave him a cup of coffee and hit the sack and crashed out.
Suddenly someone was waking me up from my deep slumber – it was my friend asking for cigarettes.
“There’s a pack on the writing table,” I told him.
“It’s empty,” he said.
“Okay. I’ll get one in the morning,” I said.
“I need a smoke now. I’ll go out and get some,” he said.
I looked at him through my sleepy eyes and said, “Go to sleep. It’s late – there won’t be any shops open now.”
“There must be someplace. Please,” he said desperately, “ I haven’t had a smoke since I left Delhi. It’s been four hours. I’m dying to have a cigarette. Just one. I can’t sleep if I don’t get a smoke.”
Seeing his desperate craving, I had no option but to drive out with him in search of cigarettes at the unearthly hour.
Later, lying in bed, I thought about it. Poor chap. We had probably started smoking at the same time. If this could happen to him it could happen to me too if I didn’t wake up. He had become an addict. I didn’t want to become one. There was only one way. Stop smoking. Yes, I had to quit smoking. And I did it. I quit smoking. It’s been three years now, and I know I shall never smoke again. Let me tell you how I quit smoking. Maybe someone out there may benefit from my experience.
The first step towards quitting smoking is to learn how to enjoy smoking. Seems absurd - a paradox - isn’t it ? But that’s what I did and I’ll tell you all about it. I realized that in order to fully learn how to enjoy smoking one must first know the art of smoking. I got my clue from a teaching story as I reflected upon it carrying it my mind for a long time until I fathomed the story’s inner depth and meaning .
A seeker asks the master, “ Can I smoke while meditating ? ”
“ No ,” scolds the master angrily.
Another seeker then asks, “ Can I meditate while smoking ? ”
“ Yes , ” says the master knowingly realizing that this seeker is on the path to enlightenment.
This is the key, the first step – if you really want to stop smoking. First learn to meditate while smoking. Here is how I did it.
One evening, I take one cigarette, just one, and walk down to Marine Drive and sit down on the parapet in the cool sea breeze watching the sun being swallowed up by the Arabian Sea, crimson-yellow petals being thrown high up in the distant sky gradually devoured by the enveloping twilight. Soon it is dark, quiet and tranquil and I feel calm and relaxed.
I take out the cigarette from my pocket and hold it in front of me, look at it lovingly and close my eyes. You must close your eyes – it accentuates your other senses, makes you more conscious of what’s going on inside you. I hold the cigarette near my nose and breathe in the rich aroma of the tobacco, gently moving the cigarette as I take deep breaths, savoring the sweet fragrance of the tobacco tinged with the fresh scent of the paper and filter, until my olfactory system is truly and fully satiated.
I then put the filter between my lips, taste it and suck in air deeply through the unlighted cigarette. It feels good. I then open my eyes, light the cigarette, close my eyes, get ready and take a deep drag, focusing on my breath as I inhale, allowing the smoke to permeate deep within me, infusing a sensation I cannot describe, and watching carefully with my inner eye as I exhale - slow, long and relaxing.
Is my system being energized or depleted – I do not know – but I continue my unhurried meditative smoking, eyes gently closed, my inner senses fully conscious, aware, observing attentively, till the cigarette is over. I open my eyes, come out of my trance and instinctively I gulp in a huge amount of the fresh sea breeze and rinse my lungs and system.
As I walk back I decide that this is how I shall smoke each and every cigarette from now on – meditative smoking – the only way I shall smoke.
Most of us “smokers” haven’t learnt how to enjoy a smoke. We keep puffing away every waking moment of their lives without even noticing it. You grab a quick smoke in a hurry, you smoke when you are bored, you smoke while talking, while working, while doing something - smoking and multitasking : You smoke unconsciously, cigarette after cigarette, without even realizing it. Is it worth it? Why smoke if you don’t enjoy it?
I decide. Whenever I feel like smoking I shall stop everything and prepare myself for a meditative smoke. Go to some quiet place where I can sit undisturbed, alone. Yes I must be alone. Meditative smoking is a solitary activity. And I shall only smoke – no multitasking. No more smoking with friends, with tea or coffee, no more smoking in the office feeling a guilt conscience that non-smokers don’t like it or at home with my wife nagging me, no more hurried puffs, no more mindless unconscious smoking. Only meditative, mindful, conscious smoking in glorious solitude, inner calm and tranquility .
I follow this religiously and soon I am smoking only one cigarette a day – every evening, at sunset, just as I described it. For me smoking is a special occasion requiring solitude and a congenial ambience and if I cannot create the right atmosphere, both internally and externally, I shall not smoke.
When you have mastered something it’s time to let go and move on to something new. One day I feel I have mastered the art of smoking, derived all the enjoyment possible and reached a state of contentment and satiety. It’s time to let go. At sunset I go to my favourite place on Marine Drive, enjoy my final meditative smoke and toss the cigarette butt into the sea.
It’s been more than three years now and I haven’t had a smoke nor have I ever felt the urge to smoke. I know I will never smoke again – I have quit smoking forever.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
By
Vikram Karve
I do not remember the precise moment I started smoking. Maybe it was sometime in college, in the seventies, when egged on by my friends I had my first puff. Just for the heck of it.
But what I do remember is the precise moment when I decided to stop smoking – a defining moment of my life.
A friend of mine came to my home in Mumbai late at night from the airport, to spend the night and catch next morning’s early train to Pune. It was late, I was tired after a hard day at work, so I gave him a cup of coffee and hit the sack and crashed out.
Suddenly someone was waking me up from my deep slumber – it was my friend asking for cigarettes.
“There’s a pack on the writing table,” I told him.
“It’s empty,” he said.
“Okay. I’ll get one in the morning,” I said.
“I need a smoke now. I’ll go out and get some,” he said.
I looked at him through my sleepy eyes and said, “Go to sleep. It’s late – there won’t be any shops open now.”
“There must be someplace. Please,” he said desperately, “ I haven’t had a smoke since I left Delhi. It’s been four hours. I’m dying to have a cigarette. Just one. I can’t sleep if I don’t get a smoke.”
Seeing his desperate craving, I had no option but to drive out with him in search of cigarettes at the unearthly hour.
Later, lying in bed, I thought about it. Poor chap. We had probably started smoking at the same time. If this could happen to him it could happen to me too if I didn’t wake up. He had become an addict. I didn’t want to become one. There was only one way. Stop smoking. Yes, I had to quit smoking. And I did it. I quit smoking. It’s been three years now, and I know I shall never smoke again. Let me tell you how I quit smoking. Maybe someone out there may benefit from my experience.
The first step towards quitting smoking is to learn how to enjoy smoking. Seems absurd - a paradox - isn’t it ? But that’s what I did and I’ll tell you all about it. I realized that in order to fully learn how to enjoy smoking one must first know the art of smoking. I got my clue from a teaching story as I reflected upon it carrying it my mind for a long time until I fathomed the story’s inner depth and meaning .
A seeker asks the master, “ Can I smoke while meditating ? ”
“ No ,” scolds the master angrily.
Another seeker then asks, “ Can I meditate while smoking ? ”
“ Yes , ” says the master knowingly realizing that this seeker is on the path to enlightenment.
This is the key, the first step – if you really want to stop smoking. First learn to meditate while smoking. Here is how I did it.
One evening, I take one cigarette, just one, and walk down to Marine Drive and sit down on the parapet in the cool sea breeze watching the sun being swallowed up by the Arabian Sea, crimson-yellow petals being thrown high up in the distant sky gradually devoured by the enveloping twilight. Soon it is dark, quiet and tranquil and I feel calm and relaxed.
I take out the cigarette from my pocket and hold it in front of me, look at it lovingly and close my eyes. You must close your eyes – it accentuates your other senses, makes you more conscious of what’s going on inside you. I hold the cigarette near my nose and breathe in the rich aroma of the tobacco, gently moving the cigarette as I take deep breaths, savoring the sweet fragrance of the tobacco tinged with the fresh scent of the paper and filter, until my olfactory system is truly and fully satiated.
I then put the filter between my lips, taste it and suck in air deeply through the unlighted cigarette. It feels good. I then open my eyes, light the cigarette, close my eyes, get ready and take a deep drag, focusing on my breath as I inhale, allowing the smoke to permeate deep within me, infusing a sensation I cannot describe, and watching carefully with my inner eye as I exhale - slow, long and relaxing.
Is my system being energized or depleted – I do not know – but I continue my unhurried meditative smoking, eyes gently closed, my inner senses fully conscious, aware, observing attentively, till the cigarette is over. I open my eyes, come out of my trance and instinctively I gulp in a huge amount of the fresh sea breeze and rinse my lungs and system.
As I walk back I decide that this is how I shall smoke each and every cigarette from now on – meditative smoking – the only way I shall smoke.
Most of us “smokers” haven’t learnt how to enjoy a smoke. We keep puffing away every waking moment of their lives without even noticing it. You grab a quick smoke in a hurry, you smoke when you are bored, you smoke while talking, while working, while doing something - smoking and multitasking : You smoke unconsciously, cigarette after cigarette, without even realizing it. Is it worth it? Why smoke if you don’t enjoy it?
I decide. Whenever I feel like smoking I shall stop everything and prepare myself for a meditative smoke. Go to some quiet place where I can sit undisturbed, alone. Yes I must be alone. Meditative smoking is a solitary activity. And I shall only smoke – no multitasking. No more smoking with friends, with tea or coffee, no more smoking in the office feeling a guilt conscience that non-smokers don’t like it or at home with my wife nagging me, no more hurried puffs, no more mindless unconscious smoking. Only meditative, mindful, conscious smoking in glorious solitude, inner calm and tranquility .
I follow this religiously and soon I am smoking only one cigarette a day – every evening, at sunset, just as I described it. For me smoking is a special occasion requiring solitude and a congenial ambience and if I cannot create the right atmosphere, both internally and externally, I shall not smoke.
When you have mastered something it’s time to let go and move on to something new. One day I feel I have mastered the art of smoking, derived all the enjoyment possible and reached a state of contentment and satiety. It’s time to let go. At sunset I go to my favourite place on Marine Drive, enjoy my final meditative smoke and toss the cigarette butt into the sea.
It’s been more than three years now and I haven’t had a smoke nor have I ever felt the urge to smoke. I know I will never smoke again – I have quit smoking forever.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
Thursday, October 27, 2005
A Short Love Story by Vikram Karve
Rendezvous at Sunrise
( a short story )
By
Vikram Karve
Sunrise, on the eastern coast, is a special event. I stood at Dolphin’s Nose, a spur jutting out in to the Bay of Bengal, to behold the breaking of the sun’s upper limb over the horizon of the sea. As the eastern sky started unfolding like crimson petals of a gigantic flower, I was overcome by a wave of nostalgia – vivid memories, not diminished by the fact that almost ten years had passed.
I was a young bachelor then, and Vizag ( Visakhapatnam ) did not have much to offer. Every Sunday morning, I used to rise before dawn and head for Dolphin’s Nose to enjoy the resplendent spectacle of sun majestically rising out of the sea. The fresh salty sea – breeze was a panacea for all the effects of the hangover caused by Saturday night excesses.
After the viewing the metamorphosis at sunrise, I used to walk downhill along the steep mountain-path towards the rocky beach for a brief swim. I used to notice a flurry of activity at a distance, in the compound of a decrepit building, which I used to ignore, but curious, one day I decided to have a closer look.
It was a fish market. Most of the customers were housewives from the nearby residential complexes. They were in their “Sunday-worst” – sans make-up, slovenly dressed, faces unwashed and unkempt hair – what a contrast from their carefully made-up appearances at the club the previous evening.
I began to walk away, quite dejected, when I first saw her. I stopped in my tracks. She was a real beauty – tall, fair and freshly bathed, her long lustrous hair dancing on her shoulders. She had expressive eyes and her sharp features were accentuated by the rays of the morning Sun. I was struck by the thunderbolt and instantly fell madly in love with her.
But I knew in my heart that I stood no chance – she had a mangalsutra around her neck. She was married – probably happily too. Nevertheless I went close to her and made her pretense of buying some fish. Smiling cannily at me she selected a couple of pomfrets and held them out to me. I managed to briefly touch her hands – the feeling was electric. She communicated an unspoken good-bye with her teasing dancing eyes and briskly walked away.
I was too delightfully dazed to follow her. I returned to my room and had fried pomfret for breakfast. Needless to say they were delicious. I religiously followed this routine every Sunday morning. She never missed her rendezvous with me – same place, same time, at precisely the same time, Seven o’clock. But not a word was exchanged between us. I was too shy and she probably wanted to keep it this way – a beautiful ethereal relationship – a love so delicate that one wrong move might destroy everything. Meanwhile, I have developed a taste for fried pomfret – quite creditable, considering that I had never eaten fish before.
I left Vizag. Time passed , I had sailed around the world , but I never forgot her : A man’s first love always has an enduring place in his heart. And now I was back in Vizag almost ten years later. As I walked down the slope towards the beach, in my mind’s eye I could still vividly visualize the playfully sublime look on her face - her gentle smile and communicative eyes – although ten years had passed. I could not contain the mounting excitement and anticipation in me. I was desperately yearning to see her again. It was a forlorn hope but I was flushed with optimism.
As I reach the beach I noticed that the Sun was well clear of the horizon. I glanced at my watch. It was almost Seven O’clock. I hastened my step – almost broke in to a run – and reached the fish market and stood exactly at the same spot where we used to have our rendezvous at sunrise.
With tremors of anticipation, almost trepidation, I looked around with searching eyes. Nothing had changed. The scene was exactly the same as I had left it ten years ago. Only one thing was missing - she wasn’t there. I had drawn a blank. I was crestfallen. My mind went blank and I was standing vacuously when suddenly I felt that familiar electrifying touch. It shook me to reality, as quick as lighting. She softly put two promfret fish in my hands. I was in seventh heaven.
I looked at her. I was not disappointed. Her beauty had enhanced with age. But there was a trace of sadness in her eyes as she bid me an unspoken goodbye. I was too dumbstruck by the suddenness of the exhilarating event to react or say anything. For a moment we looked at each other in silence – a deafening silence.
It was only as she was leaving that I noticed that there was no mangalsutra around her slender neck.
I am going to stay in Vizag for a week. And next Sunday I shall rise early, behold the majestic sunrise from Dolphin’s Nose and run down to the beach fish market to be on time for my rendezvous at sunrise. And then, dear reader, I shall tell you what happened.
VIKRAM KARVE
E-mail : vikramkarve@sify.com
( a short story )
By
Vikram Karve
Sunrise, on the eastern coast, is a special event. I stood at Dolphin’s Nose, a spur jutting out in to the Bay of Bengal, to behold the breaking of the sun’s upper limb over the horizon of the sea. As the eastern sky started unfolding like crimson petals of a gigantic flower, I was overcome by a wave of nostalgia – vivid memories, not diminished by the fact that almost ten years had passed.
I was a young bachelor then, and Vizag ( Visakhapatnam ) did not have much to offer. Every Sunday morning, I used to rise before dawn and head for Dolphin’s Nose to enjoy the resplendent spectacle of sun majestically rising out of the sea. The fresh salty sea – breeze was a panacea for all the effects of the hangover caused by Saturday night excesses.
After the viewing the metamorphosis at sunrise, I used to walk downhill along the steep mountain-path towards the rocky beach for a brief swim. I used to notice a flurry of activity at a distance, in the compound of a decrepit building, which I used to ignore, but curious, one day I decided to have a closer look.
It was a fish market. Most of the customers were housewives from the nearby residential complexes. They were in their “Sunday-worst” – sans make-up, slovenly dressed, faces unwashed and unkempt hair – what a contrast from their carefully made-up appearances at the club the previous evening.
I began to walk away, quite dejected, when I first saw her. I stopped in my tracks. She was a real beauty – tall, fair and freshly bathed, her long lustrous hair dancing on her shoulders. She had expressive eyes and her sharp features were accentuated by the rays of the morning Sun. I was struck by the thunderbolt and instantly fell madly in love with her.
But I knew in my heart that I stood no chance – she had a mangalsutra around her neck. She was married – probably happily too. Nevertheless I went close to her and made her pretense of buying some fish. Smiling cannily at me she selected a couple of pomfrets and held them out to me. I managed to briefly touch her hands – the feeling was electric. She communicated an unspoken good-bye with her teasing dancing eyes and briskly walked away.
I was too delightfully dazed to follow her. I returned to my room and had fried pomfret for breakfast. Needless to say they were delicious. I religiously followed this routine every Sunday morning. She never missed her rendezvous with me – same place, same time, at precisely the same time, Seven o’clock. But not a word was exchanged between us. I was too shy and she probably wanted to keep it this way – a beautiful ethereal relationship – a love so delicate that one wrong move might destroy everything. Meanwhile, I have developed a taste for fried pomfret – quite creditable, considering that I had never eaten fish before.
I left Vizag. Time passed , I had sailed around the world , but I never forgot her : A man’s first love always has an enduring place in his heart. And now I was back in Vizag almost ten years later. As I walked down the slope towards the beach, in my mind’s eye I could still vividly visualize the playfully sublime look on her face - her gentle smile and communicative eyes – although ten years had passed. I could not contain the mounting excitement and anticipation in me. I was desperately yearning to see her again. It was a forlorn hope but I was flushed with optimism.
As I reach the beach I noticed that the Sun was well clear of the horizon. I glanced at my watch. It was almost Seven O’clock. I hastened my step – almost broke in to a run – and reached the fish market and stood exactly at the same spot where we used to have our rendezvous at sunrise.
With tremors of anticipation, almost trepidation, I looked around with searching eyes. Nothing had changed. The scene was exactly the same as I had left it ten years ago. Only one thing was missing - she wasn’t there. I had drawn a blank. I was crestfallen. My mind went blank and I was standing vacuously when suddenly I felt that familiar electrifying touch. It shook me to reality, as quick as lighting. She softly put two promfret fish in my hands. I was in seventh heaven.
I looked at her. I was not disappointed. Her beauty had enhanced with age. But there was a trace of sadness in her eyes as she bid me an unspoken goodbye. I was too dumbstruck by the suddenness of the exhilarating event to react or say anything. For a moment we looked at each other in silence – a deafening silence.
It was only as she was leaving that I noticed that there was no mangalsutra around her slender neck.
I am going to stay in Vizag for a week. And next Sunday I shall rise early, behold the majestic sunrise from Dolphin’s Nose and run down to the beach fish market to be on time for my rendezvous at sunrise. And then, dear reader, I shall tell you what happened.
VIKRAM KARVE
E-mail : vikramkarve@sify.com
The Map is not the Territory by Vikram Karve
The Map is not the Territory
By
Vikram Karve
“ The map is not the territory ”.
What does this mean ?
Liehtse’s famous parable of the Old Man at the Fort is perhaps apt to illustrate this concept :-
An Old Man was living with his Son at an abandoned fort on the top of a hill, and one day he lost a horse.
The neighbours came to express their sympathy for this misfortune, but the Old Man asked, “ How do you know this bad luck ? The fact is that one horse is missing and there is one horse less in the stables. That is the fact. Whether it is good luck or bad luck – that is a matter of judgment.”
A few days afterwards, his horse returned with a number of wild horses, and his neighbours came again to congratulate him on this stroke of fortune, and the Old Man replied, “ How do you know this is good luck ? The fact is that there are more horses in my stable than before. Whether it is good luck or bad luck – well that is a matter of opinion.”
With so many horses around, his son began to take to riding, and one day while riding a wild horse he was thrown off and broke his leg. Again the neighbours came around to express their sympathy, and the Old Man replied, “ How do you know this is bad luck ?”
A few days later a war broke out and all the able bodied men were forcibly conscripted into the army, sent to the warfront to fight and most of them were killed or wounded. Because the Old Man’s son had a broken leg he did not have to go to the front and his life was saved.
This parable drives home the lesson that there are no such things like good luck and bad luck. What disturbs you are not events but your attitude towards them. You must learn to distinguish between facts and your attitude or judgment towards those facts. It’s all in the mind. Facts are like territory – ground reality. But the way you interpret or judge those facts, your attitude towards them, depends on your mental map.
This mental map is formed due to your values, beliefs and experiences and you tend to view the actual facts or events (territory) through mental filters based on your values, beliefs, biases, prejudices and experiences which form your mental map.
Remember, just like the actual physical geographical territory exists on the ground and its map is drawn on paper, actual facts and events happen in reality and each one of us interprets them depending on the different maps in our minds.
Events, by themselves, don’t hurt you, it is your attitudes and responses ( mental maps) that disturb you and give you trouble. It then becomes your paramount duty to introspect and continuously redesign your mental maps to develop the correct attitude and responses towards external events.
When something happens the only thing in your power is your attitude towards it. We cannot choose our external circumstances, but we can always choose how we respond to them. The secret of inner calm lies inside you, in developing the proper mental “maps” and correct attitude in your mind, so that you are not disturbed by the vicissitudes of external events which are akin to the outside “territory”.
Remember, the map is not the territory.
VIKRAM KARVE
E-mail : vikramkarve@sify.com , vikramkarve@yahoo.co.in, vikramkarve@indiatimes.com
By
Vikram Karve
“ The map is not the territory ”.
What does this mean ?
Liehtse’s famous parable of the Old Man at the Fort is perhaps apt to illustrate this concept :-
An Old Man was living with his Son at an abandoned fort on the top of a hill, and one day he lost a horse.
The neighbours came to express their sympathy for this misfortune, but the Old Man asked, “ How do you know this bad luck ? The fact is that one horse is missing and there is one horse less in the stables. That is the fact. Whether it is good luck or bad luck – that is a matter of judgment.”
A few days afterwards, his horse returned with a number of wild horses, and his neighbours came again to congratulate him on this stroke of fortune, and the Old Man replied, “ How do you know this is good luck ? The fact is that there are more horses in my stable than before. Whether it is good luck or bad luck – well that is a matter of opinion.”
With so many horses around, his son began to take to riding, and one day while riding a wild horse he was thrown off and broke his leg. Again the neighbours came around to express their sympathy, and the Old Man replied, “ How do you know this is bad luck ?”
A few days later a war broke out and all the able bodied men were forcibly conscripted into the army, sent to the warfront to fight and most of them were killed or wounded. Because the Old Man’s son had a broken leg he did not have to go to the front and his life was saved.
This parable drives home the lesson that there are no such things like good luck and bad luck. What disturbs you are not events but your attitude towards them. You must learn to distinguish between facts and your attitude or judgment towards those facts. It’s all in the mind. Facts are like territory – ground reality. But the way you interpret or judge those facts, your attitude towards them, depends on your mental map.
This mental map is formed due to your values, beliefs and experiences and you tend to view the actual facts or events (territory) through mental filters based on your values, beliefs, biases, prejudices and experiences which form your mental map.
Remember, just like the actual physical geographical territory exists on the ground and its map is drawn on paper, actual facts and events happen in reality and each one of us interprets them depending on the different maps in our minds.
Events, by themselves, don’t hurt you, it is your attitudes and responses ( mental maps) that disturb you and give you trouble. It then becomes your paramount duty to introspect and continuously redesign your mental maps to develop the correct attitude and responses towards external events.
When something happens the only thing in your power is your attitude towards it. We cannot choose our external circumstances, but we can always choose how we respond to them. The secret of inner calm lies inside you, in developing the proper mental “maps” and correct attitude in your mind, so that you are not disturbed by the vicissitudes of external events which are akin to the outside “territory”.
Remember, the map is not the territory.
VIKRAM KARVE
E-mail : vikramkarve@sify.com , vikramkarve@yahoo.co.in, vikramkarve@indiatimes.com
The Art of Happiness by Vikram Karve
The Art of Happiness
By
Vikram Karve
The primary aim of philosophy and spirituality is to help ordinary people live a life of happiness, fulfillment and tranquility. Every day you ask yourself - How do I live a happy life? Is it simple to be happy? What is the art of happiness? Let us see what the Taoist philosopher Mingliaotse has to say: “ The art of attaining happiness consists in keeping your pleasures mild.”
You know that whenever pleasure is present you are happy – this is a fact that cannot be denied – for a pleasure is an enjoyable event or delightful emotion which is bound to make you happy, at least for that moment.
Highfalutin philosophers and spiritual gurus may prescribe various impracticable esoteric paths of renunciation, asceticism or sectarian precepts eschewing enjoyment and pleasure as the sine qua non of happiness but the fact of the matter is that to the ordinary person happiness and pleasure are inextricably intertwined.
Discovering enduring pleasures which you can easily and regularly achieve, realize and enjoy in your day-to-day life will produce contentment, fulfillment and happiness.
No pleasure is a bad thing in itself, but wanton pursuit of pleasures is counterproductive as it leads to over-indulgence and excesses which bring with them disturbances which are detrimental to our happiness and well-being.
In your search for happiness you indulge in extravagant parties, expensive entertainments and try to enjoy everything at once, instant gratification by over-indulgence in wining, dining and dancing, stretching yourself to the maximum limits possible; at first you enjoy yourself and feel happy but when you come to the point of satiety you begin to feel a sense of repulsion, and if you overdo yourself, next morning wake up sick and feeling miserable with a sense of sadness rather than happiness. Grandiose, complicated, ostentatious and intemperate indulgences which you think will make you happy , in actual fact leaves you stressed-out, unhappy and causes you harm in the long run.
There is no need to overdo things in order to be happy. Just keep your pleasures mild. Enjoying a simple, tasty and healthy meal with your loved one’s and friends, or just sitting quietly and leisurely reading a good book, taking a walk enjoying melodious music, enjoying your work, leisure, hobbies are some mild pleasures which will make you happy and keep you healthy too.
It is simple to be happy. The first thing you must do is to introspect and list your most pleasurable activities – things that give you true joy, happiness and satisfaction – in all aspects of your life. Make your list as exhaustive as possible and from this list select those “mild” pleasures that you can enjoy every day or often. And then fit them into your daily routine. See what happens. Experiment. Delete those “pleasures” that you thought would give you happiness but actually made you stressed-out – things you think would be satisfying but turn out to be unrewarding. Do not be hesitant to add new items to your list – you can always remove them if they fail to produce the desired results. Fine tune and religiously practice your list – and experience happiness every day.
This prescription of keeping your pleasures mild will enable you to structure your life in way where your happiness will be in your control and you will find greater joy in your life. It will be feasible and within your control to ensure that you enjoy these mild pleasures daily or at least fairly regularly and, with only so many hours during the day, these enjoyable events will begin to crowd out the neutral, unpleasant, and irrelevant activities in your daily life and make you feel fulfilled and happy.
Dear reader, start today and discover the art of happiness. And do let me know your experience – did keeping your pleasures mild make you happier? And which are your mild pleasures?
VIKRAM KARVE
E-Mail : vikramkarve@sify.com, vikramkarve@yahoo.co.in
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By
Vikram Karve
The primary aim of philosophy and spirituality is to help ordinary people live a life of happiness, fulfillment and tranquility. Every day you ask yourself - How do I live a happy life? Is it simple to be happy? What is the art of happiness? Let us see what the Taoist philosopher Mingliaotse has to say: “ The art of attaining happiness consists in keeping your pleasures mild.”
You know that whenever pleasure is present you are happy – this is a fact that cannot be denied – for a pleasure is an enjoyable event or delightful emotion which is bound to make you happy, at least for that moment.
Highfalutin philosophers and spiritual gurus may prescribe various impracticable esoteric paths of renunciation, asceticism or sectarian precepts eschewing enjoyment and pleasure as the sine qua non of happiness but the fact of the matter is that to the ordinary person happiness and pleasure are inextricably intertwined.
Discovering enduring pleasures which you can easily and regularly achieve, realize and enjoy in your day-to-day life will produce contentment, fulfillment and happiness.
No pleasure is a bad thing in itself, but wanton pursuit of pleasures is counterproductive as it leads to over-indulgence and excesses which bring with them disturbances which are detrimental to our happiness and well-being.
In your search for happiness you indulge in extravagant parties, expensive entertainments and try to enjoy everything at once, instant gratification by over-indulgence in wining, dining and dancing, stretching yourself to the maximum limits possible; at first you enjoy yourself and feel happy but when you come to the point of satiety you begin to feel a sense of repulsion, and if you overdo yourself, next morning wake up sick and feeling miserable with a sense of sadness rather than happiness. Grandiose, complicated, ostentatious and intemperate indulgences which you think will make you happy , in actual fact leaves you stressed-out, unhappy and causes you harm in the long run.
There is no need to overdo things in order to be happy. Just keep your pleasures mild. Enjoying a simple, tasty and healthy meal with your loved one’s and friends, or just sitting quietly and leisurely reading a good book, taking a walk enjoying melodious music, enjoying your work, leisure, hobbies are some mild pleasures which will make you happy and keep you healthy too.
It is simple to be happy. The first thing you must do is to introspect and list your most pleasurable activities – things that give you true joy, happiness and satisfaction – in all aspects of your life. Make your list as exhaustive as possible and from this list select those “mild” pleasures that you can enjoy every day or often. And then fit them into your daily routine. See what happens. Experiment. Delete those “pleasures” that you thought would give you happiness but actually made you stressed-out – things you think would be satisfying but turn out to be unrewarding. Do not be hesitant to add new items to your list – you can always remove them if they fail to produce the desired results. Fine tune and religiously practice your list – and experience happiness every day.
This prescription of keeping your pleasures mild will enable you to structure your life in way where your happiness will be in your control and you will find greater joy in your life. It will be feasible and within your control to ensure that you enjoy these mild pleasures daily or at least fairly regularly and, with only so many hours during the day, these enjoyable events will begin to crowd out the neutral, unpleasant, and irrelevant activities in your daily life and make you feel fulfilled and happy.
Dear reader, start today and discover the art of happiness. And do let me know your experience – did keeping your pleasures mild make you happier? And which are your mild pleasures?
VIKRAM KARVE
E-Mail : vikramkarve@sify.com, vikramkarve@yahoo.co.in
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Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Chillies by Vikram Karve
An Apocryphal Teaching Story
By
Vikram Karve
Here is an apocryphal story, I heard long back, whose inner meaning had a profound positive effect on me :
On his first visit to India, a rich merchant saw a man selling a small green fruit which he had never seen before. It looked fresh and juicy and the merchant was tempted, and curious, he asked the vendor," What is this ?" "Chillies, fresh green chillies," said the hawker.
The merchant held out a gold coin and the vendor was so overjoyed that he gave the merchant the full basket of chillies.
The merchant sat down under a tree and stared to munch the chillies. Within a few seconds his tongue was on fire, his mouth burning and tears streamed down his cheeks. But despite this discomfort, the merchant went on eating the chillies, chewing them one by one, scrutinizing each chilli carefully before he put it into his burning mouth.
Seeing his condition, a passerby remarked, " What’s wrong with you ? Why don’t you stop eating those hot chillies ? "
"Maybe there is one that is sweet," the merchant answered, " I keep waiting for the sweet one." And the merchant continued eating the chillies.
On his way back, the passerby noticed that the merchant’s condition had become miserable, his face red with agony and copious tears pouring out of his burning eyes. But the merchant kept on eating the chillies, in his search for the ‘sweet one’.
" Stop at once, or you will die," the passerby shouted. " There are no sweet chillies ! Haven’t you realized that ? Look at the basket - it’s almost empty. And have you found even one sweet chilli yet ? "
"I cannot stop until I eat all the chillies. I have to finish the whole basketful," the merchant croaked in agony, " I have paid for the full basket and I will make sure I get my money’s worth."
Dear Reader – Read this story once more, reflect on it, apply it to your life. Don’t we cling on to things that we know we should let go ( at first hoping to find ‘sweet one’ and even when we discover that there is no ‘sweet chilli’ we still continue to shackle ourselves to painful, harmful and detrimental things just to ‘get our money’s worth’ when we should let go and liberate ourselves).
VIKRAM KARVE
E-mail : vikramkarve@yahoo.co.in, vikramkarve@indiatimes.com
By
Vikram Karve
Here is an apocryphal story, I heard long back, whose inner meaning had a profound positive effect on me :
On his first visit to India, a rich merchant saw a man selling a small green fruit which he had never seen before. It looked fresh and juicy and the merchant was tempted, and curious, he asked the vendor," What is this ?" "Chillies, fresh green chillies," said the hawker.
The merchant held out a gold coin and the vendor was so overjoyed that he gave the merchant the full basket of chillies.
The merchant sat down under a tree and stared to munch the chillies. Within a few seconds his tongue was on fire, his mouth burning and tears streamed down his cheeks. But despite this discomfort, the merchant went on eating the chillies, chewing them one by one, scrutinizing each chilli carefully before he put it into his burning mouth.
Seeing his condition, a passerby remarked, " What’s wrong with you ? Why don’t you stop eating those hot chillies ? "
"Maybe there is one that is sweet," the merchant answered, " I keep waiting for the sweet one." And the merchant continued eating the chillies.
On his way back, the passerby noticed that the merchant’s condition had become miserable, his face red with agony and copious tears pouring out of his burning eyes. But the merchant kept on eating the chillies, in his search for the ‘sweet one’.
" Stop at once, or you will die," the passerby shouted. " There are no sweet chillies ! Haven’t you realized that ? Look at the basket - it’s almost empty. And have you found even one sweet chilli yet ? "
"I cannot stop until I eat all the chillies. I have to finish the whole basketful," the merchant croaked in agony, " I have paid for the full basket and I will make sure I get my money’s worth."
Dear Reader – Read this story once more, reflect on it, apply it to your life. Don’t we cling on to things that we know we should let go ( at first hoping to find ‘sweet one’ and even when we discover that there is no ‘sweet chilli’ we still continue to shackle ourselves to painful, harmful and detrimental things just to ‘get our money’s worth’ when we should let go and liberate ourselves).
VIKRAM KARVE
E-mail : vikramkarve@yahoo.co.in, vikramkarve@indiatimes.com
Sunday, October 09, 2005
A Teaching Story by Vikram Karve
A Teaching Story
By
Vikram Karve
A wise man seeking enlightenment, renounced worldly life, took a strict vow of celibacy which was a sine qua non for attaining enlightenment and headed for the hills to live an ascetic existence of a hermit. He found a secluded cave and began his simple meditative life surviving on natural wild vegetation in the forest and began his journey towards enlightenment.
One day he noticed holes in his robe and discovered that there were lots of rats in the cave who were chewing off his robes and who soon were nibbling at his toes disturbing his meditation.
Perplexed, he went down to town and consulted his Guru who said, “ No problem. Just get a cat who will take care of the rats.” So our wise man bought a cat and took it up to his cave. The cat took care of the rats and the wise man was undisturbed in his quest.
After a few days the cat had eaten up all the rats and started moaning with hunger. The constant moaning and crying of the cat again disturbed the wise man’s meditation and he again consulted his Guru who advised him to acquire a cow whose milk would feed the cat.
Now the wise man would spend some time milking the cow, feeding the cat and then settle down for his meditation.
A few days later the cow stopped giving milk and mooed loudly. The cat too had started moaning again and the disturbed wise man ran to his Guru once again who gave him some seeds. The wise man planted the seeds which yielded food both for the cow and himself. But he now had to spend so much time tending to his garden, feeding and milking his cow and giving milk to his cat that he hardly got any time for meditation.
He rushed to his Guru who once again had a ready solution, “ There is a young widow – poor thing she is destitute. She will look after everything and you can meditate in peace and attain enlightenment.”
It was a wonderful arrangement – the young widow looked after everything, the garden, cow and cat flourished and the wise man was undisturbed in his quest for enlightenment.
One day it began to snow, the temperature fell to sub-zero and the young widow started shivering in the cold. Soon she could bear it no longer and snuggled into the wise man’s bed and tightly embraced him as that was the only way to keep warm.
Who can resist the tight embrace of an attractive woman in the prime of her life ? The vow of celibacy lay shattered and there ended the wise man’s quest for enlightenment.
Moral of the story – Less baggage, better travel.
VIKRAM KARVE
E-Mail: vikramkarve@yahoo.co.in,
vikramkarve@sify.com
The Best Breakfast in Mumbai
Food Walks in Mumbai : Vikram Waman Karve
A Sumptuous Breakfast after a long brisk walk in the heart of Mumbai
By
Vikram Waman Karve
I start early, at dawn, from my house in Churchgate, hit Marine Drive and walk briskly towards Chowpatty where I turn right, cross Marine Drive and take the road adjoining Wilson College, walk past Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan , Gamdevi , Nana Chowk and crossing the railway overbridge keep going on Grant Road passing Novelty Cinema , turn right at Delhi Durbar on Falkland Road, reach VP Road, walk past Gol Deval and there I am at the Bhendi Bazar Mohamed Ali Road crossing – my destination Noor Mohammedi Hotel in front of me. Over an hour and a half of brisk walking has built up a healthy appetite in me and I am ready for a sumptuous breakfast.
I enter the Spartan no-nonsense eatery and order a Nalli Nihari and Roti. Within a minute a bowl of piping hot gravy and a fluffy khaboosh roti is placed in front of me. I dip a piece of the soft roti in the rich gravy, let it soak for a while, put it in my mouth and close my eyes to savour and relish the gastronomic experience in its entirety.
I can feel the gravy soaked roti melting on my tongue, releasing its delicious flavours which permeate into my soul. I am in seventh heaven and keep on attaining higher states of sheer bliss with every succulent bite of the mouth watering concoction – they say it’s a bone marrow and wheat gravy but I don’t delve too much on the contents of a dish – it’s the taste and delicacy that matters.
It’s a delectable beginning to a delightful day as the luscious taste of the delicious Nalli Nihari lingers on my tongue for a long long time. It’s epicurean satiation of the highest order – a blissful experience I can never forget.
VIKRAM WAMAN KARVE
E-mail : vikramkarve@sify.com, vikramkarve@yahoo.co.in
A Sumptuous Breakfast after a long brisk walk in the heart of Mumbai
By
Vikram Waman Karve
I start early, at dawn, from my house in Churchgate, hit Marine Drive and walk briskly towards Chowpatty where I turn right, cross Marine Drive and take the road adjoining Wilson College, walk past Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan , Gamdevi , Nana Chowk and crossing the railway overbridge keep going on Grant Road passing Novelty Cinema , turn right at Delhi Durbar on Falkland Road, reach VP Road, walk past Gol Deval and there I am at the Bhendi Bazar Mohamed Ali Road crossing – my destination Noor Mohammedi Hotel in front of me. Over an hour and a half of brisk walking has built up a healthy appetite in me and I am ready for a sumptuous breakfast.
I enter the Spartan no-nonsense eatery and order a Nalli Nihari and Roti. Within a minute a bowl of piping hot gravy and a fluffy khaboosh roti is placed in front of me. I dip a piece of the soft roti in the rich gravy, let it soak for a while, put it in my mouth and close my eyes to savour and relish the gastronomic experience in its entirety.
I can feel the gravy soaked roti melting on my tongue, releasing its delicious flavours which permeate into my soul. I am in seventh heaven and keep on attaining higher states of sheer bliss with every succulent bite of the mouth watering concoction – they say it’s a bone marrow and wheat gravy but I don’t delve too much on the contents of a dish – it’s the taste and delicacy that matters.
It’s a delectable beginning to a delightful day as the luscious taste of the delicious Nalli Nihari lingers on my tongue for a long long time. It’s epicurean satiation of the highest order – a blissful experience I can never forget.
VIKRAM WAMAN KARVE
E-mail : vikramkarve@sify.com, vikramkarve@yahoo.co.in
An Epicurean Experience at Dawn in Mumbai by Vikram Waman Karve
Food Walks in Mumbai : Vikram Waman Karve
A Sumptuous Breakfast after a long brisk walk in the heart of Mumbai
By
Vikram Waman Karve
I start early, at dawn, from my house in Churchgate, hit Marine Drive and walk briskly towards Chowpatty where I turn right, cross Marine Drive and take the road adjoining Wilson College, walk past Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan , Gamdevi , Nana Chowk and crossing the railway overbridge keep going on Grant Road passing Novelty Cinema , turn right at Delhi Durbar on Falkland Road, reach VP Road, walk past Gol Deval and there I am at the Bhendi Bazar Mohamed Ali Road crossing – my destination Noor Mohammedi Hotel in front of me. Over an hour and a half of brisk walking has built up a healthy appetite in me and I am ready for a sumptuous breakfast.
I enter the Spartan no-nonsense eatery and order a Nalli Nihari and Roti. Within a minute a bowl of piping hot gravy and a fluffy khaboosh roti is placed in front of me. I dip a piece of the soft roti in the rich gravy, let it soak for a while, put it in my mouth and close my eyes to savour and relish the gastronomic experience in its entirety.
I can feel the gravy soaked roti melting on my tongue, releasing its delicious flavours which permeate into my soul. I am in seventh heaven and keep on attaining higher states of sheer bliss with every succulent bite of the mouth watering concoction – they say it’s a bone marrow and wheat gravy but I don’t delve too much on the contents of a dish – it’s the taste and delicacy that matters.
It’s a delectable beginning to a delightful day as the luscious taste of the delicious Nalli Nihari lingers on my tongue for a long long time. It’s epicurean satiation of the highest order – a blissful experience I can never forget.
VIKRAM WAMAN KARVE
E-mail : vikramkarve@sify.com, vikramkarve@yahoo.co.in
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Food Walks in Mumbai
I love going on Food Walks and over here I shall record my food walks in Mumbai and the delicious food I savoured in the nooks and corners of Mumbai.
Please join me in my food walks.
Vikram
Please join me in my food walks.
Vikram
The Best Biryani in Mumbai
Wher do you get the Best Biryani in Mumbai ?
Lucky ? Shalimar ? Delhi Darbar ?
It's undoubtedly the one and only Olympia on Colaba Causeway.
Try it. The Spread Test and Taste test. It comes out with flying colours.
Lucky ? Shalimar ? Delhi Darbar ?
It's undoubtedly the one and only Olympia on Colaba Causeway.
Try it. The Spread Test and Taste test. It comes out with flying colours.
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