Please click the link below and read on my creative writing blog a story on How Not to Cure Alcoholism
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/04/alcoholism.htm
Cheers
Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
Monday, April 27, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
MY FAVOURITE SHORT STORY BOOK
THE NIGHT TRAIN AT DEOLI
My Favourite Short Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
I love reading short stories. You can read a short story in one sitting and it immediately fills you with an exquisite sense of satisfaction.
I love writing short stories too, and I am sure you have read many of my short stories in my blog.
Dear Reader, let me tell you about my all time favourite short story – The Night Train at Deoli by Ruskin Bond.
The Night Train at Deoli is a beautiful story of unrequited love.
Each one of us has experienced this wonderfully painful emotion of unrequited love.
Dear Reader, I am sure you too have experienced the delightful heart-ache of longing, yearning – an alluring attraction for someone who is out of reach – a one way love – a love unreciprocated. Well I am quite familiar with the delicate tenderness of unrequited love; in fact, my life story is a story of unrequited loves.
The Night Train at Deoli is narrated in first person by a college boy who travels by the night train from Delhi to Dehra Dun every year to spend his summer vacations at his grandmother’s place. On its journey up the hills of the terai, early in the morning, the train stops at Deoli, a lonely station in the wilderness... “Why it stopped at Deoli. I don’t know. Nothing ever happened. Nobody got off the train and nobody got in…and then the bell would sound, the guard would blow his whistle, and presently Deoli would be left behind and forgotten” – isn’t the description brilliant, so breathtaking in its simplicity.
On one such journey the boy sees a girl at Deoli, selling baskets, and is smitten by her… “I sat up awake for the rest of the journey. I could not rid my mind of the picture of the girl’s face and her dark, smouldering eyes”.
He looks out for her on his return journey and is thrilled when he sees her… “I felt an unexpected thrill when I saw her…I sprang off the foot-board and waved to her. When she saw me, she smiled. She was pleased that I remembered her. I was pleased that she remembered me. We were both pleased, and it was almost like a meeting of old friends”…superb writing, isn’t it…simply superb.
It is time for the train to leave, and for the lovers to part… “I felt the impulse to put her on the train there and then…I caught her hand and held it… ‘I have to go to Delhi,’ I said…she nodded, ‘I do not have to go anywhere.’…the guard blew his whistle…and how I hated the guard for doing that…”
Beautifully poignant, marvellously written, touches the very fragile chords of your heart, isn’t it?
I will not tell you the rest of this story, but I can assure you, that if you are a lover at heart, you will be touched with compassion for the protagonist and as the story elevates you to the romantic mood you will relate your very own tale of unrequited love.
Though The Night Train at Deoli is my all time favourite, I like many stories in this anthology, especially, The Woman on Platform 8, His Neighbour’s Wife and Death of a Familiar.
If you are a lover of the fiction short story I am sure you have this delightful book; if you don’t, do get a copy for your bookcase to delve into whenever you are in a blue mood nostalgically yearning for your unrequited love.
[The Night Train at Deoli and other Stories by Ruskin Bond – Book Review by Vikram Karve]
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
My Favourite Short Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
I love reading short stories. You can read a short story in one sitting and it immediately fills you with an exquisite sense of satisfaction.
I love writing short stories too, and I am sure you have read many of my short stories in my blog.
Dear Reader, let me tell you about my all time favourite short story – The Night Train at Deoli by Ruskin Bond.
The Night Train at Deoli is a beautiful story of unrequited love.
Each one of us has experienced this wonderfully painful emotion of unrequited love.
Dear Reader, I am sure you too have experienced the delightful heart-ache of longing, yearning – an alluring attraction for someone who is out of reach – a one way love – a love unreciprocated. Well I am quite familiar with the delicate tenderness of unrequited love; in fact, my life story is a story of unrequited loves.
The Night Train at Deoli is narrated in first person by a college boy who travels by the night train from Delhi to Dehra Dun every year to spend his summer vacations at his grandmother’s place. On its journey up the hills of the terai, early in the morning, the train stops at Deoli, a lonely station in the wilderness... “Why it stopped at Deoli. I don’t know. Nothing ever happened. Nobody got off the train and nobody got in…and then the bell would sound, the guard would blow his whistle, and presently Deoli would be left behind and forgotten” – isn’t the description brilliant, so breathtaking in its simplicity.
On one such journey the boy sees a girl at Deoli, selling baskets, and is smitten by her… “I sat up awake for the rest of the journey. I could not rid my mind of the picture of the girl’s face and her dark, smouldering eyes”.
He looks out for her on his return journey and is thrilled when he sees her… “I felt an unexpected thrill when I saw her…I sprang off the foot-board and waved to her. When she saw me, she smiled. She was pleased that I remembered her. I was pleased that she remembered me. We were both pleased, and it was almost like a meeting of old friends”…superb writing, isn’t it…simply superb.
It is time for the train to leave, and for the lovers to part… “I felt the impulse to put her on the train there and then…I caught her hand and held it… ‘I have to go to Delhi,’ I said…she nodded, ‘I do not have to go anywhere.’…the guard blew his whistle…and how I hated the guard for doing that…”
Beautifully poignant, marvellously written, touches the very fragile chords of your heart, isn’t it?
I will not tell you the rest of this story, but I can assure you, that if you are a lover at heart, you will be touched with compassion for the protagonist and as the story elevates you to the romantic mood you will relate your very own tale of unrequited love.
Though The Night Train at Deoli is my all time favourite, I like many stories in this anthology, especially, The Woman on Platform 8, His Neighbour’s Wife and Death of a Familiar.
If you are a lover of the fiction short story I am sure you have this delightful book; if you don’t, do get a copy for your bookcase to delve into whenever you are in a blue mood nostalgically yearning for your unrequited love.
[The Night Train at Deoli and other Stories by Ruskin Bond – Book Review by Vikram Karve]
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
Sunday, April 12, 2009
A Fiction Short Story - DERBY
Please click the link and read on my creative writing blog my fiction short story, a suspense thriller, titled DERBY
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/04/derby.htm
Regards
Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/04/derby.htm
Regards
Vikram Karve
Friday, April 10, 2009
Sherry says BOW WOW
Hi Friends. Bow Wow.
Have a look at my photos
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/04/birthday-girl-part-1.htm
You liked my photos?
By the way, I am a writer too.
Here is my first piece of writing which I wrote when I was only seven months old.
Do tell me if you liked it; and I'll post some more about my delightful life.
My name is Sherry. Sherry Karve. I am a naughty young girl, I’m over seven months old and I live with my family in a lovely spacious bungalow surrounded by plenty of greenery.
I wake up early in the morning, jump off my sofa, go to my father’s bed, rub my cold wet nose against his hand and give him a loving lick with my warm soft tongue.
He grunts and growls and opens his sleepy eyes, and the moment he sees me his face lights up and he lovingly caresses me and says, “Good Morning, Sherry.” The he gets up from bed and opens the main door to let me jump out into the garden. First I do my ‘little job’ at my favorite place near the mango tree. Then I generally dig with my paws in the soft morning mud and sniff around with my keen beautiful black nose to find out if there are any new morning smells, not forgetting to run and welcome the milkman the moment he comes on his cycle.
When I return I find that my father is back in his bed and my mother is up and about. She pats and cuddles me and goes about her business making tea in the kitchen while I loiter around the house.
She surreptitiously sneaks to the bedroom and slyly hands over a tidbit to my half-sleeping father under the blanket when she thinks I am not looking. I pretend not to notice, as I do not want to spoil their fun. Earlier, when I was small and impatient, I used to snuffle out the tidbit from my father’s hand, but this spoilt his fun and he became grumpy. Now that I am a mature young girl well experienced in the ways of the human world and I have realized that it is better to act dumb and let these humans think they are smarter than me. So I go outside, sit down and put on a look of anticipation towards the gate and pretend not to notice my mother hiding and peeping through the corner of the window and giggling to herself.
The moment the newspaperman comes on his cycle and shouts ‘paper’, I rush to the gate and fetch the newspaper in my mouth, gripping it just right between my teeth, and hold it up to my horizontal father, who gets up, takes the paper from me and gives me the dog-biscuit he’s been hiding in his hand, as my mother, who has rushed behind me, watches me with loving pride in her eyes. My brother and my sister, who till now were fast asleep in the other room, call out my name – “Sherry! Sherry!” – and as I dart between their beds wagging my tail, they both hug and cuddle me all over saying, “Good Morning, Sherry. Sherry is a good girl!” Everyone is cheerful and happy and my day has begun!
I love my family, even though they are humans; and I love my house, my surroundings, the place I stay, the life I live – but before I tell you all that, let me tell you where I came from.
My ‘birth-mother’ is a ferocious Doberman who lives in a bungalow in Kothrud in Pune and my ‘dog-father’ is unknown, though they suspect it may be the Labrador next door, or most likely the hound who lurks in the neighbourhood. For making my registration papers the vet wanted proof, so in the column against Breed he wrote ‘Doberman X’.
I was a sickly weakling, hardly a month old, the only girl, last of the litter of eleven, and the owners were wondering what to do with me. Nine of my handsome brothers had already been selected and taken away, and the owners wanted to keep the tenth, the most beautiful and healthy of them all. They had kept me all alone separated from my ferocious Doberman mother who was growling menacingly in a cage nearby. No one wanted me and I could hear people whispering how ugly and weak I was and I wondered what fate lay in store for me. It hurt to be unwanted and when I heard people talking about sending me away to a farmhouse, or ‘dispose’ me of, I felt terrified and shivered with fright as I wondered what was going to be my destiny.
One evening a few people came over and a gentle woman with kindness in her eyes looked at me, and on the spur of the moment lovingly picked me up, and the way she tenderly snuggled me I felt true love for the first time. This was my new mother. She took me securely and lovingly in her soft hands, got into a car and they all drove across Pune, past Aundh, across the river, till we reached a bungalow. The kind woman was wondering what her husband’s reaction would be. It was dark. I was scared and cuddled up snugly my mother’s arms to feel safer.
Suddenly I found a tough-looking bearded man staring at me. Shivering with fear I looked back at him in terror as he extended his hands towards me. But the moment he held me in his large cozy hands, caressed me lovingly, and put his finger tenderly in my mouth, I felt protected, loved, safe and secure.
This was my new father and he had already decided my name – Sherry – the same name of his earlier canine ‘daughter’. [By the way ‘Sherry’ means ‘beloved’ – not the wine drink you are thinking about!].
“She was destined to come here,” my mother said.
“Yes,” my father said feeding me warm milk.
They made a nice warm bed for me in a basket and put it below theirs. And as I drifted into sleep, they both fondled me with their hands. I felt so wonderful and happy for the first time in my life. I had found my true home and my family.
I am feeling quite sleepy now and I’ll end here and have a nap. If you want to know more about me, my delightfully mischievous life, and the naughty things I do, please let me know and I’ll tell you all about it!
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
Have a look at my photos
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/04/birthday-girl-part-1.htm
You liked my photos?
By the way, I am a writer too.
Here is my first piece of writing which I wrote when I was only seven months old.
Do tell me if you liked it; and I'll post some more about my delightful life.
My name is Sherry. Sherry Karve. I am a naughty young girl, I’m over seven months old and I live with my family in a lovely spacious bungalow surrounded by plenty of greenery.
I wake up early in the morning, jump off my sofa, go to my father’s bed, rub my cold wet nose against his hand and give him a loving lick with my warm soft tongue.
He grunts and growls and opens his sleepy eyes, and the moment he sees me his face lights up and he lovingly caresses me and says, “Good Morning, Sherry.” The he gets up from bed and opens the main door to let me jump out into the garden. First I do my ‘little job’ at my favorite place near the mango tree. Then I generally dig with my paws in the soft morning mud and sniff around with my keen beautiful black nose to find out if there are any new morning smells, not forgetting to run and welcome the milkman the moment he comes on his cycle.
When I return I find that my father is back in his bed and my mother is up and about. She pats and cuddles me and goes about her business making tea in the kitchen while I loiter around the house.
She surreptitiously sneaks to the bedroom and slyly hands over a tidbit to my half-sleeping father under the blanket when she thinks I am not looking. I pretend not to notice, as I do not want to spoil their fun. Earlier, when I was small and impatient, I used to snuffle out the tidbit from my father’s hand, but this spoilt his fun and he became grumpy. Now that I am a mature young girl well experienced in the ways of the human world and I have realized that it is better to act dumb and let these humans think they are smarter than me. So I go outside, sit down and put on a look of anticipation towards the gate and pretend not to notice my mother hiding and peeping through the corner of the window and giggling to herself.
The moment the newspaperman comes on his cycle and shouts ‘paper’, I rush to the gate and fetch the newspaper in my mouth, gripping it just right between my teeth, and hold it up to my horizontal father, who gets up, takes the paper from me and gives me the dog-biscuit he’s been hiding in his hand, as my mother, who has rushed behind me, watches me with loving pride in her eyes. My brother and my sister, who till now were fast asleep in the other room, call out my name – “Sherry! Sherry!” – and as I dart between their beds wagging my tail, they both hug and cuddle me all over saying, “Good Morning, Sherry. Sherry is a good girl!” Everyone is cheerful and happy and my day has begun!
I love my family, even though they are humans; and I love my house, my surroundings, the place I stay, the life I live – but before I tell you all that, let me tell you where I came from.
My ‘birth-mother’ is a ferocious Doberman who lives in a bungalow in Kothrud in Pune and my ‘dog-father’ is unknown, though they suspect it may be the Labrador next door, or most likely the hound who lurks in the neighbourhood. For making my registration papers the vet wanted proof, so in the column against Breed he wrote ‘Doberman X’.
I was a sickly weakling, hardly a month old, the only girl, last of the litter of eleven, and the owners were wondering what to do with me. Nine of my handsome brothers had already been selected and taken away, and the owners wanted to keep the tenth, the most beautiful and healthy of them all. They had kept me all alone separated from my ferocious Doberman mother who was growling menacingly in a cage nearby. No one wanted me and I could hear people whispering how ugly and weak I was and I wondered what fate lay in store for me. It hurt to be unwanted and when I heard people talking about sending me away to a farmhouse, or ‘dispose’ me of, I felt terrified and shivered with fright as I wondered what was going to be my destiny.
One evening a few people came over and a gentle woman with kindness in her eyes looked at me, and on the spur of the moment lovingly picked me up, and the way she tenderly snuggled me I felt true love for the first time. This was my new mother. She took me securely and lovingly in her soft hands, got into a car and they all drove across Pune, past Aundh, across the river, till we reached a bungalow. The kind woman was wondering what her husband’s reaction would be. It was dark. I was scared and cuddled up snugly my mother’s arms to feel safer.
Suddenly I found a tough-looking bearded man staring at me. Shivering with fear I looked back at him in terror as he extended his hands towards me. But the moment he held me in his large cozy hands, caressed me lovingly, and put his finger tenderly in my mouth, I felt protected, loved, safe and secure.
This was my new father and he had already decided my name – Sherry – the same name of his earlier canine ‘daughter’. [By the way ‘Sherry’ means ‘beloved’ – not the wine drink you are thinking about!].
“She was destined to come here,” my mother said.
“Yes,” my father said feeding me warm milk.
They made a nice warm bed for me in a basket and put it below theirs. And as I drifted into sleep, they both fondled me with their hands. I felt so wonderful and happy for the first time in my life. I had found my true home and my family.
I am feeling quite sleepy now and I’ll end here and have a nap. If you want to know more about me, my delightfully mischievous life, and the naughty things I do, please let me know and I’ll tell you all about it!
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
Sunday, March 22, 2009
ITBHU ALUMNI MEET PUNE CHAPTER
This evening, on Sunday the 22nd of March 2009, we had the first get-together of the Pune Chapter of the ITBHU Alumni Association at the Poona Golf Club. A large number of alumni ranging from golden oldies of the 1960s batches to fresh 2008 graduates enjoyed a delightful evening of nostalgic memories and camaraderie.
We are grateful to Pushpendra and all the dedicated volunteers who took the initiative to organize this pioneering alumni event in Pune and wish the Pune chapter grows from strength to strength and we look forward to many such fruitful interactive alumni events. I am sure Pushpendra will write about this memorable evening on the alumni website.
Meanwhile, to set the ball rolling on this occasion, I am posting below a small nostalgic piece of writing I had written on my blog in Jan 2008 to revive fond memories of our Alma Mater.
MEMORIES OF MY ALMA MATER
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The class of 1972, who graduated in 1977, the first IIT-JEE batch, had organized a reunion at our alma mater, ITBHU, Varanasi, in the first week of January 2008. I had planned to go, but couldn’t make it, owing to a sudden unexpected job relocation. I’m sure all my classmates who were there revived fond memories of our student life at Banaras, so here is my nostalgic piece on my alma mater.
ITBHU [Erstwhile BENCO – Banaras Engineering College]
Institute of Technology
Banaras Hindu University
Varanasi
India
Let’s begin with the college song
IT BHU Chorus
HAND IN HAND WE GO TOGETHER,
HAND IN HAND WE ARE SINGING ALONG.
SIDE BY SIDE WE FACE THE MUSIC,
WIN OR LOSE WE ALWAYS SING A SONG.
WAVE THE FLAG, WE’LL KEEP IT FLYING,
TILL THE SUN SHINES O’ER THE LAND.
IF THE LUCK IS GOOD WE’LL ALWAYS SHARE THE CHEERS,
IF THE LUCK IS BAD, WE’LL GLADLY BEAR THE TEARS.
TILL THE DAY WE TURN THE CORNER,
WE’LL KEEP ON AS LONG AS WE ARE HAND IN HAND.
IF YOU KEEP ON SMILING AT THE RAINBOW,
YOU WILL NEVER MIND A SHOWER OF RAIN.
KEEP YOUR HEAD ON THE CLOUDS,
DON’T GET LOST IN THE CROWDS.
ALWAYS KEEP THE SONG IN YOUR HEART,
AND SHOUT HIP-HIP HURRAH.
Composed by:
Prof. Charles. A. King
The First Principal of the
Banaras Engineering College (BENCO)
On what basis do you judge an educational institution – an Engineering College or a B-School? In today’s world there is just one criterion – market value – the starting salaries and campus placement the students get – the more outrageously astronomical the pay packets, and the greater the percentage of lucrative campus placements – the better the institution. And with the increasing commercialization of education, many institutes blatantly compete, advertise, and focus on these materialistic aspects to attract students – it’s a rat race.
I feel the cardinal yardstick for appraising the true merit of an educational institution is the value-addition it instills in its alumni – and I’m not talking of utility and materialistic values alone; but more importantly the inculcation and enhancement of intrinsic and intangible higher values. The student should feel he or she has changed for the better, professionally and personally; and so should other stakeholders observing the student from the outside be able to discern the value enhancement.
I studied for my B.Tech. in Electronics Engineering at ITBHU from 1972 to 1977 (first batch IIT JEE) and I experienced the well-rounded value addition I have mentioned above. Later in life, being academically inclined, I continued studying, and have completed many courses, a Post Graduate Diploma in Management, an Engineering and Technology Post Graduation at a premier IIT [M. Tech. - IIT Delhi] and have worked in multifarious capacities and even taught for many years at prestigious academic institutions of higher learning, but I shall always cherish my days at ITBHU the most. I knew I was a better man, in my entirety, having passed through the portals of ITBHU, and I’m sure those scrutinizing me from the outside felt the same way.
ITBHU was amalgamated by integrating three of the country’s oldest and best engineering colleges: BENCO (Banaras Engineering College) – the first in the Orient, and certainly in India, to introduce the disciplines of Electrical and Mechanical Engineering, MINMET – the pioneer in Mining and Metallurgy in India, and College of Technology – the first to start Chemical and Ceramic Engineering. Indeed these three institutions were the harbingers of industrialization in our country.
In my time ITBHU was indeed a center of excellence, an apt institution to study in, and a lovely place to live in. The vast verdant lush green semi-circular campus at the southern end of Varanasi, the largest university campus I have ever seen, with its pleasant and relaxed atmosphere was ideal for student life. And being a part of a premier university afforded one a consummate multidisciplinary experience.
It was a delightful and fulfilling experience I will always cherish – learning from erudite and totally dedicated Professors, who were authorities in their fields of specialization, amidst excellent academic facilities and ambience, elaborate labs and workshops, lush green campus, well-designed comfortable hostels, delicious food, expansive sports fields and facilities for all types of sports, the beautiful swimming pool, the unique well-stocked and intellectually inspiring Gaekwad library, and the exquisite temple that added a spiritual dimension to the scholarly ambiance.
One could learn heritage and foreign languages, fine arts, music, indology, philosophy, yoga, pursue hobbies like numismatics – the avenues for learning were mind-boggling. Many of us learnt music and foreign languages at this sanctum of learning. We had a truly holistic education and the idyllic environs of BHU helped one develop a philosophical attitude to life.
Like all premier institutes ITBHU was fully residential, which fostered camaraderie and facilitated lifelong friendships amongst the alumni. I can never forget those delightful moments in Dhanrajgiri, Morvi, Vishwakarma, Vishveswarayya and CV Raman hostels, mouthwatering memories of the Lavang Lata and Lassi at Pehelwan’s in Lanka, the Lal Peda opposite Sankat Mochan, Chinese at La Bella in Lanka, and the delicious wholesome cuisine of Banaras, watching movies at the quaint and unique cinema halls, strolling on the holy ghats, and the cycle trips all over Varanasi, Sarnath, and even across the holy and sacred Ganga on the pontoon bridge to watch the Ram Lila at Ramnagar.
Way back then, in the 1970s, ITBHU was a wonderful place to study engineering and live one’s formative years in. I wonder what my dear alma mater is like now!
VIKRAM KARVE
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
We are grateful to Pushpendra and all the dedicated volunteers who took the initiative to organize this pioneering alumni event in Pune and wish the Pune chapter grows from strength to strength and we look forward to many such fruitful interactive alumni events. I am sure Pushpendra will write about this memorable evening on the alumni website.
Meanwhile, to set the ball rolling on this occasion, I am posting below a small nostalgic piece of writing I had written on my blog in Jan 2008 to revive fond memories of our Alma Mater.
MEMORIES OF MY ALMA MATER
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The class of 1972, who graduated in 1977, the first IIT-JEE batch, had organized a reunion at our alma mater, ITBHU, Varanasi, in the first week of January 2008. I had planned to go, but couldn’t make it, owing to a sudden unexpected job relocation. I’m sure all my classmates who were there revived fond memories of our student life at Banaras, so here is my nostalgic piece on my alma mater.
ITBHU [Erstwhile BENCO – Banaras Engineering College]
Institute of Technology
Banaras Hindu University
Varanasi
India
Let’s begin with the college song
IT BHU Chorus
HAND IN HAND WE GO TOGETHER,
HAND IN HAND WE ARE SINGING ALONG.
SIDE BY SIDE WE FACE THE MUSIC,
WIN OR LOSE WE ALWAYS SING A SONG.
WAVE THE FLAG, WE’LL KEEP IT FLYING,
TILL THE SUN SHINES O’ER THE LAND.
IF THE LUCK IS GOOD WE’LL ALWAYS SHARE THE CHEERS,
IF THE LUCK IS BAD, WE’LL GLADLY BEAR THE TEARS.
TILL THE DAY WE TURN THE CORNER,
WE’LL KEEP ON AS LONG AS WE ARE HAND IN HAND.
IF YOU KEEP ON SMILING AT THE RAINBOW,
YOU WILL NEVER MIND A SHOWER OF RAIN.
KEEP YOUR HEAD ON THE CLOUDS,
DON’T GET LOST IN THE CROWDS.
ALWAYS KEEP THE SONG IN YOUR HEART,
AND SHOUT HIP-HIP HURRAH.
Composed by:
Prof. Charles. A. King
The First Principal of the
Banaras Engineering College (BENCO)
On what basis do you judge an educational institution – an Engineering College or a B-School? In today’s world there is just one criterion – market value – the starting salaries and campus placement the students get – the more outrageously astronomical the pay packets, and the greater the percentage of lucrative campus placements – the better the institution. And with the increasing commercialization of education, many institutes blatantly compete, advertise, and focus on these materialistic aspects to attract students – it’s a rat race.
I feel the cardinal yardstick for appraising the true merit of an educational institution is the value-addition it instills in its alumni – and I’m not talking of utility and materialistic values alone; but more importantly the inculcation and enhancement of intrinsic and intangible higher values. The student should feel he or she has changed for the better, professionally and personally; and so should other stakeholders observing the student from the outside be able to discern the value enhancement.
I studied for my B.Tech. in Electronics Engineering at ITBHU from 1972 to 1977 (first batch IIT JEE) and I experienced the well-rounded value addition I have mentioned above. Later in life, being academically inclined, I continued studying, and have completed many courses, a Post Graduate Diploma in Management, an Engineering and Technology Post Graduation at a premier IIT [M. Tech. - IIT Delhi] and have worked in multifarious capacities and even taught for many years at prestigious academic institutions of higher learning, but I shall always cherish my days at ITBHU the most. I knew I was a better man, in my entirety, having passed through the portals of ITBHU, and I’m sure those scrutinizing me from the outside felt the same way.
ITBHU was amalgamated by integrating three of the country’s oldest and best engineering colleges: BENCO (Banaras Engineering College) – the first in the Orient, and certainly in India, to introduce the disciplines of Electrical and Mechanical Engineering, MINMET – the pioneer in Mining and Metallurgy in India, and College of Technology – the first to start Chemical and Ceramic Engineering. Indeed these three institutions were the harbingers of industrialization in our country.
In my time ITBHU was indeed a center of excellence, an apt institution to study in, and a lovely place to live in. The vast verdant lush green semi-circular campus at the southern end of Varanasi, the largest university campus I have ever seen, with its pleasant and relaxed atmosphere was ideal for student life. And being a part of a premier university afforded one a consummate multidisciplinary experience.
It was a delightful and fulfilling experience I will always cherish – learning from erudite and totally dedicated Professors, who were authorities in their fields of specialization, amidst excellent academic facilities and ambience, elaborate labs and workshops, lush green campus, well-designed comfortable hostels, delicious food, expansive sports fields and facilities for all types of sports, the beautiful swimming pool, the unique well-stocked and intellectually inspiring Gaekwad library, and the exquisite temple that added a spiritual dimension to the scholarly ambiance.
One could learn heritage and foreign languages, fine arts, music, indology, philosophy, yoga, pursue hobbies like numismatics – the avenues for learning were mind-boggling. Many of us learnt music and foreign languages at this sanctum of learning. We had a truly holistic education and the idyllic environs of BHU helped one develop a philosophical attitude to life.
Like all premier institutes ITBHU was fully residential, which fostered camaraderie and facilitated lifelong friendships amongst the alumni. I can never forget those delightful moments in Dhanrajgiri, Morvi, Vishwakarma, Vishveswarayya and CV Raman hostels, mouthwatering memories of the Lavang Lata and Lassi at Pehelwan’s in Lanka, the Lal Peda opposite Sankat Mochan, Chinese at La Bella in Lanka, and the delicious wholesome cuisine of Banaras, watching movies at the quaint and unique cinema halls, strolling on the holy ghats, and the cycle trips all over Varanasi, Sarnath, and even across the holy and sacred Ganga on the pontoon bridge to watch the Ram Lila at Ramnagar.
Way back then, in the 1970s, ITBHU was a wonderful place to study engineering and live one’s formative years in. I wonder what my dear alma mater is like now!
VIKRAM KARVE
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Nostalgic Pune Memories - HATARI
HATARI
My Favourite Wild-Life Movie
By
VIKRAM KARVE
When I was a small boy, in the early 1960s, I lived in Pune on Tilak Road near Madiwale Colony in Sadashiv Peth. Pune was a lovely place and life was good. It was easy to be happy for our threshold of happiness was so low that it simple things filled us with joy – like a morning run up Parvati Hill, a stroll in Talyatla Ganpati Saras Baug Garden, enjoying the frolics of animals in the Peshwe Park Zoo, a ride in the toy-train Phulrani , unrestrained playing with carefree abandon on the swings, see-saws and slides in adjoining park, a yummy bhel made by the hugely bearded Kalpana Bhelwala, a cream-roll or doughnut at Ashok Bakery, Patties, Nankatai and Khari at Hindustan Bakery, Ice Cream at Bua, Kaware and Ganu Shinde – so many things to do – and once in a while, we would bicycle down Camp to partake the inimitable non-veg samosas and tea at Naaz, Chinese at Kamling, Paan at George and enjoy a Hollywood Movie and Ice Cream Soda at West End.
Oh yes, West End – I vividly remember seeing my first ever movie sitting on those inimitable easy chairs and sipping deliciously fizzy ice cream soda in the interval at West End’s famous soda fountain. The name of the movie was HATARI and till today Hatari remains my all time favourite Wild Life Adventure Film.
A man’s first love always has an enduring place in his heart; likewise a man’s first movie remains etched in his memories forever. So when I chanced upon a DVD of Hatari, I immediately brought it home and relived fond memories of my first movie experience, albeit with an improvised home-made ice cream soda.
HATARI is sheer fun – a clean entertaining film which can be enjoyed by people of all ages, from kids to grandparents. It is a spectacular adventure story, fast paced, exciting, thrilling, beautifully filmed on locations with real wildlife amidst exceptionally picturesque scenery, featuring hunting scenes which are simply astonishing. One you start watching Hatari, you are so engrossed that you remain glued to the screen from start to finish.
Hatari, in Swahili, means Danger, and true to its name the movie keeps you enthralled with a sense of mesmerizing danger as you watch the amazing hunting scenes featuring speeding jeeps, stampeding animals and the rugged African terrain. Everything looks real, authentic – real animals, giraffes, leopards, elephants, and many others, in their natural glory and natural surroundings, like you've never seen them before.
Hatari is a simple story of a group of hunters in Africa, led by the inimitable John Wayne, who capture wild animals for zoos. The movie begins with a fantastic scene showing JohnWayne and his team driving speeding jeeps and trucks across the empty, dusty plains, herding dozens of rhinos, trying to lasso one of the most difficult wild animals to catch. It is sheer spine-tingling thrilling entertainment.
Hatari has those rare, pleasant, naturally authentic settings, clear easy-on-the-eye photography, happenings and action which we do not see now-a-days in modern adventure films which often overtax the viewer by too many special effects.
Hatari’s simple plot, the camaraderie, the light romance, the subtle comedy, the delightful music [especially the foot tapping number "Baby Elephant Walk"], the visually enthralling scenery, and the fascinating animals make this film a thoroughly enjoyable viewing experience.
Hatari is a fun movie, pure entertainment, a visual treat with beautiful eye catching landscape, and plenty of thrilling action – the ideal feel-good movie for you to enjoy with your entire family.
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
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
My Favourite Wild-Life Movie
By
VIKRAM KARVE
When I was a small boy, in the early 1960s, I lived in Pune on Tilak Road near Madiwale Colony in Sadashiv Peth. Pune was a lovely place and life was good. It was easy to be happy for our threshold of happiness was so low that it simple things filled us with joy – like a morning run up Parvati Hill, a stroll in Talyatla Ganpati Saras Baug Garden, enjoying the frolics of animals in the Peshwe Park Zoo, a ride in the toy-train Phulrani , unrestrained playing with carefree abandon on the swings, see-saws and slides in adjoining park, a yummy bhel made by the hugely bearded Kalpana Bhelwala, a cream-roll or doughnut at Ashok Bakery, Patties, Nankatai and Khari at Hindustan Bakery, Ice Cream at Bua, Kaware and Ganu Shinde – so many things to do – and once in a while, we would bicycle down Camp to partake the inimitable non-veg samosas and tea at Naaz, Chinese at Kamling, Paan at George and enjoy a Hollywood Movie and Ice Cream Soda at West End.
Oh yes, West End – I vividly remember seeing my first ever movie sitting on those inimitable easy chairs and sipping deliciously fizzy ice cream soda in the interval at West End’s famous soda fountain. The name of the movie was HATARI and till today Hatari remains my all time favourite Wild Life Adventure Film.
A man’s first love always has an enduring place in his heart; likewise a man’s first movie remains etched in his memories forever. So when I chanced upon a DVD of Hatari, I immediately brought it home and relived fond memories of my first movie experience, albeit with an improvised home-made ice cream soda.
HATARI is sheer fun – a clean entertaining film which can be enjoyed by people of all ages, from kids to grandparents. It is a spectacular adventure story, fast paced, exciting, thrilling, beautifully filmed on locations with real wildlife amidst exceptionally picturesque scenery, featuring hunting scenes which are simply astonishing. One you start watching Hatari, you are so engrossed that you remain glued to the screen from start to finish.
Hatari, in Swahili, means Danger, and true to its name the movie keeps you enthralled with a sense of mesmerizing danger as you watch the amazing hunting scenes featuring speeding jeeps, stampeding animals and the rugged African terrain. Everything looks real, authentic – real animals, giraffes, leopards, elephants, and many others, in their natural glory and natural surroundings, like you've never seen them before.
Hatari is a simple story of a group of hunters in Africa, led by the inimitable John Wayne, who capture wild animals for zoos. The movie begins with a fantastic scene showing JohnWayne and his team driving speeding jeeps and trucks across the empty, dusty plains, herding dozens of rhinos, trying to lasso one of the most difficult wild animals to catch. It is sheer spine-tingling thrilling entertainment.
Hatari has those rare, pleasant, naturally authentic settings, clear easy-on-the-eye photography, happenings and action which we do not see now-a-days in modern adventure films which often overtax the viewer by too many special effects.
Hatari’s simple plot, the camaraderie, the light romance, the subtle comedy, the delightful music [especially the foot tapping number "Baby Elephant Walk"], the visually enthralling scenery, and the fascinating animals make this film a thoroughly enjoyable viewing experience.
Hatari is a fun movie, pure entertainment, a visual treat with beautiful eye catching landscape, and plenty of thrilling action – the ideal feel-good movie for you to enjoy with your entire family.
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
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Creative Writing
ART OF CREATIVE WRITING
[Food for Thought]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
A distinguished and renowned author started Creative Writing classes.
An eager-beaver man-in-a-hurry came to join and asked the author, “How long will I take to master the ‘Art of Creative Writing’?”
“If you put in a reasonable amount of effort, read for about two hours every day and write 500 words every night before you sleep, it will take you one year to learn the ‘Art of Creative Writing’,” said the author to the prospective student.
“One year! That is too long. I want fast results. I will put in maximum effort, read for eight hours everyday, burn the midnight oil and write 5000 words every night!” the enthusiastic budding writer-in-a-hurry said.
“In that case it will take you ten years,” the eminent author said calmly and walked away.
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
[Food for Thought]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
A distinguished and renowned author started Creative Writing classes.
An eager-beaver man-in-a-hurry came to join and asked the author, “How long will I take to master the ‘Art of Creative Writing’?”
“If you put in a reasonable amount of effort, read for about two hours every day and write 500 words every night before you sleep, it will take you one year to learn the ‘Art of Creative Writing’,” said the author to the prospective student.
“One year! That is too long. I want fast results. I will put in maximum effort, read for eight hours everyday, burn the midnight oil and write 5000 words every night!” the enthusiastic budding writer-in-a-hurry said.
“In that case it will take you ten years,” the eminent author said calmly and walked away.
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Fresh Green Chilli Ice Cream
APPETITE FOR A STROLL
GREEN CHILLI ICE CREAM
by
VIKRAM KARVE
[ An excerpt from my book APPETITE FOR A STROLL
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm
http://www.indianexpress.com/story/358363.html ]
It’s been a long long time since I’ve relished a bowl of “Green Chilli Ice Cream” but the zestful stimulating taste still lingers on my tongue.
Never before had I enjoyed eating ice cream so much. It was indeed a unique and passionate eating experience. Let me tell you about it.
I love ice cream. A friend of mine told me that there is a place opposite the Chowpatty Sea Face in Mumbai India that serves “green chilli” ice cream. I didn’t believe him. I have savored myriad flavours of ice cream but “green chilli ice cream” seemed a bit far fetched. On questioning, my friend confessed that he had only heard about it, not eaten it himself.
The very concept of green chilli ice cream whetted my curiosity so much that at sunset I was standing in front of Bachelorr’s (that’s the spelling on the menu card) Ice Cream and Juice Stall, my appetite fully stimulated by a long brisk walk.
It was there on the menu card – Green Chilli Ice Cream. I ordered it and walked with the bowl to a lonely bench nearby to enjoy the eating experience in glorious solitude.
The ice cream looks a creamy pink (not chilli green as I had expected it to be).
I close my eyes and smell the ice cream – a nice sweet milky fragrance, a bit fruity; certainly no trace of the piquant penetrating sting of chillies.
With a tremor of trepidation I spoon a bit of the green chilli ice cream on my tongue.
My taste buds are smothered by a sweet mellifluous sensation as the cold creamy ice cream starts melting on my tongue. I am disappointed, feel conned – it seems it was just hype. This is run of the mill stuff. Or is it?
Wait a moment!
As the ice cream melts away I suddenly feel a sharp piercing fiery taste that sizzles my tongue, stings through my nose and penetrates my brain. My tongue is on fire and, like instant firefighting, I instinctively spoon a blob of ice cream onto my tongue.
The cool ice cream quenches my burning tongue with its almost ambrosial taste but the moment it melts away I am zipped like a rocket with the sharp punch of the green chillies.
So that was the art of eating green chilli ice cream. Hot and cold. Scorch and quench. Sting and soothe. Contrasting sensations. Like Alternating Current.
Sharp tangy kicks burning through the cool syrupy sweetness till your system is fully perked up. And a trace of the biting tangy flavour of the green chilli remains within me for a long long time as I walk away.
Green Chilli Ice Cream doesn’t satiate – it excites, stimulates, gives you a “kick”, zests you up. It’s a truly passionate delight. I searched for it everywhere in Pune, but couldn’t get it.
So I’ll have to wait for my next trip to Mumbai to enjoy my favourite zesty ice cream again! Bachelorr’s has many other exciting and different flavors too, but I love Green Chilli.
Dear fellow Foodies, the next time you are in Mumbai, after your busy hectic day, head for Chowpatty at midnight and relish a bowl of green chilli ice cream.
And do let us know how you enjoyed the experience!
And if you want to relish more such delicious foodie adventures why don’t you read my book APPETITE FOR A STROLL – to know more just click the links below:
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm
http://www.indiaplaza.in/finalpage.aspx?storename=books&sku=9788190690096&ct=2
http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o
Happy Eating!
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
mailto:vikramkarve@sify.com
mailto:vikramkarve@hotmail.com
GREEN CHILLI ICE CREAM
by
VIKRAM KARVE
[ An excerpt from my book APPETITE FOR A STROLL
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm
http://www.indianexpress.com/story/358363.html ]
It’s been a long long time since I’ve relished a bowl of “Green Chilli Ice Cream” but the zestful stimulating taste still lingers on my tongue.
Never before had I enjoyed eating ice cream so much. It was indeed a unique and passionate eating experience. Let me tell you about it.
I love ice cream. A friend of mine told me that there is a place opposite the Chowpatty Sea Face in Mumbai India that serves “green chilli” ice cream. I didn’t believe him. I have savored myriad flavours of ice cream but “green chilli ice cream” seemed a bit far fetched. On questioning, my friend confessed that he had only heard about it, not eaten it himself.
The very concept of green chilli ice cream whetted my curiosity so much that at sunset I was standing in front of Bachelorr’s (that’s the spelling on the menu card) Ice Cream and Juice Stall, my appetite fully stimulated by a long brisk walk.
It was there on the menu card – Green Chilli Ice Cream. I ordered it and walked with the bowl to a lonely bench nearby to enjoy the eating experience in glorious solitude.
The ice cream looks a creamy pink (not chilli green as I had expected it to be).
I close my eyes and smell the ice cream – a nice sweet milky fragrance, a bit fruity; certainly no trace of the piquant penetrating sting of chillies.
With a tremor of trepidation I spoon a bit of the green chilli ice cream on my tongue.
My taste buds are smothered by a sweet mellifluous sensation as the cold creamy ice cream starts melting on my tongue. I am disappointed, feel conned – it seems it was just hype. This is run of the mill stuff. Or is it?
Wait a moment!
As the ice cream melts away I suddenly feel a sharp piercing fiery taste that sizzles my tongue, stings through my nose and penetrates my brain. My tongue is on fire and, like instant firefighting, I instinctively spoon a blob of ice cream onto my tongue.
The cool ice cream quenches my burning tongue with its almost ambrosial taste but the moment it melts away I am zipped like a rocket with the sharp punch of the green chillies.
So that was the art of eating green chilli ice cream. Hot and cold. Scorch and quench. Sting and soothe. Contrasting sensations. Like Alternating Current.
Sharp tangy kicks burning through the cool syrupy sweetness till your system is fully perked up. And a trace of the biting tangy flavour of the green chilli remains within me for a long long time as I walk away.
Green Chilli Ice Cream doesn’t satiate – it excites, stimulates, gives you a “kick”, zests you up. It’s a truly passionate delight. I searched for it everywhere in Pune, but couldn’t get it.
So I’ll have to wait for my next trip to Mumbai to enjoy my favourite zesty ice cream again! Bachelorr’s has many other exciting and different flavors too, but I love Green Chilli.
Dear fellow Foodies, the next time you are in Mumbai, after your busy hectic day, head for Chowpatty at midnight and relish a bowl of green chilli ice cream.
And do let us know how you enjoyed the experience!
And if you want to relish more such delicious foodie adventures why don’t you read my book APPETITE FOR A STROLL – to know more just click the links below:
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm
http://www.indiaplaza.in/finalpage.aspx?storename=books&sku=9788190690096&ct=2
http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o
Happy Eating!
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
mailto:vikramkarve@sify.com
mailto:vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Monday, January 26, 2009
SHORT FICTION by VIKRAM KARVE - A LOVE STORY
Please click the link below and read the love story on my creative writing blog:
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/01/how-i-discovered-love.htm
Regards
Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/01/how-i-discovered-love.htm
Regards
Vikram Karve
Saturday, January 24, 2009
FOOD BOOK - ART OF EATING
APPETITE FOR A STROLL
[Foodie Adventures, Simple Recipes, Musings on The Art of Eating and Vikram Karve’s Authentic Guide to Value For Money Food in Mumbai and Pune]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
I have recently written a Foodie Adventures Book – Appetite for a Stroll.Please click the link and read the review of Appetite for a Stroll titled Food for Soul in the Indian Express [Pune] Sunday 7th September 2008
http://www.indianexpress.com/story/358363.html
expressonline book review
http://www.expressindia.com/latest-news/Food-for-soul/358363/
If you want to get a copy of the book just click the links below:
http://www.indiaplaza.in/finalpage.aspx?storename=books&sku=9788190690096&ct=2
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm
I am sure you will enjoy reading the book, the delicious food at all the value for money eateries and cooking the recipes.
Happy Reading and Happy Eating
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
[Foodie Adventures, Simple Recipes, Musings on The Art of Eating and Vikram Karve’s Authentic Guide to Value For Money Food in Mumbai and Pune]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
I have recently written a Foodie Adventures Book – Appetite for a Stroll.Please click the link and read the review of Appetite for a Stroll titled Food for Soul in the Indian Express [Pune] Sunday 7th September 2008
http://www.indianexpress.com/story/358363.html
expressonline book review
http://www.expressindia.com/latest-news/Food-for-soul/358363/
If you want to get a copy of the book just click the links below:
http://www.indiaplaza.in/finalpage.aspx?storename=books&sku=9788190690096&ct=2
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm
I am sure you will enjoy reading the book, the delicious food at all the value for money eateries and cooking the recipes.
Happy Reading and Happy Eating
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
IF YOU CANNOT DO IT OUTSOURCE IT
A spoof on outsourcing - just click the link below and read on my fiction blog:
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/01/outsourcing.htm
Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/01/outsourcing.htm
Vikram Karve
INVISIBLE GATES OF PUNE
THE INVISIBLE GATES OF PUNE
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Every city has its “Gates” – especially historical cities with Forts and Heritage structures. While some actual physical gates are visible, a few are not. Here are a few “Gates” of Pune that are not visible and exist in parlance only. If you find the actual physical “Gate” do let us know.
Peru Gate [maybe derives its name from the guava orchards that may have existed in the vicinity or is it a corrupted Indianized pronunciation of the name Perron, a British Officer after whom the gate was named as I read somewhere?]. Located in the heart of the city surrounded by the best authentic food joints and near Bharat Natya Mandir and Tilak Smarak Mandir.
Pool Gate or Pul Gate [Is there a Bridge or Pool nearby?]. In Pune camp.
Swar Gate [is it named after swari - where one begins one’s travel?]. At the junction of Satara Road and Solapur Road, housing the main State Transport and PMT Bus Terminus.
Quarter Gate [Was the Quarter Guard of a military unit housed here? I will not even risk mentioning the other more popular meaning of the word “quarter” in local lingo!]
Mhasoba Gate [Named after a temple of the same name in the vicinity].
Mariaaee Gate [Is it the Marathi version of Mother Mary (aaee – mother, Maria – Mary) and named after the church nearby?]
Ramoshi Gate. I’m totally clueless and I just can’t figure out!
Body Gate – This one is near Aundh, on the way to Mumbai past Bremen Chowk, and has cute heritage buildings which house police offices. Probably Body Gate housed a body of cavalry outside the Aundh Military Camp across the Mula river.
Dear Reader: Do you know of any more such invisible “Gates” in Pune?
And if you have more information on the gates mentioned above, do comment and let us know.
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Every city has its “Gates” – especially historical cities with Forts and Heritage structures. While some actual physical gates are visible, a few are not. Here are a few “Gates” of Pune that are not visible and exist in parlance only. If you find the actual physical “Gate” do let us know.
Peru Gate [maybe derives its name from the guava orchards that may have existed in the vicinity or is it a corrupted Indianized pronunciation of the name Perron, a British Officer after whom the gate was named as I read somewhere?]. Located in the heart of the city surrounded by the best authentic food joints and near Bharat Natya Mandir and Tilak Smarak Mandir.
Pool Gate or Pul Gate [Is there a Bridge or Pool nearby?]. In Pune camp.
Swar Gate [is it named after swari - where one begins one’s travel?]. At the junction of Satara Road and Solapur Road, housing the main State Transport and PMT Bus Terminus.
Quarter Gate [Was the Quarter Guard of a military unit housed here? I will not even risk mentioning the other more popular meaning of the word “quarter” in local lingo!]
Mhasoba Gate [Named after a temple of the same name in the vicinity].
Mariaaee Gate [Is it the Marathi version of Mother Mary (aaee – mother, Maria – Mary) and named after the church nearby?]
Ramoshi Gate. I’m totally clueless and I just can’t figure out!
Body Gate – This one is near Aundh, on the way to Mumbai past Bremen Chowk, and has cute heritage buildings which house police offices. Probably Body Gate housed a body of cavalry outside the Aundh Military Camp across the Mula river.
Dear Reader: Do you know of any more such invisible “Gates” in Pune?
And if you have more information on the gates mentioned above, do comment and let us know.
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
FLASH FICTION - LOVE AND ENVY
Please click on the url link below and read my story on my creative writing blog:
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/01/one-girl-two-rivals.htm
Regards
Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/01/one-girl-two-rivals.htm
Regards
Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Deccan Queen Romance
SHORT FICTION - A ROMANCE
ROMANTIC JOURNEY ON THE DECCAN QUEEN
[A Love Story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Have you ever seen a handsome strapping young man reading a Mills & Boon Romance? And that too so blatantly in front of so many people in the Deccan Queen!
I did. On the Deccan Queen. Yes, on the Deccan Queen – my favourite train that takes you from Mumbai to Pune every evening. Let me tell you about it.
But first I’ll tell you about myself. My name is Pooja. I am twelve years old and I’m a pretty girl. I love train journeys and I have traveled a lot, especially on the Mumbai – Pune route. But this was the first time I was traveling alone. So my loving father, who doted on me since I was the only thing he had in this world, was very very anxious and worried.
My father had come to see me off at Mumbai’s magnificent CST Railway Terminus. He seemed uneasy and kept on saying the same things again and again, “Pooja, take care. Don’t get down at any station. It’s only a three-hour journey. She’ll come to pick you up at Pune. I’ve told her your coach and seat number. And I’ve told uncle to look after you.”
‘Uncle’ was a young man of about twenty-five on the seat next to mine. He was very handsome, well-groomed, smartly dressed in a light blue T-shirt and trendy Jeans. 25? Maybe slightly older – but certainly not 30! He had a smart elegant beard. A proper well-kept full-grown beard, not the repulsive dirty-looking horrible two-day designer stubble young men sport nowadays. They think the filthy hideous stubble on their face looks fashionable, but let me tell you it looks sick and makes me feel like puking. But this guy had a gorgeous beard – it suited his face perfectly and made him look very handsome and manly.
“Don’t you worry, sir,” he said to my father, “she’ll be delivered safe and sound.” He gave me a friendly smile. I liked him and felt happy to have him as a companion. And of course, I had the window seat in case he turned out to be a bore.
Now my father was talking to the train-conductor, probably telling him the same things. I felt embarrassed but I didn’t say anything. For I knew my father loved me very much and genuinely cared for me. After all, he had no one else in this world except me.
I felt worried about him too. That’s why when he kissed me on the cheek just before the train started, I whispered in his ear, “Papa, don’t drink too much.” I knew how much he hated to be lonely, and now I wouldn’t be there to look after him, to take care of him, to mother him!
The train moved. I looked at my watch. Ten minutes past five. Right on the dot. Soon the mighty Deccan Queen was speeding towards Pune. We would be there by dinner-time.
I looked at ‘uncle’ – just a sideways glance. But he did not notice me as he had already buried himself in the pages of the Mumbai Mid-Day newspaper. I took out my Walkman from my bag, kept in on my knee, adjusted the earphones in my ears and looked at him again. He was still buried in his newspaper, totally oblivious of the world around him.
I pressed my earphones tighter and tried to hear the music from my Walkman, pretended to ignore him, made pretence of trying to look out of the tinted-glass window of the air-conditioned chair car. But my eyes kept wandering, trying to steal a glance at him when I thought he wouldn’t notice. Hoping he would notice me and say something; talk to me. But he remained glued to his newspaper as if I just did not exist! How mean and snobbish? It seemed he had no manners! I hated him and decided to ignore him.
After some time the young man next to me folded his newspaper and kept it in the rack in front of him. Then he pulled out his bag from below his seat, opened the zip, took out a book from his bag and kept it on his knees in front of him. It was a ‘Mills & Boon’ romance! I smiled to myself. He seemed to be an interesting character. Young men in their twenties don’t read Mills & Boon. Or do they? You tell me.
He opened the Mills & Boon and started reading intently. I know it is bad manners to disturb someone who is reading, but I was so curious to know more about him that I just could not resist. I shut the Walkman, pulled earphones out of my ears, and said, “Hello, uncle. I’m Pooja.”
“Oh yes! I know. Pooja. Age 12.”
“How…?” I asked surprised.
“I read the reservation chart,” he said.
“No. No. Papa must have told you my name,” I said.
“But he didn’t tell me your age, young lady,” he smiled mischievously and said, “Whenever I begin a train journey I always find out who my fellow-passengers are.”
“You a detective or something?”
“No, No!” he said smiling. “I’m a Shippie. A Chief Officer in the Merchant Navy.” He held out his hand, "Girish Pradhan. And don’t call me uncle. Call me Girish – just Girish.”
We shook hands. His grip was firm and strong. Robust. Reassuring. Redoubtable. Just like he looked.
The Mills & Boon paperback fell off. He picked it up and put it back on his knees. It really seemed funny – a solid macho man like him reading Mills & Boon.
He spoke, “Been to Pune before?”
“Oh yes,” I said. “We lived in Pune before we came to Mumbai.”
“Then you can help me out,” he said. “You know where’s a restaurant called Vaishali?”
“You don’t know Vaishali?” I asked surprised.
“No,” he said. “It’s the first time I’m going to Pune. But she told me it was a famous place. I’d find it easily. That’s what she told me!”
“She?”
“The person I have an appointment with. 10 o’clock tomorrow morning. She promised she would be there.”
“At Vaishali?”
“Yes,” he said. “She told me that the Dosa at Vaishali is even better than the one at Shompen.”
“Shompen?”
“It’s the best restaurant in Port Blair. That’s where we met for the first time.”
“Port Blair! That’s where you met her, is it?” I asked. This was getting very interesting.
“Yes. Last Year. We were sailing from Singapore to Mumbai and docked en-route at Port Blair for some emergency repairs. It was just a short stay of four days.”
I love to talk to someone who loves to talk. And this was like a fairy tale. It was getting exciting and I wanted to ask him so many things. Who was she? Her name? Was it love at first sight? What happened? About the Mills & Boon on his lap?
But before I could speak, he suddenly said,” Hey! Why am I telling you all this? It’s supposed to be secret.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Now you tell me about yourself, Pooja. Why are you going to Pune?” he asked.
“To see my new mother,” I blurted out without thinking. And then like a stupid fool I told him everything. I knew I was making a mistake but he was so easy to talk to that my words just came tumbling out. My mother’s sudden death. My father sinking into depression. His drinking problem. Everyone advising him to remarry. His refusal. Just for my sake. And this proposal. My father insisting that I see her first and we like each other. Everything – I told him everything; and it made me feel good!
“You mean your father hasn’t even met her?” Girish asked.
“No. We haven't. Papa has only spoken to her on the phone. Some relatives and friends of Papa are arranging the whole thing,” I said. “Papa’s worried. He loves me so much. He wants me to like her first.” I couldn’t speak any longer. Tears had welled up in my eyes.
For some time there was silence. I felt very embarrassed at having told everything to a complete stranger. But strangely after telling him everything I felt good too.
I wiped my tears and nose with my handkerchief and said, “I am sorry, uncle.”
“Uncle? Hey come on. I’m not that old. Call me Girish. I told you, didn’t I? And don’t worry. Everything will work out.”
“For you too!” I said.
“I hope so,” he said. I’m making it to this appointment with great difficulty – I made it almost by a hair’s breadth. I signed off my ship in Perth yesterday evening and managed to reach Mumbai just a few hours ago. And here I am on this train to Pune. She told me if I didn’t keep my appointment with her tomorrow, she’d go ahead and marry someone else.”
“So romantic!” I said. “Just like in the movie …”
“An Affair to Remember?”
“No. Some Hindi Movie… I don’t remember the name,” I said, “You must be dying to meet her, isn’t it?”
“Of course I’m dying to meet her,” he said. “It’s more than one year since we said goodbye to each other at Port Blair. The tenth of November last year we promised each other we would meet tomorrow – the 4th of January this year at 10 a.m. at Vaishali restaurant in Pune.”
“Why 4th of January?”
“We met for the first time on the 4th of January last year. And yes, it’s her birthday!”
“But you must have kept in touch – e-mailed – surely spoken on the phone.”
“No. She didn’t give me her address. She was in Port Blair on a holiday. And me? Well I’ve been sailing since. She said if I really loved her I would come.” He paused, picked up the Mills & Boon romance book from his lap and said,” The only thing she gave me was this.”
“Can I see it?”
“No. You are too small for Mills & Boon.” He kept the book in the plastic book-rack in front of his seat, turned to me and said, “Hey, Pooja. Why don’t you come to Vaishali tomorrow at ten? We’ll celebrate her birthday together.”
“But you haven’t even told me her name.”
“You’ll find out tomorrow,” he said. “And suppose she doesn’t come, I’ll be heartbroken. Then you can console me. But I’m sure she will be there at Vaishali waiting for me. She promised. Whatever her decision, she said she won’t ditch me. She’ll definitely be there for our rendezvous.”
I looked out of the tinted-glass window. The sun was about to set. Outside it was getting dark. Inside it was cold. The Deccan Queen slowed down. It was Karjat, the station in the foothills just before the mighty Sahaydri Mountains .
I turned to Girish and said, “Let’s get down. You get yummy batata-vadas here.”
“Your father...”
“Please?”
“Okay.”
We strolled on the platform eating the delicious batata-vadas with the lip-smacking chutney, and suddenly Girish said, “I’m nervous. I hope everything works out well.”
“Me too,” I said. “Papa needs someone. But he’s so worried for me. Whether I’ll like her or not. And she too?”
“Of course, she will like you. You will like each other. I’m sure things will be fine. For you, and also for me. Why don’t you bring her also to Vaishali tomorrow morning along with you? And we will all celebrate!” he said.
“I’ll try.”
“You must.”
“Okay. If I like her.”
“But you must come.”
“I will,” I said. “Like a kabab-me-haddi.”
We laughed and got inside the train. Pushed by the banker engines the Deccan Queen began its climb up the steep Western Ghats .
“Hi, Girish!” an excited voice spoke from above.
I looked up. Another young bearded man. But this was a boisterous type.
“Oh, Hi Sanjiv. What are you doing here?” Girish said getting up form his seat.
“Going to Lonavala,” the man named Sanjiv answered.
“Lonavala?”
“I’ve bought a cottage in Lonavala. A sort of farmhouse. Why don’t you come and see it?”
“No, No,” Girish said, “I’ve got an important appointment in Pune.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning. At ten.”
“And where are you going to spend night?”
“I don’t know. Some hotel or someplace.”
“Why don’t you spend the night with me? I’ve got a bottle of Scotch and we’ve got so much to talk. I’ll drop you first thing in the morning in time for your appointment. It’s only an hour’s drive to Pune. I’ll get my car serviced too.”
I could sense that Girish wanted to go, so I said, “It’s okay. I’ll manage. She’s definitely coming to pick me up.”
Sanjiv looked at me in a curious manner, so Girish said, “This is Pooja. My co-passenger. I promised her father I’d deliver her safely to Pune.”
“Hi, young lady,” Sanjiv said. “Girish and I are batch mates and shipmates. We’re meeting after a long time.”
I knew that both of them were dying to talk to each other, have a good time, so I said to Girish, “You get down at Lonavala. I promise I’ll look after myself. I’ve got my mobile with me and I’ve got her number also. I’ll ring up my Papa the moment I reach Pune.”
I insisted, and egged on by Sanjiv, a hesitant Girish got down at Lonavala, but not before we exchanged each other’s cell numbers and he requested the lady across the aisle to look after me.
It was only after the train left Lonavala on its final leg to Pune did I notice that Girish had forgotten his ‘Mills & Boon’ romance paperback. I took out the book from the rack and opened it. On the first page was written in beautiful cursive handwriting:
To My Dear Girish,
In remembrance of the lovely time we had together in Port Blair.
Snehal
PS – Remember, there is a thin line between pity and love.
As I looked at the message something started happening within me. Snehal? Same Shenal? It couldn’t be? Or could it? Snehal! A loving person. That’s what the name means. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Is Snehal a common name? Maybe. It's possible. Maybe there are many Snehals in Pune.
The Deccan Queen is rushing towards Pune. There will be a Snehal waiting for me at Pune Railway Station. A Snehal I am going to meet for the fisrt time. A Snehal my father wants to be my new mother.And do you know, what is the first thing I am going to ask her?
I am going to ask her which is the best restaurant in Port Blair.
And whatever her answer, I am going to take her to Vaishali restaurant on Fergusson College Road at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. And I'm dying to see the expression on her face, and Girish's too, when they see each other at the rendezvous.
I will not return the Mills & Boon romance book to Girish. I’ll keep it for myself. I want to read it on my journey back to Mumbai by the Deccan Queen.
And then I'll tell my Papa all about the lovey-dovey rendezvous in Vaishali.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2008
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://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/01/romantic-journey-on-the-deccan-queen.htm
ROMANTIC JOURNEY ON THE DECCAN QUEEN
[A Love Story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Have you ever seen a handsome strapping young man reading a Mills & Boon Romance? And that too so blatantly in front of so many people in the Deccan Queen!
I did. On the Deccan Queen. Yes, on the Deccan Queen – my favourite train that takes you from Mumbai to Pune every evening. Let me tell you about it.
But first I’ll tell you about myself. My name is Pooja. I am twelve years old and I’m a pretty girl. I love train journeys and I have traveled a lot, especially on the Mumbai – Pune route. But this was the first time I was traveling alone. So my loving father, who doted on me since I was the only thing he had in this world, was very very anxious and worried.
My father had come to see me off at Mumbai’s magnificent CST Railway Terminus. He seemed uneasy and kept on saying the same things again and again, “Pooja, take care. Don’t get down at any station. It’s only a three-hour journey. She’ll come to pick you up at Pune. I’ve told her your coach and seat number. And I’ve told uncle to look after you.”
‘Uncle’ was a young man of about twenty-five on the seat next to mine. He was very handsome, well-groomed, smartly dressed in a light blue T-shirt and trendy Jeans. 25? Maybe slightly older – but certainly not 30! He had a smart elegant beard. A proper well-kept full-grown beard, not the repulsive dirty-looking horrible two-day designer stubble young men sport nowadays. They think the filthy hideous stubble on their face looks fashionable, but let me tell you it looks sick and makes me feel like puking. But this guy had a gorgeous beard – it suited his face perfectly and made him look very handsome and manly.
“Don’t you worry, sir,” he said to my father, “she’ll be delivered safe and sound.” He gave me a friendly smile. I liked him and felt happy to have him as a companion. And of course, I had the window seat in case he turned out to be a bore.
Now my father was talking to the train-conductor, probably telling him the same things. I felt embarrassed but I didn’t say anything. For I knew my father loved me very much and genuinely cared for me. After all, he had no one else in this world except me.
I felt worried about him too. That’s why when he kissed me on the cheek just before the train started, I whispered in his ear, “Papa, don’t drink too much.” I knew how much he hated to be lonely, and now I wouldn’t be there to look after him, to take care of him, to mother him!
The train moved. I looked at my watch. Ten minutes past five. Right on the dot. Soon the mighty Deccan Queen was speeding towards Pune. We would be there by dinner-time.
I looked at ‘uncle’ – just a sideways glance. But he did not notice me as he had already buried himself in the pages of the Mumbai Mid-Day newspaper. I took out my Walkman from my bag, kept in on my knee, adjusted the earphones in my ears and looked at him again. He was still buried in his newspaper, totally oblivious of the world around him.
I pressed my earphones tighter and tried to hear the music from my Walkman, pretended to ignore him, made pretence of trying to look out of the tinted-glass window of the air-conditioned chair car. But my eyes kept wandering, trying to steal a glance at him when I thought he wouldn’t notice. Hoping he would notice me and say something; talk to me. But he remained glued to his newspaper as if I just did not exist! How mean and snobbish? It seemed he had no manners! I hated him and decided to ignore him.
After some time the young man next to me folded his newspaper and kept it in the rack in front of him. Then he pulled out his bag from below his seat, opened the zip, took out a book from his bag and kept it on his knees in front of him. It was a ‘Mills & Boon’ romance! I smiled to myself. He seemed to be an interesting character. Young men in their twenties don’t read Mills & Boon. Or do they? You tell me.
He opened the Mills & Boon and started reading intently. I know it is bad manners to disturb someone who is reading, but I was so curious to know more about him that I just could not resist. I shut the Walkman, pulled earphones out of my ears, and said, “Hello, uncle. I’m Pooja.”
“Oh yes! I know. Pooja. Age 12.”
“How…?” I asked surprised.
“I read the reservation chart,” he said.
“No. No. Papa must have told you my name,” I said.
“But he didn’t tell me your age, young lady,” he smiled mischievously and said, “Whenever I begin a train journey I always find out who my fellow-passengers are.”
“You a detective or something?”
“No, No!” he said smiling. “I’m a Shippie. A Chief Officer in the Merchant Navy.” He held out his hand, "Girish Pradhan. And don’t call me uncle. Call me Girish – just Girish.”
We shook hands. His grip was firm and strong. Robust. Reassuring. Redoubtable. Just like he looked.
The Mills & Boon paperback fell off. He picked it up and put it back on his knees. It really seemed funny – a solid macho man like him reading Mills & Boon.
He spoke, “Been to Pune before?”
“Oh yes,” I said. “We lived in Pune before we came to Mumbai.”
“Then you can help me out,” he said. “You know where’s a restaurant called Vaishali?”
“You don’t know Vaishali?” I asked surprised.
“No,” he said. “It’s the first time I’m going to Pune. But she told me it was a famous place. I’d find it easily. That’s what she told me!”
“She?”
“The person I have an appointment with. 10 o’clock tomorrow morning. She promised she would be there.”
“At Vaishali?”
“Yes,” he said. “She told me that the Dosa at Vaishali is even better than the one at Shompen.”
“Shompen?”
“It’s the best restaurant in Port Blair. That’s where we met for the first time.”
“Port Blair! That’s where you met her, is it?” I asked. This was getting very interesting.
“Yes. Last Year. We were sailing from Singapore to Mumbai and docked en-route at Port Blair for some emergency repairs. It was just a short stay of four days.”
I love to talk to someone who loves to talk. And this was like a fairy tale. It was getting exciting and I wanted to ask him so many things. Who was she? Her name? Was it love at first sight? What happened? About the Mills & Boon on his lap?
But before I could speak, he suddenly said,” Hey! Why am I telling you all this? It’s supposed to be secret.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Now you tell me about yourself, Pooja. Why are you going to Pune?” he asked.
“To see my new mother,” I blurted out without thinking. And then like a stupid fool I told him everything. I knew I was making a mistake but he was so easy to talk to that my words just came tumbling out. My mother’s sudden death. My father sinking into depression. His drinking problem. Everyone advising him to remarry. His refusal. Just for my sake. And this proposal. My father insisting that I see her first and we like each other. Everything – I told him everything; and it made me feel good!
“You mean your father hasn’t even met her?” Girish asked.
“No. We haven't. Papa has only spoken to her on the phone. Some relatives and friends of Papa are arranging the whole thing,” I said. “Papa’s worried. He loves me so much. He wants me to like her first.” I couldn’t speak any longer. Tears had welled up in my eyes.
For some time there was silence. I felt very embarrassed at having told everything to a complete stranger. But strangely after telling him everything I felt good too.
I wiped my tears and nose with my handkerchief and said, “I am sorry, uncle.”
“Uncle? Hey come on. I’m not that old. Call me Girish. I told you, didn’t I? And don’t worry. Everything will work out.”
“For you too!” I said.
“I hope so,” he said. I’m making it to this appointment with great difficulty – I made it almost by a hair’s breadth. I signed off my ship in Perth yesterday evening and managed to reach Mumbai just a few hours ago. And here I am on this train to Pune. She told me if I didn’t keep my appointment with her tomorrow, she’d go ahead and marry someone else.”
“So romantic!” I said. “Just like in the movie …”
“An Affair to Remember?”
“No. Some Hindi Movie… I don’t remember the name,” I said, “You must be dying to meet her, isn’t it?”
“Of course I’m dying to meet her,” he said. “It’s more than one year since we said goodbye to each other at Port Blair. The tenth of November last year we promised each other we would meet tomorrow – the 4th of January this year at 10 a.m. at Vaishali restaurant in Pune.”
“Why 4th of January?”
“We met for the first time on the 4th of January last year. And yes, it’s her birthday!”
“But you must have kept in touch – e-mailed – surely spoken on the phone.”
“No. She didn’t give me her address. She was in Port Blair on a holiday. And me? Well I’ve been sailing since. She said if I really loved her I would come.” He paused, picked up the Mills & Boon romance book from his lap and said,” The only thing she gave me was this.”
“Can I see it?”
“No. You are too small for Mills & Boon.” He kept the book in the plastic book-rack in front of his seat, turned to me and said, “Hey, Pooja. Why don’t you come to Vaishali tomorrow at ten? We’ll celebrate her birthday together.”
“But you haven’t even told me her name.”
“You’ll find out tomorrow,” he said. “And suppose she doesn’t come, I’ll be heartbroken. Then you can console me. But I’m sure she will be there at Vaishali waiting for me. She promised. Whatever her decision, she said she won’t ditch me. She’ll definitely be there for our rendezvous.”
I looked out of the tinted-glass window. The sun was about to set. Outside it was getting dark. Inside it was cold. The Deccan Queen slowed down. It was Karjat, the station in the foothills just before the mighty Sahaydri Mountains .
I turned to Girish and said, “Let’s get down. You get yummy batata-vadas here.”
“Your father...”
“Please?”
“Okay.”
We strolled on the platform eating the delicious batata-vadas with the lip-smacking chutney, and suddenly Girish said, “I’m nervous. I hope everything works out well.”
“Me too,” I said. “Papa needs someone. But he’s so worried for me. Whether I’ll like her or not. And she too?”
“Of course, she will like you. You will like each other. I’m sure things will be fine. For you, and also for me. Why don’t you bring her also to Vaishali tomorrow morning along with you? And we will all celebrate!” he said.
“I’ll try.”
“You must.”
“Okay. If I like her.”
“But you must come.”
“I will,” I said. “Like a kabab-me-haddi.”
We laughed and got inside the train. Pushed by the banker engines the Deccan Queen began its climb up the steep Western Ghats .
“Hi, Girish!” an excited voice spoke from above.
I looked up. Another young bearded man. But this was a boisterous type.
“Oh, Hi Sanjiv. What are you doing here?” Girish said getting up form his seat.
“Going to Lonavala,” the man named Sanjiv answered.
“Lonavala?”
“I’ve bought a cottage in Lonavala. A sort of farmhouse. Why don’t you come and see it?”
“No, No,” Girish said, “I’ve got an important appointment in Pune.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning. At ten.”
“And where are you going to spend night?”
“I don’t know. Some hotel or someplace.”
“Why don’t you spend the night with me? I’ve got a bottle of Scotch and we’ve got so much to talk. I’ll drop you first thing in the morning in time for your appointment. It’s only an hour’s drive to Pune. I’ll get my car serviced too.”
I could sense that Girish wanted to go, so I said, “It’s okay. I’ll manage. She’s definitely coming to pick me up.”
Sanjiv looked at me in a curious manner, so Girish said, “This is Pooja. My co-passenger. I promised her father I’d deliver her safely to Pune.”
“Hi, young lady,” Sanjiv said. “Girish and I are batch mates and shipmates. We’re meeting after a long time.”
I knew that both of them were dying to talk to each other, have a good time, so I said to Girish, “You get down at Lonavala. I promise I’ll look after myself. I’ve got my mobile with me and I’ve got her number also. I’ll ring up my Papa the moment I reach Pune.”
I insisted, and egged on by Sanjiv, a hesitant Girish got down at Lonavala, but not before we exchanged each other’s cell numbers and he requested the lady across the aisle to look after me.
It was only after the train left Lonavala on its final leg to Pune did I notice that Girish had forgotten his ‘Mills & Boon’ romance paperback. I took out the book from the rack and opened it. On the first page was written in beautiful cursive handwriting:
To My Dear Girish,
In remembrance of the lovely time we had together in Port Blair.
Snehal
PS – Remember, there is a thin line between pity and love.
As I looked at the message something started happening within me. Snehal? Same Shenal? It couldn’t be? Or could it? Snehal! A loving person. That’s what the name means. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Is Snehal a common name? Maybe. It's possible. Maybe there are many Snehals in Pune.
The Deccan Queen is rushing towards Pune. There will be a Snehal waiting for me at Pune Railway Station. A Snehal I am going to meet for the fisrt time. A Snehal my father wants to be my new mother.And do you know, what is the first thing I am going to ask her?
I am going to ask her which is the best restaurant in Port Blair.
And whatever her answer, I am going to take her to Vaishali restaurant on Fergusson College Road at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. And I'm dying to see the expression on her face, and Girish's too, when they see each other at the rendezvous.
I will not return the Mills & Boon romance book to Girish. I’ll keep it for myself. I want to read it on my journey back to Mumbai by the Deccan Queen.
And then I'll tell my Papa all about the lovey-dovey rendezvous in Vaishali.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2008
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://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/01/romantic-journey-on-the-deccan-queen.htm
Friday, January 02, 2009
A ROMANCE STORY - HAPPY NEW YEAR
HAPPY NEW YEAR – A ROMANCE STORY
[Short Fiction]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
As he wished her a Happy New Year for the last time, and said good bye, Arun Rao was already regretting that he had put the matter so lightly.
He was forty-three, on the threshold of middle age, and terribly weary of his lingering bachelorhood. Sadhana could be his last chance.
As the boat pulled ashore, Sadhana looked at the imposing figure of Arun Rao standing on the deck of the huge ship recede into the darkness.
She waved a good-bye, feeling in her heart the very same sentiment, the same churning of emotions, which Arun was experiencing at that very moment.
For Sadhana, it had been a long time since she had been attracted towards a man. And she had sensed tender warmth in Arun’s behaviour towards her.
She had been very curious to see his ship – a massive oil tanker – and how he lived. Arun had even taken her to his cabin – a privileged excursion into an exclusively masculine word. It was impressive. Nothing can be as neatly arranged as a sailor’s cabin.
But Sadhana was depressed by its neatness and organization. This was the home of a self-sufficient man. He hardly needed a wife.
Her son, Sunil, was talking animatedly to a sailor who was pointing out the various lights on the ships at anchorage. Sunil had been full of excitement and had thoroughly enjoyed the visit to Arun’s ship. He was ten years old and needed a father figure – a real man. He seemed to have liked Arun and they had got along well, with Arun patiently answering Sunil’s numerous questions.
She wondered why Arun had treated them so lavishly and given them such expensive presents; especially that marvelous exclusive perfume he had insisted she try on there and then.
Sadhana was sure Arun had fallen in love with her and wanted to marry her.
But why had he hesitated? Was it because of her son, Sunil?
Captain Arun Rao lay down on his bunk and closed his eyes in self-commiseration. It was only too easy to remain a bachelor in the Merchant Navy and, after the early susceptible years, it became easier still. The insularity of ship-borne life suited a bachelor. But now, after meeting Sadhana and Sunil, Arun did feel keenly the lack of a family.
He knew he should have asked her, but he had remained tongue-tied – afraid of rejection – waiting for Sadhana to make the first move. But how could she? After all she was a woman. And there was Sunil, her son. Would he accept him as a father?
Arun wished he had asked Sadhana directly and frankly. It was the fear of rebuff, and maybe his ego, that had come in the way. He had to move fast. Act now, before it was too late.
Tomorrow was his last day in harbour. And then he would sail away, far away from Sadhana’s life, for a long time, maybe forever. He took out his cell-phone and dialed his sister’s number.
It was in his sister’s house that he had met Sadhana for the first time. Just two days ago.
As the boat approached the wharf, Sadhana turned around and looked at ship’s lights dotting the sea, trying to locate and discern Arun’s ship. In the enveloping darkness it was impossible.
She felt the same sensation one feels at the end of a happy dream when one is jolted to reality. It was over.
Tomorrow Arun would sail away from her life, forever. And she would be back in her routine as a teacher and single mother.
She was so lost in her thoughts, that it was only when she felt Sunil tugging at her hand that she noticed that the ferry boat was already berthed alongside, and they disembarked on the jetty.
“I wish we could sail with Uncle Arun,” Sunil said. “He is so nice.”
“We can’t,” Sadhana said. “It’s not allowed. And what about your school? Merchant Navy ships sail for days together, across the seas, round the world.”
“We can go during the summer holidays,” Sunil interjected. “Uncle said that families are allowed on board for short periods.”
“But we are not his family,” Sadhana said.
“Then why don’t you marry him?”
The directness of her son’s question rendered Sadhana dumbstruck. She looked at her son incredulously. Even he had understood, and accepted.
Now, she would have to act fast; for her sake, for her son’s sake.
She had to talk to Arun quickly. Time was running out. She was tempted to ring him up there and then on his mobile, but restrained herself – this had to be done delicately.
Sadhana hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take her to the house of Priti, Arun’s sister, where Sadhana had first met Arun. At Priti’s son’s birthday party. Sadhana generally never attended any parties now-a-days. But Priti’s son was a classmate of Sunil’s. And her ex-pupil too. And Priti’s husband Praveen had been a colleague of her late husband. They had insisted. And she just couldn’t refuse.
It was during the party, as Sadhana drifted towards the balcony for some fresh air, that had noticed Arun, standing in the balcony, all alone by himself, lost in his thoughts, in a corner. He wore a lonely and rather perplexed expression, as though he were at the party but not a member of it. His height and his beard, which was almost entirely gray, made him prominent. He looked a decisive, hot-tempered and dangerous man, with his broad square face, heavy-lidded eyes, and majestic beard. But he also looked vulnerable.
“That’s my elder brother,” Priti said following Sadhana’s gaze. “Come, I’ll introduce you.”
They were introduced. Probably Priti had told Arun about Sadhana for he didn’t ask the inevitable questions about her late husband. Nor did he express the superficial pity and lip sympathy, platitudes she had become so used to.
Arun simply said, “At least you’ve got your son to keep you company. But I am all alone.”
“I’m sorry,” Sadhana said.” I didn’t know you were also…”
“No, no.” interrupted Arun. “I am just a bachelor. One of those who looks before he leaps – and never leaps.” He smiled. “And now it’s too late. Looks like I’ll be a confirmed lifelong bachelor. I have learnt to live with myself and live a life without a wife.”
They talked.
Sadhana found that Arun was easy to talk to and soon she began experiencing a sense of release and a rare feeling of elation.
In these moods there was so such to say and the words simply came tumbling out.
She told him everything. About her husband, his sudden unexpected death, about Sunil, her son, and how she was struggling along the lonely road of life.
She noticed that Arun didn’t express the usual response of pity, sympathy, or patronizing attitude. He listened with his disarming smile, and from time to time egged her on. She unburdened herself. Arun also felt good. He realized that it was comforting to converse with someone who needed comforting.
They would have gone on and on but Sunil interrupted them. “Mummy, aren’t you going to eat something?”
Young Sunil was fascinated when he knew that Arun was a Merchant Navy Captain – The Master of a ship. Arun had invited them on board to see the ship the next day – New Year’s Day.
Though, at first, Sadhana was reluctant, she could not refuse, seeing Sunil’s enthusism. She accepted Arun’s invitation. For her son’s sake. Maybe hers?
“We’d love to come,” Sadhana said. “It’s nice to do something different on a New Year’s Day for a change.”
She flattered Arun by looking steadily at him without letting her eyes stray. Sadhana wore a simple off-white sari with a brooch pinned on her right shoulder. Her forehead was too broad, her nose too long, for her to be called a beauty, but looking at her Arun Rao experienced that delightful giddy feeling of achievement, that same lift of the spirit, as one feels when one conquers a high mountain peak and first sees the breathtaking view of the expanse below him.
As the taxi reached Priti’s house, Sadhana began having second thoughts.
There is a time to make thing happen, and there is a time to let things happen.
Sadhana decided to let things happen, take their natural course, relying on her instinct.
Priti gave Sadhana a canny look when she opened the door. “Come in,” she said, “I am so happy for both of you.”
“What…?” Sadhana said confused.
“Arun just called …” Priti said teasingly.
Sadhana blushed. “Priti, I want to meet him before he sails off. I don’t want to lose him.”
Don’t get impatient,” Priti said putting her arm around Sadhana affectionately. “Arun’s ship is sailing tomorrow evening. But he is on his way right now in the ship’s boat. He felt too shy to speak to you so he is getting a letter for me to deliver personally to you.”
“Letter? He’s proposing through a letter? What an old fashioned chap?” Praveen, Priti’s husband, exclaimed, appearing as if from nowhere. “This old fogey Arun needs some shock treatment. Hurry up. Let’s surprise him at the jetty. I’ll take out the car.”
As Arun got off the boat and walked up the steps of the jetty, he unexpectedly saw Sadhana, and his heart thumped giddily with the glee of a man who anxiously yearns for his beloved and suddenly finds her a thousand times more beautiful then he imagined.
He could not control the rising force of the latent bottled up love within; neither could she. Oblivious of the surroundings, they ran towards each other and embraced tightly.
Warm and secure in his arms, Sadhana, once again, felt tender, cherished and loved. After an age when her heart had been frozen, she was going to begin her life anew.
Shadows lengthen, it starts getting dark, Sadhana and Arun look at the horizon and watch the glorious spectacle of sunset on the first evening of the New Year. They watch the fantastic metamorphosis at sunset, the orange sun being gobbled up the calm blue sea, crimson petals dancing in the sky, twilight enveloping, romance is in the air, as they hold each other tightly and say to each other, “Happy New Year.”
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2008
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]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
As he wished her a Happy New Year for the last time, and said good bye, Arun Rao was already regretting that he had put the matter so lightly.
He was forty-three, on the threshold of middle age, and terribly weary of his lingering bachelorhood. Sadhana could be his last chance.
As the boat pulled ashore, Sadhana looked at the imposing figure of Arun Rao standing on the deck of the huge ship recede into the darkness.
She waved a good-bye, feeling in her heart the very same sentiment, the same churning of emotions, which Arun was experiencing at that very moment.
For Sadhana, it had been a long time since she had been attracted towards a man. And she had sensed tender warmth in Arun’s behaviour towards her.
She had been very curious to see his ship – a massive oil tanker – and how he lived. Arun had even taken her to his cabin – a privileged excursion into an exclusively masculine word. It was impressive. Nothing can be as neatly arranged as a sailor’s cabin.
But Sadhana was depressed by its neatness and organization. This was the home of a self-sufficient man. He hardly needed a wife.
Her son, Sunil, was talking animatedly to a sailor who was pointing out the various lights on the ships at anchorage. Sunil had been full of excitement and had thoroughly enjoyed the visit to Arun’s ship. He was ten years old and needed a father figure – a real man. He seemed to have liked Arun and they had got along well, with Arun patiently answering Sunil’s numerous questions.
She wondered why Arun had treated them so lavishly and given them such expensive presents; especially that marvelous exclusive perfume he had insisted she try on there and then.
Sadhana was sure Arun had fallen in love with her and wanted to marry her.
But why had he hesitated? Was it because of her son, Sunil?
Captain Arun Rao lay down on his bunk and closed his eyes in self-commiseration. It was only too easy to remain a bachelor in the Merchant Navy and, after the early susceptible years, it became easier still. The insularity of ship-borne life suited a bachelor. But now, after meeting Sadhana and Sunil, Arun did feel keenly the lack of a family.
He knew he should have asked her, but he had remained tongue-tied – afraid of rejection – waiting for Sadhana to make the first move. But how could she? After all she was a woman. And there was Sunil, her son. Would he accept him as a father?
Arun wished he had asked Sadhana directly and frankly. It was the fear of rebuff, and maybe his ego, that had come in the way. He had to move fast. Act now, before it was too late.
Tomorrow was his last day in harbour. And then he would sail away, far away from Sadhana’s life, for a long time, maybe forever. He took out his cell-phone and dialed his sister’s number.
It was in his sister’s house that he had met Sadhana for the first time. Just two days ago.
As the boat approached the wharf, Sadhana turned around and looked at ship’s lights dotting the sea, trying to locate and discern Arun’s ship. In the enveloping darkness it was impossible.
She felt the same sensation one feels at the end of a happy dream when one is jolted to reality. It was over.
Tomorrow Arun would sail away from her life, forever. And she would be back in her routine as a teacher and single mother.
She was so lost in her thoughts, that it was only when she felt Sunil tugging at her hand that she noticed that the ferry boat was already berthed alongside, and they disembarked on the jetty.
“I wish we could sail with Uncle Arun,” Sunil said. “He is so nice.”
“We can’t,” Sadhana said. “It’s not allowed. And what about your school? Merchant Navy ships sail for days together, across the seas, round the world.”
“We can go during the summer holidays,” Sunil interjected. “Uncle said that families are allowed on board for short periods.”
“But we are not his family,” Sadhana said.
“Then why don’t you marry him?”
The directness of her son’s question rendered Sadhana dumbstruck. She looked at her son incredulously. Even he had understood, and accepted.
Now, she would have to act fast; for her sake, for her son’s sake.
She had to talk to Arun quickly. Time was running out. She was tempted to ring him up there and then on his mobile, but restrained herself – this had to be done delicately.
Sadhana hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take her to the house of Priti, Arun’s sister, where Sadhana had first met Arun. At Priti’s son’s birthday party. Sadhana generally never attended any parties now-a-days. But Priti’s son was a classmate of Sunil’s. And her ex-pupil too. And Priti’s husband Praveen had been a colleague of her late husband. They had insisted. And she just couldn’t refuse.
It was during the party, as Sadhana drifted towards the balcony for some fresh air, that had noticed Arun, standing in the balcony, all alone by himself, lost in his thoughts, in a corner. He wore a lonely and rather perplexed expression, as though he were at the party but not a member of it. His height and his beard, which was almost entirely gray, made him prominent. He looked a decisive, hot-tempered and dangerous man, with his broad square face, heavy-lidded eyes, and majestic beard. But he also looked vulnerable.
“That’s my elder brother,” Priti said following Sadhana’s gaze. “Come, I’ll introduce you.”
They were introduced. Probably Priti had told Arun about Sadhana for he didn’t ask the inevitable questions about her late husband. Nor did he express the superficial pity and lip sympathy, platitudes she had become so used to.
Arun simply said, “At least you’ve got your son to keep you company. But I am all alone.”
“I’m sorry,” Sadhana said.” I didn’t know you were also…”
“No, no.” interrupted Arun. “I am just a bachelor. One of those who looks before he leaps – and never leaps.” He smiled. “And now it’s too late. Looks like I’ll be a confirmed lifelong bachelor. I have learnt to live with myself and live a life without a wife.”
They talked.
Sadhana found that Arun was easy to talk to and soon she began experiencing a sense of release and a rare feeling of elation.
In these moods there was so such to say and the words simply came tumbling out.
She told him everything. About her husband, his sudden unexpected death, about Sunil, her son, and how she was struggling along the lonely road of life.
She noticed that Arun didn’t express the usual response of pity, sympathy, or patronizing attitude. He listened with his disarming smile, and from time to time egged her on. She unburdened herself. Arun also felt good. He realized that it was comforting to converse with someone who needed comforting.
They would have gone on and on but Sunil interrupted them. “Mummy, aren’t you going to eat something?”
Young Sunil was fascinated when he knew that Arun was a Merchant Navy Captain – The Master of a ship. Arun had invited them on board to see the ship the next day – New Year’s Day.
Though, at first, Sadhana was reluctant, she could not refuse, seeing Sunil’s enthusism. She accepted Arun’s invitation. For her son’s sake. Maybe hers?
“We’d love to come,” Sadhana said. “It’s nice to do something different on a New Year’s Day for a change.”
She flattered Arun by looking steadily at him without letting her eyes stray. Sadhana wore a simple off-white sari with a brooch pinned on her right shoulder. Her forehead was too broad, her nose too long, for her to be called a beauty, but looking at her Arun Rao experienced that delightful giddy feeling of achievement, that same lift of the spirit, as one feels when one conquers a high mountain peak and first sees the breathtaking view of the expanse below him.
As the taxi reached Priti’s house, Sadhana began having second thoughts.
There is a time to make thing happen, and there is a time to let things happen.
Sadhana decided to let things happen, take their natural course, relying on her instinct.
Priti gave Sadhana a canny look when she opened the door. “Come in,” she said, “I am so happy for both of you.”
“What…?” Sadhana said confused.
“Arun just called …” Priti said teasingly.
Sadhana blushed. “Priti, I want to meet him before he sails off. I don’t want to lose him.”
Don’t get impatient,” Priti said putting her arm around Sadhana affectionately. “Arun’s ship is sailing tomorrow evening. But he is on his way right now in the ship’s boat. He felt too shy to speak to you so he is getting a letter for me to deliver personally to you.”
“Letter? He’s proposing through a letter? What an old fashioned chap?” Praveen, Priti’s husband, exclaimed, appearing as if from nowhere. “This old fogey Arun needs some shock treatment. Hurry up. Let’s surprise him at the jetty. I’ll take out the car.”
As Arun got off the boat and walked up the steps of the jetty, he unexpectedly saw Sadhana, and his heart thumped giddily with the glee of a man who anxiously yearns for his beloved and suddenly finds her a thousand times more beautiful then he imagined.
He could not control the rising force of the latent bottled up love within; neither could she. Oblivious of the surroundings, they ran towards each other and embraced tightly.
Warm and secure in his arms, Sadhana, once again, felt tender, cherished and loved. After an age when her heart had been frozen, she was going to begin her life anew.
Shadows lengthen, it starts getting dark, Sadhana and Arun look at the horizon and watch the glorious spectacle of sunset on the first evening of the New Year. They watch the fantastic metamorphosis at sunset, the orange sun being gobbled up the calm blue sea, crimson petals dancing in the sky, twilight enveloping, romance is in the air, as they hold each other tightly and say to each other, “Happy New Year.”
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2008
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
vikramkarve@sify.com
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Happy New Year - A Fiction Short Story
Click the url link below and read the fiction short story on my creative writing blog:
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2008/12/cute-girl-mofussil-girl-happy-new-year.htm
Happy New Year 2009.
Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2008/12/cute-girl-mofussil-girl-happy-new-year.htm
Happy New Year 2009.
Vikram Karve
Monday, December 29, 2008
Blue Nile
BLUE NILE
[Foodie Memories]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
My darling “foodie” sister suddenly lands up in the evening from Mumbai and commands, “Let’s go to Blue Nile!”
“You sure?” I ask, a bit incredulous.
“Yes,” she says peremptorily, “I’m in a mood for a nostalgic Biryani!”
And soon we are sitting in Blue Nile – a quaint, old-world, down-to-earth, high turnover, no-frills, old-world "heritage" eatery of Pune located near the GPO opposite the Nucleus Mall. This is no fancy restaurant for stylish gourmet dining in air-conditioned comfort, soothing tranquility and refined classy ambiance. Blue Nile is certainly not the ideal place for a discreet tête-à-tête meal or a romantic candle-light dinner. The moment you enter your nostrils may experience wafts of “aromatic pleasures” of the overpowering “mughlai fragrance” emanating from the open kitchen in front of you – so be prepared for a quick, hot, sweaty, hustle and bustle meal amidst din and hullabaloo.
There is no bar – that’s good – for they focus on the food, and the tipsy types come in only late at night. And you’ll always find an assorted crowd, students, office-goers, travelers, a sprinkling of families, foodies, young and old – and you will notice almost all of them gorging into a plate of Blue Nile Biryani. There are two halls and they have put the molded chairs and tables in the corridor too, maybe for the late night crowd, where we found onions being peeled. It’s quite a large place with a canteen-like atmosphere – a place for quick businesslike eating – not a place to hang out.
We order – a Mutton Biryani for me and, surprisingly, my sister orders a Chicken Biryani. I look at her in disbelief – “I’m off red meat,” she says.
Sad. Real sad! A pity. Chicken is ubiquitously boring – it’s put on the menu for those masquerading as non-vegetarians and those who don’t know what to eat.
And tell me, Dear Reader, tell me, doesn’t the word “Biryani” imply Goat Mutton? Can there be such a thing as Chicken Biryani, Fish Biryani or, just imagine, Veg Biryani?
Think about it. Just think about it. And while you think I’ll eat!
The food arrives in a jiffy – dumped matter-of-factly on the table with a few onion rings.
I feast my eyes hungrily at the tempting dish of Mutton Biryani in front of me, my mouth waters, I dig in, pick out a piece of mutton, pop it on my tongue, close my mouth and my eyes, focus my senses inwards, press the soft, tender, succulent well-cooked meat between my tongue and palate, gently roll it all over, imbibing the heavenly flavours as the mutton releases its delicious juices, then a delicate squeeze, a gentle bite, allowing the scrumptious meat to dissolve, savour the delicious taste and appetizing aroma, as the medley of flavours permeate deep within me.
On first impressions, how do you judge a Biryani? There are four tests.
First I try the “spread test”. I pick a little Biryani in my fingers and sprinkle it on the side dish. The grains of rice must not stick together but remain separate. The pieces of meat too must be succulent, clear and dry, not greasy.
The Blue Nile Biryani passes the “spread test” – not ten out of ten, maybe eight out of ten.
Then I lift the plate and smell the pieces of meat. The Biryani must be pleasantly aromatic [the sweetish fragrance and appetizing aroma of marinated spices] – not sharp or piquant. Again, it’s eight on ten. The Biryani has passed the “aroma test” with flying colours!
I taste the mutton – it’s excellent, succulent, superb – a perfect ten on ten! I roll some rice on my tongue – a wee bit too spicy, the slight hint of greasy aftertaste – maybe eight on ten. Overall nine on ten in the “taste test”!
A Perfect Biryani? Let me see! The fourth and final test! The “Potato Test”.
I search for the potato. The potatoes must taste as well as the meat – that is a hallmark of a good Biryani. I search for the potato. The potatoes must taste as well as the meat – that is a hallmark of a good Biryani. I dig deep, search – there is no potato. Just imagine – a Biryani without a potato! Can there be a perfect Biryani without a potato which tastes as delicious as the mutton?
My sister forces me to taste the Chicken Biryani. I wish I hadn’t – the chicken is quite tasteless with a sour tinge; certainly not well marinated, maybe they use a common stock of pre-boiled chicken for all the dishes.
Dear fellow Foodie – that’s my assessment of the famous Blue Nile Biryani – a fine deliciously tasty wholesome Mutton Biryani, maybe not “perfect” connoisseur cuisine, but certainly a trencherman’s delight.
And the Chicken “Biryani”? Well it’s quite run-of-the-mill. Nothing special at all.
You will find all the usual fare to fill up the menu card at Blue Nile. Like every restaurant Blue Nile has its own version of the ubiquitous “Chinese” Chopsueys and Hakka Noodles and a few “Standard” vegetarian dishes, besides tea, soft drinks, jelly, caramel custard, shakes and ice cream.
Dear Reader, please don’t experiment. Remember the “signature dish” of Blue Nile is Biryani, so when you go to Blue Nile make sure your relish their inimitable Mutton Biryani. At a hundred and twenty bucks, it’s reasonably priced, certainly value for money.
Blue Nile is simple, no nonsense, unpretentious, high turnover eatery focusing on food with a down-to-earth, commonplace, earthy atmosphere – a place for the gluttonous trencherman, certainly not for the refined epicure. If you are one of those high-falutin, snooty gourmets finicky about suave ambiance, classy dining, elegant décor et al, try the Blue Nile Take Away – their “parcel” service is so fast that you’ll have your food parcel in your hand almost the moment you place your order.
Dear Punekars – can someone please tell me where I can relish a “perfect biryani” in Pune.
By the way, can someone please tell me the difference between a Biryani and a Pulao?
Of course, I know the answer – just trying to cross-check!
Happy Eating!
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2008
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
[Foodie Memories]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
My darling “foodie” sister suddenly lands up in the evening from Mumbai and commands, “Let’s go to Blue Nile!”
“You sure?” I ask, a bit incredulous.
“Yes,” she says peremptorily, “I’m in a mood for a nostalgic Biryani!”
And soon we are sitting in Blue Nile – a quaint, old-world, down-to-earth, high turnover, no-frills, old-world "heritage" eatery of Pune located near the GPO opposite the Nucleus Mall. This is no fancy restaurant for stylish gourmet dining in air-conditioned comfort, soothing tranquility and refined classy ambiance. Blue Nile is certainly not the ideal place for a discreet tête-à-tête meal or a romantic candle-light dinner. The moment you enter your nostrils may experience wafts of “aromatic pleasures” of the overpowering “mughlai fragrance” emanating from the open kitchen in front of you – so be prepared for a quick, hot, sweaty, hustle and bustle meal amidst din and hullabaloo.
There is no bar – that’s good – for they focus on the food, and the tipsy types come in only late at night. And you’ll always find an assorted crowd, students, office-goers, travelers, a sprinkling of families, foodies, young and old – and you will notice almost all of them gorging into a plate of Blue Nile Biryani. There are two halls and they have put the molded chairs and tables in the corridor too, maybe for the late night crowd, where we found onions being peeled. It’s quite a large place with a canteen-like atmosphere – a place for quick businesslike eating – not a place to hang out.
We order – a Mutton Biryani for me and, surprisingly, my sister orders a Chicken Biryani. I look at her in disbelief – “I’m off red meat,” she says.
Sad. Real sad! A pity. Chicken is ubiquitously boring – it’s put on the menu for those masquerading as non-vegetarians and those who don’t know what to eat.
And tell me, Dear Reader, tell me, doesn’t the word “Biryani” imply Goat Mutton? Can there be such a thing as Chicken Biryani, Fish Biryani or, just imagine, Veg Biryani?
Think about it. Just think about it. And while you think I’ll eat!
The food arrives in a jiffy – dumped matter-of-factly on the table with a few onion rings.
I feast my eyes hungrily at the tempting dish of Mutton Biryani in front of me, my mouth waters, I dig in, pick out a piece of mutton, pop it on my tongue, close my mouth and my eyes, focus my senses inwards, press the soft, tender, succulent well-cooked meat between my tongue and palate, gently roll it all over, imbibing the heavenly flavours as the mutton releases its delicious juices, then a delicate squeeze, a gentle bite, allowing the scrumptious meat to dissolve, savour the delicious taste and appetizing aroma, as the medley of flavours permeate deep within me.
On first impressions, how do you judge a Biryani? There are four tests.
First I try the “spread test”. I pick a little Biryani in my fingers and sprinkle it on the side dish. The grains of rice must not stick together but remain separate. The pieces of meat too must be succulent, clear and dry, not greasy.
The Blue Nile Biryani passes the “spread test” – not ten out of ten, maybe eight out of ten.
Then I lift the plate and smell the pieces of meat. The Biryani must be pleasantly aromatic [the sweetish fragrance and appetizing aroma of marinated spices] – not sharp or piquant. Again, it’s eight on ten. The Biryani has passed the “aroma test” with flying colours!
I taste the mutton – it’s excellent, succulent, superb – a perfect ten on ten! I roll some rice on my tongue – a wee bit too spicy, the slight hint of greasy aftertaste – maybe eight on ten. Overall nine on ten in the “taste test”!
A Perfect Biryani? Let me see! The fourth and final test! The “Potato Test”.
I search for the potato. The potatoes must taste as well as the meat – that is a hallmark of a good Biryani. I search for the potato. The potatoes must taste as well as the meat – that is a hallmark of a good Biryani. I dig deep, search – there is no potato. Just imagine – a Biryani without a potato! Can there be a perfect Biryani without a potato which tastes as delicious as the mutton?
My sister forces me to taste the Chicken Biryani. I wish I hadn’t – the chicken is quite tasteless with a sour tinge; certainly not well marinated, maybe they use a common stock of pre-boiled chicken for all the dishes.
Dear fellow Foodie – that’s my assessment of the famous Blue Nile Biryani – a fine deliciously tasty wholesome Mutton Biryani, maybe not “perfect” connoisseur cuisine, but certainly a trencherman’s delight.
And the Chicken “Biryani”? Well it’s quite run-of-the-mill. Nothing special at all.
You will find all the usual fare to fill up the menu card at Blue Nile. Like every restaurant Blue Nile has its own version of the ubiquitous “Chinese” Chopsueys and Hakka Noodles and a few “Standard” vegetarian dishes, besides tea, soft drinks, jelly, caramel custard, shakes and ice cream.
Dear Reader, please don’t experiment. Remember the “signature dish” of Blue Nile is Biryani, so when you go to Blue Nile make sure your relish their inimitable Mutton Biryani. At a hundred and twenty bucks, it’s reasonably priced, certainly value for money.
Blue Nile is simple, no nonsense, unpretentious, high turnover eatery focusing on food with a down-to-earth, commonplace, earthy atmosphere – a place for the gluttonous trencherman, certainly not for the refined epicure. If you are one of those high-falutin, snooty gourmets finicky about suave ambiance, classy dining, elegant décor et al, try the Blue Nile Take Away – their “parcel” service is so fast that you’ll have your food parcel in your hand almost the moment you place your order.
Dear Punekars – can someone please tell me where I can relish a “perfect biryani” in Pune.
By the way, can someone please tell me the difference between a Biryani and a Pulao?
Of course, I know the answer – just trying to cross-check!
Happy Eating!
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2008
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
A Broken Engagement
A Broken Engagement
[Short Fiction – A Love Story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The moment I saw the email 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.
“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 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 – abandon 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 Anil, my ex fiancé .
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.
In silence. A grotesque silence. A deafening silence. An illuminating silence. An enlightening silence.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2008
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
[Short Fiction – A Love Story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
The moment I saw the email 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.
“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 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 – abandon 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 Anil, my ex fiancé .
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.
In silence. A grotesque silence. A deafening silence. An illuminating silence. An enlightening silence.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2008
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, December 24, 2008
LAMINGTON IN PUNE - Foodie Memories
PUNE NOSTALGIC FOODIE MEMORIES
LAMINGTON
By
VIKRAM KARVE
When I lived near Aundh, in the evenings I often used go for a walk on Aundh Road from Bremen Chowk towards the railway line at Khadki. It is one of the best places to walk in Pune, wide roads with plenty of greenery and foliage on both sides.
Of course, Girinagar, where I live now, is a fantastic pristine verdant walkers' paradise, where you can rinse and invigorate your lungs with pure cool refreshing unpolluted air; but then it's far far away from the chaotic polluted noisy concrete jungle of Pune!
But one thing is for sure. While you can rinse your olfactory senses to your heart’s content with the wonderful pure air, you can’t relish a delicious Lamington and indulge your epicurean gourmand desires on your evening walks out here.
back then, in my memorable days in Aundh, on my way back to my erstwhile home near the banks of the Mula River, I would treat myself with a Lamington at the Spicer College Bakery Shop.
Let me close my eyes, transport myself to the glorious past, stop at Spicer College Bakery on my evening walk, buy a lamington and delicately place the soft delicacy between my lips, press and squeeze a piece of the wonderful stuff on my tongue, focus inwards, enhance the sensitivity of my gustatory senses in order to amplify the experience of supreme bliss as the Lamington melts in my mouth and the chocolatty-coconutty luscious syrupy sweetness permeates into me.
A Lamington is a delicious cube of sponge cake, dipped in melted chocolate and sugar and coated in desiccated coconut.
They originated in Australia around 1898 in what later became the state of Queensland. Whilst the origin of the name for the Lamington cannot be accurately established, there are several theories.
Lamingtons are most likely named after Charles Baillie, 2nd Baron Lamington, who served as Governor of Queensland from 1896 to 1901. However, the precise reasoning behind this is not known, and stories vary.
According to one account, the dessert resembled the homburg hats favoured by Lord Lamington.
Another apocryphal tale tells of a banquet in Cloncurry during which the governor accidentally dropped a block of sponge cake into a dish of gravy, and then threw it over his shoulder, causing it to land in a bowl of desiccated coconut or peanut butter. A diner thought of replacing the gravy with chocolate and thus created the lamington as we know it today.
Ironically, Lord Lamington was known to have hated the dessert that had been named in his honour, once referring to them as "those bloody poofy woolly biscuits".
Another theory is that they were named after Lady Lamington, the wife of the Governor.The Spicer College Bakery Lamington is my favourite – and can you imagine it costs just Eight Rupees [that’s five Lamingtons for a Dollar, for those who think in Dollars!].
The chocolate icing keeps the cake moist. The desiccated coconut protects it from drying out in the hot climate. And it’s quite a juicy generous lip-smacking treat!
The Spicer College Bakery in Pune serves a variety of healthy goodies like carrot cake, nut cake, doughnuts, samosas, soy patties, soya milk; but, for me, it’s always my all time favourite, the inimitable yummy succulent Lamington!
Tell me, Dear Fellow Foodies, have you tasted a Lamington, in Pune or elsewhere?
If so, do tell us all about it.
If not, enjoy one the next time you are in Pune and give me your feedback.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
LAMINGTON
By
VIKRAM KARVE
When I lived near Aundh, in the evenings I often used go for a walk on Aundh Road from Bremen Chowk towards the railway line at Khadki. It is one of the best places to walk in Pune, wide roads with plenty of greenery and foliage on both sides.
Of course, Girinagar, where I live now, is a fantastic pristine verdant walkers' paradise, where you can rinse and invigorate your lungs with pure cool refreshing unpolluted air; but then it's far far away from the chaotic polluted noisy concrete jungle of Pune!
But one thing is for sure. While you can rinse your olfactory senses to your heart’s content with the wonderful pure air, you can’t relish a delicious Lamington and indulge your epicurean gourmand desires on your evening walks out here.
back then, in my memorable days in Aundh, on my way back to my erstwhile home near the banks of the Mula River, I would treat myself with a Lamington at the Spicer College Bakery Shop.
Let me close my eyes, transport myself to the glorious past, stop at Spicer College Bakery on my evening walk, buy a lamington and delicately place the soft delicacy between my lips, press and squeeze a piece of the wonderful stuff on my tongue, focus inwards, enhance the sensitivity of my gustatory senses in order to amplify the experience of supreme bliss as the Lamington melts in my mouth and the chocolatty-coconutty luscious syrupy sweetness permeates into me.
A Lamington is a delicious cube of sponge cake, dipped in melted chocolate and sugar and coated in desiccated coconut.
They originated in Australia around 1898 in what later became the state of Queensland. Whilst the origin of the name for the Lamington cannot be accurately established, there are several theories.
Lamingtons are most likely named after Charles Baillie, 2nd Baron Lamington, who served as Governor of Queensland from 1896 to 1901. However, the precise reasoning behind this is not known, and stories vary.
According to one account, the dessert resembled the homburg hats favoured by Lord Lamington.
Another apocryphal tale tells of a banquet in Cloncurry during which the governor accidentally dropped a block of sponge cake into a dish of gravy, and then threw it over his shoulder, causing it to land in a bowl of desiccated coconut or peanut butter. A diner thought of replacing the gravy with chocolate and thus created the lamington as we know it today.
Ironically, Lord Lamington was known to have hated the dessert that had been named in his honour, once referring to them as "those bloody poofy woolly biscuits".
Another theory is that they were named after Lady Lamington, the wife of the Governor.The Spicer College Bakery Lamington is my favourite – and can you imagine it costs just Eight Rupees [that’s five Lamingtons for a Dollar, for those who think in Dollars!].
The chocolate icing keeps the cake moist. The desiccated coconut protects it from drying out in the hot climate. And it’s quite a juicy generous lip-smacking treat!
The Spicer College Bakery in Pune serves a variety of healthy goodies like carrot cake, nut cake, doughnuts, samosas, soy patties, soya milk; but, for me, it’s always my all time favourite, the inimitable yummy succulent Lamington!
Tell me, Dear Fellow Foodies, have you tasted a Lamington, in Pune or elsewhere?
If so, do tell us all about it.
If not, enjoy one the next time you are in Pune and give me your feedback.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Saturday, December 20, 2008
A Pune Fiction Short Story by Vikram Karve
Click and read on my creative writing blog
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2008/12/spdp-at-vaishali.htm
Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2008/12/spdp-at-vaishali.htm
Vikram Karve
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