HOW TO PLAY WITH YOUR DOG
TUG OF WAR
By
VIKRAM KARVE
There is no better stress buster, health tonic and joyful activity than playing with your dog.
Here are a few games I play with my pet girl Sherry. [Her mother is pure Doberman and father the Caravan Hound, who prowled next door]
Sherry is not a cute cuddly indoor lapdog, nor is she merely an excitable watch dog who only barks at intruders – she is a superb guard dog, strong, fast, active and ferocious, ready to attack in order to protect what she considers her territory, which includes our house and family, especially her Master – woe betide anyone who comes menacingly to close to me for her comfort, particularly approaching joggers, cyclists et al.
Whenever Sherry wants to play, she invites me to play by adopting the “playful pose” – her front legs lowered, her butt raised up in the air, her tail high up in the air wagging friendly, her eyes looking upwards invitingly into mine, her ears up alerts and her mouth is open in a "grin".
Normally I respond immediately, but sometimes if I am preoccupied and inadvertently do not notice her, Sherry will some near me, raise her paws, giving cyclic shake hands, beckon me with friendly entreating sounds, and if even that doesn’t work, she will run and get her ball [to play “fetch-the-ball], her toy bone [for the “ bone game”] or just run round and round at top speed in our garden [for the chase game] – now all these are vigorous outdoor games.
Indoors, our favourite game is “tug of war”, for it too is a spirited, energetic, rough and tough game; robust mental and physical exercise both for Sherry and me.
After a long hiatus, it is raining incessantly out here in Girinagar, so we’ve had to call off our evening walk up the hills, and Sherry is getting restless, so I suddenly command: “Pusa…Pusa…Gheun Ye…” [Now, Sherry is a Maharashtrian Doberman, and in Marathi, Pusa… Pusa means “wipe… wipe” and refers to her towel…when Sherry was a baby I would give her a bath and then say Pusa…Pusa while wiping her vigorously with her Turkish towel so she associates Pusa…Pusa with a towel or any such cloth].
Sherry rushes off delightfully and brings her towel in her mouth and offers it to me to start the tug-of-war game. A thick Turkish towel is the best tug of war toy – it is sturdy yet soft, good for her teeth and easy for me to hold, and even when the going gets rough, Sherry loves the vigorous feel of the towel rubbing against her neck, head and body.
It is a rough and tough game of strength and skill – you just don’t pull – actually it is not a tug of war, but rather a jiggle, wiggle, waggle, jerk, squirm, twist and turn, and shake of war so I do all sorts of manoeuvres, shaking, teasing, loosening and improvising; in fact Sherry thinks up numerous ways to win this tug of war.
We play in a large area without distractions, clutter or dangerous objects. Outdoors is great, but the beauty of tug of war is that it can be safely played indoors if you have a bit of space. Make sure there is room for you both to move about and that there is nothing in the way should one of you back up.
As the game of tug of war hot up, Sherry [and me too] gets highly excited, wags her tail briskly and mock growls, so I rub against her and say in her ear…baba la gurr…baba la gurr – dogs love body contact and speaking in their ears.
With experience I learnt tricks of the trade – you cannot always win by pulling alone – it is like flying kites – you have to give dheel sometimes followed by a jhatka – and then jittery shakes – the possibilities are endless.
Conventional wisdom says that the “owner” must win all the time to assert his dominance in the “pack”. But I let Sherry win sometimes. I don’t need to “establish” my place in the “hierarchy” – do you need to establish your place in the hierarchy with your daughter, or son, or wife?
A tough dog needs to bite. Biting is in a dog’s natural instinct and temperament and it is one of the best natural ways for dogs to release pent up stress and energy. It is better Sherry happily releases her pent up stress and energy on the inanimate tug of war towel than some hapless animate object, isn’t it?
Also I don’t want my Sherry to be a sissy – she must be her natural aggressive self – after all she is a top quality guard dog and I must not curb too much her natural preying instincts. That is why I simulate quite an energetic tug of war game with a lot of growling, grunting and shaking on both sides.
If things get too rough, or I am tired and want to end the game, I just softly say: “Drop it” and Sherry lets go of the towel and then I give her a tit-bit.
I love playing tug-of-war with Sherry – it is a mentally and physically stimulating game for Sherry and me and is a great form of aerobic exercise too. And it is so much fun – playing tug of war with Sherry is a most enjoyable and satisfying pastime.
Tug of War is a rough game so only I [or my son who is also a tough guy]play tug of war with Sherry – I never allow small kids near Sherry, let alone let them play tug of war with her.
As I write this on my laptop, Sherry is calling me to play tug of war, enticing me with her Pusa…Pusa towel in her mouth rubbing against my thigh, so here I go to play a vigorous bout of tug of war with Sherry.
Play a lot with your dog.
You dog will be happy and healthy - and you too!
Bow Wow!
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
Friday, August 28, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Time to Move On in Life
TIME TO MOVE ON
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Here is an apocryphal funny teaching story I heard somewhere.
Dear Reader, please read it slowly, then have a good laugh, carry the story with you and let it perambulate in your mind, and suddenly you will understand its true meaning and feel enlightened.
A distinguished man bought a lovely bungalow at a scenic place in a nearby hill-station.
From time to time he would take a break from his work and escape from the hectic life of the city and go to his bungalow in the hills to enjoy relaxed solitude.
He would always tell everyone that he was going away for a month but invariably he used to always return much earlier - sometimes within ten days and sometimes even earlier - within a week itself.
When asked the reason for his erratic behaviour, the distinguished man explained:
"I have kept a caretaker woman there to look after my house in the hills. She is very ugly, probably the ugliest and most repugnant woman in the world – she looks absolutely hideous and is so terribly revolting that just one look at her and you will feel like vomiting.
Whenever I go to live there, at first the ugly woman looks terribly repulsive and dreadfully ghastly.
But slowly, after three, four days, she doesn’t seem so horrible.
Then, as time passes, maybe after six, seven days, I start seeing some beauty in her.
The day I start seeing beauty in her is the day I flee from the hill-station and come back to the city – because that means enough is enough – I have lived away from the world too long - now even this utterly ugly and horrible woman has started looking beautiful – I may even fall in love with this horrendous woman – that is dangerous warning signal and I know that it is time to move on. So I pack up my bags and rush back to the city."
Please tell me, Dear Reader, what is the moral of this story?
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Here is an apocryphal funny teaching story I heard somewhere.
Dear Reader, please read it slowly, then have a good laugh, carry the story with you and let it perambulate in your mind, and suddenly you will understand its true meaning and feel enlightened.
A distinguished man bought a lovely bungalow at a scenic place in a nearby hill-station.
From time to time he would take a break from his work and escape from the hectic life of the city and go to his bungalow in the hills to enjoy relaxed solitude.
He would always tell everyone that he was going away for a month but invariably he used to always return much earlier - sometimes within ten days and sometimes even earlier - within a week itself.
When asked the reason for his erratic behaviour, the distinguished man explained:
"I have kept a caretaker woman there to look after my house in the hills. She is very ugly, probably the ugliest and most repugnant woman in the world – she looks absolutely hideous and is so terribly revolting that just one look at her and you will feel like vomiting.
Whenever I go to live there, at first the ugly woman looks terribly repulsive and dreadfully ghastly.
But slowly, after three, four days, she doesn’t seem so horrible.
Then, as time passes, maybe after six, seven days, I start seeing some beauty in her.
The day I start seeing beauty in her is the day I flee from the hill-station and come back to the city – because that means enough is enough – I have lived away from the world too long - now even this utterly ugly and horrible woman has started looking beautiful – I may even fall in love with this horrendous woman – that is dangerous warning signal and I know that it is time to move on. So I pack up my bags and rush back to the city."
Please tell me, Dear Reader, what is the moral of this story?
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Independence
INDEPENDENCE
[Short Fiction - An Inspirational Story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
“How was your day?” she asks.
“Terrible,” he says.
“Terrible?”
“Everything is rotten out here! This country is going to the dogs because of this bloody corruption! They must do something about it.”
“They? What they? Who is this ‘they’?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t care, because I am getting out of here once and for all.”
“Sanjiv, come on, how can you be so sure things are better out there? At least here, in our country, we are treated properly.”
“Treated properly? My foot! Only the corrupt and powerful, the rich and wealthy, are having a ball. If you’re honest, life is hell. They treat you like dirt. But one thing is sure. Once I’m an NRI, I’ll be treated better. Look at way they pamper these NRI chaps – the top jobs, the dough, the recognition, the honors – it’s pathetic, the way we put them on a pedestal - they enjoy best of both worlds and we even bestow them with all sorts of accolades and awards!”
“What rubbish! They must have done something for the country.”
“Oh, yeah! Sure. But which country? All they’ve done is make money for the company they work for over there, earned glory for themselves. But what have they done for India ?”
“Come on, don’t be so bitter. Just forget all this Sanjiv and think positively; you’ve got a chance to stay here and do something, haven’t you? Sanjiv. Don’t go. Please!”
“Don’t go? Please? Come on, Nalini. What’s wrong with you? Why the hell should I stay here?”
“The IAS is the best thing in the world.”
“Oh yeah! Tell me. What’s so great about rotting away in some back of the beyond town like Jhumri Talaiya, or Beed, or Marwar Mundwa, which you only hear about on Vividh Bharati?”
“Come off it, it’s not all that bad.”
“And the bloody groveling and kowtowing the powers that be all your life?”
“The pay, the perks…”
“Pay, Perks? What are you talking about? I’ve told you about the mind-boggling amount I’m going to get out there, haven’t I?
“So it’s Seattle, not Mussoorie?”
“Yes. It’s final. I’ve nothing left here now.”
“Nothing?” tears start to well up in her eyes.
He puts his arms around her and says, “Please Nalini… don’t make it difficult for me.”
“I’m thirsty. Come, let’s have some chilled milk.”
Hand in hand, the man and the woman cross Marine Drive , and amble to the Jai Jawan stall, and order some chilled milk.
Suddenly a cop arrives, bangs his lathi on the counter and shouts rudely at the old man inside the stall, “Abe Saale, Hafta kyon nahi deta?”
“I am a war veteran disabled soldier,” the jawan says proudly stamping his crutch on the ground in anger.
“So what? Just pay up, you one-legged cripple, or I’ll shove that crutch up your…”
Something suddenly snaps inside Sanjiv and he is filled with rage. He suddenly turns, catches the cop’s collar, shoves him roughly, and shouts, “Just get out…”
The stunned cop slowly recovers, talks on his cell phone, and within seconds a police jeep appears and they are all whisked away to the police station.
“Saale,” the inspector says menacingly, “assaulting a policeman on duty…”
“Sir,” a constable interrupts, “this was in his pocket.” He hands a paper to the inspector.
The inspector reads it, looks at Sanjiv, and goes inside to his superior’s office. They discuss and reach a conclusion: No point taking punga with IAS types – even if he is just going to be a probationer.
“You are going to be IAS. You shouldn’t do these things,” the inspector says politely to Sanjiv, undergoing a total metamorphosis in his demeanor and sends his jeep to drop them back at the Jai Jawan Stall on Marine Drive .
“Thank you, saab. We need young people like you to sort things out,” the soldier at the Jai Jawan says gratefully, as they sip the deliciously soothing chilled milk.
“Hey, let’s watch sunset,” Nalini says.
They cross Marine Drive , run to the parapet and watch the breathtakingly beautiful spectacle as the tranquil blue sea begins to swallow the orange ball and the crimson rays dancing in the sky slowly dissolve into twilight.
“Your last sunset in India, isn’t it?” she says, tears in her eyes.
He takes her in his arms, and they kiss, slow and prolonged, as if it were there first and last kiss.
And when it is finally over, he looks into her eyes and says, “Nalini, I’m not going. I’ve decided to stay. Join the IAS.”
“Really? Why? What happened…?” Nalini exults in incredulous delight.
Sanjiv does not answer. He looks into Nalini’s eyes, then he tenderly puts his arm around her and together they watch the awesome metamorphosis at sunset.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
mailto:vikramkarve@sify.com
[Short Fiction - An Inspirational Story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
“How was your day?” she asks.
“Terrible,” he says.
“Terrible?”
“Everything is rotten out here! This country is going to the dogs because of this bloody corruption! They must do something about it.”
“They? What they? Who is this ‘they’?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t care, because I am getting out of here once and for all.”
“Sanjiv, come on, how can you be so sure things are better out there? At least here, in our country, we are treated properly.”
“Treated properly? My foot! Only the corrupt and powerful, the rich and wealthy, are having a ball. If you’re honest, life is hell. They treat you like dirt. But one thing is sure. Once I’m an NRI, I’ll be treated better. Look at way they pamper these NRI chaps – the top jobs, the dough, the recognition, the honors – it’s pathetic, the way we put them on a pedestal - they enjoy best of both worlds and we even bestow them with all sorts of accolades and awards!”
“What rubbish! They must have done something for the country.”
“Oh, yeah! Sure. But which country? All they’ve done is make money for the company they work for over there, earned glory for themselves. But what have they done for India ?”
“Come on, don’t be so bitter. Just forget all this Sanjiv and think positively; you’ve got a chance to stay here and do something, haven’t you? Sanjiv. Don’t go. Please!”
“Don’t go? Please? Come on, Nalini. What’s wrong with you? Why the hell should I stay here?”
“The IAS is the best thing in the world.”
“Oh yeah! Tell me. What’s so great about rotting away in some back of the beyond town like Jhumri Talaiya, or Beed, or Marwar Mundwa, which you only hear about on Vividh Bharati?”
“Come off it, it’s not all that bad.”
“And the bloody groveling and kowtowing the powers that be all your life?”
“The pay, the perks…”
“Pay, Perks? What are you talking about? I’ve told you about the mind-boggling amount I’m going to get out there, haven’t I?
“So it’s Seattle, not Mussoorie?”
“Yes. It’s final. I’ve nothing left here now.”
“Nothing?” tears start to well up in her eyes.
He puts his arms around her and says, “Please Nalini… don’t make it difficult for me.”
“I’m thirsty. Come, let’s have some chilled milk.”
Hand in hand, the man and the woman cross Marine Drive , and amble to the Jai Jawan stall, and order some chilled milk.
Suddenly a cop arrives, bangs his lathi on the counter and shouts rudely at the old man inside the stall, “Abe Saale, Hafta kyon nahi deta?”
“I am a war veteran disabled soldier,” the jawan says proudly stamping his crutch on the ground in anger.
“So what? Just pay up, you one-legged cripple, or I’ll shove that crutch up your…”
Something suddenly snaps inside Sanjiv and he is filled with rage. He suddenly turns, catches the cop’s collar, shoves him roughly, and shouts, “Just get out…”
The stunned cop slowly recovers, talks on his cell phone, and within seconds a police jeep appears and they are all whisked away to the police station.
“Saale,” the inspector says menacingly, “assaulting a policeman on duty…”
“Sir,” a constable interrupts, “this was in his pocket.” He hands a paper to the inspector.
The inspector reads it, looks at Sanjiv, and goes inside to his superior’s office. They discuss and reach a conclusion: No point taking punga with IAS types – even if he is just going to be a probationer.
“You are going to be IAS. You shouldn’t do these things,” the inspector says politely to Sanjiv, undergoing a total metamorphosis in his demeanor and sends his jeep to drop them back at the Jai Jawan Stall on Marine Drive .
“Thank you, saab. We need young people like you to sort things out,” the soldier at the Jai Jawan says gratefully, as they sip the deliciously soothing chilled milk.
“Hey, let’s watch sunset,” Nalini says.
They cross Marine Drive , run to the parapet and watch the breathtakingly beautiful spectacle as the tranquil blue sea begins to swallow the orange ball and the crimson rays dancing in the sky slowly dissolve into twilight.
“Your last sunset in India, isn’t it?” she says, tears in her eyes.
He takes her in his arms, and they kiss, slow and prolonged, as if it were there first and last kiss.
And when it is finally over, he looks into her eyes and says, “Nalini, I’m not going. I’ve decided to stay. Join the IAS.”
“Really? Why? What happened…?” Nalini exults in incredulous delight.
Sanjiv does not answer. He looks into Nalini’s eyes, then he tenderly puts his arm around her and together they watch the awesome metamorphosis at sunset.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
mailto:vikramkarve@sify.com
Monday, July 27, 2009
DEFINING MOMENT
Métier
[Short Fiction – A Romance]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
What is the best way to kill a lazy hot afternoon in South Mumbai?
You can go window-shopping on Colaba Causeway; enjoy a movie at Eros or Regal; loaf aimlessly around Churchgate, Fountain, Gateway of India or on the Marine Drive; leisurely sip chilled beer at Gaylord, Leopold, Sundance or Mondegar; browse at the Oxford Book Store or in the Mumbai University Library under the Rajabai clock-tower; watch cricket sitting under the shade of a tree at the Oval; visit the Museum; or, if you are an art lover, admire the works of budding artists on display in the numerous art galleries in the Kalaghoda art district.
That’s what I decide to do.
At 11 o’clock in the morning I stand at the entrance of the JehangirArtGallery at Kalaghoda in Mumbai. I walk into the exhibition hall to my right. The art gallery has just opened and I am the first visitor.
Standing all alone in placid relaxing hall, in peaceful silence, surrounded by paintings adorning the pristine white walls, I experience a feeling of soothing tranquillity – a serene relaxing calm – and for the first time after many hectic, harried and stressed days, I experience an inner peace and comforting silence within me and, at that moment, I know what it feels like to be in harmony with oneself.
I leisurely look around at the paintings. I see a familiar face in a portrait. An uncanny resemblance to someone I know.
The face on the canvas stares back at me. Comprehension strikes like a thunderbolt. It’s me! Yes – it’s me! No doubt about it! Someone has painted my portrait, my own face.
I look at myself. I like what I see. It is a striking painting, crafted to the point of the most eloquent perfection.
I am amazed at the painter’s precise attention to detail – my flowing luxuriant black hair, delicate nose, large expressive eyes, even my beauty spot, the tiny mole on my left cheek; the painter has got everything right.
Never before have I looked so beautiful; even in a photograph. My face looks so eye-catching that I can’t help admiring myself – like Narcissus.
I look at the title of the painting on a brass tally below – My Lovely Muse. Muse?
I’ve never modelled for anyone in my life. Who can it be?
Suddenly I notice a wizened old man staring at me. He looks at the painting and then at me, and gives me a knowing smile.
“Excuse me, Sir,” I ask him, “do you know the artist who painted this?”
“I’m the painter,” a gruff voice says behind me. I turn around and look at the man. With his flowing beard, unkempt hair and dishevelled appearance he looks like a scruffy scarecrow. At first sight, totally unrecognizable.
But the yearning look of frank admiration in his eyes gives him away. No one else has ever looked at me in that way and I know he is still desperately in love with me.
“Do I see the naughty boy I once knew hiding behind that horrible shaggy beard?” I say to him.
“Do I see the bubbly and vivacious girl I once knew hiding inside the beautiful woman standing in front of me?” he responds.
“You look terrible,” I say.
“You look lovely – like a flower in full bloom,” he says.
I feel good. Aditya may be in love with me, but there is no pretence about him. I know the compliment is genuine.
“Come, Anu,” he says taking my arm, “let me show you my work.” And as we walk around he explains the themes, nuances and finer points of each painting.
Here I feel a sense of timelessness – a state of supreme bliss. I wish this were my world; sublime, harmonious, creative. I wish I’d stayed on; not burnt my bridges. Or have I?
“Let’s eat, I’m hungry,” Aditya interrupts my train of thoughts.
“Khyber?” I ask.
“No. I can’t afford it,” he says.
“I can,” I tease.
“The treat’s on me,” he asserts, pulls me gently, and says, “Let’s go next door to Samovar and have the stuffed parathas you loved once upon a time.”
“I still do,” I say, and soon we sit in Café Samovar enjoying a lazy unhurried lunch relishing delicious stuffed parathas.
“What time do you have to go?”
“I’ll collect the visa from Churchgate at four and then catch the flight at night.”
“Churchgate? I thought the visa office was at Breach Candy!”
“That’s the American visa. It’s already done. The British visa office is at Churchgate.”
“Wow! You are going to England too?”
“Of course. US, UK, Europe, Singapore. Globetrotting. The next few months are going to be really hectic. It’s a huge software development project.”
“Lucky you! It must be so exciting. You must love it!”
“I hate it!”
“What?”
“It’s unimaginable agony. Sitting in front of a computer for hours and hours doing something I don’t like.”
“You don’t like it? Then why do you do it?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Aditya, do you know what the tragedy of my life is?”
“What?”
“My biggest misfortune is that I am good at things I don’t like.”
“Come on, be serious! Don’t tell me all that.”
“I hated Maths, but was so good at it that I landed up in IIT doing Engineering, and that too Computers.”
“But you’re damn good. A genius at computers. That’s why they are sending abroad aren’t they? The youngest and brightest project manager! You told me that.”
“Being good at work is different from liking it. You know, the thing I despise the most – sitting like a Zombie in front of the monitor for hours, discussing tedious technical mumbo jumbo with nerds I find insufferable. It’s painful, but then I am the best software expert in the company, the IT whiz-kid!”
“Yes. I know. It’s true. It is indeed a great tragedy to be so good at something you hate doing. That’s why I quit practice and am doing my first love – painting. I don’t know how good I am but I certainly love doing it.”
“But you are so good. You must be minting money, isn’t it?”
“Not at all. I told you I couldn’t afford Khyber. Just about make ends meet.”
“I thought artists make a lot of money. The art market is booming.”
“Only the established ones. Not struggling types like me!.”
“Come on, Aditya. Don’t joke. Tell me, how can you afford to have your exhibition here in Jehangir?”
“There’s a patron. An old lady. She encourages budding artists like me. She’s given me a place for my studio.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes. There are still a few such people left in this world. I present her a painting once in a while,” he pauses and says, “But today I’m going to be lucky. Looks like My Lovely Muse is going to fetch me a good price. Thanks to you!”
“Thanks to me?”
“You were the model for this painting. My inspiration. My Muse!”
“I never modeled for you!”
“You don’t have to. You image is so exquisitely etched in my mind’s eye that I can even paint you in the nude.”
“Stop it!” I say angrily, but inside me I blush and feel a kind of stirring sensation.
“Tell me about yourself, Anu,” Aditya says, changing the subject.
“I told you. About my painfullyboring work. And you won’t understand much about software. Spare me the agony. I just don’t want to talk about it.”
“You still paint?”
“No. I stopped long ago. At IIT.”
“Why?”
“No time. Too much study, I guess. And the techie crowd.”
“You should start again. You’re good. You’ve got a natural talent.”
“It’s too late. That part of me is dead. Now, it’s work and meeting deadlines. An intellectual sweatshop.”
“Come on Anu, cheer up. Tell me about your love life?”
“The company is taking care of that too! They are trying to get me hooked to some high flier Project Manager in my team.”
“Don’t tell me? What’s his name?”
“Anand.”
“Wow! Anu and Anand! Made for each other!”
“You know they set us up as per their convenience, facilitate working together all the time, encourage office romance, and even give us a dating allowance.”
“Dating allowance? Office romance! It’s crazy! Just imagine - Paying people money to fall in love!”
“Helps reduce attrition, they say; makes people stay on in the company. Nerds understand each other better; can cope better together, at work and at home. That’s what they say. Smart fellows, those guys in HR - they try and team us up as it suits them. They are dangling carrots too – like this trip abroad. They’ve even promised us a posting together to Singapore on a two year contract, if things work out.”
“It’s great!”
“Great? Are you crazy? Just imagine living full-time with a boring number crunching nerd all my life, doing nothing but being buried in software, day in and day out. I shiver at the very thought.”
“Tell me, who would you like to marry?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about marrying me?”
“Come on, be serious.”
“I’m serious. We could paint together, do all the creative stuff you always wanted to do. Live a good life.”
“Let’s go,” I say changing the topic.
“Anu. Remember. If you love flowers, become a gardener. Don’t curb your creativity. A lifetime of having to curb the expression of original thought often culminates in one losing one’s ability to express.”
“I’ve got to go, Aditya. It’s almost four. The visa should be ready by now.”
“Wait. Let me give you a parting gift to remember me by.”
Aditya calls the curator and tells him to gift wrap and pack the painting titled ‘My Lovely Muse’.
“Sir, we’ll get a good price for it. I’ve already got an offer,” the curator says.
“It’s not for sale,” Aditya says, “It’s a gift from an Artist to his Muse.”
I am overcome by emotion at his loving gesture. I look at Aditya.
It is clearly evident that Aditya is really deeply in love with me. And me?
Am I in love with him? Tears well up in my eyes. My throat chokes. My heart aches.
I find myself imprisoned in the chasm between the two different worlds – Aditya’s and mine.
But soon the rational side of me takes charge, and as we part, Aditya says, “Bye, Anu. Remember. If you can do something well, enjoy doing it and feel proud of doing it, then that’s your perfect métier. There’s no point living a lie. You’ve got to find yourself.”
I hold out my hand to him.
He presses my hand fondly and says, “Start painting. You must always do what you love to do. That’s the highest value use of time – time spent on doing what you want to do.”
“And what is the lowest value of time?” I ask.
“Doing what you don’t like just because others want you to do it.”
“Or maybe for money!”
“Money?” he asks, and then he looks lovingly into my eyes and says, “Anu, don’t destroy your talent by not using it.”
I get into a taxi and drive away form his world, my dream-world; into the material world of harsh reality.
In the evening, I sit by the sea, at the southern tip of Marine Drive and watch the glorious spectacle of sunset. As I watch the orange sun being gobbled up the calm blue sea, and crimson petals form in the sky, my mobile phone rings.
It is Anand, my Project Manager, with whom my romance is being contrived, from the airport. “Hey, Anuradha. The flight is at 10, check in begins at 8; make sure you are there on time. Terminal 2A.”
“I’m not coming,” I say.
“What do you mean you’re not coming?” Anand shouts from the other end.
“I mean I’m not coming,” I say calmly.
“Why? What’s wrong? Someone made you a better offer?”
“It’s nothing like that. I’ve discovered my métier. I’m going back to the world where I really belong,” I say.
“Where are you? How can you ditch us like this at the last moment?” he pleads.
I know if this is the defining moment of my life. It’s now or never. I have to burn my bridges now. “I have made my decision, Anand. I am not coming back. I have to discover my true self, do what I want, be happy from the inside. I’m sorry, Anand. I’m sure you’ll find someone else, your soul-mate, at work and for yourself. Best of luck!”
I switch off my cell-phone. I look at it. The last of the manacles! Deliberately, I throw the mobile phone into the Arabian Sea.
I begin walking towards the place where I know I’ll find Aditya.
And then I will return to the world where I really belong to realize my true metier and be my own Muse!
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
[Short Fiction – A Romance]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
What is the best way to kill a lazy hot afternoon in South Mumbai?
You can go window-shopping on Colaba Causeway; enjoy a movie at Eros or Regal; loaf aimlessly around Churchgate, Fountain, Gateway of India or on the Marine Drive; leisurely sip chilled beer at Gaylord, Leopold, Sundance or Mondegar; browse at the Oxford Book Store or in the Mumbai University Library under the Rajabai clock-tower; watch cricket sitting under the shade of a tree at the Oval; visit the Museum; or, if you are an art lover, admire the works of budding artists on display in the numerous art galleries in the Kalaghoda art district.
That’s what I decide to do.
At 11 o’clock in the morning I stand at the entrance of the JehangirArtGallery at Kalaghoda in Mumbai. I walk into the exhibition hall to my right. The art gallery has just opened and I am the first visitor.
Standing all alone in placid relaxing hall, in peaceful silence, surrounded by paintings adorning the pristine white walls, I experience a feeling of soothing tranquillity – a serene relaxing calm – and for the first time after many hectic, harried and stressed days, I experience an inner peace and comforting silence within me and, at that moment, I know what it feels like to be in harmony with oneself.
I leisurely look around at the paintings. I see a familiar face in a portrait. An uncanny resemblance to someone I know.
The face on the canvas stares back at me. Comprehension strikes like a thunderbolt. It’s me! Yes – it’s me! No doubt about it! Someone has painted my portrait, my own face.
I look at myself. I like what I see. It is a striking painting, crafted to the point of the most eloquent perfection.
I am amazed at the painter’s precise attention to detail – my flowing luxuriant black hair, delicate nose, large expressive eyes, even my beauty spot, the tiny mole on my left cheek; the painter has got everything right.
Never before have I looked so beautiful; even in a photograph. My face looks so eye-catching that I can’t help admiring myself – like Narcissus.
I look at the title of the painting on a brass tally below – My Lovely Muse. Muse?
I’ve never modelled for anyone in my life. Who can it be?
Suddenly I notice a wizened old man staring at me. He looks at the painting and then at me, and gives me a knowing smile.
“Excuse me, Sir,” I ask him, “do you know the artist who painted this?”
“I’m the painter,” a gruff voice says behind me. I turn around and look at the man. With his flowing beard, unkempt hair and dishevelled appearance he looks like a scruffy scarecrow. At first sight, totally unrecognizable.
But the yearning look of frank admiration in his eyes gives him away. No one else has ever looked at me in that way and I know he is still desperately in love with me.
“Do I see the naughty boy I once knew hiding behind that horrible shaggy beard?” I say to him.
“Do I see the bubbly and vivacious girl I once knew hiding inside the beautiful woman standing in front of me?” he responds.
“You look terrible,” I say.
“You look lovely – like a flower in full bloom,” he says.
I feel good. Aditya may be in love with me, but there is no pretence about him. I know the compliment is genuine.
“Come, Anu,” he says taking my arm, “let me show you my work.” And as we walk around he explains the themes, nuances and finer points of each painting.
Here I feel a sense of timelessness – a state of supreme bliss. I wish this were my world; sublime, harmonious, creative. I wish I’d stayed on; not burnt my bridges. Or have I?
“Let’s eat, I’m hungry,” Aditya interrupts my train of thoughts.
“Khyber?” I ask.
“No. I can’t afford it,” he says.
“I can,” I tease.
“The treat’s on me,” he asserts, pulls me gently, and says, “Let’s go next door to Samovar and have the stuffed parathas you loved once upon a time.”
“I still do,” I say, and soon we sit in Café Samovar enjoying a lazy unhurried lunch relishing delicious stuffed parathas.
“What time do you have to go?”
“I’ll collect the visa from Churchgate at four and then catch the flight at night.”
“Churchgate? I thought the visa office was at Breach Candy!”
“That’s the American visa. It’s already done. The British visa office is at Churchgate.”
“Wow! You are going to England too?”
“Of course. US, UK, Europe, Singapore. Globetrotting. The next few months are going to be really hectic. It’s a huge software development project.”
“Lucky you! It must be so exciting. You must love it!”
“I hate it!”
“What?”
“It’s unimaginable agony. Sitting in front of a computer for hours and hours doing something I don’t like.”
“You don’t like it? Then why do you do it?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Aditya, do you know what the tragedy of my life is?”
“What?”
“My biggest misfortune is that I am good at things I don’t like.”
“Come on, be serious! Don’t tell me all that.”
“I hated Maths, but was so good at it that I landed up in IIT doing Engineering, and that too Computers.”
“But you’re damn good. A genius at computers. That’s why they are sending abroad aren’t they? The youngest and brightest project manager! You told me that.”
“Being good at work is different from liking it. You know, the thing I despise the most – sitting like a Zombie in front of the monitor for hours, discussing tedious technical mumbo jumbo with nerds I find insufferable. It’s painful, but then I am the best software expert in the company, the IT whiz-kid!”
“Yes. I know. It’s true. It is indeed a great tragedy to be so good at something you hate doing. That’s why I quit practice and am doing my first love – painting. I don’t know how good I am but I certainly love doing it.”
“But you are so good. You must be minting money, isn’t it?”
“Not at all. I told you I couldn’t afford Khyber. Just about make ends meet.”
“I thought artists make a lot of money. The art market is booming.”
“Only the established ones. Not struggling types like me!.”
“Come on, Aditya. Don’t joke. Tell me, how can you afford to have your exhibition here in Jehangir?”
“There’s a patron. An old lady. She encourages budding artists like me. She’s given me a place for my studio.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes. There are still a few such people left in this world. I present her a painting once in a while,” he pauses and says, “But today I’m going to be lucky. Looks like My Lovely Muse is going to fetch me a good price. Thanks to you!”
“Thanks to me?”
“You were the model for this painting. My inspiration. My Muse!”
“I never modeled for you!”
“You don’t have to. You image is so exquisitely etched in my mind’s eye that I can even paint you in the nude.”
“Stop it!” I say angrily, but inside me I blush and feel a kind of stirring sensation.
“Tell me about yourself, Anu,” Aditya says, changing the subject.
“I told you. About my painfullyboring work. And you won’t understand much about software. Spare me the agony. I just don’t want to talk about it.”
“You still paint?”
“No. I stopped long ago. At IIT.”
“Why?”
“No time. Too much study, I guess. And the techie crowd.”
“You should start again. You’re good. You’ve got a natural talent.”
“It’s too late. That part of me is dead. Now, it’s work and meeting deadlines. An intellectual sweatshop.”
“Come on Anu, cheer up. Tell me about your love life?”
“The company is taking care of that too! They are trying to get me hooked to some high flier Project Manager in my team.”
“Don’t tell me? What’s his name?”
“Anand.”
“Wow! Anu and Anand! Made for each other!”
“You know they set us up as per their convenience, facilitate working together all the time, encourage office romance, and even give us a dating allowance.”
“Dating allowance? Office romance! It’s crazy! Just imagine - Paying people money to fall in love!”
“Helps reduce attrition, they say; makes people stay on in the company. Nerds understand each other better; can cope better together, at work and at home. That’s what they say. Smart fellows, those guys in HR - they try and team us up as it suits them. They are dangling carrots too – like this trip abroad. They’ve even promised us a posting together to Singapore on a two year contract, if things work out.”
“It’s great!”
“Great? Are you crazy? Just imagine living full-time with a boring number crunching nerd all my life, doing nothing but being buried in software, day in and day out. I shiver at the very thought.”
“Tell me, who would you like to marry?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about marrying me?”
“Come on, be serious.”
“I’m serious. We could paint together, do all the creative stuff you always wanted to do. Live a good life.”
“Let’s go,” I say changing the topic.
“Anu. Remember. If you love flowers, become a gardener. Don’t curb your creativity. A lifetime of having to curb the expression of original thought often culminates in one losing one’s ability to express.”
“I’ve got to go, Aditya. It’s almost four. The visa should be ready by now.”
“Wait. Let me give you a parting gift to remember me by.”
Aditya calls the curator and tells him to gift wrap and pack the painting titled ‘My Lovely Muse’.
“Sir, we’ll get a good price for it. I’ve already got an offer,” the curator says.
“It’s not for sale,” Aditya says, “It’s a gift from an Artist to his Muse.”
I am overcome by emotion at his loving gesture. I look at Aditya.
It is clearly evident that Aditya is really deeply in love with me. And me?
Am I in love with him? Tears well up in my eyes. My throat chokes. My heart aches.
I find myself imprisoned in the chasm between the two different worlds – Aditya’s and mine.
But soon the rational side of me takes charge, and as we part, Aditya says, “Bye, Anu. Remember. If you can do something well, enjoy doing it and feel proud of doing it, then that’s your perfect métier. There’s no point living a lie. You’ve got to find yourself.”
I hold out my hand to him.
He presses my hand fondly and says, “Start painting. You must always do what you love to do. That’s the highest value use of time – time spent on doing what you want to do.”
“And what is the lowest value of time?” I ask.
“Doing what you don’t like just because others want you to do it.”
“Or maybe for money!”
“Money?” he asks, and then he looks lovingly into my eyes and says, “Anu, don’t destroy your talent by not using it.”
I get into a taxi and drive away form his world, my dream-world; into the material world of harsh reality.
In the evening, I sit by the sea, at the southern tip of Marine Drive and watch the glorious spectacle of sunset. As I watch the orange sun being gobbled up the calm blue sea, and crimson petals form in the sky, my mobile phone rings.
It is Anand, my Project Manager, with whom my romance is being contrived, from the airport. “Hey, Anuradha. The flight is at 10, check in begins at 8; make sure you are there on time. Terminal 2A.”
“I’m not coming,” I say.
“What do you mean you’re not coming?” Anand shouts from the other end.
“I mean I’m not coming,” I say calmly.
“Why? What’s wrong? Someone made you a better offer?”
“It’s nothing like that. I’ve discovered my métier. I’m going back to the world where I really belong,” I say.
“Where are you? How can you ditch us like this at the last moment?” he pleads.
I know if this is the defining moment of my life. It’s now or never. I have to burn my bridges now. “I have made my decision, Anand. I am not coming back. I have to discover my true self, do what I want, be happy from the inside. I’m sorry, Anand. I’m sure you’ll find someone else, your soul-mate, at work and for yourself. Best of luck!”
I switch off my cell-phone. I look at it. The last of the manacles! Deliberately, I throw the mobile phone into the Arabian Sea.
I begin walking towards the place where I know I’ll find Aditya.
And then I will return to the world where I really belong to realize my true metier and be my own Muse!
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Art of Living by Sherry Karve
My Friend, Philosopher and Guide Sherry Karve
SHERRY & THE ART OF LIVING
Food for Thought
By
VIKRAM KARVE
If you want to learn the Art of Living just observe the way animals live and react to situations.
Please see her picture above, fetching the morning newspaper from the compound gate for me.
As you can see Sherry is Doberman X – the “X” factor is probably a Rampur Hound or a Caravan Mudhol Hound.
Sherry behaves spontaneously, joyfully, based on her inner instinct.
She plays, she barks, she chases, she eats and she sleeps in accordance with her natural instinct.
Sherry doesn’t need to go to gym [for physical fitness] or a therapist [for mental fitness].
Sherry is not a Goal Oriented person. She is an Inner Resource Oriented person – in short, a Source Oriented person.
Conventional wisdom teaches us to become goal-oriented.
From childhood there are goals set for us to achieve, and when we achieve one goal there is always another goal waiting for us – it is an endless pursuit, a chase which never culminates.
We are taught that a goal oriented person is a person who always succeeds in life. But is there a final destination of success? Do you ever reach your final goal?
Goals are always outside you, goals are in the future, far away from you. Your goals are not in your control. If you design your lifestyle in such a way that your happiness depends on things outside you, things in the future and not in your control, then you may find happiness elusive and you may never be truly content and happy.
If you are too result-oriented – you’ll always be chasing horizons.
Remember, if you run after something it runs away from you, and, conversely, if you run away from something it runs after you – so stop running and life a more Source-Oriented life.
Look inwards, discover and harness your inner resources, act instinctively and you will realize your full creative potential.
Like Sherry, you will live spontaneously, unpredictably, act on the spur of the moment and experience the joy of the glorious uncertainties of life rather than get frustrated by them.
You will live a more stress free life too.
Have you seen wild animals suffering from stress?
Maybe some domesticated pet animals are stressed-out because we humans put stress on them by imposing our “goals” and demands on the poor hapless pets.
We have become so preoccupied with achieving success that our lives are always heading towards something in the future.
In the process, we lose touch with the aliveness and delight of the present.
Sherry does not worry about the future, about achieving future goals, but live in the present.
Sherry does not live in the past either.
She is very forgiving – even if I scold her, which I never need to do, she is back to her cheerful self in a jiffy and doesn’t hold any grudges either.
Anger is a reality.
It happens inside us. Goal Oriented behaviour may result in us suppressing our anger creating stress within us.
Here is a lesson I got one morning from Sherry in Anger Management by Source Oriented living.
Our spacious bungalow, located high up on a hill slope, affords a beautiful panoramic view of the verdant wide green expanse of Girinagar all around.
This morning while we strolled on our lawn sipping rejuvenating cups of piping hot amruttulya tea in the lovely mist and slight drizzle, I noticed Sherry standing alert at the bungalow gate looking intently, focussing on something outside, and gradually getting angry, as evident from her focussed eyes, slow growls, heightened breathing, stiff upright tail and vivid line of hair standing taut on the centre of her neck and back, hackles raised.
I walked towards the gate and looked outside – the object of her attention was a huge white cat that was walking nonchalantly towards the gate, almost defiantly.
The moment the cat came close, Sherry suddenly lost her temper, started barking, violently jumping, infuriated with anger, desperately pleading with me to open the gate.
The cat stopped dead in her tracks and crouched, and I knew that if I let Sherry out, she would desperately, frenziedly chase the cat down the hill, and if she caught the cat, there would ensue a violent fight to the finish, and most likely it would be the cat who would be finished.
So I just walked away and Sherry realized that I wasn’t going to open the gate, went so wild with rage, that she ran amok, running wildly all round the spacious compound, taking high speed runs, jumping over hedges, barking, chasing, leaping at birds, running fast at top speed round and round the bungalow, till she was totally exhausted, after which she went to her water bowl, lapped up cold soothing water, and lay down on her rug in a cosy manner, calm, tranquil, totally relaxed, her anger totally dissipated and dissolved into peaceful serenity.
That’s what one must do when angry, isn’t it? Let me tell you it works - the moment you sense anger rising within you start exercising, run, jog, take a brisk walk, dance, move your limbs, sway, do something.
Spontaneously do some physical activity till your anger dissipates and exhausts itself into a state of calm.
So, Dear Reader, the next time you start getting angry, do what Sherry does – just start running till your anger disappears and you collapse into a cosy state of peaceful calm and tranquillity.
There is a lot to learn about the “Art of Living” from our animal friends, isn’t it?
So just behave naturally, spontaneously, doing you’re your inner voice and instinct tells you, observe fauna and flora around you, and most importantly, get a pet dog and make him or her your friend, philosopher and guide.
I’ll end with a quote on dogs from Sigmund Freud:
Dogs love their friends and bite their enemies, quite unlike people, who are incapable of pure love and always have to mix love and hate in their object-relations. -Sigmund Freud
So here is a Bow Wow – and may you live a more doglike life!
VIKRAM KARVE
WHY DID YOU DUMP ME
WHY DID YOU DUMP ME ?
[Flash Fiction – A Short Story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The moment I saw the e-mail I did two things.
First I took a print-out of the mail, kept it in my purse and deleted the mail from my mailbox.
Then I called the airlines and booked my ticket on the next flight to India.
The e-mail contained a name and an address. That’s all – just a name and an address.
I cannot begin to describe the emotion I felt as I looked at the name.
I had so many questions to ask him – Unanswered questions that were haunting me for so many years.
It all began when my fiancé Anil suddenly broke off our engagement without any explanation.
“Why?” I asked him totally shocked.
“I can’t tell you,” he said.
“You can’t dump me just like this. I’ve done nothing wrong,” I pleaded heartbroken.
“I’m sorry, Rita. I can’t marry you,” he said trying to look away from my eyes.
“What do you mean you can’t marry me?” I shouted shaking him.
He didn’t say anything, just remained silent, averting his eyes.
“Is it someone else? What do you mean you can’t marry me? Actually you don’t want to marry me, isn’t it?”
“Okay, you can think what you like. I don’t want to marry you.”
“You have to give me an explanation. I am not going to accept being jilted like this.”
“You have to accept it. Don’t delve too much.”
“How dare you say ‘don’t delve too much’, you unscrupulous cheat?” I screamed in anger, taking hold of his collar.
“Cool down,” he said pushing me away. “It’s you who tried to cheat me.”
“I? Cheated you?” I said dumbfounded and furious.
“You shouldn’t have tried to hide things from me,” he accused.
“Hide what?” I asked, getting livid.
“You never told me that you are an adopted child,” he said.
“What nonsense! Don’t talk rubbish. I’m not adopted!” I shouted in anger.
“You are.”
“Who told you?”
“We got some pre-matrimonial enquiries done.”
“Matrimonial Enquiry? You spied on me,” I accused him, “to blackmail me, to humiliate me? With all these lies!”
“Don’t worry. No one else knows. It’s a reliable and discreet investigation agency.”
“It’s not true. I’m not adopted,” I said feeling shattered numb, as if I had been pole-axed.
“Why don’t you ask your parents?” Anil said as he walked away from my life, leaving me heartbroken, desolate and shattered.
I never asked my parents, the only parents I knew. They were the one’s who loved me, gave me everything. I could not ask them; hurt them. I did not have the heart to.
They did not say anything to me but I could see the sadness and a sense of guilt in their eyes, as they withered away having lost the will to live. I felt deeply anguished and helpless.
My parents loved me, meant everything to me, and we carried on our lives as if nothing had happened, and I lovingly cared and looked after them till their very end; but deep down I felt terribly betrayed.
Years passed. I relocated abroad past and immersed myself in my work. I tried to forget but I could never forget.
One day I could bear it no longer.
I decided to find out.
And now I had found out.
The investigation agency had done a good job. Confidential and discreet.
For the first time I knew the name of my actual father – my real father, my biological natural father.
And now I had to meet this man and ask him why he did it, commit that cruel unforgivable act of abandoning me to the world.
I landed at Delhi airport in the very early hours of the morning.
It was cold, the morning chill at once refreshing and invigorating, the driver drove fast and it took me six hours by taxi to reach the magnificent bungalow near Landour in Mussoorie.
I checked the nameplate and briskly walked inside, eager to see my real father for the first time.
There was a small crowd gathered in the porch.
“What’s happening?” I asked a man in the crowd.
“Bada Sahab is no more. He passed away this morning. He was so good to us,” he said with tears in his eyes.
I pushed my way through the crowd.
My father’s lifeless body was lying on a white sheet bedecked with flowers, ready for the last rites.
As I looked at his serene face, tears welled up in my eyes.
Suddenly I lost control of myself and cried inconsolably, “I have become an orphan. An orphan!”
“Me too!” a familiar voice said softly behind me.
I turned around and stared at my ex fiancé Anil.
Anil looked into my eyes in awe.
Slowly comprehension began to dawn on us, Anil and me, and we kept looking into each other’s eyes.
Frozen, we looked at each other in silence; grotesque silence; deafening silence; illuminating silence – an enlightening silence.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
[Flash Fiction – A Short Story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The moment I saw the e-mail I did two things.
First I took a print-out of the mail, kept it in my purse and deleted the mail from my mailbox.
Then I called the airlines and booked my ticket on the next flight to India.
The e-mail contained a name and an address. That’s all – just a name and an address.
I cannot begin to describe the emotion I felt as I looked at the name.
I had so many questions to ask him – Unanswered questions that were haunting me for so many years.
It all began when my fiancé Anil suddenly broke off our engagement without any explanation.
“Why?” I asked him totally shocked.
“I can’t tell you,” he said.
“You can’t dump me just like this. I’ve done nothing wrong,” I pleaded heartbroken.
“I’m sorry, Rita. I can’t marry you,” he said trying to look away from my eyes.
“What do you mean you can’t marry me?” I shouted shaking him.
He didn’t say anything, just remained silent, averting his eyes.
“Is it someone else? What do you mean you can’t marry me? Actually you don’t want to marry me, isn’t it?”
“Okay, you can think what you like. I don’t want to marry you.”
“You have to give me an explanation. I am not going to accept being jilted like this.”
“You have to accept it. Don’t delve too much.”
“How dare you say ‘don’t delve too much’, you unscrupulous cheat?” I screamed in anger, taking hold of his collar.
“Cool down,” he said pushing me away. “It’s you who tried to cheat me.”
“I? Cheated you?” I said dumbfounded and furious.
“You shouldn’t have tried to hide things from me,” he accused.
“Hide what?” I asked, getting livid.
“You never told me that you are an adopted child,” he said.
“What nonsense! Don’t talk rubbish. I’m not adopted!” I shouted in anger.
“You are.”
“Who told you?”
“We got some pre-matrimonial enquiries done.”
“Matrimonial Enquiry? You spied on me,” I accused him, “to blackmail me, to humiliate me? With all these lies!”
“Don’t worry. No one else knows. It’s a reliable and discreet investigation agency.”
“It’s not true. I’m not adopted,” I said feeling shattered numb, as if I had been pole-axed.
“Why don’t you ask your parents?” Anil said as he walked away from my life, leaving me heartbroken, desolate and shattered.
I never asked my parents, the only parents I knew. They were the one’s who loved me, gave me everything. I could not ask them; hurt them. I did not have the heart to.
They did not say anything to me but I could see the sadness and a sense of guilt in their eyes, as they withered away having lost the will to live. I felt deeply anguished and helpless.
My parents loved me, meant everything to me, and we carried on our lives as if nothing had happened, and I lovingly cared and looked after them till their very end; but deep down I felt terribly betrayed.
Years passed. I relocated abroad past and immersed myself in my work. I tried to forget but I could never forget.
One day I could bear it no longer.
I decided to find out.
And now I had found out.
The investigation agency had done a good job. Confidential and discreet.
For the first time I knew the name of my actual father – my real father, my biological natural father.
And now I had to meet this man and ask him why he did it, commit that cruel unforgivable act of abandoning me to the world.
I landed at Delhi airport in the very early hours of the morning.
It was cold, the morning chill at once refreshing and invigorating, the driver drove fast and it took me six hours by taxi to reach the magnificent bungalow near Landour in Mussoorie.
I checked the nameplate and briskly walked inside, eager to see my real father for the first time.
There was a small crowd gathered in the porch.
“What’s happening?” I asked a man in the crowd.
“Bada Sahab is no more. He passed away this morning. He was so good to us,” he said with tears in his eyes.
I pushed my way through the crowd.
My father’s lifeless body was lying on a white sheet bedecked with flowers, ready for the last rites.
As I looked at his serene face, tears welled up in my eyes.
Suddenly I lost control of myself and cried inconsolably, “I have become an orphan. An orphan!”
“Me too!” a familiar voice said softly behind me.
I turned around and stared at my ex fiancé Anil.
Anil looked into my eyes in awe.
Slowly comprehension began to dawn on us, Anil and me, and we kept looking into each other’s eyes.
Frozen, we looked at each other in silence; grotesque silence; deafening silence; illuminating silence – an enlightening silence.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
TIT FOR TAT
Art of Cooking
A Teaching Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
On a freezing cold snowy winter day Mulla Nasrudin was having a chat with some of his friends in the local coffee house.
Mulla Nasrudin said that cold weather did not bother him, and in fact, he could stay, if necessary, all right without any heat.
“We’ll take you up on that, Mulla Nasrudin,” his friends said. “If you stand all night in the village square without warming yourself by any external means each of us will treat you to sumptuous meal. But if you fail to do so, you will treat all of us to dinner.”
“All right, it’s a bet,” Mulla Nasrudin said and that very night Mulla Nasrudin stood shivering all night in the village square till the morning despite the bitter cold.
In the morning he ran triumphantly to his friends and told them he had won the bet and that they should be ready to fulfil their promise of treating him to a sumptuous meal.
“As a matter of fact you lost the bet, Mulla Nasrudin,” said his friends.
“Lost the bet? How is that possible? I stood in the freezing cold all night,” Nasrudin asked perplexed.
“At about midnight, just before we went to sleep, we saw a candle burning in a window about three hundred yards away from where you were standing. That certainly means that you warmed yourself by it,” the friends said.
“That’s ridiculous, “Mulla Nasrudin argued. “How can a candle so far away behind a window warm a person standing outside in the freezing cold more than three hundred yards away?”
All his protestations were to no avail and it was decided that Mulla Nasrudin had lost the bet.
Mulla Nasrudin accepted gracefully the verdict and invited all of them to dinner that night at his home.
All his friends arrived on time, laughing and joking; they had built up a ravenous appetite in eager anticipation of the delicious meal Mulla Nasrudin was going to serve them.
But dinner was not ready.
Mulla Nasrudin told them that it would be ready in a short time and left the room to prepare the meal.
Hours passed and still no dinner was served. Neither did Nasrudin emerge even once from his kitchen.
Finally, getting impatient and very hungry his friends went into the kitchen to see if there was any food cooking at all.
They looked in disbelief at what they saw.
Mulla Nasrudin was standing by a huge cooking pot suspended from the ceiling and there was a small lighted candle under the large cooking pot.
“Be patient my friends,” Mulla Nasrudin assured his friends, “Dinner will be ready soon. You see it is cooking in front of you in this pot.”
“Are you out of your mind, Mulla Nasrudin?” they shouted in exasperation, “How could such a tiny flame boil such a large pot?”
“Your ignorance of such matters amuses me,” Mulla Nasrudin said nonchalantly, “If the flame of a candle behind a window three hundred yards away can warm a person, surely the same flame will boil this pot which is only three inches away.”
Dear Reader, any comments?
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
Art of Cooking
A Teaching Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
On a freezing cold snowy winter day Mulla Nasrudin was having a chat with some of his friends in the local coffee house.
Mulla Nasrudin said that cold weather did not bother him, and in fact, he could stay, if necessary, all right without any heat.
“We’ll take you up on that, Mulla Nasrudin,” his friends said. “If you stand all night in the village square without warming yourself by any external means each of us will treat you to sumptuous meal. But if you fail to do so, you will treat all of us to dinner.”
“All right, it’s a bet,” Mulla Nasrudin said and that very night Mulla Nasrudin stood shivering all night in the village square till the morning despite the bitter cold.
In the morning he ran triumphantly to his friends and told them he had won the bet and that they should be ready to fulfil their promise of treating him to a sumptuous meal.
“As a matter of fact you lost the bet, Mulla Nasrudin,” said his friends.
“Lost the bet? How is that possible? I stood in the freezing cold all night,” Nasrudin asked perplexed.
“At about midnight, just before we went to sleep, we saw a candle burning in a window about three hundred yards away from where you were standing. That certainly means that you warmed yourself by it,” the friends said.
“That’s ridiculous, “Mulla Nasrudin argued. “How can a candle so far away behind a window warm a person standing outside in the freezing cold more than three hundred yards away?”
All his protestations were to no avail and it was decided that Mulla Nasrudin had lost the bet.
Mulla Nasrudin accepted gracefully the verdict and invited all of them to dinner that night at his home.
All his friends arrived on time, laughing and joking; they had built up a ravenous appetite in eager anticipation of the delicious meal Mulla Nasrudin was going to serve them.
But dinner was not ready.
Mulla Nasrudin told them that it would be ready in a short time and left the room to prepare the meal.
Hours passed and still no dinner was served. Neither did Nasrudin emerge even once from his kitchen.
Finally, getting impatient and very hungry his friends went into the kitchen to see if there was any food cooking at all.
They looked in disbelief at what they saw.
Mulla Nasrudin was standing by a huge cooking pot suspended from the ceiling and there was a small lighted candle under the large cooking pot.
“Be patient my friends,” Mulla Nasrudin assured his friends, “Dinner will be ready soon. You see it is cooking in front of you in this pot.”
“Are you out of your mind, Mulla Nasrudin?” they shouted in exasperation, “How could such a tiny flame boil such a large pot?”
“Your ignorance of such matters amuses me,” Mulla Nasrudin said nonchalantly, “If the flame of a candle behind a window three hundred yards away can warm a person, surely the same flame will boil this pot which is only three inches away.”
Dear Reader, any comments?
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Me and My Ex
Dating Mating Hating Resuscitating
Short Fiction – A Love Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The much delayed monsoon has finally arrived in Pune. It’s been raining incessantly all morning.
Ideally, at 10 o’clock in the morning on a working day, I should have been safely ensconced in my office, but today I sit in the driving seat of my car, slowly negotiating my way in the torrential rain, for I have an important appointment to keep.
Suddenly I see Avinash, half drenched, shivering under the bus-stop at Aundh, trying to protect himself from the pouring rain.
He sees me too. Our eyes meet. I don’t know who is more surprised at this unexpected encounter – he or me.
At first instinct, I just feel like ignoring him and driving away.
But then my humanitarian side takes over, so I stop the car near him, lean across, open the door and beckon him to get inside.
He seems hesitant, “Thanks, but I’ll take an auto – I am going to Deccan…”
“Come on Avinash, get in fast or you’ll get wet – you won’t get a rickshaw in this rain – I too am going towards Deccan Gymkhana – I’ll drop you on the way.”
He gets in and for a while we drive in silence.
“It’s been five years,” he says.
“Yes,” I say, “Quite a surprise, seeing you here in Pune…”
“Yes. I just came in from Mumbai by the Volvo bus, got down at Parihar Chowk… and you…what are you doing in Pune?”
“I relocated here six months ago…you still in the States?”
“Yes. But maybe I’ll come back…”
“Recession…?”
“Not really…”
“So you’ve come to look for a job in Pune…?”
“It’s actually something else…a family matter…”
“Family matter…? In Pune…?”
“My wife is from Pune…”
“Wife…? You remarried…?
“Yes…two years ago…”
“And I didn’t even know…!”
“We decided…didn’t we…to move on…go off on our different ways…not look back…”
“Yes…we lost track of each other completely…”
“That was good…isn’t it…for both of us…”
“Yes…”
“And you…? You married again…?”
“Yes…soon after you left for the States after our divorce…”
“On the rebound…?”
“Maybe…” I laugh.
Avinash has not changed…the way he says these devastatingly rude things in such a naïve innocent way.
We are nearing the Pune University circle so I ask, “Where is your wife’s house...? I’ll take the road accordingly…”
“It’s okay…just drop me wherever you can…”
“Come on…tell me…see how much it is raining…you want me to take Senapati Bapat Road…or drive straight ahead…to Fergusson College Road…or Jangli Maharaj Road…?”
“It’s okay…you go wherever you want to go in Deccan…I’ll get off there…”
“Oh…so you don’t want to show me your wife’s house…” I say, tongue in cheek.
“No…No…it’s not that…I am going somewhere else…to the Family Court…”
“To the Family Court…? I ask, taken aback.
“Yes,” he says, “it’s beyond Deccan, past Lakdi Pul…near Alaka…”
“I know where the family court is…” I say, “I hope you are not…”
“Yes…first it was the Family Court in Mumbai with you…and now…” he stops, as tears well up in his eyes.
“I too am going to the Family Court…” I say, sensing a lump in my throat.
“What…?” he looks at me, startled.
“I am divorcing my husband…today is the final hearing…hopefully…”
I slow down, stop the car near the kerb past E-Square. I wipe my eyes with tissue and hold the tissue box towards Avinash. He too wipes his eyes.
“Maybe we should have stayed together, tried to make our marriage work,” I say.
“Yes…it all happened so fast …maybe we were too hasty, too impatient, too headstrong…”
“Yes…we could have tried to make it work…”
“I think we sought the easy way out…we were too young…unrealistic…immature…impetuous…volatile…”
“Yes… ours was a tempestuous stormy relationship…a terrible marriage…but there is one thing…”
“What…?”
“With you I could be myself…no mask, no pretence, no forced geniality…”
“Me too…with you I could truly be myself…no contrived feelings, no holding back…I could never be like that with anyone else…with her too…the way could naturally be with you…you know I think we were made for each other…”
“Maybe we should give it a try…one more time…make things work…”
“You’re serious…?” he asks with a curious look in his eyes.
“Yes, Avinash. Let’s empty our cups and start afresh. Like you said, I too think we are made for each other.”
“Okay, but there is one thing…”
“What…?”
“Is it allowed to marry the same person twice…?
“I think so...I’ll ask my divorce lawyer…she will know…”
“Yes…I’ll confirm at the Family Court too…”
“One more thing…”
“Now what…?”
“This time…No Expectations, No Disappointments, Happy Marriage…”
“Yes,” I say lovingly putting my hand on his: “No Expectations…No Disappointments…Happy Marriage…”
Suddenly I notice that it has stopped raining and the sun is peeping through the clouds.
I feel good. I start the car and we drive on towards the Family Court…to erase the second chapter of our marital lives forever and to begin writing our first inchoate chapter afresh.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
vikramkarve@sify.com
Short Fiction – A Love Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The much delayed monsoon has finally arrived in Pune. It’s been raining incessantly all morning.
Ideally, at 10 o’clock in the morning on a working day, I should have been safely ensconced in my office, but today I sit in the driving seat of my car, slowly negotiating my way in the torrential rain, for I have an important appointment to keep.
Suddenly I see Avinash, half drenched, shivering under the bus-stop at Aundh, trying to protect himself from the pouring rain.
He sees me too. Our eyes meet. I don’t know who is more surprised at this unexpected encounter – he or me.
At first instinct, I just feel like ignoring him and driving away.
But then my humanitarian side takes over, so I stop the car near him, lean across, open the door and beckon him to get inside.
He seems hesitant, “Thanks, but I’ll take an auto – I am going to Deccan…”
“Come on Avinash, get in fast or you’ll get wet – you won’t get a rickshaw in this rain – I too am going towards Deccan Gymkhana – I’ll drop you on the way.”
He gets in and for a while we drive in silence.
“It’s been five years,” he says.
“Yes,” I say, “Quite a surprise, seeing you here in Pune…”
“Yes. I just came in from Mumbai by the Volvo bus, got down at Parihar Chowk… and you…what are you doing in Pune?”
“I relocated here six months ago…you still in the States?”
“Yes. But maybe I’ll come back…”
“Recession…?”
“Not really…”
“So you’ve come to look for a job in Pune…?”
“It’s actually something else…a family matter…”
“Family matter…? In Pune…?”
“My wife is from Pune…”
“Wife…? You remarried…?
“Yes…two years ago…”
“And I didn’t even know…!”
“We decided…didn’t we…to move on…go off on our different ways…not look back…”
“Yes…we lost track of each other completely…”
“That was good…isn’t it…for both of us…”
“Yes…”
“And you…? You married again…?”
“Yes…soon after you left for the States after our divorce…”
“On the rebound…?”
“Maybe…” I laugh.
Avinash has not changed…the way he says these devastatingly rude things in such a naïve innocent way.
We are nearing the Pune University circle so I ask, “Where is your wife’s house...? I’ll take the road accordingly…”
“It’s okay…just drop me wherever you can…”
“Come on…tell me…see how much it is raining…you want me to take Senapati Bapat Road…or drive straight ahead…to Fergusson College Road…or Jangli Maharaj Road…?”
“It’s okay…you go wherever you want to go in Deccan…I’ll get off there…”
“Oh…so you don’t want to show me your wife’s house…” I say, tongue in cheek.
“No…No…it’s not that…I am going somewhere else…to the Family Court…”
“To the Family Court…? I ask, taken aback.
“Yes,” he says, “it’s beyond Deccan, past Lakdi Pul…near Alaka…”
“I know where the family court is…” I say, “I hope you are not…”
“Yes…first it was the Family Court in Mumbai with you…and now…” he stops, as tears well up in his eyes.
“I too am going to the Family Court…” I say, sensing a lump in my throat.
“What…?” he looks at me, startled.
“I am divorcing my husband…today is the final hearing…hopefully…”
I slow down, stop the car near the kerb past E-Square. I wipe my eyes with tissue and hold the tissue box towards Avinash. He too wipes his eyes.
“Maybe we should have stayed together, tried to make our marriage work,” I say.
“Yes…it all happened so fast …maybe we were too hasty, too impatient, too headstrong…”
“Yes…we could have tried to make it work…”
“I think we sought the easy way out…we were too young…unrealistic…immature…impetuous…volatile…”
“Yes… ours was a tempestuous stormy relationship…a terrible marriage…but there is one thing…”
“What…?”
“With you I could be myself…no mask, no pretence, no forced geniality…”
“Me too…with you I could truly be myself…no contrived feelings, no holding back…I could never be like that with anyone else…with her too…the way could naturally be with you…you know I think we were made for each other…”
“Maybe we should give it a try…one more time…make things work…”
“You’re serious…?” he asks with a curious look in his eyes.
“Yes, Avinash. Let’s empty our cups and start afresh. Like you said, I too think we are made for each other.”
“Okay, but there is one thing…”
“What…?”
“Is it allowed to marry the same person twice…?
“I think so...I’ll ask my divorce lawyer…she will know…”
“Yes…I’ll confirm at the Family Court too…”
“One more thing…”
“Now what…?”
“This time…No Expectations, No Disappointments, Happy Marriage…”
“Yes,” I say lovingly putting my hand on his: “No Expectations…No Disappointments…Happy Marriage…”
Suddenly I notice that it has stopped raining and the sun is peeping through the clouds.
I feel good. I start the car and we drive on towards the Family Court…to erase the second chapter of our marital lives forever and to begin writing our first inchoate chapter afresh.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
vikramkarve@sify.com
Monday, July 13, 2009
Conflict, Frustration, Stress
PATHS TO FRUSTRATION
[Musings]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Frustration can be a major cause of stress in your daily life and it may be worthwhile to ponder on the various reasons for your frustration.
Well, here is one.
People often become frustrated when they must choose between their personal desires and pleasing other people.
There are five basic ways people react in such situations of conflict between personal goals versus interpersonal relationships and each type of response can be a source of frustration.
EGOIST: First of all, a person may pursue his personal desires and forget about interpersonal relationships. The individual so described would be the EGOIST who cares little about stepping on others as long as he or she gets to the top of the ladder or achieves his or her personal goals. An Egoist’s frustration emanates from the displeasure of others. The others may outwardly smile at him because of his power but they secretly would like to “stab him in the back” and the egoist knows this and it inwardly pricks his conscience deep inside.
ALTRUIST: Second, a person may try to please everyone by setting aside his own aspirations. This individual is afflicted by “The Disease to Please” and is a person who can never say “NO”. His frustration results from lack of personal achievement and the realization that complete altruism is not always self-satisfying.
WHEELER-DEALER: Third, a person may try to achieve all his ambitions and simultaneously please everyone. This person is the typical “Wheeler-Dealer”. He is maximally frustrated, since it is virtually an impossible task to be all things to all people and please everyone, including his own self, all the time in all situations.
HERMIT: Fourth, a person may decide to be an ostrich and bury his head in the sand. This describes the HERMIT. He also becomes very frustrated because he achieves nothing and pleases no one, not even himself.
COMPROMISER: Fifth and finally, one may choose to go halfway. Such a person is the compromiser or the person who can’t seem to make up his mind. But even he is frustrated because he may sacrifice worthwhile personal goals or fail really to please some important people, since he has decided on a middle course.
WORK OUT YOUR OWN SOLUTION:
Dear Reader, sit in silent solitude, close your eyes, reflect, introspect, think of your recent situations of conflict between your personal desires and pleasing others.
Are you an egoist, altruist, wheeler-dealer, hermit or a compromiser?
Or are you somewhere in between?
Do you change with different personal desires and different people, or is your behaviour consistent with everyone?
You have to work out own solution; understanding yourself is the first step.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
[Musings]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Frustration can be a major cause of stress in your daily life and it may be worthwhile to ponder on the various reasons for your frustration.
Well, here is one.
People often become frustrated when they must choose between their personal desires and pleasing other people.
There are five basic ways people react in such situations of conflict between personal goals versus interpersonal relationships and each type of response can be a source of frustration.
EGOIST: First of all, a person may pursue his personal desires and forget about interpersonal relationships. The individual so described would be the EGOIST who cares little about stepping on others as long as he or she gets to the top of the ladder or achieves his or her personal goals. An Egoist’s frustration emanates from the displeasure of others. The others may outwardly smile at him because of his power but they secretly would like to “stab him in the back” and the egoist knows this and it inwardly pricks his conscience deep inside.
ALTRUIST: Second, a person may try to please everyone by setting aside his own aspirations. This individual is afflicted by “The Disease to Please” and is a person who can never say “NO”. His frustration results from lack of personal achievement and the realization that complete altruism is not always self-satisfying.
WHEELER-DEALER: Third, a person may try to achieve all his ambitions and simultaneously please everyone. This person is the typical “Wheeler-Dealer”. He is maximally frustrated, since it is virtually an impossible task to be all things to all people and please everyone, including his own self, all the time in all situations.
HERMIT: Fourth, a person may decide to be an ostrich and bury his head in the sand. This describes the HERMIT. He also becomes very frustrated because he achieves nothing and pleases no one, not even himself.
COMPROMISER: Fifth and finally, one may choose to go halfway. Such a person is the compromiser or the person who can’t seem to make up his mind. But even he is frustrated because he may sacrifice worthwhile personal goals or fail really to please some important people, since he has decided on a middle course.
WORK OUT YOUR OWN SOLUTION:
Dear Reader, sit in silent solitude, close your eyes, reflect, introspect, think of your recent situations of conflict between your personal desires and pleasing others.
Are you an egoist, altruist, wheeler-dealer, hermit or a compromiser?
Or are you somewhere in between?
Do you change with different personal desires and different people, or is your behaviour consistent with everyone?
You have to work out own solution; understanding yourself is the first step.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
MY PET DOGS
My Canine Companions
By
VIKRAM KARVE
I remember my first pet dog Goldie, a Cocker Spaniel, who was presented to us by our neighbour in Devlali in 1961, when I was just five.
We named him Goldie because of his colour, and the tiny one month old pup remained my constant companion and loyal friend till he passed away in 1970.
Then we had Bruno, a cute cuddly Lhasa Apso, who disappeared, or maybe was stolen one day.
After that a black playful Dachshund called Sherry entered our family.
I loved Sherry so much that I have named all my subsequent dogs Sherry.
In 1982 we were presented a lovable snow-white Lhasa Apso girl as a wedding gift.
Of course we named her Sherry.
Ours was an arranged marriage and probably the only thing that was compatible was that we both loved dogs.
Today it is my favourite Doberman girl Sherry who illuminates every moment of our lives with happiness, joy and delight.
If you ask me “Why do people keep dogs?” I will ask you “Why do people have children?”
And remember, your children will grow up, and, one day, may go away from you, maybe for higher studies, or to pursue their careers, or just leave you because they want to stay separately; but your dog will never leave you and will loyally remain with you forever till death.
Of course, if you throw out your dog, or get rid of it, then it’s a different matter; but your dog won’t leave you of its own accord.
If you are thinking of getting a dog into your home, as a family member, remember you are making a commitment to that dog for its lifetime, probably even more than your own children.
And once the dog joins your family, invest your love and time to build a special bond that only a dog can offer, and you will both be happy you did.
You can take my word for it!
VIKRAM KARVE
PS: - Hey, do read about SHERRY my current pet My Darling DobermanXRampur Hound Girl
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
vikramkarve@sify.com
By
VIKRAM KARVE
I remember my first pet dog Goldie, a Cocker Spaniel, who was presented to us by our neighbour in Devlali in 1961, when I was just five.
We named him Goldie because of his colour, and the tiny one month old pup remained my constant companion and loyal friend till he passed away in 1970.
Then we had Bruno, a cute cuddly Lhasa Apso, who disappeared, or maybe was stolen one day.
After that a black playful Dachshund called Sherry entered our family.
I loved Sherry so much that I have named all my subsequent dogs Sherry.
In 1982 we were presented a lovable snow-white Lhasa Apso girl as a wedding gift.
Of course we named her Sherry.
Ours was an arranged marriage and probably the only thing that was compatible was that we both loved dogs.
Today it is my favourite Doberman girl Sherry who illuminates every moment of our lives with happiness, joy and delight.
If you ask me “Why do people keep dogs?” I will ask you “Why do people have children?”
And remember, your children will grow up, and, one day, may go away from you, maybe for higher studies, or to pursue their careers, or just leave you because they want to stay separately; but your dog will never leave you and will loyally remain with you forever till death.
Of course, if you throw out your dog, or get rid of it, then it’s a different matter; but your dog won’t leave you of its own accord.
If you are thinking of getting a dog into your home, as a family member, remember you are making a commitment to that dog for its lifetime, probably even more than your own children.
And once the dog joins your family, invest your love and time to build a special bond that only a dog can offer, and you will both be happy you did.
You can take my word for it!
VIKRAM KARVE
PS: - Hey, do read about SHERRY my current pet My Darling DobermanXRampur Hound Girl
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
vikramkarve@sify.com
Monday, June 22, 2009
The True Meaning of Love
THE TRUE MEANING OF LOVE
[Short Fiction - A Love Story]
by
VIKRAM KARVE
I do not know how the idea entered my brain in the first place; but once conceived, it haunted me with such urgency that a strange force took charge of me, impelling me to act. I tucked the packet under my arm and walked towards my destination, looking around furtively like someone with a guilty conscience.
The moment I saw her photograph I knew that I had to see her. A man’s first love occupies an enduring place in his heart. Ten years. Ten long years. She had married money. And status. I was heartbroken. Yet I bore her no pique or rancor. Never will. How can I? I had truly loved her. I still love her. I will always love her. Till my dying day.
I was desperately eager to impress her. To give her a gift would be too obvious. I did not know how much she had told her husband about me, about us, about our unrequited love!
Her children should be the same age as mine. Maybe slightly older. They say the best route to a married woman’s heart is through her children. I looked at the packet under my arm. A gift. A gift for her children. The deluxe set of children’s encyclopedias I had promised my son. And my daughter. Year after year. For the last three years. And did not buy. Because it was too expensive. And now I was going to present it to Anjali’s children. Just to impress her. Why? I do not know.
As I rang the doorbell, I felt a tremor of anticipation. Suddenly I realized that I did not know whether Anjali would be happy to see me or pretend she didn’t recognize me. The door opened. Anjali looked ravishing. She gave me her sparkling smile and welcomed me with genuine happiness, “Sanjiv! After so many years! What a delightful surprise. How did you manage to find me?"
We looked at each other. Anjali had fully blossomed and looked stunning. She looked so exquisite, so dazzling, that I cannot begin to describe the intense emotion I felt as I looked intently into her radiating eyes, totally mesmerized by her beauty.
“Stop staring at me, “Anjali said, her large expressive eyes dancing mischievously.
“You look so beautiful. And so young!” I said with genuine frankness.
“But you look old. Even your beard has becoming grey.” Anjali paused, probably regretting what she had said.
Then suddenly she held out her hand to me and said, “I am so happy to see you, Sanjiv. Come inside.”
Her house was extravagant. Wealth and opulence showed everywhere. Anjali carried herself majestically with regal poise; her demeanor slick and confident. No wonder! To ‘belong’ had always been the driving force of her life. Money, status, social prestige, success – she had got everything she wanted. I couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy, and failure.
“You like my house?” she asked. “Sit down. And don’t look so lost.”
I sat down on a sofa and kept the gift wrapped packet on the side-table.
Anjali sat down opposite. “How did you know I live here? We shifted to Mumbai only a month ago.”
I took out the wallet from my pocket and gave it to her. “Your husband’s purse. I saw your photograph in it.”
Anjali opened the purse and started to check the contents.
“You don’t trust cops, do you?” I said with a smile.
Anjali blushed. She kept the wallet on the table. Then she looked at me with frank admiration in her eyes. “IPS? That’s fantastic. I never thought you would do so well! What are you? Superintendent? Deputy Commissioner?”
Now it was my turn to blush. “No,” I said sheepishly. “I am only a sub-inspector.”
“Oh!” she said, trying to hide her disappointment. But I had read the language of her eyes. The nuance wasn’t lost on me. Suddenly she had changed.
“Is Mr. Joshi at home?” I asked.
“He is still at the office,” Anjali said.
“Oh! I thought he would be home,” I said.
“I’ll make you some tea,” she said and started to get up.
“Please sit down, Anjali. Let’s talk.” I looked at my watch. “It’s already six-thirty. Let’s wait for Mr. Joshi. Maybe he’ll offer me a drink. And dinner.”
“My husband comes home very late,” Anjali said. “After all, he is the Managing Director and the CEO. There is so much work. And conferences. Important business meetings. He is the top boss – a very successful and extremely busy man.” She couldn’t have spelt it out more clearly. I got the message loud and clear.
Anjali changed the topic and asked, “Where did you find my husband's purse?”
“It was deposited in the lost-and-found section last evening,” I lied, trying to keep a straight face.
“It’s strange,” Anjali said. “He didn’t mention anything.”
“He may not have noticed,” I said, tongue-in-cheek, “After all Mr. Joshi is a very busy man to notice such minor things like a missing purse.”
“Yes,” she said, giving a distant look. Anjali opened the purse once more and examined his credit cards and driving license. At first she appeared confused. Then she gave me a cold hard look. But she didn’t say anything. There was a long period of silence. Grotesque Silence.
Anjali kept staring at me. Looking directly into my eyes. A distant look. Almost dismissive. I began to feel uneasy. Suddenly I remembered the gift wrapped packet I had brought and exclaimed enthusiastically, “Anjali, where are your children? I have got a gift for them. Just a small present for your kids!”
From the look on her face, I immediately sensed that I had said something terribly wrong. I saw tears well up in her eyes. All of a sudden, Anjali looked small, weak and vulnerable. I felt a sense of deep regret as comprehension dawned on me. I looked at her helplessly, pleading innocence, but it was of no use. Some day Anjali might understand my actions, but at that moment it was hopeless to try and explain. The hurt was deep, and I had to let it go in silence.
We just sat there in silence, not knowing what to say. A deafening silence.
It is strange how moments you have rehearsed for end up with a different script.
I could not bear it any longer. I quickly got up and started walking swiftly towards the door. Suddenly I realized that I had forgotten to pick up the packet – the gift. But I did not turn back. Why? I do not know.
“Don’t go, Sanjiv. I want to talk to you,” Anjali spoke coldly.
I stopped in my tracks. I could hear Anjali footsteps behind me. I turned around to face her. She seemed a bit composed.
“You lied to me, Sanjiv,” Anjali said. “I want to know where you found this wallet.”
I did not know what to say. I tried to avoid her eyes.
“Tell me,” Anjali pleaded.
When in doubt, I speak the truth, so I told her the truth, “We raided one of those exclusive classy joints last night,” I stammered. “A posh call-girl racket……….” I could not continue...so I mumbled, “I am sorry. I did not know...”
“I know! Oh yes I know!” Anjali said mockingly. “That impotent creep! Trying to prove his virility to himself.”
With those few words, she had bared the secret of her marriage. I looked at her. Her manner was relaxed and nonchalant; her fury was visible only in her eyes.
I was nonplussed. Suddenly I blurted out, “Don’t worry Anjali. I have dropped the charges. I’ll hush it up.”
I still don’t know why I uttered those words but the moment she heard my words there was a visible metamorphosis in Anjali. Suddenly she became flaming mad. She looked so distraught and angry that I felt very frightened. I was terrified that she would go berserk and attack me, slap me, or something, so I instinctively stepped back. But Anjali suddenly turned and left the room. I waited, dumbstruck, pole-axed, frozen for a moment and after regaining my composure decided to leave and started to move towards the door.
“Wait!” I heard her scream. I stopped in my tracks and turned around.
Anjali quickly walked towards me and thrust out her right hand. She held a bundle of five hundred rupee notes. “So this is what you have come for, isn’t it? A bribe to hush up the case, isn’t it? Even from me! You unscrupulous swine, I didn’t expect you to fall so low. Here - take the money and get out. This is all I have at home. If you want more, you know where to find my husband; don’t you?”
“No, Anjali,” I recoiled in horror, “Please don’t ………..”
“Cheap!” Anjali spat out. There was contempt in her eyes. “Cheap riffraff! That’s what you always were, Sanjiv. Get out you filthy blackmailer.” She threw the bundle of notes at me. It hit my chest and fell on the ground, the money scattering near my feet.
“I love you, Anjali,” I said, trying to sound sincere.
“Love,” she exclaimed, her radiating eyes burning with anger. “So you have come to see how your barren old flame is flourishing, isn’t it?” She paused and said sarcastically, “So you are pleased aren’t you? Happy to see how successful my marriage is, isn't it?”
Her sly and sarcastic suggestion that I might be happy at her misfortune hurt me more than anything else. I turned around and walked out of the house. As I walked towards the gate something hit me on my back. I winced in pain. The three volumes of the expensive Children’s Encyclopedia were scattered on the ground, their silver paper gift wrapper torn. I knew that Anjali was standing in the door looking at me. But I did not look back at her. I gathered the books and walked away into the darkness.
Next morning, as I gradually came into consciousness from my drunken stupor, I realized that I was in my bed.
Though sunlight filtered in through the open windows, everything looked blurred.
Slowly things began to come into focus.
My daughter was sitting beside me on the bed. She touched my arm with tenderness.
There were tears in her eyes.
My son stood aloof on the other side of the bed.
There was fear in his eyes.
My wife looked at me with loving pity and said, “The children want to thank you for the lovely gift. They are so happy!”
She was holding the set of encyclopedias in her hands.
I smiled and reached out to them.
They held my hands and smiled back.
I looked at the pure unadulterated joy in their eyes.
For the first time in my life I experienced a deep genuine true love for my wife and children.
A love which I had never felt before.
Tears of joy welled up in my eyes.
I had discovered love.
Yes, I had discovered the true meaning of love.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
[Short Fiction - A Love Story]
by
VIKRAM KARVE
I do not know how the idea entered my brain in the first place; but once conceived, it haunted me with such urgency that a strange force took charge of me, impelling me to act. I tucked the packet under my arm and walked towards my destination, looking around furtively like someone with a guilty conscience.
The moment I saw her photograph I knew that I had to see her. A man’s first love occupies an enduring place in his heart. Ten years. Ten long years. She had married money. And status. I was heartbroken. Yet I bore her no pique or rancor. Never will. How can I? I had truly loved her. I still love her. I will always love her. Till my dying day.
I was desperately eager to impress her. To give her a gift would be too obvious. I did not know how much she had told her husband about me, about us, about our unrequited love!
Her children should be the same age as mine. Maybe slightly older. They say the best route to a married woman’s heart is through her children. I looked at the packet under my arm. A gift. A gift for her children. The deluxe set of children’s encyclopedias I had promised my son. And my daughter. Year after year. For the last three years. And did not buy. Because it was too expensive. And now I was going to present it to Anjali’s children. Just to impress her. Why? I do not know.
As I rang the doorbell, I felt a tremor of anticipation. Suddenly I realized that I did not know whether Anjali would be happy to see me or pretend she didn’t recognize me. The door opened. Anjali looked ravishing. She gave me her sparkling smile and welcomed me with genuine happiness, “Sanjiv! After so many years! What a delightful surprise. How did you manage to find me?"
We looked at each other. Anjali had fully blossomed and looked stunning. She looked so exquisite, so dazzling, that I cannot begin to describe the intense emotion I felt as I looked intently into her radiating eyes, totally mesmerized by her beauty.
“Stop staring at me, “Anjali said, her large expressive eyes dancing mischievously.
“You look so beautiful. And so young!” I said with genuine frankness.
“But you look old. Even your beard has becoming grey.” Anjali paused, probably regretting what she had said.
Then suddenly she held out her hand to me and said, “I am so happy to see you, Sanjiv. Come inside.”
Her house was extravagant. Wealth and opulence showed everywhere. Anjali carried herself majestically with regal poise; her demeanor slick and confident. No wonder! To ‘belong’ had always been the driving force of her life. Money, status, social prestige, success – she had got everything she wanted. I couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy, and failure.
“You like my house?” she asked. “Sit down. And don’t look so lost.”
I sat down on a sofa and kept the gift wrapped packet on the side-table.
Anjali sat down opposite. “How did you know I live here? We shifted to Mumbai only a month ago.”
I took out the wallet from my pocket and gave it to her. “Your husband’s purse. I saw your photograph in it.”
Anjali opened the purse and started to check the contents.
“You don’t trust cops, do you?” I said with a smile.
Anjali blushed. She kept the wallet on the table. Then she looked at me with frank admiration in her eyes. “IPS? That’s fantastic. I never thought you would do so well! What are you? Superintendent? Deputy Commissioner?”
Now it was my turn to blush. “No,” I said sheepishly. “I am only a sub-inspector.”
“Oh!” she said, trying to hide her disappointment. But I had read the language of her eyes. The nuance wasn’t lost on me. Suddenly she had changed.
“Is Mr. Joshi at home?” I asked.
“He is still at the office,” Anjali said.
“Oh! I thought he would be home,” I said.
“I’ll make you some tea,” she said and started to get up.
“Please sit down, Anjali. Let’s talk.” I looked at my watch. “It’s already six-thirty. Let’s wait for Mr. Joshi. Maybe he’ll offer me a drink. And dinner.”
“My husband comes home very late,” Anjali said. “After all, he is the Managing Director and the CEO. There is so much work. And conferences. Important business meetings. He is the top boss – a very successful and extremely busy man.” She couldn’t have spelt it out more clearly. I got the message loud and clear.
Anjali changed the topic and asked, “Where did you find my husband's purse?”
“It was deposited in the lost-and-found section last evening,” I lied, trying to keep a straight face.
“It’s strange,” Anjali said. “He didn’t mention anything.”
“He may not have noticed,” I said, tongue-in-cheek, “After all Mr. Joshi is a very busy man to notice such minor things like a missing purse.”
“Yes,” she said, giving a distant look. Anjali opened the purse once more and examined his credit cards and driving license. At first she appeared confused. Then she gave me a cold hard look. But she didn’t say anything. There was a long period of silence. Grotesque Silence.
Anjali kept staring at me. Looking directly into my eyes. A distant look. Almost dismissive. I began to feel uneasy. Suddenly I remembered the gift wrapped packet I had brought and exclaimed enthusiastically, “Anjali, where are your children? I have got a gift for them. Just a small present for your kids!”
From the look on her face, I immediately sensed that I had said something terribly wrong. I saw tears well up in her eyes. All of a sudden, Anjali looked small, weak and vulnerable. I felt a sense of deep regret as comprehension dawned on me. I looked at her helplessly, pleading innocence, but it was of no use. Some day Anjali might understand my actions, but at that moment it was hopeless to try and explain. The hurt was deep, and I had to let it go in silence.
We just sat there in silence, not knowing what to say. A deafening silence.
It is strange how moments you have rehearsed for end up with a different script.
I could not bear it any longer. I quickly got up and started walking swiftly towards the door. Suddenly I realized that I had forgotten to pick up the packet – the gift. But I did not turn back. Why? I do not know.
“Don’t go, Sanjiv. I want to talk to you,” Anjali spoke coldly.
I stopped in my tracks. I could hear Anjali footsteps behind me. I turned around to face her. She seemed a bit composed.
“You lied to me, Sanjiv,” Anjali said. “I want to know where you found this wallet.”
I did not know what to say. I tried to avoid her eyes.
“Tell me,” Anjali pleaded.
When in doubt, I speak the truth, so I told her the truth, “We raided one of those exclusive classy joints last night,” I stammered. “A posh call-girl racket……….” I could not continue...so I mumbled, “I am sorry. I did not know...”
“I know! Oh yes I know!” Anjali said mockingly. “That impotent creep! Trying to prove his virility to himself.”
With those few words, she had bared the secret of her marriage. I looked at her. Her manner was relaxed and nonchalant; her fury was visible only in her eyes.
I was nonplussed. Suddenly I blurted out, “Don’t worry Anjali. I have dropped the charges. I’ll hush it up.”
I still don’t know why I uttered those words but the moment she heard my words there was a visible metamorphosis in Anjali. Suddenly she became flaming mad. She looked so distraught and angry that I felt very frightened. I was terrified that she would go berserk and attack me, slap me, or something, so I instinctively stepped back. But Anjali suddenly turned and left the room. I waited, dumbstruck, pole-axed, frozen for a moment and after regaining my composure decided to leave and started to move towards the door.
“Wait!” I heard her scream. I stopped in my tracks and turned around.
Anjali quickly walked towards me and thrust out her right hand. She held a bundle of five hundred rupee notes. “So this is what you have come for, isn’t it? A bribe to hush up the case, isn’t it? Even from me! You unscrupulous swine, I didn’t expect you to fall so low. Here - take the money and get out. This is all I have at home. If you want more, you know where to find my husband; don’t you?”
“No, Anjali,” I recoiled in horror, “Please don’t ………..”
“Cheap!” Anjali spat out. There was contempt in her eyes. “Cheap riffraff! That’s what you always were, Sanjiv. Get out you filthy blackmailer.” She threw the bundle of notes at me. It hit my chest and fell on the ground, the money scattering near my feet.
“I love you, Anjali,” I said, trying to sound sincere.
“Love,” she exclaimed, her radiating eyes burning with anger. “So you have come to see how your barren old flame is flourishing, isn’t it?” She paused and said sarcastically, “So you are pleased aren’t you? Happy to see how successful my marriage is, isn't it?”
Her sly and sarcastic suggestion that I might be happy at her misfortune hurt me more than anything else. I turned around and walked out of the house. As I walked towards the gate something hit me on my back. I winced in pain. The three volumes of the expensive Children’s Encyclopedia were scattered on the ground, their silver paper gift wrapper torn. I knew that Anjali was standing in the door looking at me. But I did not look back at her. I gathered the books and walked away into the darkness.
Next morning, as I gradually came into consciousness from my drunken stupor, I realized that I was in my bed.
Though sunlight filtered in through the open windows, everything looked blurred.
Slowly things began to come into focus.
My daughter was sitting beside me on the bed. She touched my arm with tenderness.
There were tears in her eyes.
My son stood aloof on the other side of the bed.
There was fear in his eyes.
My wife looked at me with loving pity and said, “The children want to thank you for the lovely gift. They are so happy!”
She was holding the set of encyclopedias in her hands.
I smiled and reached out to them.
They held my hands and smiled back.
I looked at the pure unadulterated joy in their eyes.
For the first time in my life I experienced a deep genuine true love for my wife and children.
A love which I had never felt before.
Tears of joy welled up in my eyes.
I had discovered love.
Yes, I had discovered the true meaning of love.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Horror Story - This is no Joke
THIS IS NO JOKE - Sheer Horror
Short Fiction
by
VIKRAM KARVE
Read this slowly and carefully.
Take your time.
Savour every word.
Try to enjoy it.
For it is going to be the last thing you ever read, because you’re not going to read much after this.
That’s because by the time you finish reading this, I am going to finish you off.
Yes. You read right.
I am going to finish you off once and for all.
Murder you in cold blood.
Till you are dead.
RIP.
Requiescat in pace.
Or is it requiescant in pace?
It just doesn’t matter.
But you for sure are going to rest in peace.
That’s right. Rest in Peace.
Rest in Peace!
RIP.
Forever.
You think this is a big joke?
It is not a joke. Yes, my friend, this is no joke.
I’m going to terminate you.
I’ve been watching you for days. You’re so nice and healthy. That is why I have no compunctions, as I firmly believe that my victim ought to be in good health, since it is barbarous to kill anybody who is weak or of a sickly disposition.
After you finish reading this, just sit back and relax.
But don't turn around and look behind you.
That's right - DO NOT LOOK BEHIND YOU.
I know you can find excuses to hang around your house, or your office, or wherever you are reading this; but sooner or later you’re going to have to get up and go out.
That’s where I’ll be waiting for you.
Or maybe I am closer to you than that.
Maybe I am in this very room where you are sitting.
You think of death as something far distant, don’t you?
It is not! Death is very near, very close to you. Maybe just behind you.
Believe me. I’m dead serious. Your death is just lurking behind your back.
Do not look behind you.
Come on, dear Reader. Tell me. Where are you reading this?
In your room late at night on your PC, or in your office, or on your laptop, in bed, or outdoors, or while traveling, or on a lazy Sunday afternoon?
Or have you taken a printout and are reading this propped up on your pillow in bed late at night?
It doesn't matter. It just doesn’t matter.
Because I’m going to come and get you the moment you finish reading this.
You can take my word for it.
If you are home while reading this, maybe I’m in your house with you right now, maybe in this very room, stealthily creeping right behind you, waiting for you to finish the story.
Do not look behind you.
Maybe I’m watching surreptitiously though your office window, or maybe I am standing menacingly right behind you as you sit at your work desk staring at the monitor, waiting to pierce you with the deadly needle of the venom filled hypodermic syringe the moment you finish reading this.
Just sit still and keep reading.
Do not look behind you.
Or maybe I’m sitting covertly right next to you in the Internet café where you are reading this.
Don’t look! Please do not turn around and look.
Just keep reading.
Maybe I’m waiting outside for you.
But don’t look around.
You’ll be happier if you don’t know – if you don’t see the needle coming.
So please do not look behind you.
But wherever you are reading this, I’m near you, watching and waiting for you to finish.
And then I’ll silently slither right behind you.
And from the right pocket of my trousers I’ll carefully take out the lethal syringe.
Don’t be scared.
You won’t feel a thing.
Maybe just a wee little scratch, a teeny weeny prick of a tiny microscopic needle.
And you will die instantly.
It’s much better killing this way – instantaneous, effortless, clean, clinical. I like it this way.
When I kill people this way they don’t even come to know.
Unless they turn around and look.
So don’t look behind you!
I am warning you, just don't turn around and look behind you.
You don’t believe in the macabre, do you?
You think my imagination is running wild and this is just my amateurish attempt at writing a short story, don’t you?
Go on; smile to yourself, thinking this is just a joke, a fib, a yarn.
This is no joke.
Don’t look behind you. Please do not look behind you.
You don't believe me?
Okay, don’t believe me – until you feel the gentle prick of the hypodermic needle penetrating deep into your spine.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Short Fiction
by
VIKRAM KARVE
Read this slowly and carefully.
Take your time.
Savour every word.
Try to enjoy it.
For it is going to be the last thing you ever read, because you’re not going to read much after this.
That’s because by the time you finish reading this, I am going to finish you off.
Yes. You read right.
I am going to finish you off once and for all.
Murder you in cold blood.
Till you are dead.
RIP.
Requiescat in pace.
Or is it requiescant in pace?
It just doesn’t matter.
But you for sure are going to rest in peace.
That’s right. Rest in Peace.
Rest in Peace!
RIP.
Forever.
You think this is a big joke?
It is not a joke. Yes, my friend, this is no joke.
I’m going to terminate you.
I’ve been watching you for days. You’re so nice and healthy. That is why I have no compunctions, as I firmly believe that my victim ought to be in good health, since it is barbarous to kill anybody who is weak or of a sickly disposition.
After you finish reading this, just sit back and relax.
But don't turn around and look behind you.
That's right - DO NOT LOOK BEHIND YOU.
I know you can find excuses to hang around your house, or your office, or wherever you are reading this; but sooner or later you’re going to have to get up and go out.
That’s where I’ll be waiting for you.
Or maybe I am closer to you than that.
Maybe I am in this very room where you are sitting.
You think of death as something far distant, don’t you?
It is not! Death is very near, very close to you. Maybe just behind you.
Believe me. I’m dead serious. Your death is just lurking behind your back.
Do not look behind you.
Come on, dear Reader. Tell me. Where are you reading this?
In your room late at night on your PC, or in your office, or on your laptop, in bed, or outdoors, or while traveling, or on a lazy Sunday afternoon?
Or have you taken a printout and are reading this propped up on your pillow in bed late at night?
It doesn't matter. It just doesn’t matter.
Because I’m going to come and get you the moment you finish reading this.
You can take my word for it.
If you are home while reading this, maybe I’m in your house with you right now, maybe in this very room, stealthily creeping right behind you, waiting for you to finish the story.
Do not look behind you.
Maybe I’m watching surreptitiously though your office window, or maybe I am standing menacingly right behind you as you sit at your work desk staring at the monitor, waiting to pierce you with the deadly needle of the venom filled hypodermic syringe the moment you finish reading this.
Just sit still and keep reading.
Do not look behind you.
Or maybe I’m sitting covertly right next to you in the Internet café where you are reading this.
Don’t look! Please do not turn around and look.
Just keep reading.
Maybe I’m waiting outside for you.
But don’t look around.
You’ll be happier if you don’t know – if you don’t see the needle coming.
So please do not look behind you.
But wherever you are reading this, I’m near you, watching and waiting for you to finish.
And then I’ll silently slither right behind you.
And from the right pocket of my trousers I’ll carefully take out the lethal syringe.
Don’t be scared.
You won’t feel a thing.
Maybe just a wee little scratch, a teeny weeny prick of a tiny microscopic needle.
And you will die instantly.
It’s much better killing this way – instantaneous, effortless, clean, clinical. I like it this way.
When I kill people this way they don’t even come to know.
Unless they turn around and look.
So don’t look behind you!
I am warning you, just don't turn around and look behind you.
You don’t believe in the macabre, do you?
You think my imagination is running wild and this is just my amateurish attempt at writing a short story, don’t you?
Go on; smile to yourself, thinking this is just a joke, a fib, a yarn.
This is no joke.
Don’t look behind you. Please do not look behind you.
You don't believe me?
Okay, don’t believe me – until you feel the gentle prick of the hypodermic needle penetrating deep into your spine.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
A GLORIOUS DAY IN PUNE
ITCHY FEET HUNGRY STOMACH CURIOUS MIND
APPETITE FOR A STROLL
A Glorious Day in Pune
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Musings on the Art of Leisure from my delicious Foodie Adventures Book Appetite for a Stroll
Art of Loafing
Please tell me, Dear Reader: What is loafing? Idling away your time on useless things?
Aimless Loitering?
Loitering! Sounds a bit derogatory, isn't it?
Okay let’s say it is aimless wandering – Perfectly useless time spent in a perfectly useless manner!
Yes. That’s how I would like to define the art of loafing - spending perfectly useless time in a perfectly useless manner!
Foodwalking
And what, Dear Reader, is foodwalking?Loitering, or rather walking, in search of good food. Not so aimless loitering!
That's what I did once – long back. I loafed in Pune.
Foodwalked. In search of good food.
I spent a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner – “Foodwalking in Pune”.
I still have fond nostalgic memories of that glorious day. Let me tell you about it.
A Glorious Day
It is a beautiful morning. I try to furtively slip out of my house unnoticed, but I am stopped in my tracks by my wife's piercing voice, "Where are you going"? "I don’t know?" I answer truthfully, and this adroit answer probably precludes the next question she is about to ask me, "What time are you coming back?" for she knows I will again truthfully answer, "I don’t know".
It’s true – I really don’t know where I am going!"Take the mobile with you," she shouts, but I pretend not to hear and make myself scarce and disappear as fast as possible for I do not want the manacles of technology to ruin my day. Dear fellow loafer - If you want to truly enjoy life beware of the technology trap!It's a bright day. I feel good.
Flush with a sense of carefree irresponsibility, I walk with a spring in my step. I am going to enjoy my leisure. Should I turn left? Should I turn right? Should I cross the road and go straight ahead?
I am free. Free to go wherever I desire. Free to enjoy my day as I want.
True freedom – to be able to travel at will with no destination to reach, no task to complete, no deadlines to meet.
Just Loaf. Aimlessly. Timelessly. Pure Leisure.
Spend a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner. I see a bus. I stop it and hop in. "Where do you want to go?" the conductor asks. "Where does this bus go?" I ask. "Pune Railway Station."
"Okay. One ticket to Pune Railway Station," I say holding out a tenner. The conductor gives me an amused look and hands me a ticket and a rupee coin.
I sit down on a vacant window-seat.
I think interesting thoughts and enjoy the view through the window.
On these trips of mine I prefer travelling by bus and, of course, I love to walk on foot.
Driving my car on the terrible potholed, crowded and chaotic roads in the terrible traffic of Pune makes me go crazy, and, at my age, I dare not venture out too far on my scooter, lest I land up with broken bones in hospital or, worse, lifeless in Vaikunth or Kailas crematoriums! That's what I sometimes do on these glorious trips of mine. Just jump into the first bus that comes along and let it take you wherever it goes.
Just go where life leads you.
Last time I landed up in the heart of Pune near Shaniwar Wada.
In Mumbai, Kolkata, Chennai, Bangalore and Delhi loafing is even more exciting, as there are so many more routes and choices, trains, buses, walks, and you can serendipitously explore so many novel and exotic places you would not dream of going to in normal course. The bus reaches the Pune Railway Station. It’s been a smooth ride.
Anonymity
I get down and admire the magnificent heritage stone building of Pune Railway Station. I stand in the porch and look inside. Trains, crowds, announcements, horns, cacophony, and chaos – I love the “railway” atmosphere.
On impulse, I enter, and stroll on the platform, panning my gaze all over, and stopping once in a while to feast my eyes on any attractive object that arrests my attention. "Want a seat?" a porter asks. "No," I say. "Where are you going?" he pursues. "Nowhere," I say. "Waiting for someone," he asks, probably in anticipation of porterage. "No," I say. He stares at me for a moment and walks off with a look of perplexed dejection.
I look around. Everyone is waiting to go somewhere, or for someone. I am waiting to go nowhere, and for nobody.
So I walk out of the station and head for Shiv Kailash Milk Bar bang opposite on the other side of the road. If you arrive at Pune by train on a hot morning, never make the blunder of heading for the rickshaw stand. You'll get all stressed up waiting in the never-ending queue and haggling with the rickshawallas trying to con you.
Just cross the road to Shiv Kailash, sit under the shade on one of the stainless steel stools placed on the pavement, invigorate yourself with a tall glass of cool refreshing lassi (which is guaranteed to banish the depleting effects of the tiresome train journey) and tell the waiter to hail a rickshaw from the many hanging around.
This is what I have been doing for so many years, during my numerous homecomings, since the days when Pune was called Poona. Shiv Kailash serves the best lassi in Pune. It’s almost as good as the one at Pehelwan at the end on Lanka near BHU in Varanasi. The lassi freshly made in front of you topped off with a generous dollop of soft fresh cream. The sumptuous fulfilling soothing lassi is thick, lip-smacking, nourishing, and gives me a heavenly feeling.
I sip slowly, relishing every mouthful, almost eating the delectable fluid after letting it perambulate on my tongue, as I watch the world go about its business outside.
People come in a jiffy; gulp their glasses of lassi down the hatch in a hurry, and rush away, while I blissfully savour each and every drop of the delicious creamy lassi. I walk leisurely towards Camp. Past Mira College, GPO, Zero Milestone, Police Headquarters, Nehru Memorial Hall, where I cross the Moledina Road admiring the imposing Lal Deval Synagogue, and turn left, past the place imperial Dorabjee Store Building used to be once. Now there is a huge shopping complex and a glitzy mall opposite. I reminisce. West End, New Empire, all the adorable landmarks gone. Now there are Malls and modern places like Landmark. Landmark – you know it don’t you?
Landmark is Pune’s swanky new music-cum-book store. Like Crossword – giving competition to the grand old Manney’s, International, Popular, TBS and the bookshops at Appa Balwant Chowk.
I walk in. The place is swarming with chic salesgirls and sales-boys. No one pays any attention to me. Maybe I blend well with the surroundings.
I realize the tremendous advantages of obscurity and the benefits of anonymity.
Had I been a successful person, rich and famous, or someone with a striking personality, people would notice me and I doubt I would have been able to enjoy myself with such carefree abandon.
Only non-achievers like me can truly enjoy a life of carefree irresponsibility and the unadulterated joys of genuine leisure. I roam around the ground floor music section. There are no music stations where you can listen to music like they have in Rhythm House and Planet-M in Mumbai. So I go the first floor bookstore. It’s spacious, neatly laid-out and looks impressive.
Browsing
The books are arranged subject-wise, clearly visible from anywhere. There are cushioned stools to sit and browse and also two long sofas below the huge tinted windows towards the far side.
I start from the left side. Food, Philosophy, Self-Help, Travel, Coffee Table, Erotica, Classics, Fiction, Computers, Children, Indian Writing there are books on every topic you can think of.
The tranquil ambiance is so soothing and conducive that I browse to my hearts content, loosing myself into that wonderful state of timelessness I experience sometimes when I am totally immersed into doing something I love. By the time I leave Landmark, cerebrally satiated, it is almost three in the afternoon, I am hungry, and in desperate need of gastronomic satiation. So I walk past Manney’s, West End, turn right on Main Street, cross Aurora Towers, turn right, walk past ABN Amro Bank, and turn left on Dastur Meher Road, a walk leisurely towards Sarbatwala Chowk till I reach Dorabjee and Sons.
A Leisurely Meal
I dive in through the low entrance and look around. The eatery is crowded, with noisy families bashing away regardless greedily devouring the heaps food before them. The mouth-watering aroma, and the sight of the appetizing food, creates in me such ravenous pangs of hunger that I quickly sit on the only vacant table and order a Mutton Biryani the signature dish of Dorabjee. As is the hallmark of specialty cuisine restaurants the menu is select just a few choice dishes a single page. There's Sali, Curry, Masala and Biryani in Mutton and Chicken; Kheema, Brain, Eggs, and combinations thereof, cutlets in gravy, and a few Veg dishes, for appearance sake. On Sundays, you can have Dhansak, maybe on your way to the races in the season.
Pune may have changed but heritage institutions like Dorabjee still preserve the flavour of yesteryear Pune. I spoon some Biryani onto my tongue, seal my lips, close my eyes, turn my senses inwards with full consciousness to imbibe and savour the unique medley of juices released by the succulent piece of mutton, the bitterish-sweet taste of the slightly burnt crisp fried onions, and the spicy flavoursome rice. It is superlative delicious authentic cuisine at its best. Dorabjee serves the best heritage mutton biryani in Pune – no doubt about it. [Blue Nile and Good Luck are nearly as good].The fervent atmosphere of the place and exquisite quality of the food is such that one eats enthusiastically, with wholehearted zest and gusto; not apologetically and self-consciously, as one tends to do, trying to be prim and proper, in highfalutin restaurants.
At Dorabjee, you can enjoy every morsel of your food with passionate ardour.
And as I reach blissful satiety I realize that a well-filled stomach radiates a kind of spiritual happiness.
Art of Leisure
The ideal way to end this rich spicy repast is to cool it off with a Falooda.
So I walk down Sachapir Street, cross Main Street, and head for Badshah on East Street to down a deliciously sweet and chilled Rose flavored Royal Falooda.
And then to Kayani, down East Street, to pick up some Shrewsbury Biscuits and Chocolate Walnut Cake. I stand outside Kayani, wondering what to do. Maybe I can go to Manney’s and browse some more. If Landmark has got the ambiance, Manney’s got the books!
And then just loiter down Main Street admiring pretty looking things, till I am tired and hungry.
Maybe I will have some sandwiches, a roll and cold coffee at Marzorin. Or pastries and a softy at Pasteurs.
Or a Burger at Burger King, or a Chopsuey at East End, down East Street.
Maybe Kathi Rolls at Olympia, Chicken Masala at George, Chana Bhatura at Monafood, Sev Barfi at Bhavnagri, Wafers at Budhani, or Sizzlers at The Place next to Manneys, or one more Biryani at Blue Nile near the GPO.
The possibilities are endless!Or should I see the movie at Victory opposite, or at West End nearby?
Maybe I'll jump into the first bus I see and let it take me wherever it goes.
How about going for a long walk on Laxmi road into the heart of town?
Or an idyll beside the river in Bund Garden, or Saras Baug, or Sambhaji Park?
Or maybe I will just head home.
Oh, yes indeed, the possibilities are truly endless!
I am free to do whatever I choose to do!
I can loaf to my heart's content!
To continue to spend a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner!
Relish moments of perfect leisure.You can take my word for it, dear reader.
There is nothing you will enjoy more than loafing.
It is only when you cease to do the things you have to do, and do the things you like to do, and you want to do, that you achieve the highest value of your time.
The freedom to enjoy life is the ultimate reward.
Why should you defer happiness waiting for some elusive abstract rewards?
What reward could be greater than a life enjoyed as it is lived? If you do not find happiness as you are, where you are, here and now, you will never find it.
There is always plenty in life right now to enjoy for one who is determined to enjoy it.
The feast of life is before you.
Do you have the appetite to enjoy the feast of life? So my dear friend, discover the art of loafing, and you will redeem the art of living from the business of living. The Art of Travelling, The Art of Happiness, The Art of Eating, The Art of Living, The Art of Loafing, The Art of Leisure - all inextricably intertwined, isn’t it?
Dear Reader, do tell us about your glorious carefree leisurely loafing experiences in your favourite city too!
I’ll end with a recap on how to realize the highest value of your time: “It is only when you cease to do the things you have to do, and do the things you like to do and you want to do, that you achieve the highest value of your time”
Liked this article?
Want to read more such musings, recipes and go on food-walks with me?
Do you have an Appetite for a Stroll?
Dear Reader, why don't you get a copy of Appetite for a Stroll by just clicking the links below?
http://www.indiaplaza.in/finalpage.aspx?storename=books&sku=9788190690096&ct=2
http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
mailto:vikramkarve@sify.com
APPETITE FOR A STROLL
A Glorious Day in Pune
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Musings on the Art of Leisure from my delicious Foodie Adventures Book Appetite for a Stroll
Art of Loafing
Please tell me, Dear Reader: What is loafing? Idling away your time on useless things?
Aimless Loitering?
Loitering! Sounds a bit derogatory, isn't it?
Okay let’s say it is aimless wandering – Perfectly useless time spent in a perfectly useless manner!
Yes. That’s how I would like to define the art of loafing - spending perfectly useless time in a perfectly useless manner!
Foodwalking
And what, Dear Reader, is foodwalking?Loitering, or rather walking, in search of good food. Not so aimless loitering!
That's what I did once – long back. I loafed in Pune.
Foodwalked. In search of good food.
I spent a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner – “Foodwalking in Pune”.
I still have fond nostalgic memories of that glorious day. Let me tell you about it.
A Glorious Day
It is a beautiful morning. I try to furtively slip out of my house unnoticed, but I am stopped in my tracks by my wife's piercing voice, "Where are you going"? "I don’t know?" I answer truthfully, and this adroit answer probably precludes the next question she is about to ask me, "What time are you coming back?" for she knows I will again truthfully answer, "I don’t know".
It’s true – I really don’t know where I am going!"Take the mobile with you," she shouts, but I pretend not to hear and make myself scarce and disappear as fast as possible for I do not want the manacles of technology to ruin my day. Dear fellow loafer - If you want to truly enjoy life beware of the technology trap!It's a bright day. I feel good.
Flush with a sense of carefree irresponsibility, I walk with a spring in my step. I am going to enjoy my leisure. Should I turn left? Should I turn right? Should I cross the road and go straight ahead?
I am free. Free to go wherever I desire. Free to enjoy my day as I want.
True freedom – to be able to travel at will with no destination to reach, no task to complete, no deadlines to meet.
Just Loaf. Aimlessly. Timelessly. Pure Leisure.
Spend a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner. I see a bus. I stop it and hop in. "Where do you want to go?" the conductor asks. "Where does this bus go?" I ask. "Pune Railway Station."
"Okay. One ticket to Pune Railway Station," I say holding out a tenner. The conductor gives me an amused look and hands me a ticket and a rupee coin.
I sit down on a vacant window-seat.
I think interesting thoughts and enjoy the view through the window.
On these trips of mine I prefer travelling by bus and, of course, I love to walk on foot.
Driving my car on the terrible potholed, crowded and chaotic roads in the terrible traffic of Pune makes me go crazy, and, at my age, I dare not venture out too far on my scooter, lest I land up with broken bones in hospital or, worse, lifeless in Vaikunth or Kailas crematoriums! That's what I sometimes do on these glorious trips of mine. Just jump into the first bus that comes along and let it take you wherever it goes.
Just go where life leads you.
Last time I landed up in the heart of Pune near Shaniwar Wada.
In Mumbai, Kolkata, Chennai, Bangalore and Delhi loafing is even more exciting, as there are so many more routes and choices, trains, buses, walks, and you can serendipitously explore so many novel and exotic places you would not dream of going to in normal course. The bus reaches the Pune Railway Station. It’s been a smooth ride.
Anonymity
I get down and admire the magnificent heritage stone building of Pune Railway Station. I stand in the porch and look inside. Trains, crowds, announcements, horns, cacophony, and chaos – I love the “railway” atmosphere.
On impulse, I enter, and stroll on the platform, panning my gaze all over, and stopping once in a while to feast my eyes on any attractive object that arrests my attention. "Want a seat?" a porter asks. "No," I say. "Where are you going?" he pursues. "Nowhere," I say. "Waiting for someone," he asks, probably in anticipation of porterage. "No," I say. He stares at me for a moment and walks off with a look of perplexed dejection.
I look around. Everyone is waiting to go somewhere, or for someone. I am waiting to go nowhere, and for nobody.
So I walk out of the station and head for Shiv Kailash Milk Bar bang opposite on the other side of the road. If you arrive at Pune by train on a hot morning, never make the blunder of heading for the rickshaw stand. You'll get all stressed up waiting in the never-ending queue and haggling with the rickshawallas trying to con you.
Just cross the road to Shiv Kailash, sit under the shade on one of the stainless steel stools placed on the pavement, invigorate yourself with a tall glass of cool refreshing lassi (which is guaranteed to banish the depleting effects of the tiresome train journey) and tell the waiter to hail a rickshaw from the many hanging around.
This is what I have been doing for so many years, during my numerous homecomings, since the days when Pune was called Poona. Shiv Kailash serves the best lassi in Pune. It’s almost as good as the one at Pehelwan at the end on Lanka near BHU in Varanasi. The lassi freshly made in front of you topped off with a generous dollop of soft fresh cream. The sumptuous fulfilling soothing lassi is thick, lip-smacking, nourishing, and gives me a heavenly feeling.
I sip slowly, relishing every mouthful, almost eating the delectable fluid after letting it perambulate on my tongue, as I watch the world go about its business outside.
People come in a jiffy; gulp their glasses of lassi down the hatch in a hurry, and rush away, while I blissfully savour each and every drop of the delicious creamy lassi. I walk leisurely towards Camp. Past Mira College, GPO, Zero Milestone, Police Headquarters, Nehru Memorial Hall, where I cross the Moledina Road admiring the imposing Lal Deval Synagogue, and turn left, past the place imperial Dorabjee Store Building used to be once. Now there is a huge shopping complex and a glitzy mall opposite. I reminisce. West End, New Empire, all the adorable landmarks gone. Now there are Malls and modern places like Landmark. Landmark – you know it don’t you?
Landmark is Pune’s swanky new music-cum-book store. Like Crossword – giving competition to the grand old Manney’s, International, Popular, TBS and the bookshops at Appa Balwant Chowk.
I walk in. The place is swarming with chic salesgirls and sales-boys. No one pays any attention to me. Maybe I blend well with the surroundings.
I realize the tremendous advantages of obscurity and the benefits of anonymity.
Had I been a successful person, rich and famous, or someone with a striking personality, people would notice me and I doubt I would have been able to enjoy myself with such carefree abandon.
Only non-achievers like me can truly enjoy a life of carefree irresponsibility and the unadulterated joys of genuine leisure. I roam around the ground floor music section. There are no music stations where you can listen to music like they have in Rhythm House and Planet-M in Mumbai. So I go the first floor bookstore. It’s spacious, neatly laid-out and looks impressive.
Browsing
The books are arranged subject-wise, clearly visible from anywhere. There are cushioned stools to sit and browse and also two long sofas below the huge tinted windows towards the far side.
I start from the left side. Food, Philosophy, Self-Help, Travel, Coffee Table, Erotica, Classics, Fiction, Computers, Children, Indian Writing there are books on every topic you can think of.
The tranquil ambiance is so soothing and conducive that I browse to my hearts content, loosing myself into that wonderful state of timelessness I experience sometimes when I am totally immersed into doing something I love. By the time I leave Landmark, cerebrally satiated, it is almost three in the afternoon, I am hungry, and in desperate need of gastronomic satiation. So I walk past Manney’s, West End, turn right on Main Street, cross Aurora Towers, turn right, walk past ABN Amro Bank, and turn left on Dastur Meher Road, a walk leisurely towards Sarbatwala Chowk till I reach Dorabjee and Sons.
A Leisurely Meal
I dive in through the low entrance and look around. The eatery is crowded, with noisy families bashing away regardless greedily devouring the heaps food before them. The mouth-watering aroma, and the sight of the appetizing food, creates in me such ravenous pangs of hunger that I quickly sit on the only vacant table and order a Mutton Biryani the signature dish of Dorabjee. As is the hallmark of specialty cuisine restaurants the menu is select just a few choice dishes a single page. There's Sali, Curry, Masala and Biryani in Mutton and Chicken; Kheema, Brain, Eggs, and combinations thereof, cutlets in gravy, and a few Veg dishes, for appearance sake. On Sundays, you can have Dhansak, maybe on your way to the races in the season.
Pune may have changed but heritage institutions like Dorabjee still preserve the flavour of yesteryear Pune. I spoon some Biryani onto my tongue, seal my lips, close my eyes, turn my senses inwards with full consciousness to imbibe and savour the unique medley of juices released by the succulent piece of mutton, the bitterish-sweet taste of the slightly burnt crisp fried onions, and the spicy flavoursome rice. It is superlative delicious authentic cuisine at its best. Dorabjee serves the best heritage mutton biryani in Pune – no doubt about it. [Blue Nile and Good Luck are nearly as good].The fervent atmosphere of the place and exquisite quality of the food is such that one eats enthusiastically, with wholehearted zest and gusto; not apologetically and self-consciously, as one tends to do, trying to be prim and proper, in highfalutin restaurants.
At Dorabjee, you can enjoy every morsel of your food with passionate ardour.
And as I reach blissful satiety I realize that a well-filled stomach radiates a kind of spiritual happiness.
Art of Leisure
The ideal way to end this rich spicy repast is to cool it off with a Falooda.
So I walk down Sachapir Street, cross Main Street, and head for Badshah on East Street to down a deliciously sweet and chilled Rose flavored Royal Falooda.
And then to Kayani, down East Street, to pick up some Shrewsbury Biscuits and Chocolate Walnut Cake. I stand outside Kayani, wondering what to do. Maybe I can go to Manney’s and browse some more. If Landmark has got the ambiance, Manney’s got the books!
And then just loiter down Main Street admiring pretty looking things, till I am tired and hungry.
Maybe I will have some sandwiches, a roll and cold coffee at Marzorin. Or pastries and a softy at Pasteurs.
Or a Burger at Burger King, or a Chopsuey at East End, down East Street.
Maybe Kathi Rolls at Olympia, Chicken Masala at George, Chana Bhatura at Monafood, Sev Barfi at Bhavnagri, Wafers at Budhani, or Sizzlers at The Place next to Manneys, or one more Biryani at Blue Nile near the GPO.
The possibilities are endless!Or should I see the movie at Victory opposite, or at West End nearby?
Maybe I'll jump into the first bus I see and let it take me wherever it goes.
How about going for a long walk on Laxmi road into the heart of town?
Or an idyll beside the river in Bund Garden, or Saras Baug, or Sambhaji Park?
Or maybe I will just head home.
Oh, yes indeed, the possibilities are truly endless!
I am free to do whatever I choose to do!
I can loaf to my heart's content!
To continue to spend a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner!
Relish moments of perfect leisure.You can take my word for it, dear reader.
There is nothing you will enjoy more than loafing.
It is only when you cease to do the things you have to do, and do the things you like to do, and you want to do, that you achieve the highest value of your time.
The freedom to enjoy life is the ultimate reward.
Why should you defer happiness waiting for some elusive abstract rewards?
What reward could be greater than a life enjoyed as it is lived? If you do not find happiness as you are, where you are, here and now, you will never find it.
There is always plenty in life right now to enjoy for one who is determined to enjoy it.
The feast of life is before you.
Do you have the appetite to enjoy the feast of life? So my dear friend, discover the art of loafing, and you will redeem the art of living from the business of living. The Art of Travelling, The Art of Happiness, The Art of Eating, The Art of Living, The Art of Loafing, The Art of Leisure - all inextricably intertwined, isn’t it?
Dear Reader, do tell us about your glorious carefree leisurely loafing experiences in your favourite city too!
I’ll end with a recap on how to realize the highest value of your time: “It is only when you cease to do the things you have to do, and do the things you like to do and you want to do, that you achieve the highest value of your time”
Liked this article?
Want to read more such musings, recipes and go on food-walks with me?
Do you have an Appetite for a Stroll?
Dear Reader, why don't you get a copy of Appetite for a Stroll by just clicking the links below?
http://www.indiaplaza.in/finalpage.aspx?storename=books&sku=9788190690096&ct=2
http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
mailto:vikramkarve@sify.com
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