A NAVAL YARN

PETER SCOT - ON THE HOUSE
A Naval Yarn
By
VIKRAM KARVE

The Navy was the best thing that happened to me. Way back, in the 1970s, when I joined the Navy, life was good. There was never a dull moment. Something was always happening, and I came across a variety of unique personalities – yes, exciting situations and inimitable characters.

Those were the best days of my life. Even now, whenever I reminisce about my “good old” Navy days and recall the unforgettable characters I met there and whenever I hark back to the hilarious incidents (in hindsight), those cherished memories always fill me with cheer, and sometimes bring a smile, maybe a laugh, to my lips. 

They say every Naval Officer has a book inside him (or her). I am writing mine. In fact, I have decided to write two books – a fiction novel based on my early life in the Navy way back in the 1970s and a “memoir” comprising non-chronological vignettes from my naval life.

I will tell you more about that later. Now, let me regale you with one such hilarious vignette featuring an unforgettable character. Let’s call him “F”. Why “F” – well, it will be quite evident as you read on.

There was a time when senior naval officers were large-hearted and magnanimous. The senior always stood a drink for the junior, and whenever we had a party in the wardroom (officers’ mess), the party share was on stripe basis. You counted the total number of stripes on the shoulders of officers present and simply divided the overall damages for food and drinks by the total number of stripes and calculated the stripe share. You paid depending on the stripes you wore on your sleeves or shoulder – a Commander (who wore three stripes on his shoulder paid three times the share of a Sub Lieutenant who wore a solitary stripe). In effect, the seniors subsidized the bill of the juniors.

As traditions and attitudes began to change, and officers started becoming money conscious, the stripe share concept gave way to the “on the house” concept in which the party share was distributed equally amongst all present and all members of the “house” paid the same amount irrespective of how much food and drink they consumed.

Of course, when things were “on the house”, those who drank and ate less subsidised those who topped-up to the hilt and gorged to their hearts’ content.

With the passage of time, as people became more and more money-orientated, and materialism became a way of life, officers started counting their drinks (and worse, they counted others’ drinks too…!!!). Now we had a “chit system” and the party share was based on the principle of soldier’s share, or Going Dutch, in which you signed chits and paid for whatever you consumed. In this “signing chits” scheme of things,  no one subsidized anybody, and it was each for his own, irrespective of rank and seniority. 

Soon, wardroom traditions were turned upside down, money-consciousness gave way to stinginess and sort of “feudal” culture owing to selective interpretation of the RHIP concept which resulted in the proliferation of freeloaders in the senior ranks and it was now the “magnanimous” juniors who were subsidizing their tight-fisted freeloading seniors. 

You know what RHIP stands for, isn’t it – Rank Has Its Privileges – and some thought it was their “privilege” to freeload and sponge on their juniors.

Things seem to have turned a full circle. 

Hey, I am digressing, let me get on with my story.

This story happened during the days of transition from the “on the house” to “soldier’s share” parties. There was some confusion – some parties were “on the house” and some parties were on the “chit system”. Now our protagonist “F” was a true maukatarian – and decided his “party strategy” accordingly. If it was a “chit system” party – he would survive on water, or hang around someone and try to sponge an drink off him, or try to pilfer one of those gratis “ladies” soft drinks when he thought no one was looking, or at the worst, if the party was too long and his freeloading tactics didn’t work, F would order a small peg of the cheapest rum and paani and hold it for the entire party. And if the party was “on the house” … well read on …

“F” arrived for a grand party one evening and asked me, “Is it chit-system?”

“No, Sir, on-the-house,” I told him, as planned, and winked at the barman. The PMC, who was nearby, gave me a knowing smile of approval.

“Which whisky have you got?” F asked the barman.

“Sir, we are serving Black Knight and Red Knight,” the barman answered. The party was ashore and we were serving IMFL (Indian Made Foreign Liquor).

“BK and RK?” F turned his nose up in disgust, “Get me Peter Scot.”

The barman looked at me for a decision (Peter Scot was the most expensive IMFL whisky in the bar those days).

“Okay,” I said to the barman, “Sahab ko Peter Scot pilao…”

Delighted that he was getting the most expensive Peter Scot whiskey on-the-house, F decided to make the most of it, and drank peg after peg, and at the end of the party, he had to be carried to his cabin in drunken stupor. F had grandly “enjoyed” the cocktail party.

A month later F entered my office furiously waving his wardroom mess bill in his hand and angrily demanding how he had been charged for 11 large pegs of Peter Scot.

I was waiting for him, and said, “Sir, let’s go to the PMC.”

“Any problem?” the PMC asked looking up from his desk, the moment we entered his cabin.

“Sir, I have been charged for 11 large pegs of Peter Scot for that cocktail party,” complained F.

“So?” the PMC said, “you drank 11 large pegs of Peter Scot, didn’t you?”

“Sir, I don’t remember.”

“But I do – you were in such glorious high spirits that you had to be carried away at the end of the party.”

“But Sir, the party was on-the-house.”

“Who told you?”

“The Mess Secretary,” F said, pointing an accusing finger at me.

“Well, the mess secretary is quite a clueless chap. All parties here are on the chit-system. You should have signed your chits before ordering your drinks and you should have checked the bar-book next morning if you had any doubts. No disputes now. That’s the Mess Rule,” the PMC pronounced, and dismissed F with a wave of his finger, and looked at me with a glint in his eyes.

That’s how we taught this maukatarian freeloader a lesson. Well, we taught him another lesson too – but that’s another story.

I enjoy writing and I have now started writing my two books. The first is autobiographical fiction, a novel with an engrossing story and characters you will love, and second, my “memoir”, a collection of vignettes from my life in the Navy, something like Tales of the South Pacific.  

I am putting my heart into writing these two books and in order to make them gripping and “unputdownable”. I am going to write leisurely, unhurriedly, savoring every moment and I am going to enjoy the writing process as I relive my navy days in my mind’s eye. But I’ll take a break from time to time, and, right here in my Creative Writing blog, I will regale you with some more of my naval yarns, like this one.

Cheers

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2011

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

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Did you like this yarn?

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

A creative person with a zest for life, Vikram Karve is a retired Naval Officer turned full time writer. Educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale and Bishops School Pune, Vikram has published two books: COCKTAIL a collection of fiction short stories about relationships (2011) and APPETITE FOR A STROLL a book of Foodie Adventures (2008) and is currently working on his novel and a book of vignettes and short fiction. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories, creative non-fiction articles on a variety of topics including food, travel, philosophy, academics, technology, management, health, pet parenting, teaching stories and self help in magazines and published a large number of professional research papers in journals and edited in-house journals for many years, before the advent of blogging. Vikram has taught at a University as a Professor for almost 14 years and now teaches as a visiting faculty and devotes most of his time to creative writing. Vikram lives in Pune India with his family and muse - his pet dog Sherry with whom he takes long walks thinking creative thoughts.

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

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Art of Debate

COGNITION

Battle of Wits
A Teaching Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE

Some students asked me the meaning of the term COGNITION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2010

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

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

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

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

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

Email: vikramkarve@sify.com

HOW TO REMAIN A BACHELOR FOR LIFE

The Art of Remaining Single
 

A Mulla Nasrudin Story   

By

 

VIKRAM KARVE  

 

 

There is a beautiful and bright young girl who lives in my neighbourhood.

She wants to get married but it seems that she just can’t seem to find anyone suitable matching her "stringent" requirements.

She is surrounded by so many “eligible” boys, colleagues at work, in her friends circle, if she prefers a "love" marriage; and also she has “seen” and “rejected” a large number of boys her parents and well-wishers keep lining up for her, in case she wants to go in for an "arranged" marriage.

None of the boys seems to come up to her perfect standards and high expectations. But one thing is sure - she does want to get married.

 

I wonder whether I should tell her this apocryphal Mulla Nasrudin Teaching story – THE PERFECT WIFE :

 

Mulla Nasrudin was sitting in a tea shop when a friend came excitedly to speak with him.

 

“I am about to get married,” his friend said, “and I am so very excited.”

 

“Congratulations,” Mulla Nasrudin said, nonchalant,  pokerfaced.

 

“Tell me, Nasrudin, have you ever thought of marriage yourself?” the about to get married friend asked Mulla Nasrudin who had remained a chronic bachelor.

 

Nasrudin replied, “Of course I did think of getting married. In my youth, in fact, I very much wanted to get married.”

 

“So, what happened...?” the friend asked curious.

 

“I wanted to find for myself the perfect wife,” Nasrudin said, “so I travelled looking for the perfect wife. I first went to Damascus. There I met a beautiful woman who was gracious, kind, and deeply spiritual, but she had no worldly knowledge."

"Oh, how sad...!" said the friend, " then what did you do...?

"Then I travelled further and went to Isphahan. There I met a woman who was both spiritual and worldly, beautiful in many ways, but her social graces were not of the highest standards.”

 

“What a tragedy...then what did you do...you gave up...?” the friend asked.

 

“No...No...I don't give up so easily...and I very much wanted  to get married...so I kept on searching for the perfect wife and travelled all over the world meeting so many women..." Nasrudin said.

 

“And did you find her...? Tell me, did you finally find the perfect wife...?” the friend asked eagerly.

 

“Yes,” Nasrudin said, “after travelling all over finally I went to Cairo and there after much searching I found her. She was spiritually deep, graceful, and beautiful in every respect, at home in the world and at home in the realms beyond it. I knew I had found the perfect wife.”

 

“Then why did you not marry her...?” the friend asked excitedly.

 

“Alas,” said Nasrudin as he shook his head in dismay, “Unfortunately, she was searching for the perfect husband.”

 

 

Dear Reader, please be so good as to advise me:

Should I tell the beautiful and bright young girl this Mulla Nasrudin story right now...?

Or should I wait till she perfects the art of remaining single...?

 

 

VIKRAM KARVE

 

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

 

http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve

vikramkarve@sify.com

MARRIED BACHELOR OFFICE WIFE

MATRIMONY – A PARADIGM SHIFT

Short Fiction – A Story about Modern Life

By

VIKRAM KARVE


Married Bachelors are proliferating all around me.

Come, walk around with me in my workplace, and I’ll show you what I mean.

Let’s meet the latest entrant to the Married Bachelors’ Club.

“Congratulations,” I say.

“Thank you, Sir,” says the smart upwardly mobile young man standing before me.

“How was the wedding ?”

“Grand – it was really a fantastic wedding.”

“Honeymoon ?”

“In Seychelles.”

“Wow! Come to our place in the evening. We want to meet your brand new wife,” I say.

“Sir, she hasn’t come.”

“Hasn’t come?”

“She is working in Delhi, Sir.”

“Tell her to quit.”

“Quit her job – why should she quit her job ?” he looks at me as if I have said something blasphemous.

“She can take a year or two off, can’t she? Come on, newly married couples like you must stay together; especially in a beautiful place like this. Now is the time, when you are fresh and young.”

“She’s very career conscious, Sir,” he says proudly, “and this a very vital phase for her – she’s on the verge of a promotion, working on an important project.”

And it was the same for the ambitious high flier go-getter standing in front of me. He too had “heights” to scale.

From a true bachelor he had become a married bachelor.

Just like his brand new wife.

Of course, now that they were endorsed with the hallmark of marriage, both of them, husband and wife, married bachelors, were free to focus their entire efforts on climbing their respective separate career ladders to “success” and fulfill their professional ambitions.

She is married to her job; he is married to his job – and, of course, they are married to each other.

Why do people marry ?

For togetherness and companionship, isn’t it ?

Then why do they stay separately by choice, especially in the formative exciting passionate early years of marriage ?

I just can’t fathom this paradox.

And here is my colleague – a charming lady – a veteran married bachelor.

I prefer to call her a married bachelor rather than married spinster!

If actresses can be called actors, why not refer to spinsters as bachelors.

She’s not the overly ambitious type. She once told me that given a choice she would give up her monotonous backbreaking job.

Then why doesn’t she do what she wants and quit her job ?

Well, she is caught in the EMI trap.

They’ve bought an exclusive penthouse flat in the classiest posh township in the city and a weekend “farmhouse” bungalow in the hills. And they are so busy earning to pay off their backbreaking and never-ending loan EMIs, she grinding herself off here in her office while he is slogging it out at sea.

Far apart, sometimes wonder whether it was all worth it – sacrificing the best years of their lives for material comforts, fearing that life may pass them by and they may become too old and worn out to enjoy the very comforts they sacrificed the best years of their lives for.

And here is a similar tale.

Poor chap. He bought a house in Pune as he loved the place and comfortably settled down with his family.

And then he got transferred and had to move out.

But the family won’t move out.

They love the place, and have embellished their adorable abode with such loving care, that they can’t dream of giving it on rent either. They just don’t want to move out of their comfortable existence.

Well, no one likes to leave one’s comfort zone. Certainly not his well settled family.

So the poor man will have to spend the rest of his working life as a married bachelor.

It is difficult and painful.

Once you have tasted and savored the fruits of family life, it is difficult to live alone – you can take my word for it!

Let’s move on to another married bachelor. Just have a look at him - the man with the forlorn look. Why is he a married bachelor?

“Children’s Education,” he says.

“What’s wrong with the schools here ?”

“I don’t want to disturb them. I want them to get the best.”

So husband and wife sacrifice their marital happiness for the sake of their darling children, who owing to their brilliant academic accomplishments are sure to fly off to better pastures, leaving behind the “married bachelors” [the sacrificing parents] to endure the remains of their marital lives as strangers in their empty nest.

I wonder why these married bachelors prefer to live miserably in self-imposed desolation and loneliness. Will they never experience the warm glow of the “much-married” feeling that comes after years of togetherness and friendship ?

Ah! At last, I see the lovey-dovey couple I’ve been noticing for weeks now – a truly “made for each other” couple!

“Good to see a lovely married couple at the workplace,” I comment.

“Hah! Married couple ?” pipes up the office jester, “Of course both of them are married, but they are not married to each other.”

“What do you mean?” I ask bewildered, “I see them together everywhere. Can’t you see that distinctive togetherness about them that you can see only in happily married spouses ?”

“Oh yes. You can call them spouses – office spouses – office husband and office wife.”
“Office Spouses ?

“Yes, Office Spouse. Workplace mates. Call them what you like. It’s the in thing, you know, especially among ‘married bachelors’ as you call them – to have an office husband or an office wife.”

Married Bachelors. Office Spouses. What’s the world coming to?

I’ve had enough – and just imagine, I thought marriage is being together.

Well, it is time for a paradigm shift, isn’t it ?

MATRIMONY – A PARADIGM SHIFT
Short Fiction – A Story about Modern Life
By
VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/

http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve

Appetite for a Stroll

vikramkarve@sify.com

HAPPY and CONTENT

ENOUGH

An Inspirational Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE


Do you have a capacity for contentment?

Do you know when enough is enough?

I am sure you have read a version of this meaningful inspirational story:

A fisherman lived on a tropical island. He fished for his family and had plenty of time to play with his children, to enjoy the beauty around him and to be a good neighbour.

A yacht arrived carrying a wealthy entrepreneur. The fisherman took him out for a day’s fishing.

As the day went on the entrepreneur looked at the beautiful island with its silver sand fringed with palm trees, the calm blue sea filled with a rainbow of darting fish and saw the opportunity for development and making lots of money.

He was a magnanimous man so he thought he must help the fisherman by offering him the idea, so he said to the fisherman, “Why don’t you build a hotel and encourage tourists to come to the island?”

“A hotel?” the fisherman asked perplexed.

“Yes, a hotel,” the businessman said, “In fact you should build a holiday village with a sports complex so people can come and relax. It could be so successful that you could build an air strip so you can offer the whole package to the tourists so you can cut out the middle man and make even greater profits.”

“Why should I do that?” asked the fisherman.

“You would make lots of money and be rich of course!” replied the entrepreneur.

“How long would it take?” asked the fisherman

“I would think it would take ten years to be really successful,” answered the entrepreneur.

“What would I do with all that money?” enquired the fisherman.

“You could go on exotic holidays to a beautiful island where you could fish, play with your children and have plenty of time to enjoy the beauty all around you” replied the entrepreneur.

“But that is exactly what I am doing now, isn’t it?” asked the bewildered fisherman.


There is a Chinese saying – he who knows that enough is enough will always have enough – so as I said in the beginning, “If you know when enough is enough, you will always have enough”.

Money is like petrol in a car. Money is not the car, money is not the destination. The petrol in your car enables you to go from place A to place B. Now suppose you have reached your destination place B. Now money [“petrol”] will also enable you to go from place B to place C – but suppose you are happy and content at being at place B and do not want to go to place C, is the petrol of any use? It is the same with money.

It would be apt to quote Warren Buffet: “I really like my life. I've arranged my life so that I can do what I want... I get to do what I like to do every single day of the year…”

Dear Reader, may I wish you happiness now and here, wherever you are and contentment with whatever you have.

VIKRAM KARVE

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve

vikramkarve@sify.com

Time to Move On in Life

TIME TO MOVE ON

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Here is an apocryphal funny teaching story I heard somewhere.

Dear Reader, please read it slowly, then have a good laugh, carry the story with you and let it perambulate in your mind, and suddenly you will understand its true meaning and feel enlightened.

A distinguished man bought a lovely bungalow at a scenic place in a nearby hill-station.

From time to time he would take a break from his work and escape from the hectic life of the city and go to his bungalow in the hills to enjoy relaxed solitude.

He would always tell everyone that he was going away for a month but invariably he used to always return much earlier - sometimes within ten days and sometimes even earlier - within a week itself.

When asked the reason for his erratic behaviour, the distinguished man explained:

"I have kept a caretaker woman there to look after my house in the hills. She is very ugly, probably the ugliest and most repugnant woman in the world – she looks absolutely hideous and is so terribly revolting that just one look at her and you will feel like vomiting.

Whenever I go to live there, at first the ugly woman looks terribly repulsive and dreadfully ghastly.

But slowly, after three, four days, she doesn’t seem so horrible.

Then, as time passes, maybe after six, seven days, I start seeing some beauty in her.

The day I start seeing beauty in her is the day I flee from the hill-station and come back to the city – because that means enough is enough – I have lived away from the world too long - now even this utterly ugly and horrible woman has started looking beautiful – I may even fall in love with this horrendous woman – that is dangerous warning signal and I know that it is time to move on. So I pack up my bags and rush back to the city."

Please tell me, Dear Reader, what is the moral of this story?

VIKRAM KARVE

vikramkarve@sify.com

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve

TIT FOR TAT



Art of Cooking



A Teaching Story



By



VIKRAM KARVE





On a freezing cold snowy winter day Mulla Nasrudin was having a chat with some of his friends in the local coffee house.



Mulla Nasrudin said that cold weather did not bother him, and in fact, he could stay, if necessary, all right without any heat.



“We’ll take you up on that, Mulla Nasrudin,” his friends said. “If you stand all night in the village square without warming yourself by any external means each of us will treat you to sumptuous meal. But if you fail to do so, you will treat all of us to dinner.”



“All right, it’s a bet,” Mulla Nasrudin said and that very night Mulla Nasrudin stood shivering all night in the village square till the morning despite the bitter cold.



In the morning he ran triumphantly to his friends and told them he had won the bet and that they should be ready to fulfil their promise of treating him to a sumptuous meal.



“As a matter of fact you lost the bet, Mulla Nasrudin,” said his friends.



“Lost the bet? How is that possible? I stood in the freezing cold all night,” Nasrudin asked perplexed.



“At about midnight, just before we went to sleep, we saw a candle burning in a window about three hundred yards away from where you were standing. That certainly means that you warmed yourself by it,” the friends said.



“That’s ridiculous, “Mulla Nasrudin argued. “How can a candle so far away behind a window warm a person standing outside in the freezing cold more than three hundred yards away?”



All his protestations were to no avail and it was decided that Mulla Nasrudin had lost the bet.



Mulla Nasrudin accepted gracefully the verdict and invited all of them to dinner that night at his home.



All his friends arrived on time, laughing and joking; they had built up a ravenous appetite in eager anticipation of the delicious meal Mulla Nasrudin was going to serve them.



But dinner was not ready.



Mulla Nasrudin told them that it would be ready in a short time and left the room to prepare the meal.



Hours passed and still no dinner was served. Neither did Nasrudin emerge even once from his kitchen.



Finally, getting impatient and very hungry his friends went into the kitchen to see if there was any food cooking at all.



They looked in disbelief at what they saw.



Mulla Nasrudin was standing by a huge cooking pot suspended from the ceiling and there was a small lighted candle under the large cooking pot.



“Be patient my friends,” Mulla Nasrudin assured his friends, “Dinner will be ready soon. You see it is cooking in front of you in this pot.”



“Are you out of your mind, Mulla Nasrudin?” they shouted in exasperation, “How could such a tiny flame boil such a large pot?”



“Your ignorance of such matters amuses me,” Mulla Nasrudin said nonchalantly, “If the flame of a candle behind a window three hundred yards away can warm a person, surely the same flame will boil this pot which is only three inches away.”



Dear Reader, any comments?



VIKRAM KARVE


http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com


vikramkarve@sify.com

Me and My Ex

Dating Mating Hating Resuscitating

Short Fiction – A Love Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE


The much delayed monsoon has finally arrived in Pune. It’s been raining incessantly all morning.

Ideally, at 10 o’clock in the morning on a working day, I should have been safely ensconced in my office, but today I sit in the driving seat of my car, slowly negotiating my way in the torrential rain, for I have an important appointment to keep.

Suddenly I see Avinash, half drenched, shivering under the bus-stop at Aundh, trying to protect himself from the pouring rain.

He sees me too. Our eyes meet. I don’t know who is more surprised at this unexpected encounter – he or me.

At first instinct, I just feel like ignoring him and driving away.

But then my humanitarian side takes over, so I stop the car near him, lean across, open the door and beckon him to get inside.

He seems hesitant, “Thanks, but I’ll take an auto – I am going to Deccan…”

“Come on Avinash, get in fast or you’ll get wet – you won’t get a rickshaw in this rain – I too am going towards Deccan Gymkhana – I’ll drop you on the way.”

He gets in and for a while we drive in silence.

“It’s been five years,” he says.

“Yes,” I say, “Quite a surprise, seeing you here in Pune…”

“Yes. I just came in from Mumbai by the Volvo bus, got down at Parihar Chowk… and you…what are you doing in Pune?”

“I relocated here six months ago…you still in the States?”

“Yes. But maybe I’ll come back…”

“Recession…?”

“Not really…”

“So you’ve come to look for a job in Pune…?”

“It’s actually something else…a family matter…”

“Family matter…? In Pune…?”

“My wife is from Pune…”

“Wife…? You remarried…?

“Yes…two years ago…”

“And I didn’t even know…!”

“We decided…didn’t we…to move on…go off on our different ways…not look back…”

“Yes…we lost track of each other completely…”

“That was good…isn’t it…for both of us…”

“Yes…”

“And you…? You married again…?”

“Yes…soon after you left for the States after our divorce…”

“On the rebound…?”

“Maybe…” I laugh.

Avinash has not changed…the way he says these devastatingly rude things in such a naïve innocent way.

We are nearing the Pune University circle so I ask, “Where is your wife’s house...? I’ll take the road accordingly…”

“It’s okay…just drop me wherever you can…”

“Come on…tell me…see how much it is raining…you want me to take Senapati Bapat Road…or drive straight ahead…to Fergusson College Road…or Jangli Maharaj Road…?”

“It’s okay…you go wherever you want to go in Deccan…I’ll get off there…”

“Oh…so you don’t want to show me your wife’s house…” I say, tongue in cheek.

“No…No…it’s not that…I am going somewhere else…to the Family Court…”

“To the Family Court…? I ask, taken aback.

“Yes,” he says, “it’s beyond Deccan, past Lakdi Pul…near Alaka…”

“I know where the family court is…” I say, “I hope you are not…”

“Yes…first it was the Family Court in Mumbai with you…and now…” he stops, as tears well up in his eyes.

“I too am going to the Family Court…” I say, sensing a lump in my throat.

“What…?” he looks at me, startled.

“I am divorcing my husband…today is the final hearing…hopefully…”

I slow down, stop the car near the kerb past E-Square. I wipe my eyes with tissue and hold the tissue box towards Avinash. He too wipes his eyes.

“Maybe we should have stayed together, tried to make our marriage work,” I say.

“Yes…it all happened so fast …maybe we were too hasty, too impatient, too headstrong…”

“Yes…we could have tried to make it work…”

“I think we sought the easy way out…we were too young…unrealistic…immature…impetuous…volatile…”

“Yes… ours was a tempestuous stormy relationship…a terrible marriage…but there is one thing…”

“What…?”

“With you I could be myself…no mask, no pretence, no forced geniality…”

“Me too…with you I could truly be myself…no contrived feelings, no holding back…I could never be like that with anyone else…with her too…the way could naturally be with you…you know I think we were made for each other…”

“Maybe we should give it a try…one more time…make things work…”

“You’re serious…?” he asks with a curious look in his eyes.

“Yes, Avinash. Let’s empty our cups and start afresh. Like you said, I too think we are made for each other.”

“Okay, but there is one thing…”

“What…?”

“Is it allowed to marry the same person twice…?

“I think so...I’ll ask my divorce lawyer…she will know…”

“Yes…I’ll confirm at the Family Court too…”

“One more thing…”

“Now what…?”

“This time…No Expectations, No Disappointments, Happy Marriage…”

“Yes,” I say lovingly putting my hand on his: “No Expectations…No Disappointments…Happy Marriage…”

Suddenly I notice that it has stopped raining and the sun is peeping through the clouds.

I feel good. I start the car and we drive on towards the Family Court…to erase the second chapter of our marital lives forever and to begin writing our first inchoate chapter afresh.


VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

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