THE TRUE MEANING OF LOVE
[Short Fiction - A Love Story]
by
VIKRAM KARVE
I do not know how the idea entered my brain in the first place; but once conceived, it haunted me with such urgency that a strange force took charge of me, impelling me to act. I tucked the packet under my arm and walked towards my destination, looking around furtively like someone with a guilty conscience.
The moment I saw her photograph I knew that I had to see her. A man’s first love occupies an enduring place in his heart. Ten years. Ten long years. She had married money. And status. I was heartbroken. Yet I bore her no pique or rancor. Never will. How can I? I had truly loved her. I still love her. I will always love her. Till my dying day.
I was desperately eager to impress her. To give her a gift would be too obvious. I did not know how much she had told her husband about me, about us, about our unrequited love!
Her children should be the same age as mine. Maybe slightly older. They say the best route to a married woman’s heart is through her children. I looked at the packet under my arm. A gift. A gift for her children. The deluxe set of children’s encyclopedias I had promised my son. And my daughter. Year after year. For the last three years. And did not buy. Because it was too expensive. And now I was going to present it to Anjali’s children. Just to impress her. Why? I do not know.
As I rang the doorbell, I felt a tremor of anticipation. Suddenly I realized that I did not know whether Anjali would be happy to see me or pretend she didn’t recognize me. The door opened. Anjali looked ravishing. She gave me her sparkling smile and welcomed me with genuine happiness, “Sanjiv! After so many years! What a delightful surprise. How did you manage to find me?"
We looked at each other. Anjali had fully blossomed and looked stunning. She looked so exquisite, so dazzling, that I cannot begin to describe the intense emotion I felt as I looked intently into her radiating eyes, totally mesmerized by her beauty.
“Stop staring at me, “Anjali said, her large expressive eyes dancing mischievously.
“You look so beautiful. And so young!” I said with genuine frankness.
“But you look old. Even your beard has becoming grey.” Anjali paused, probably regretting what she had said.
Then suddenly she held out her hand to me and said, “I am so happy to see you, Sanjiv. Come inside.”
Her house was extravagant. Wealth and opulence showed everywhere. Anjali carried herself majestically with regal poise; her demeanor slick and confident. No wonder! To ‘belong’ had always been the driving force of her life. Money, status, social prestige, success – she had got everything she wanted. I couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy, and failure.
“You like my house?” she asked. “Sit down. And don’t look so lost.”
I sat down on a sofa and kept the gift wrapped packet on the side-table.
Anjali sat down opposite. “How did you know I live here? We shifted to Mumbai only a month ago.”
I took out the wallet from my pocket and gave it to her. “Your husband’s purse. I saw your photograph in it.”
Anjali opened the purse and started to check the contents.
“You don’t trust cops, do you?” I said with a smile.
Anjali blushed. She kept the wallet on the table. Then she looked at me with frank admiration in her eyes. “IPS? That’s fantastic. I never thought you would do so well! What are you? Superintendent? Deputy Commissioner?”
Now it was my turn to blush. “No,” I said sheepishly. “I am only a sub-inspector.”
“Oh!” she said, trying to hide her disappointment. But I had read the language of her eyes. The nuance wasn’t lost on me. Suddenly she had changed.
“Is Mr. Joshi at home?” I asked.
“He is still at the office,” Anjali said.
“Oh! I thought he would be home,” I said.
“I’ll make you some tea,” she said and started to get up.
“Please sit down, Anjali. Let’s talk.” I looked at my watch. “It’s already six-thirty. Let’s wait for Mr. Joshi. Maybe he’ll offer me a drink. And dinner.”
“My husband comes home very late,” Anjali said. “After all, he is the Managing Director and the CEO. There is so much work. And conferences. Important business meetings. He is the top boss – a very successful and extremely busy man.” She couldn’t have spelt it out more clearly. I got the message loud and clear.
Anjali changed the topic and asked, “Where did you find my husband's purse?”
“It was deposited in the lost-and-found section last evening,” I lied, trying to keep a straight face.
“It’s strange,” Anjali said. “He didn’t mention anything.”
“He may not have noticed,” I said, tongue-in-cheek, “After all Mr. Joshi is a very busy man to notice such minor things like a missing purse.”
“Yes,” she said, giving a distant look. Anjali opened the purse once more and examined his credit cards and driving license. At first she appeared confused. Then she gave me a cold hard look. But she didn’t say anything. There was a long period of silence. Grotesque Silence.
Anjali kept staring at me. Looking directly into my eyes. A distant look. Almost dismissive. I began to feel uneasy. Suddenly I remembered the gift wrapped packet I had brought and exclaimed enthusiastically, “Anjali, where are your children? I have got a gift for them. Just a small present for your kids!”
From the look on her face, I immediately sensed that I had said something terribly wrong. I saw tears well up in her eyes. All of a sudden, Anjali looked small, weak and vulnerable. I felt a sense of deep regret as comprehension dawned on me. I looked at her helplessly, pleading innocence, but it was of no use. Some day Anjali might understand my actions, but at that moment it was hopeless to try and explain. The hurt was deep, and I had to let it go in silence.
We just sat there in silence, not knowing what to say. A deafening silence.
It is strange how moments you have rehearsed for end up with a different script.
I could not bear it any longer. I quickly got up and started walking swiftly towards the door. Suddenly I realized that I had forgotten to pick up the packet – the gift. But I did not turn back. Why? I do not know.
“Don’t go, Sanjiv. I want to talk to you,” Anjali spoke coldly.
I stopped in my tracks. I could hear Anjali footsteps behind me. I turned around to face her. She seemed a bit composed.
“You lied to me, Sanjiv,” Anjali said. “I want to know where you found this wallet.”
I did not know what to say. I tried to avoid her eyes.
“Tell me,” Anjali pleaded.
When in doubt, I speak the truth, so I told her the truth, “We raided one of those exclusive classy joints last night,” I stammered. “A posh call-girl racket……….” I could not continue...so I mumbled, “I am sorry. I did not know...”
“I know! Oh yes I know!” Anjali said mockingly. “That impotent creep! Trying to prove his virility to himself.”
With those few words, she had bared the secret of her marriage. I looked at her. Her manner was relaxed and nonchalant; her fury was visible only in her eyes.
I was nonplussed. Suddenly I blurted out, “Don’t worry Anjali. I have dropped the charges. I’ll hush it up.”
I still don’t know why I uttered those words but the moment she heard my words there was a visible metamorphosis in Anjali. Suddenly she became flaming mad. She looked so distraught and angry that I felt very frightened. I was terrified that she would go berserk and attack me, slap me, or something, so I instinctively stepped back. But Anjali suddenly turned and left the room. I waited, dumbstruck, pole-axed, frozen for a moment and after regaining my composure decided to leave and started to move towards the door.
“Wait!” I heard her scream. I stopped in my tracks and turned around.
Anjali quickly walked towards me and thrust out her right hand. She held a bundle of five hundred rupee notes. “So this is what you have come for, isn’t it? A bribe to hush up the case, isn’t it? Even from me! You unscrupulous swine, I didn’t expect you to fall so low. Here - take the money and get out. This is all I have at home. If you want more, you know where to find my husband; don’t you?”
“No, Anjali,” I recoiled in horror, “Please don’t ………..”
“Cheap!” Anjali spat out. There was contempt in her eyes. “Cheap riffraff! That’s what you always were, Sanjiv. Get out you filthy blackmailer.” She threw the bundle of notes at me. It hit my chest and fell on the ground, the money scattering near my feet.
“I love you, Anjali,” I said, trying to sound sincere.
“Love,” she exclaimed, her radiating eyes burning with anger. “So you have come to see how your barren old flame is flourishing, isn’t it?” She paused and said sarcastically, “So you are pleased aren’t you? Happy to see how successful my marriage is, isn't it?”
Her sly and sarcastic suggestion that I might be happy at her misfortune hurt me more than anything else. I turned around and walked out of the house. As I walked towards the gate something hit me on my back. I winced in pain. The three volumes of the expensive Children’s Encyclopedia were scattered on the ground, their silver paper gift wrapper torn. I knew that Anjali was standing in the door looking at me. But I did not look back at her. I gathered the books and walked away into the darkness.
Next morning, as I gradually came into consciousness from my drunken stupor, I realized that I was in my bed.
Though sunlight filtered in through the open windows, everything looked blurred.
Slowly things began to come into focus.
My daughter was sitting beside me on the bed. She touched my arm with tenderness.
There were tears in her eyes.
My son stood aloof on the other side of the bed.
There was fear in his eyes.
My wife looked at me with loving pity and said, “The children want to thank you for the lovely gift. They are so happy!”
She was holding the set of encyclopedias in her hands.
I smiled and reached out to them.
They held my hands and smiled back.
I looked at the pure unadulterated joy in their eyes.
For the first time in my life I experienced a deep genuine true love for my wife and children.
A love which I had never felt before.
Tears of joy welled up in my eyes.
I had discovered love.
Yes, I had discovered the true meaning of love.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
Monday, June 22, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Horror Story - This is no Joke
THIS IS NO JOKE - Sheer Horror
Short Fiction
by
VIKRAM KARVE
Read this slowly and carefully.
Take your time.
Savour every word.
Try to enjoy it.
For it is going to be the last thing you ever read, because you’re not going to read much after this.
That’s because by the time you finish reading this, I am going to finish you off.
Yes. You read right.
I am going to finish you off once and for all.
Murder you in cold blood.
Till you are dead.
RIP.
Requiescat in pace.
Or is it requiescant in pace?
It just doesn’t matter.
But you for sure are going to rest in peace.
That’s right. Rest in Peace.
Rest in Peace!
RIP.
Forever.
You think this is a big joke?
It is not a joke. Yes, my friend, this is no joke.
I’m going to terminate you.
I’ve been watching you for days. You’re so nice and healthy. That is why I have no compunctions, as I firmly believe that my victim ought to be in good health, since it is barbarous to kill anybody who is weak or of a sickly disposition.
After you finish reading this, just sit back and relax.
But don't turn around and look behind you.
That's right - DO NOT LOOK BEHIND YOU.
I know you can find excuses to hang around your house, or your office, or wherever you are reading this; but sooner or later you’re going to have to get up and go out.
That’s where I’ll be waiting for you.
Or maybe I am closer to you than that.
Maybe I am in this very room where you are sitting.
You think of death as something far distant, don’t you?
It is not! Death is very near, very close to you. Maybe just behind you.
Believe me. I’m dead serious. Your death is just lurking behind your back.
Do not look behind you.
Come on, dear Reader. Tell me. Where are you reading this?
In your room late at night on your PC, or in your office, or on your laptop, in bed, or outdoors, or while traveling, or on a lazy Sunday afternoon?
Or have you taken a printout and are reading this propped up on your pillow in bed late at night?
It doesn't matter. It just doesn’t matter.
Because I’m going to come and get you the moment you finish reading this.
You can take my word for it.
If you are home while reading this, maybe I’m in your house with you right now, maybe in this very room, stealthily creeping right behind you, waiting for you to finish the story.
Do not look behind you.
Maybe I’m watching surreptitiously though your office window, or maybe I am standing menacingly right behind you as you sit at your work desk staring at the monitor, waiting to pierce you with the deadly needle of the venom filled hypodermic syringe the moment you finish reading this.
Just sit still and keep reading.
Do not look behind you.
Or maybe I’m sitting covertly right next to you in the Internet café where you are reading this.
Don’t look! Please do not turn around and look.
Just keep reading.
Maybe I’m waiting outside for you.
But don’t look around.
You’ll be happier if you don’t know – if you don’t see the needle coming.
So please do not look behind you.
But wherever you are reading this, I’m near you, watching and waiting for you to finish.
And then I’ll silently slither right behind you.
And from the right pocket of my trousers I’ll carefully take out the lethal syringe.
Don’t be scared.
You won’t feel a thing.
Maybe just a wee little scratch, a teeny weeny prick of a tiny microscopic needle.
And you will die instantly.
It’s much better killing this way – instantaneous, effortless, clean, clinical. I like it this way.
When I kill people this way they don’t even come to know.
Unless they turn around and look.
So don’t look behind you!
I am warning you, just don't turn around and look behind you.
You don’t believe in the macabre, do you?
You think my imagination is running wild and this is just my amateurish attempt at writing a short story, don’t you?
Go on; smile to yourself, thinking this is just a joke, a fib, a yarn.
This is no joke.
Don’t look behind you. Please do not look behind you.
You don't believe me?
Okay, don’t believe me – until you feel the gentle prick of the hypodermic needle penetrating deep into your spine.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Short Fiction
by
VIKRAM KARVE
Read this slowly and carefully.
Take your time.
Savour every word.
Try to enjoy it.
For it is going to be the last thing you ever read, because you’re not going to read much after this.
That’s because by the time you finish reading this, I am going to finish you off.
Yes. You read right.
I am going to finish you off once and for all.
Murder you in cold blood.
Till you are dead.
RIP.
Requiescat in pace.
Or is it requiescant in pace?
It just doesn’t matter.
But you for sure are going to rest in peace.
That’s right. Rest in Peace.
Rest in Peace!
RIP.
Forever.
You think this is a big joke?
It is not a joke. Yes, my friend, this is no joke.
I’m going to terminate you.
I’ve been watching you for days. You’re so nice and healthy. That is why I have no compunctions, as I firmly believe that my victim ought to be in good health, since it is barbarous to kill anybody who is weak or of a sickly disposition.
After you finish reading this, just sit back and relax.
But don't turn around and look behind you.
That's right - DO NOT LOOK BEHIND YOU.
I know you can find excuses to hang around your house, or your office, or wherever you are reading this; but sooner or later you’re going to have to get up and go out.
That’s where I’ll be waiting for you.
Or maybe I am closer to you than that.
Maybe I am in this very room where you are sitting.
You think of death as something far distant, don’t you?
It is not! Death is very near, very close to you. Maybe just behind you.
Believe me. I’m dead serious. Your death is just lurking behind your back.
Do not look behind you.
Come on, dear Reader. Tell me. Where are you reading this?
In your room late at night on your PC, or in your office, or on your laptop, in bed, or outdoors, or while traveling, or on a lazy Sunday afternoon?
Or have you taken a printout and are reading this propped up on your pillow in bed late at night?
It doesn't matter. It just doesn’t matter.
Because I’m going to come and get you the moment you finish reading this.
You can take my word for it.
If you are home while reading this, maybe I’m in your house with you right now, maybe in this very room, stealthily creeping right behind you, waiting for you to finish the story.
Do not look behind you.
Maybe I’m watching surreptitiously though your office window, or maybe I am standing menacingly right behind you as you sit at your work desk staring at the monitor, waiting to pierce you with the deadly needle of the venom filled hypodermic syringe the moment you finish reading this.
Just sit still and keep reading.
Do not look behind you.
Or maybe I’m sitting covertly right next to you in the Internet café where you are reading this.
Don’t look! Please do not turn around and look.
Just keep reading.
Maybe I’m waiting outside for you.
But don’t look around.
You’ll be happier if you don’t know – if you don’t see the needle coming.
So please do not look behind you.
But wherever you are reading this, I’m near you, watching and waiting for you to finish.
And then I’ll silently slither right behind you.
And from the right pocket of my trousers I’ll carefully take out the lethal syringe.
Don’t be scared.
You won’t feel a thing.
Maybe just a wee little scratch, a teeny weeny prick of a tiny microscopic needle.
And you will die instantly.
It’s much better killing this way – instantaneous, effortless, clean, clinical. I like it this way.
When I kill people this way they don’t even come to know.
Unless they turn around and look.
So don’t look behind you!
I am warning you, just don't turn around and look behind you.
You don’t believe in the macabre, do you?
You think my imagination is running wild and this is just my amateurish attempt at writing a short story, don’t you?
Go on; smile to yourself, thinking this is just a joke, a fib, a yarn.
This is no joke.
Don’t look behind you. Please do not look behind you.
You don't believe me?
Okay, don’t believe me – until you feel the gentle prick of the hypodermic needle penetrating deep into your spine.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
A GLORIOUS DAY IN PUNE
ITCHY FEET HUNGRY STOMACH CURIOUS MIND
APPETITE FOR A STROLL
A Glorious Day in Pune
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Musings on the Art of Leisure from my delicious Foodie Adventures Book Appetite for a Stroll
Art of Loafing
Please tell me, Dear Reader: What is loafing? Idling away your time on useless things?
Aimless Loitering?
Loitering! Sounds a bit derogatory, isn't it?
Okay let’s say it is aimless wandering – Perfectly useless time spent in a perfectly useless manner!
Yes. That’s how I would like to define the art of loafing - spending perfectly useless time in a perfectly useless manner!
Foodwalking
And what, Dear Reader, is foodwalking?Loitering, or rather walking, in search of good food. Not so aimless loitering!
That's what I did once – long back. I loafed in Pune.
Foodwalked. In search of good food.
I spent a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner – “Foodwalking in Pune”.
I still have fond nostalgic memories of that glorious day. Let me tell you about it.
A Glorious Day
It is a beautiful morning. I try to furtively slip out of my house unnoticed, but I am stopped in my tracks by my wife's piercing voice, "Where are you going"? "I don’t know?" I answer truthfully, and this adroit answer probably precludes the next question she is about to ask me, "What time are you coming back?" for she knows I will again truthfully answer, "I don’t know".
It’s true – I really don’t know where I am going!"Take the mobile with you," she shouts, but I pretend not to hear and make myself scarce and disappear as fast as possible for I do not want the manacles of technology to ruin my day. Dear fellow loafer - If you want to truly enjoy life beware of the technology trap!It's a bright day. I feel good.
Flush with a sense of carefree irresponsibility, I walk with a spring in my step. I am going to enjoy my leisure. Should I turn left? Should I turn right? Should I cross the road and go straight ahead?
I am free. Free to go wherever I desire. Free to enjoy my day as I want.
True freedom – to be able to travel at will with no destination to reach, no task to complete, no deadlines to meet.
Just Loaf. Aimlessly. Timelessly. Pure Leisure.
Spend a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner. I see a bus. I stop it and hop in. "Where do you want to go?" the conductor asks. "Where does this bus go?" I ask. "Pune Railway Station."
"Okay. One ticket to Pune Railway Station," I say holding out a tenner. The conductor gives me an amused look and hands me a ticket and a rupee coin.
I sit down on a vacant window-seat.
I think interesting thoughts and enjoy the view through the window.
On these trips of mine I prefer travelling by bus and, of course, I love to walk on foot.
Driving my car on the terrible potholed, crowded and chaotic roads in the terrible traffic of Pune makes me go crazy, and, at my age, I dare not venture out too far on my scooter, lest I land up with broken bones in hospital or, worse, lifeless in Vaikunth or Kailas crematoriums! That's what I sometimes do on these glorious trips of mine. Just jump into the first bus that comes along and let it take you wherever it goes.
Just go where life leads you.
Last time I landed up in the heart of Pune near Shaniwar Wada.
In Mumbai, Kolkata, Chennai, Bangalore and Delhi loafing is even more exciting, as there are so many more routes and choices, trains, buses, walks, and you can serendipitously explore so many novel and exotic places you would not dream of going to in normal course. The bus reaches the Pune Railway Station. It’s been a smooth ride.
Anonymity
I get down and admire the magnificent heritage stone building of Pune Railway Station. I stand in the porch and look inside. Trains, crowds, announcements, horns, cacophony, and chaos – I love the “railway” atmosphere.
On impulse, I enter, and stroll on the platform, panning my gaze all over, and stopping once in a while to feast my eyes on any attractive object that arrests my attention. "Want a seat?" a porter asks. "No," I say. "Where are you going?" he pursues. "Nowhere," I say. "Waiting for someone," he asks, probably in anticipation of porterage. "No," I say. He stares at me for a moment and walks off with a look of perplexed dejection.
I look around. Everyone is waiting to go somewhere, or for someone. I am waiting to go nowhere, and for nobody.
So I walk out of the station and head for Shiv Kailash Milk Bar bang opposite on the other side of the road. If you arrive at Pune by train on a hot morning, never make the blunder of heading for the rickshaw stand. You'll get all stressed up waiting in the never-ending queue and haggling with the rickshawallas trying to con you.
Just cross the road to Shiv Kailash, sit under the shade on one of the stainless steel stools placed on the pavement, invigorate yourself with a tall glass of cool refreshing lassi (which is guaranteed to banish the depleting effects of the tiresome train journey) and tell the waiter to hail a rickshaw from the many hanging around.
This is what I have been doing for so many years, during my numerous homecomings, since the days when Pune was called Poona. Shiv Kailash serves the best lassi in Pune. It’s almost as good as the one at Pehelwan at the end on Lanka near BHU in Varanasi. The lassi freshly made in front of you topped off with a generous dollop of soft fresh cream. The sumptuous fulfilling soothing lassi is thick, lip-smacking, nourishing, and gives me a heavenly feeling.
I sip slowly, relishing every mouthful, almost eating the delectable fluid after letting it perambulate on my tongue, as I watch the world go about its business outside.
People come in a jiffy; gulp their glasses of lassi down the hatch in a hurry, and rush away, while I blissfully savour each and every drop of the delicious creamy lassi. I walk leisurely towards Camp. Past Mira College, GPO, Zero Milestone, Police Headquarters, Nehru Memorial Hall, where I cross the Moledina Road admiring the imposing Lal Deval Synagogue, and turn left, past the place imperial Dorabjee Store Building used to be once. Now there is a huge shopping complex and a glitzy mall opposite. I reminisce. West End, New Empire, all the adorable landmarks gone. Now there are Malls and modern places like Landmark. Landmark – you know it don’t you?
Landmark is Pune’s swanky new music-cum-book store. Like Crossword – giving competition to the grand old Manney’s, International, Popular, TBS and the bookshops at Appa Balwant Chowk.
I walk in. The place is swarming with chic salesgirls and sales-boys. No one pays any attention to me. Maybe I blend well with the surroundings.
I realize the tremendous advantages of obscurity and the benefits of anonymity.
Had I been a successful person, rich and famous, or someone with a striking personality, people would notice me and I doubt I would have been able to enjoy myself with such carefree abandon.
Only non-achievers like me can truly enjoy a life of carefree irresponsibility and the unadulterated joys of genuine leisure. I roam around the ground floor music section. There are no music stations where you can listen to music like they have in Rhythm House and Planet-M in Mumbai. So I go the first floor bookstore. It’s spacious, neatly laid-out and looks impressive.
Browsing
The books are arranged subject-wise, clearly visible from anywhere. There are cushioned stools to sit and browse and also two long sofas below the huge tinted windows towards the far side.
I start from the left side. Food, Philosophy, Self-Help, Travel, Coffee Table, Erotica, Classics, Fiction, Computers, Children, Indian Writing there are books on every topic you can think of.
The tranquil ambiance is so soothing and conducive that I browse to my hearts content, loosing myself into that wonderful state of timelessness I experience sometimes when I am totally immersed into doing something I love. By the time I leave Landmark, cerebrally satiated, it is almost three in the afternoon, I am hungry, and in desperate need of gastronomic satiation. So I walk past Manney’s, West End, turn right on Main Street, cross Aurora Towers, turn right, walk past ABN Amro Bank, and turn left on Dastur Meher Road, a walk leisurely towards Sarbatwala Chowk till I reach Dorabjee and Sons.
A Leisurely Meal
I dive in through the low entrance and look around. The eatery is crowded, with noisy families bashing away regardless greedily devouring the heaps food before them. The mouth-watering aroma, and the sight of the appetizing food, creates in me such ravenous pangs of hunger that I quickly sit on the only vacant table and order a Mutton Biryani the signature dish of Dorabjee. As is the hallmark of specialty cuisine restaurants the menu is select just a few choice dishes a single page. There's Sali, Curry, Masala and Biryani in Mutton and Chicken; Kheema, Brain, Eggs, and combinations thereof, cutlets in gravy, and a few Veg dishes, for appearance sake. On Sundays, you can have Dhansak, maybe on your way to the races in the season.
Pune may have changed but heritage institutions like Dorabjee still preserve the flavour of yesteryear Pune. I spoon some Biryani onto my tongue, seal my lips, close my eyes, turn my senses inwards with full consciousness to imbibe and savour the unique medley of juices released by the succulent piece of mutton, the bitterish-sweet taste of the slightly burnt crisp fried onions, and the spicy flavoursome rice. It is superlative delicious authentic cuisine at its best. Dorabjee serves the best heritage mutton biryani in Pune – no doubt about it. [Blue Nile and Good Luck are nearly as good].The fervent atmosphere of the place and exquisite quality of the food is such that one eats enthusiastically, with wholehearted zest and gusto; not apologetically and self-consciously, as one tends to do, trying to be prim and proper, in highfalutin restaurants.
At Dorabjee, you can enjoy every morsel of your food with passionate ardour.
And as I reach blissful satiety I realize that a well-filled stomach radiates a kind of spiritual happiness.
Art of Leisure
The ideal way to end this rich spicy repast is to cool it off with a Falooda.
So I walk down Sachapir Street, cross Main Street, and head for Badshah on East Street to down a deliciously sweet and chilled Rose flavored Royal Falooda.
And then to Kayani, down East Street, to pick up some Shrewsbury Biscuits and Chocolate Walnut Cake. I stand outside Kayani, wondering what to do. Maybe I can go to Manney’s and browse some more. If Landmark has got the ambiance, Manney’s got the books!
And then just loiter down Main Street admiring pretty looking things, till I am tired and hungry.
Maybe I will have some sandwiches, a roll and cold coffee at Marzorin. Or pastries and a softy at Pasteurs.
Or a Burger at Burger King, or a Chopsuey at East End, down East Street.
Maybe Kathi Rolls at Olympia, Chicken Masala at George, Chana Bhatura at Monafood, Sev Barfi at Bhavnagri, Wafers at Budhani, or Sizzlers at The Place next to Manneys, or one more Biryani at Blue Nile near the GPO.
The possibilities are endless!Or should I see the movie at Victory opposite, or at West End nearby?
Maybe I'll jump into the first bus I see and let it take me wherever it goes.
How about going for a long walk on Laxmi road into the heart of town?
Or an idyll beside the river in Bund Garden, or Saras Baug, or Sambhaji Park?
Or maybe I will just head home.
Oh, yes indeed, the possibilities are truly endless!
I am free to do whatever I choose to do!
I can loaf to my heart's content!
To continue to spend a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner!
Relish moments of perfect leisure.You can take my word for it, dear reader.
There is nothing you will enjoy more than loafing.
It is only when you cease to do the things you have to do, and do the things you like to do, and you want to do, that you achieve the highest value of your time.
The freedom to enjoy life is the ultimate reward.
Why should you defer happiness waiting for some elusive abstract rewards?
What reward could be greater than a life enjoyed as it is lived? If you do not find happiness as you are, where you are, here and now, you will never find it.
There is always plenty in life right now to enjoy for one who is determined to enjoy it.
The feast of life is before you.
Do you have the appetite to enjoy the feast of life? So my dear friend, discover the art of loafing, and you will redeem the art of living from the business of living. The Art of Travelling, The Art of Happiness, The Art of Eating, The Art of Living, The Art of Loafing, The Art of Leisure - all inextricably intertwined, isn’t it?
Dear Reader, do tell us about your glorious carefree leisurely loafing experiences in your favourite city too!
I’ll end with a recap on how to realize the highest value of your time: “It is only when you cease to do the things you have to do, and do the things you like to do and you want to do, that you achieve the highest value of your time”
Liked this article?
Want to read more such musings, recipes and go on food-walks with me?
Do you have an Appetite for a Stroll?
Dear Reader, why don't you get a copy of Appetite for a Stroll by just clicking the links below?
http://www.indiaplaza.in/finalpage.aspx?storename=books&sku=9788190690096&ct=2
http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
mailto:vikramkarve@sify.com
APPETITE FOR A STROLL
A Glorious Day in Pune
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Musings on the Art of Leisure from my delicious Foodie Adventures Book Appetite for a Stroll
Art of Loafing
Please tell me, Dear Reader: What is loafing? Idling away your time on useless things?
Aimless Loitering?
Loitering! Sounds a bit derogatory, isn't it?
Okay let’s say it is aimless wandering – Perfectly useless time spent in a perfectly useless manner!
Yes. That’s how I would like to define the art of loafing - spending perfectly useless time in a perfectly useless manner!
Foodwalking
And what, Dear Reader, is foodwalking?Loitering, or rather walking, in search of good food. Not so aimless loitering!
That's what I did once – long back. I loafed in Pune.
Foodwalked. In search of good food.
I spent a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner – “Foodwalking in Pune”.
I still have fond nostalgic memories of that glorious day. Let me tell you about it.
A Glorious Day
It is a beautiful morning. I try to furtively slip out of my house unnoticed, but I am stopped in my tracks by my wife's piercing voice, "Where are you going"? "I don’t know?" I answer truthfully, and this adroit answer probably precludes the next question she is about to ask me, "What time are you coming back?" for she knows I will again truthfully answer, "I don’t know".
It’s true – I really don’t know where I am going!"Take the mobile with you," she shouts, but I pretend not to hear and make myself scarce and disappear as fast as possible for I do not want the manacles of technology to ruin my day. Dear fellow loafer - If you want to truly enjoy life beware of the technology trap!It's a bright day. I feel good.
Flush with a sense of carefree irresponsibility, I walk with a spring in my step. I am going to enjoy my leisure. Should I turn left? Should I turn right? Should I cross the road and go straight ahead?
I am free. Free to go wherever I desire. Free to enjoy my day as I want.
True freedom – to be able to travel at will with no destination to reach, no task to complete, no deadlines to meet.
Just Loaf. Aimlessly. Timelessly. Pure Leisure.
Spend a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner. I see a bus. I stop it and hop in. "Where do you want to go?" the conductor asks. "Where does this bus go?" I ask. "Pune Railway Station."
"Okay. One ticket to Pune Railway Station," I say holding out a tenner. The conductor gives me an amused look and hands me a ticket and a rupee coin.
I sit down on a vacant window-seat.
I think interesting thoughts and enjoy the view through the window.
On these trips of mine I prefer travelling by bus and, of course, I love to walk on foot.
Driving my car on the terrible potholed, crowded and chaotic roads in the terrible traffic of Pune makes me go crazy, and, at my age, I dare not venture out too far on my scooter, lest I land up with broken bones in hospital or, worse, lifeless in Vaikunth or Kailas crematoriums! That's what I sometimes do on these glorious trips of mine. Just jump into the first bus that comes along and let it take you wherever it goes.
Just go where life leads you.
Last time I landed up in the heart of Pune near Shaniwar Wada.
In Mumbai, Kolkata, Chennai, Bangalore and Delhi loafing is even more exciting, as there are so many more routes and choices, trains, buses, walks, and you can serendipitously explore so many novel and exotic places you would not dream of going to in normal course. The bus reaches the Pune Railway Station. It’s been a smooth ride.
Anonymity
I get down and admire the magnificent heritage stone building of Pune Railway Station. I stand in the porch and look inside. Trains, crowds, announcements, horns, cacophony, and chaos – I love the “railway” atmosphere.
On impulse, I enter, and stroll on the platform, panning my gaze all over, and stopping once in a while to feast my eyes on any attractive object that arrests my attention. "Want a seat?" a porter asks. "No," I say. "Where are you going?" he pursues. "Nowhere," I say. "Waiting for someone," he asks, probably in anticipation of porterage. "No," I say. He stares at me for a moment and walks off with a look of perplexed dejection.
I look around. Everyone is waiting to go somewhere, or for someone. I am waiting to go nowhere, and for nobody.
So I walk out of the station and head for Shiv Kailash Milk Bar bang opposite on the other side of the road. If you arrive at Pune by train on a hot morning, never make the blunder of heading for the rickshaw stand. You'll get all stressed up waiting in the never-ending queue and haggling with the rickshawallas trying to con you.
Just cross the road to Shiv Kailash, sit under the shade on one of the stainless steel stools placed on the pavement, invigorate yourself with a tall glass of cool refreshing lassi (which is guaranteed to banish the depleting effects of the tiresome train journey) and tell the waiter to hail a rickshaw from the many hanging around.
This is what I have been doing for so many years, during my numerous homecomings, since the days when Pune was called Poona. Shiv Kailash serves the best lassi in Pune. It’s almost as good as the one at Pehelwan at the end on Lanka near BHU in Varanasi. The lassi freshly made in front of you topped off with a generous dollop of soft fresh cream. The sumptuous fulfilling soothing lassi is thick, lip-smacking, nourishing, and gives me a heavenly feeling.
I sip slowly, relishing every mouthful, almost eating the delectable fluid after letting it perambulate on my tongue, as I watch the world go about its business outside.
People come in a jiffy; gulp their glasses of lassi down the hatch in a hurry, and rush away, while I blissfully savour each and every drop of the delicious creamy lassi. I walk leisurely towards Camp. Past Mira College, GPO, Zero Milestone, Police Headquarters, Nehru Memorial Hall, where I cross the Moledina Road admiring the imposing Lal Deval Synagogue, and turn left, past the place imperial Dorabjee Store Building used to be once. Now there is a huge shopping complex and a glitzy mall opposite. I reminisce. West End, New Empire, all the adorable landmarks gone. Now there are Malls and modern places like Landmark. Landmark – you know it don’t you?
Landmark is Pune’s swanky new music-cum-book store. Like Crossword – giving competition to the grand old Manney’s, International, Popular, TBS and the bookshops at Appa Balwant Chowk.
I walk in. The place is swarming with chic salesgirls and sales-boys. No one pays any attention to me. Maybe I blend well with the surroundings.
I realize the tremendous advantages of obscurity and the benefits of anonymity.
Had I been a successful person, rich and famous, or someone with a striking personality, people would notice me and I doubt I would have been able to enjoy myself with such carefree abandon.
Only non-achievers like me can truly enjoy a life of carefree irresponsibility and the unadulterated joys of genuine leisure. I roam around the ground floor music section. There are no music stations where you can listen to music like they have in Rhythm House and Planet-M in Mumbai. So I go the first floor bookstore. It’s spacious, neatly laid-out and looks impressive.
Browsing
The books are arranged subject-wise, clearly visible from anywhere. There are cushioned stools to sit and browse and also two long sofas below the huge tinted windows towards the far side.
I start from the left side. Food, Philosophy, Self-Help, Travel, Coffee Table, Erotica, Classics, Fiction, Computers, Children, Indian Writing there are books on every topic you can think of.
The tranquil ambiance is so soothing and conducive that I browse to my hearts content, loosing myself into that wonderful state of timelessness I experience sometimes when I am totally immersed into doing something I love. By the time I leave Landmark, cerebrally satiated, it is almost three in the afternoon, I am hungry, and in desperate need of gastronomic satiation. So I walk past Manney’s, West End, turn right on Main Street, cross Aurora Towers, turn right, walk past ABN Amro Bank, and turn left on Dastur Meher Road, a walk leisurely towards Sarbatwala Chowk till I reach Dorabjee and Sons.
A Leisurely Meal
I dive in through the low entrance and look around. The eatery is crowded, with noisy families bashing away regardless greedily devouring the heaps food before them. The mouth-watering aroma, and the sight of the appetizing food, creates in me such ravenous pangs of hunger that I quickly sit on the only vacant table and order a Mutton Biryani the signature dish of Dorabjee. As is the hallmark of specialty cuisine restaurants the menu is select just a few choice dishes a single page. There's Sali, Curry, Masala and Biryani in Mutton and Chicken; Kheema, Brain, Eggs, and combinations thereof, cutlets in gravy, and a few Veg dishes, for appearance sake. On Sundays, you can have Dhansak, maybe on your way to the races in the season.
Pune may have changed but heritage institutions like Dorabjee still preserve the flavour of yesteryear Pune. I spoon some Biryani onto my tongue, seal my lips, close my eyes, turn my senses inwards with full consciousness to imbibe and savour the unique medley of juices released by the succulent piece of mutton, the bitterish-sweet taste of the slightly burnt crisp fried onions, and the spicy flavoursome rice. It is superlative delicious authentic cuisine at its best. Dorabjee serves the best heritage mutton biryani in Pune – no doubt about it. [Blue Nile and Good Luck are nearly as good].The fervent atmosphere of the place and exquisite quality of the food is such that one eats enthusiastically, with wholehearted zest and gusto; not apologetically and self-consciously, as one tends to do, trying to be prim and proper, in highfalutin restaurants.
At Dorabjee, you can enjoy every morsel of your food with passionate ardour.
And as I reach blissful satiety I realize that a well-filled stomach radiates a kind of spiritual happiness.
Art of Leisure
The ideal way to end this rich spicy repast is to cool it off with a Falooda.
So I walk down Sachapir Street, cross Main Street, and head for Badshah on East Street to down a deliciously sweet and chilled Rose flavored Royal Falooda.
And then to Kayani, down East Street, to pick up some Shrewsbury Biscuits and Chocolate Walnut Cake. I stand outside Kayani, wondering what to do. Maybe I can go to Manney’s and browse some more. If Landmark has got the ambiance, Manney’s got the books!
And then just loiter down Main Street admiring pretty looking things, till I am tired and hungry.
Maybe I will have some sandwiches, a roll and cold coffee at Marzorin. Or pastries and a softy at Pasteurs.
Or a Burger at Burger King, or a Chopsuey at East End, down East Street.
Maybe Kathi Rolls at Olympia, Chicken Masala at George, Chana Bhatura at Monafood, Sev Barfi at Bhavnagri, Wafers at Budhani, or Sizzlers at The Place next to Manneys, or one more Biryani at Blue Nile near the GPO.
The possibilities are endless!Or should I see the movie at Victory opposite, or at West End nearby?
Maybe I'll jump into the first bus I see and let it take me wherever it goes.
How about going for a long walk on Laxmi road into the heart of town?
Or an idyll beside the river in Bund Garden, or Saras Baug, or Sambhaji Park?
Or maybe I will just head home.
Oh, yes indeed, the possibilities are truly endless!
I am free to do whatever I choose to do!
I can loaf to my heart's content!
To continue to spend a perfectly useless day in a perfectly useless manner!
Relish moments of perfect leisure.You can take my word for it, dear reader.
There is nothing you will enjoy more than loafing.
It is only when you cease to do the things you have to do, and do the things you like to do, and you want to do, that you achieve the highest value of your time.
The freedom to enjoy life is the ultimate reward.
Why should you defer happiness waiting for some elusive abstract rewards?
What reward could be greater than a life enjoyed as it is lived? If you do not find happiness as you are, where you are, here and now, you will never find it.
There is always plenty in life right now to enjoy for one who is determined to enjoy it.
The feast of life is before you.
Do you have the appetite to enjoy the feast of life? So my dear friend, discover the art of loafing, and you will redeem the art of living from the business of living. The Art of Travelling, The Art of Happiness, The Art of Eating, The Art of Living, The Art of Loafing, The Art of Leisure - all inextricably intertwined, isn’t it?
Dear Reader, do tell us about your glorious carefree leisurely loafing experiences in your favourite city too!
I’ll end with a recap on how to realize the highest value of your time: “It is only when you cease to do the things you have to do, and do the things you like to do and you want to do, that you achieve the highest value of your time”
Liked this article?
Want to read more such musings, recipes and go on food-walks with me?
Do you have an Appetite for a Stroll?
Dear Reader, why don't you get a copy of Appetite for a Stroll by just clicking the links below?
http://www.indiaplaza.in/finalpage.aspx?storename=books&sku=9788190690096&ct=2
http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
mailto:vikramkarve@sify.com
Thursday, June 11, 2009
A Love Story - ICE CREAM PIZZA and LOVEY-DOVEY
A Love Story
ICE CREAM PIZZA and LOVEY-DOVEY
by
VIKRAM KARVE
She stands in front of the full-length mirror and looks at herself. She cringes a bit for she does not like what she sees.
The jeans make her look fat. And the tight blue top – it’s all wrong!
So she wears a loose dress – Churidar, Kurta and Dupatta – to hide her bulges.
She looks at her new high-heels – should she? They’ll make her look tall, less fat. No. Not today.
Now it’s got to be walking shoes. A brisk invigorating walk from Chowpatty to Churchgate rejuvenating her body breathing the fresh evening sea breeze on Marine Drive is what she needs to cheer her up.
She stands on the weighing machine at Churchgate station and, with a tremor of trepidation, puts in the coin. Lights flash. Out comes the ticket. She looks at it. Same as yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. No change – yes, there is never any change in her weight or her fortune!
Her face falls. She’s trying so much; exercising, dieting. But it’s no use. She looks longingly at the Softy Ice Cream counter.
There is a smart young handsome man with two Ice Cream cones, one in each hand. He looks at her for that moment longer than necessary. She averts her eyes, but he walks up to her and says, “Hi! How are you?”
She looks at him confused. His face seems vaguely familiar.
“You are Sheena’s roommate, aren’t you?” he asks.
She remembers him. He is Sheena’s boyfriend from HR.
“Here,” he says, coming close, proffering an Ice Cream cone.
She steps back awkwardly, perplexed and taken aback by the man’s audacity.
“Take it fast. It’ll melt,” he says.
She hesitates, confused.
“Come on. Don’t be shy. I know you love Ice Cream. Sheena told me.”
She takes the Ice Cream cone from his hands.
“I’m Mohan. I work in HR.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Let’s walk,” he says, “and hey, eat your ice cream fast before it melts”.
They start walking. As they walk slowly out of Churchgate station towards Marine Drive, they slowly lick the creamy yummy softy ice cream off their cones.
“You walked all the way?” he asks.
“Yes,” she speaks for the first time.
“All alone?”
“Yes.”
“You come here everyday?”
“Yes.”
“All alone?”
“No. On other days we come together.”
“And today?”
“Sheena’s gone out.”
“For the office party at the disc?”
“Maybe.”
“And you?”
She’s furious. But she controls herself. Says nothing. No point getting on the wrong side of HR. She hastens her steps and says, “Okay. Bye. Time for me to go! And thanks for the Ice Cream.”
“No. No. Wait. Let’s have a Pizza over there,” he says pointing to the Pizzeria on Marine Drive by the sea.
“No. Please. I’ve got to go.”
“Come on. Don’t count your calories too much. And don’t weigh yourself every day.”
“What?” she goes red with embarrassment! This is too much! So this guy has been stalking her - watching her every day. Outwardly she fumes. But inside, she secretly feels a flush of excitement.
“Yes. Don’t get obsessed. Like Sheena.”
“Sheena?”
“She keeps nagging me about my weight?”
“But you’re not fat!” she says.
“Then what would you say I am?” he asks.
“Let’s say you’re on the healthier side?”
“Healthier side? That’s great!” he says amused. “Then you too are on the healthier side, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes. We both are on the healthier side.” She laughs. He laughs. They both laugh together. Healthy laughter!
They sit in the sea breeze and relish, enjoy their pizzas. He is easy to talk to, she has much to say, and the words come tumbling out.
And so they enjoy a ‘healthy’ date. Relishing delicious Pizzas, and other lip smacking goodies, to their hearts’ content, capping the satiating repast with the heavenly ice creams at Rustom’s nearby.
“Where were you?” Sheena asks when she returns to their room in the working women’s hostel late at night.
“I had a date.”
“You? Fatso? A date?” Sheena says disbelievingly
“Of course. At Churchgate.”
“A date at Churchgate? Wow! Things are looking up for you yaar!”
“Yes. And you Sheena? How was your date?”
“All ruined. That creep Mohan. He stood me up. Didn’t turn up at the disc and kept his mobile off.”
“Mohan?”
“You’ve met him.”
“Mohan? You’ve not introduced me to any Mohan.”
“Of course I have. He’s come here to pick me up so many times. He comes over to meet me at our office too. He works in HR.”
“Oh the guy from HR - the chap on the healthier side! That’s your darling Mohan, is it?”
“Darling? My foot! " Sheena says angrily, "Bloody ditcher, that’s what that Mohan is - how dare he stand me up - to hell with him!” Sheena mutters and goes off to sleep.
But our heroine cannot sleep. She eagerly waits for sunrise. For at six in the morning her newfound beau Mohan has promised to meet her on Marine Drive opposite the Aquarium - for a ‘healthy’ jog on Marine Drive. And they will be meeting in the evening too - at Churchgate - for ice cream, pizza and a lovey-dovey date.
She feels happy, full of anticipation and zest.
Happiness is when you have something to look forward to.
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
ICE CREAM PIZZA and LOVEY-DOVEY
by
VIKRAM KARVE
She stands in front of the full-length mirror and looks at herself. She cringes a bit for she does not like what she sees.
The jeans make her look fat. And the tight blue top – it’s all wrong!
So she wears a loose dress – Churidar, Kurta and Dupatta – to hide her bulges.
She looks at her new high-heels – should she? They’ll make her look tall, less fat. No. Not today.
Now it’s got to be walking shoes. A brisk invigorating walk from Chowpatty to Churchgate rejuvenating her body breathing the fresh evening sea breeze on Marine Drive is what she needs to cheer her up.
She stands on the weighing machine at Churchgate station and, with a tremor of trepidation, puts in the coin. Lights flash. Out comes the ticket. She looks at it. Same as yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. No change – yes, there is never any change in her weight or her fortune!
Her face falls. She’s trying so much; exercising, dieting. But it’s no use. She looks longingly at the Softy Ice Cream counter.
There is a smart young handsome man with two Ice Cream cones, one in each hand. He looks at her for that moment longer than necessary. She averts her eyes, but he walks up to her and says, “Hi! How are you?”
She looks at him confused. His face seems vaguely familiar.
“You are Sheena’s roommate, aren’t you?” he asks.
She remembers him. He is Sheena’s boyfriend from HR.
“Here,” he says, coming close, proffering an Ice Cream cone.
She steps back awkwardly, perplexed and taken aback by the man’s audacity.
“Take it fast. It’ll melt,” he says.
She hesitates, confused.
“Come on. Don’t be shy. I know you love Ice Cream. Sheena told me.”
She takes the Ice Cream cone from his hands.
“I’m Mohan. I work in HR.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Let’s walk,” he says, “and hey, eat your ice cream fast before it melts”.
They start walking. As they walk slowly out of Churchgate station towards Marine Drive, they slowly lick the creamy yummy softy ice cream off their cones.
“You walked all the way?” he asks.
“Yes,” she speaks for the first time.
“All alone?”
“Yes.”
“You come here everyday?”
“Yes.”
“All alone?”
“No. On other days we come together.”
“And today?”
“Sheena’s gone out.”
“For the office party at the disc?”
“Maybe.”
“And you?”
She’s furious. But she controls herself. Says nothing. No point getting on the wrong side of HR. She hastens her steps and says, “Okay. Bye. Time for me to go! And thanks for the Ice Cream.”
“No. No. Wait. Let’s have a Pizza over there,” he says pointing to the Pizzeria on Marine Drive by the sea.
“No. Please. I’ve got to go.”
“Come on. Don’t count your calories too much. And don’t weigh yourself every day.”
“What?” she goes red with embarrassment! This is too much! So this guy has been stalking her - watching her every day. Outwardly she fumes. But inside, she secretly feels a flush of excitement.
“Yes. Don’t get obsessed. Like Sheena.”
“Sheena?”
“She keeps nagging me about my weight?”
“But you’re not fat!” she says.
“Then what would you say I am?” he asks.
“Let’s say you’re on the healthier side?”
“Healthier side? That’s great!” he says amused. “Then you too are on the healthier side, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes. We both are on the healthier side.” She laughs. He laughs. They both laugh together. Healthy laughter!
They sit in the sea breeze and relish, enjoy their pizzas. He is easy to talk to, she has much to say, and the words come tumbling out.
And so they enjoy a ‘healthy’ date. Relishing delicious Pizzas, and other lip smacking goodies, to their hearts’ content, capping the satiating repast with the heavenly ice creams at Rustom’s nearby.
“Where were you?” Sheena asks when she returns to their room in the working women’s hostel late at night.
“I had a date.”
“You? Fatso? A date?” Sheena says disbelievingly
“Of course. At Churchgate.”
“A date at Churchgate? Wow! Things are looking up for you yaar!”
“Yes. And you Sheena? How was your date?”
“All ruined. That creep Mohan. He stood me up. Didn’t turn up at the disc and kept his mobile off.”
“Mohan?”
“You’ve met him.”
“Mohan? You’ve not introduced me to any Mohan.”
“Of course I have. He’s come here to pick me up so many times. He comes over to meet me at our office too. He works in HR.”
“Oh the guy from HR - the chap on the healthier side! That’s your darling Mohan, is it?”
“Darling? My foot! " Sheena says angrily, "Bloody ditcher, that’s what that Mohan is - how dare he stand me up - to hell with him!” Sheena mutters and goes off to sleep.
But our heroine cannot sleep. She eagerly waits for sunrise. For at six in the morning her newfound beau Mohan has promised to meet her on Marine Drive opposite the Aquarium - for a ‘healthy’ jog on Marine Drive. And they will be meeting in the evening too - at Churchgate - for ice cream, pizza and a lovey-dovey date.
She feels happy, full of anticipation and zest.
Happiness is when you have something to look forward to.
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
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
How to Communicate with your Pet Dog
DOES YOUR DOG UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE SAYING ?
How I Taught My Dog Sherry the Human Language
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Part 1: Donkey Language
Before I tell you how I taught my pet dog Sherry the human language here is an apocryphal story:
A wise man, a renowned teacher, once publicly vowed that he would eradicate illiteracy and teach everyone to read.
Some mischievous boys brought a donkey to the teacher and asked him if he could teach the donkey to read.
The wise teacher stunned the students by taking up the challenge and said, “Give me the donkey for a month and I will teach it to read.”
The teacher went home and began to train his donkey to read. At first he put the donkey into the stable and gave him no food for some days. Then he found a thick book and put some hay between the pages. In the beginning the teacher turned the pages and gave the donkey the hay between the pages.
After a while the donkey learnt to turn the pages with his tongue to find and eat the feed by itself. Each time when the donkey finished the book and found no more feed between the pages it would bray: “Eee aah, Eee aah!”
Three days before the one month period was over the teacher stopped feeding the donkey till the poor donkey after fasting for three days without a morsel of food was voraciously hungry.
On the fateful day when the whole school assembled to see the miracle of the donkey reading, the wise teacher brought the ravenously hungry donkey onto the stage. He asked for a big book and put it in front of the donkey.
The hungry donkey turned the first page of the book with its tongue and when it could not find any feed the donkey brayed: “Eee aah, Eee aah!” and turned one more page, and again not finding any hay it cried: “Eee aah, Eee aah!”
The famished donkey kept turning the pages of the book one by one with its tongue and when it could not find any feed between the pages its braying grew louder and louder and soon the hapless donkey was turning the pages and shrieking in a loud voice: “Eee aah, Eee aah!” till it reached a crescendo.
Proud of his achievement the wise teacher said to the gathering: “You all have seen that the donkey has turned the pages of the book and he read it.”
One of the naughty students asked: “But we could not understand anything.”
The wise teacher replied: “Of course you could not understand what the donkey read because it was donkey language. In order to understand it you have to learn donkey language. Come to me for tuition in the evening. I will teach you donkey language.”
[To be continued…]
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
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http://www.indiaplaza.in/finalpage.aspx?storename=books&sku=9788190690096&ct=2
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http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm
How I Taught My Dog Sherry the Human Language
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Part 1: Donkey Language
Before I tell you how I taught my pet dog Sherry the human language here is an apocryphal story:
A wise man, a renowned teacher, once publicly vowed that he would eradicate illiteracy and teach everyone to read.
Some mischievous boys brought a donkey to the teacher and asked him if he could teach the donkey to read.
The wise teacher stunned the students by taking up the challenge and said, “Give me the donkey for a month and I will teach it to read.”
The teacher went home and began to train his donkey to read. At first he put the donkey into the stable and gave him no food for some days. Then he found a thick book and put some hay between the pages. In the beginning the teacher turned the pages and gave the donkey the hay between the pages.
After a while the donkey learnt to turn the pages with his tongue to find and eat the feed by itself. Each time when the donkey finished the book and found no more feed between the pages it would bray: “Eee aah, Eee aah!”
Three days before the one month period was over the teacher stopped feeding the donkey till the poor donkey after fasting for three days without a morsel of food was voraciously hungry.
On the fateful day when the whole school assembled to see the miracle of the donkey reading, the wise teacher brought the ravenously hungry donkey onto the stage. He asked for a big book and put it in front of the donkey.
The hungry donkey turned the first page of the book with its tongue and when it could not find any feed the donkey brayed: “Eee aah, Eee aah!” and turned one more page, and again not finding any hay it cried: “Eee aah, Eee aah!”
The famished donkey kept turning the pages of the book one by one with its tongue and when it could not find any feed between the pages its braying grew louder and louder and soon the hapless donkey was turning the pages and shrieking in a loud voice: “Eee aah, Eee aah!” till it reached a crescendo.
Proud of his achievement the wise teacher said to the gathering: “You all have seen that the donkey has turned the pages of the book and he read it.”
One of the naughty students asked: “But we could not understand anything.”
The wise teacher replied: “Of course you could not understand what the donkey read because it was donkey language. In order to understand it you have to learn donkey language. Come to me for tuition in the evening. I will teach you donkey language.”
[To be continued…]
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
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http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.indiaplaza.in/finalpage.aspx?storename=books&sku=9788190690096&ct=2
http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm
Monday, May 25, 2009
Pot and Baby Pot
THE PREGNANT POT
A Teaching Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Mulla Nasrudin asked his neighbour if he could lend him a pot for cooking.
The neighbour gave him a cheap dented aluminium pot.
The next day Nasrudin returned the pot along with a brand new aluminium smaller pot.
“But I gave you only one pot,” the neighbour said.
“Congratulations. Your pot was pregnant. It had a baby!” Nasrudin explained.
A few days later Nasrudin again asked to borrow a pot and this time the neighbour eagerly gave him an expensive ornate vessel made of pure silver.
When Nasrudin did not return the expensive silver pot for a long time the neighbour asked him for it and Nasrudin replied with a sad look of condolence on his face: “I am sorry to inform you that your pot died. Please accept my heartfelt condolences.”
“What nonsense! How can a pot die?” the neighbour demanded.
“If a pot can get pregnant and have a baby, it can also die, isn’t it?” Nasrudin concluded triumphantly.
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
A Teaching Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Mulla Nasrudin asked his neighbour if he could lend him a pot for cooking.
The neighbour gave him a cheap dented aluminium pot.
The next day Nasrudin returned the pot along with a brand new aluminium smaller pot.
“But I gave you only one pot,” the neighbour said.
“Congratulations. Your pot was pregnant. It had a baby!” Nasrudin explained.
A few days later Nasrudin again asked to borrow a pot and this time the neighbour eagerly gave him an expensive ornate vessel made of pure silver.
When Nasrudin did not return the expensive silver pot for a long time the neighbour asked him for it and Nasrudin replied with a sad look of condolence on his face: “I am sorry to inform you that your pot died. Please accept my heartfelt condolences.”
“What nonsense! How can a pot die?” the neighbour demanded.
“If a pot can get pregnant and have a baby, it can also die, isn’t it?” Nasrudin concluded triumphantly.
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Etiquette and Table Manners
ETIQUETTE and GOOD MANNERS
[A Story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Once a renowned philosopher was traveling through the wise Mulla Nasrudin’s village and he asked Mulla Nasrudin if he knew of any good place to eat.
Nasrudin suggested an eatery and the scholar, hungry for conversation, invited Mulla Nasrudin to join him for the meal.
Much obliged, Mulla Nasrudin accompanied the scholar to the restaurant, where they asked the waiter about the special dish of the day.
“Fish! Fresh Fried Fish !” replied the waiter.
“Bring us two,” they answered.
A few minutes later, the waiter brought out a large platter with two fried fish on it, one large fried fish and one small fish which was quite a bit smaller than the larger one.
Without hesitating, Mulla Nasrudin took the larger of the fish and put in on his own plate.
The scholar, giving Nasrudin a look of intense disbelief, proceeded to tell him that what he had just done was not only blatantly selfish, but that it violated the principles of almost every known moral, religious, and ethical systems and started to deliver a moral lecture and pontificated on the subject of etiquette for a long time.
Mulla Nasrudin calmly listened to the philosopher’s long winded extempore lecture patiently and when the scholar had finally exhausted his speech, Nasrudin asked the visitor, “Well, Sir, please tell me, what would you have done?”
“I being a conscientious and cultured human being would have taken the smaller fish for myself,” pontificated the scholar taking a high moral ground.
“Good. Here you are,” Mulla Nasrudin said, and placed the smaller fish on the scholar’s plate.
Tell me, Dear Reader, what is the moral of the story, the wisdom hidden in this tale?
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
[A Story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Once a renowned philosopher was traveling through the wise Mulla Nasrudin’s village and he asked Mulla Nasrudin if he knew of any good place to eat.
Nasrudin suggested an eatery and the scholar, hungry for conversation, invited Mulla Nasrudin to join him for the meal.
Much obliged, Mulla Nasrudin accompanied the scholar to the restaurant, where they asked the waiter about the special dish of the day.
“Fish! Fresh Fried Fish !” replied the waiter.
“Bring us two,” they answered.
A few minutes later, the waiter brought out a large platter with two fried fish on it, one large fried fish and one small fish which was quite a bit smaller than the larger one.
Without hesitating, Mulla Nasrudin took the larger of the fish and put in on his own plate.
The scholar, giving Nasrudin a look of intense disbelief, proceeded to tell him that what he had just done was not only blatantly selfish, but that it violated the principles of almost every known moral, religious, and ethical systems and started to deliver a moral lecture and pontificated on the subject of etiquette for a long time.
Mulla Nasrudin calmly listened to the philosopher’s long winded extempore lecture patiently and when the scholar had finally exhausted his speech, Nasrudin asked the visitor, “Well, Sir, please tell me, what would you have done?”
“I being a conscientious and cultured human being would have taken the smaller fish for myself,” pontificated the scholar taking a high moral ground.
“Good. Here you are,” Mulla Nasrudin said, and placed the smaller fish on the scholar’s plate.
Tell me, Dear Reader, what is the moral of the story, the wisdom hidden in this tale?
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
SCIENTIST versus PHILOSOPHER
ACADEMIC DUEL
A battle of wits
By
VIKRAM KARVE
A learned foreign scientist said he wanted to challenge the wits of the most knowledgeable person in the city.
The townsfolk called for Mulla Nasrudin.
When Mulla Nasrudin arrived, the foreigner drew a circle in the sand with a stick.
Nasrudin frowned, took the stick, and divided the circle in two.
The foreigner then drew another line through the circle that divided it into four equal parts.
Nasrudin pretended to gather three parts toward himself and to push the remaining part toward the foreigner.
The foreigner then raised his arm above his head, and wiggling his extended fingers, he slowly lowered his hand to the ground.
Nasrudin did exactly the same thing but in the opposite direction – he moved his hand from the ground to a height above his head.
And, that completed the foreigner's tests, who bowed his head in deference before Mulla Nasrudin who smiled cannily at having won the academic duel and then walked away.
Later the renowned foreign scientist explained his game of wits privately to the city council..."Your Mulla Nasruddin is a very clever man," he began, "I showed him that the world is round – and your Mulla Nasrudin confirmed it but indicated that 'it also has an equator'.
Then when I divided the world into 4 parts, he indicated that it is '3 parts water and 1 part land', which I can't deny.
Finally, I asked him ‘what is the origin of rain’ and Nasrudin answered quite rightly that 'water rises as steam to the sky, makes cloud, and later returns to earth as rain.'"
When they got him alone, the ordinary townsfolk asked Mulla Nasrudin what the challenge was all about?
Nasrudin said, "Well, that other fellow first asked me, 'suppose we have this round tray of halwa’?
So, I said, 'You can't eat it all by yourself, you know. So, I'll take half.'
Then that haughty foreigner chap got a little rude, saying, 'What will you do if I cut the halwa into 4 parts?'
That upset me, so I said, 'In that case, I'll take three of the parts and only leave you one!'
That softened the impertinent foreigner scientist a bit, I think, because then, with the motion of his hand, he said, 'Well, I suppose I could add some walnuts and pistachio nuts on top of the halwa.’
I cooled down too and said, 'That's fine with me, but you'll need to cook it under full flame, because an ash fire just won't be hot enough'.
When I said that, the scientist knew I was right, so he gave up the game, and conceded defeat..."
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
A battle of wits
By
VIKRAM KARVE
A learned foreign scientist said he wanted to challenge the wits of the most knowledgeable person in the city.
The townsfolk called for Mulla Nasrudin.
When Mulla Nasrudin arrived, the foreigner drew a circle in the sand with a stick.
Nasrudin frowned, took the stick, and divided the circle in two.
The foreigner then drew another line through the circle that divided it into four equal parts.
Nasrudin pretended to gather three parts toward himself and to push the remaining part toward the foreigner.
The foreigner then raised his arm above his head, and wiggling his extended fingers, he slowly lowered his hand to the ground.
Nasrudin did exactly the same thing but in the opposite direction – he moved his hand from the ground to a height above his head.
And, that completed the foreigner's tests, who bowed his head in deference before Mulla Nasrudin who smiled cannily at having won the academic duel and then walked away.
Later the renowned foreign scientist explained his game of wits privately to the city council..."Your Mulla Nasruddin is a very clever man," he began, "I showed him that the world is round – and your Mulla Nasrudin confirmed it but indicated that 'it also has an equator'.
Then when I divided the world into 4 parts, he indicated that it is '3 parts water and 1 part land', which I can't deny.
Finally, I asked him ‘what is the origin of rain’ and Nasrudin answered quite rightly that 'water rises as steam to the sky, makes cloud, and later returns to earth as rain.'"
When they got him alone, the ordinary townsfolk asked Mulla Nasrudin what the challenge was all about?
Nasrudin said, "Well, that other fellow first asked me, 'suppose we have this round tray of halwa’?
So, I said, 'You can't eat it all by yourself, you know. So, I'll take half.'
Then that haughty foreigner chap got a little rude, saying, 'What will you do if I cut the halwa into 4 parts?'
That upset me, so I said, 'In that case, I'll take three of the parts and only leave you one!'
That softened the impertinent foreigner scientist a bit, I think, because then, with the motion of his hand, he said, 'Well, I suppose I could add some walnuts and pistachio nuts on top of the halwa.’
I cooled down too and said, 'That's fine with me, but you'll need to cook it under full flame, because an ash fire just won't be hot enough'.
When I said that, the scientist knew I was right, so he gave up the game, and conceded defeat..."
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
Friday, May 22, 2009
Greed, Love, Lust, Bust
GREED AND LUST
[A Teaching Story from the Panchatantra]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
There was an old man, a good natured simple farmer, who had a young wife.
The young wife was not satisfied with her aged simpleton husband, neglected her household work, and always yearned for the company of young handsome men.
One day, a smart young good-looking man saw her and seeing that she was alone went to her and said, “You are the most beautiful woman in the world and I am the most eligible bachelor. I have fallen in love with you the moment I saw you. Please give me the pleasure of your company.”
Delighted, the woman said to the young Casanova, “Listen my dear, my husband has a lot of wealth. He is old and of no use to me. I will take out all the money and jewellery and let us elope to some other town and live there happily ever after.”
The con-man was very happy and asked her to bring all her wealth to the mango orchard near the river at midnight where he would be waiting for her.
“We will both disappear in the darkness and head for the next town,” he told assured her.
The lusty woman waited till it was dark and when her husband fell asleep she stole all the money, jewellery and gold, packed it in a bag and left the house at midnight to meet the trickster at a place he had indicated. The trickster took the bag full of money and gold from her on the pretext that he would carry it and walked towards the river.
The smart young handsome man looked at the woman and thought, “What is the point of wasting my whole life with this woman? She seems a bit older than me too and soon may turn into a shrew. Also if she couldn’t be loyal to her husband she may ditch me too for someone else. It is better I dump her but take her money and jewellery with me.”
With these thoughts in mind he told the woman, “Look, my dear, it is very difficult to cross the river. I will first swim with the money bag to the other side of the river and keeping it there I will come back and carry you on my back.”
She readily agreed and gave the bag to her new found lover.
He asked her to take off her clothes too and give them to him to carry across the river as he felt her clothes would hinder swimming. She took off all her clothes and gave them to the man who swam across the river the money-bag and her clothes.
Covering her naked body with her hands, the woman began waiting restlessly for her lover to return.
Just then a jackal with a piece of meat in his mouth happened to pass by. The jackal saw that big juicy fish had been washed ashore by a wave and desperate to catch it the jackal ran towards the fish and in the process he dropped the meat piece from his mouth.
But suddenly another big wave took the fish back into the water.
Disappointed, the jackal went back to pick up the piece of meat, but meanwhile a crow dived down fast and took the meat piece away before the jackal could reach it.
The woman laughed at the greedy jackal who had lost the both the fish and also the piece of meat.
Hurt by the woman’s behaviour, the jackal said, “Don’t laugh you stupid woman. I lost a piece of meat due to my greed but you have lost everything – your husband, your lover and your wealth – due to your lust.”
Tell me, Dear Reader, what is the moral of this story?
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
[A Teaching Story from the Panchatantra]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
There was an old man, a good natured simple farmer, who had a young wife.
The young wife was not satisfied with her aged simpleton husband, neglected her household work, and always yearned for the company of young handsome men.
One day, a smart young good-looking man saw her and seeing that she was alone went to her and said, “You are the most beautiful woman in the world and I am the most eligible bachelor. I have fallen in love with you the moment I saw you. Please give me the pleasure of your company.”
Delighted, the woman said to the young Casanova, “Listen my dear, my husband has a lot of wealth. He is old and of no use to me. I will take out all the money and jewellery and let us elope to some other town and live there happily ever after.”
The con-man was very happy and asked her to bring all her wealth to the mango orchard near the river at midnight where he would be waiting for her.
“We will both disappear in the darkness and head for the next town,” he told assured her.
The lusty woman waited till it was dark and when her husband fell asleep she stole all the money, jewellery and gold, packed it in a bag and left the house at midnight to meet the trickster at a place he had indicated. The trickster took the bag full of money and gold from her on the pretext that he would carry it and walked towards the river.
The smart young handsome man looked at the woman and thought, “What is the point of wasting my whole life with this woman? She seems a bit older than me too and soon may turn into a shrew. Also if she couldn’t be loyal to her husband she may ditch me too for someone else. It is better I dump her but take her money and jewellery with me.”
With these thoughts in mind he told the woman, “Look, my dear, it is very difficult to cross the river. I will first swim with the money bag to the other side of the river and keeping it there I will come back and carry you on my back.”
She readily agreed and gave the bag to her new found lover.
He asked her to take off her clothes too and give them to him to carry across the river as he felt her clothes would hinder swimming. She took off all her clothes and gave them to the man who swam across the river the money-bag and her clothes.
Covering her naked body with her hands, the woman began waiting restlessly for her lover to return.
Just then a jackal with a piece of meat in his mouth happened to pass by. The jackal saw that big juicy fish had been washed ashore by a wave and desperate to catch it the jackal ran towards the fish and in the process he dropped the meat piece from his mouth.
But suddenly another big wave took the fish back into the water.
Disappointed, the jackal went back to pick up the piece of meat, but meanwhile a crow dived down fast and took the meat piece away before the jackal could reach it.
The woman laughed at the greedy jackal who had lost the both the fish and also the piece of meat.
Hurt by the woman’s behaviour, the jackal said, “Don’t laugh you stupid woman. I lost a piece of meat due to my greed but you have lost everything – your husband, your lover and your wealth – due to your lust.”
Tell me, Dear Reader, what is the moral of this story?
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
Monday, May 18, 2009
A Passionate Dating & Mating Story
DATING MATING
[Short Fiction – A Passionate Love Story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
I am busy working in my office on the morning of the First of April when my cell phone rings. It is Sudha, my next door neighbour, so I take the call.
“Vijay, you lucky dog, your life is made,” Sudha says excitedly.
“Lucky Dog? Please, Sudha, I am busy,” I say, a trifle irritated.
“Don’t switch off your cell phone,” Sudha says, “you are going to get a very important phone call.”
“Important call?”
“From the hottest and most eligible woman in town,” Sudha says with exuberance, “She’s fallen head over heels for you, Vijay. She wants to date you.”
“Date me? Who’s this?”
“My boss.”
“Your boss?”
“Come on, Vijay, I told you, didn’t I, about the chic Miss Hoity Toity who joined last week…”
Suddenly it dawns on me and I say to Sudha, “Happy April Fools Day…”
“Hey, seriously, I swear it is not an April Fools’ Day prank. She is really going to ring you up…she desperately wants to meet you…”
“Desperately wants to meet me? I don’t even know her…haven’t even seen her…”
“But she’s seen you…”
“Seen me…where…?”
“Jogging around the Oval Maidan…I think she is stalking you…”
“Stalking me…?”
“She knows everything…your routine…where you stay…that you are my neighbour…so she called me to her office and asked for your mobile number.”
“I’ve told you not to give my number to anyone…”
“I told her…but she said it was very urgent…I think she wants to come over in the evening…”
“This evening…?... I am switching off my mobile…”
“No you don’t…You’ll like her…she is your type…”
“My Type?... What do you mean?...Sudha please…”
“Bye, Vijay…I don’t want to keep your mobile busy…She’ll be calling any time now…Remember, her name is Nisha…All the Best…” Sudha cuts off the phone.
As I wait for the mysterious lady’s call, let me tell you’re a bit about Sudha.
Ever since she dumped me and married that suave, slimy, effeminate, ingratiating sissy Suhas, Sudha probably felt so guilt ridden that she had taken upon herself the responsibility for getting me married.
Sudha was my neighbour, the girl next door; my childhood friend, playmate, classmate, soul-mate, confidante and constant companion. I assumed we would get married but she suddenly fell for Suhas who she met at a training seminar.
I hated Suhas – he was one of those glib, smooth-talking, street-smart, slick characters that adorn the corporate world – a clean-shaven, soft-spoken, genteel, elegantly groomed metrosexual type with an almost feminine voice and carefully cultivated mannerisms as if he had been trained in a finishing school.
At first, I was devastated and could not understand why Sudha had betrayed me, but when Sudha gently explained to me that she always saw me as a friend and never as a husband, I understood and maintained cordial relations with her, though I loathed her husband who had shamelessly moved into her spacious apartment after relocating from Delhi to Mumbai.
Probably Sudha thought I had remained unmarried because of her (which may have been true to an extent) so in order to allay her guilt conscience she kept on setting up dates for me hoping for the best.
The ring of my cell-phone interrupts my train of thoughts.
“Mr. Vijay…?” asks a sweet mellifluous feminine voice.
“Yes,” I say my heartbeat slightly increasing.
“Nisha here,” she says, “Is it a good time to talk.”
“Of course,” I say.
“I want to meet you…Is it okay if I come over to your place this evening…”
My My My! She comes to the point pretty fast isn’t it?
“Today evening…?” I blurt out a bit incredulous.
“It’s a bit urgent,” she says.
“Sure. You are most welcome,” I stammer recovering my wits.
“Six-thirty…before you go for your jog…or later after you return…or maybe we can meet up at the Oval…”
I am truly stunned… this Nisha is indeed stalking me…meet up at the Oval…as brazen as that… I have never experienced such blatant propositioning…Tocsins sound in my brain…
“Mr. Vijay…” I hear Nisha’s soft voice in the cell-phone earpiece.
“Yes, Yes, six-thirty is absolutely fine…I’ll wait for you in my house…you know the place…” I stutter recovering my wits.
“Yes, I know your place,” Nisha says, “I’ll be there at six-thirty,” and she disconnects.
I go home early, shower, deodorize, groom, titivate, put on my best shirt and wait in eager anticipation for this mysterious woman who is coming onto me so heavily.
Precisely at six-fifteen the bell rings.
I open the door.
“Hi, I’m Nisha,” the stunningly attractive woman in front of me says.
Sudha was right…Nisha is certainly very hot… oh yes, Nisha is indeed my type of woman.
“I’m sorry I’m a bit early, but I noticed you were in, saw your car below…”she says.
‘Noticed I was in’… My, My…She knows my car…about my daily jogs on the Oval…my routine…everything…she’s really hot on my trail…isn’t she?
I look at her. She comes closer towards me.
She looks and smells natural. No attempt to camouflage her raw steamy physical self behind a synthetic mask of make-up and artificial deodorants.
Her persona is tantalizingly inviting and temptingly desirable; her tight-fitting pink T-shirt tucked into hip hugging dark blue jeans accentuate the curves of her exquisite body and she radiates a captivating aura, an extraordinary magnetic attraction, I have never experienced before.
I cannot take my eyes off her, her gorgeous face, her beautiful eyes, her lush skin, so I feast my eyes on her, let my eyes travel all over her shapely body.
The frank admiration in my eyes wins a smile. She lets her eyes hold mine.
“Aren’t you going to ask me to come in?” she smiles as if reading my mind.
“Oh, yes, sorry, please come in,” I say, embarrassed at having eyed her so openly.
I guide her to the sofa and sit as near her as politely possible.
We sit on the sofa. She looks terribly attractive, very very desirable.
Our closeness envelops us in a stimulating kind of intimacy.
Overwhelmed by passion I inch towards her.
She too comes closer.
I sense the beginnings of an experience I have dreamt about in my fantasies.
“Actually, I have come for mating,” she says.
“Mating…?” I exclaim instinctively, totally shocked, stunned beyond belief.
I look at her tremendously excited, yet frightened, baffled, perplexed, wondering what to do, how to make my move, as the improbability of the situation makes me slightly incredulous and bewildered
I notice her eyes search the drawing room, then she looks at the bedroom door, and asks, “Where is your daughter?”
“Daughter? I’m not married,” I say, completely taken aback.
“I know,” she says, “I’m talking about your lovely dog…or rather, bitch…” she laughs tongue-in-cheek.
“I’ve locked her inside. She is not very friendly.”
“I know. Hounds do not like strangers…but don’t worry…soon I won’t be a stranger…” Nisha says, gets up and begins walking towards the closed bedroom door.
“Please,” I say anxiously, “Angel is very ferocious and aggressive.”
“Angel…what a lovely name,” Nisha says, “I have been seeing you two jogging and playing at the Oval. That’s why I have come here…to see your beautiful hound Angel…” and then she opens the door.
Angel looks suspiciously as Nisha enters the bedroom and as she extends her hand towards her to pat her on the head, Angel growls at Nisha menacingly, her tail becomes stiff, and the hackles on her back stiffen, since, like most Caravan Hounds, she does not like to be touched or handled by anyone other than me, her master.
“Please…please…” I plead to Nisha, but she moves ahead undaunted and caresses Angel’s neck and suddenly there is a noticeable metamorphosis in the hound’s body language as the dog recognizes the true dog lover. All of a sudden Angel licks Nisha’s hand, wags her tail and jumps lovingly at Nisha who embraces her.
I am really surprised at the way Nisha is hugging and caressing Angel as not even the most ardent of dog lovers would dare to fondle and take liberties with a ferocious Caravan Hound.
“She’s ideal for Bruno. They’ll love each other,” Nisha says cuddling Angel.
“Bruno?”
“My handsome boy… I was desperately looking for a mate for Bruno…and then I saw her…they’re ideally suited…a perfect made for each other couple.”
“You’ve got a hound?”
“A Mudhol.”
“Mudhol?”
“Exactly like her.”
“But Angel is a Caravan Hound.”
“It’s the same…a Caravan Hound is the same as a Mudhol Hound …in fact, the actual name is Mudhol…”
“I don’t think so.”
“Bet?”
“Okay.”
“Dinner at the place of my choice.”
“Done.”
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To my place.”
“To your place?”
“To meet Bruno…doesn’t Angel want to see him?”
“Of course… me too.”
And so, the three of us, Nisha, Angel and I, drove down to Nisha’s home on Malabar Hill. The moment we opened the door Bruno rushed to welcome Nisha…then gave Angel a tentative look…for an instant both the hounds stared menacingly at each other…Bruno gave a low growl…then extended his nose to scent…Angel melted…it was love at first sight.
Nisha won the bet…we surfed the internet…cross checked in libraries…she was right… Mudhol Hound is the same as Caravan Hound…but not the same as a Rampur, Rajapalyam or Chippiparai Hound.
But that’s another story.
Here is what happened to our “Dating and Mating Story”.
As per our bet, I took Nisha out to dinner – a sumptuous Butter Chicken and Tandoori affair at Gaylord’s. And while we were thoroughly enjoying our food, suddenly, out of the blue, Sudha and her husband landed up there, sat on the neighbouring table, and the way Sudha gave me canny looks, I wonder if it was a “contrived” coincidence.
Angel and Bruno had a successful mating and Nisha and Bruno would visit my pregnant girl every day, and then, on D-Day, Nisha stayed through the night to egg on Angel in her whelping.
Angel gave birth to four cute little puppies, and every day the “doggie” parents and “human” grandparents would spend hours doting on the little ones.
Since Nisha and I could not agree as to who should take which puppy we solved the problem by getting married – strictly a marriage of convenience – but Sudha, her aim achieved, tells me that Nisha and I are the most rocking couple madly in love.
And so now we all live together as one big happy family – ours, theirs, mine and hers.
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
[Short Fiction – A Passionate Love Story]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
I am busy working in my office on the morning of the First of April when my cell phone rings. It is Sudha, my next door neighbour, so I take the call.
“Vijay, you lucky dog, your life is made,” Sudha says excitedly.
“Lucky Dog? Please, Sudha, I am busy,” I say, a trifle irritated.
“Don’t switch off your cell phone,” Sudha says, “you are going to get a very important phone call.”
“Important call?”
“From the hottest and most eligible woman in town,” Sudha says with exuberance, “She’s fallen head over heels for you, Vijay. She wants to date you.”
“Date me? Who’s this?”
“My boss.”
“Your boss?”
“Come on, Vijay, I told you, didn’t I, about the chic Miss Hoity Toity who joined last week…”
Suddenly it dawns on me and I say to Sudha, “Happy April Fools Day…”
“Hey, seriously, I swear it is not an April Fools’ Day prank. She is really going to ring you up…she desperately wants to meet you…”
“Desperately wants to meet me? I don’t even know her…haven’t even seen her…”
“But she’s seen you…”
“Seen me…where…?”
“Jogging around the Oval Maidan…I think she is stalking you…”
“Stalking me…?”
“She knows everything…your routine…where you stay…that you are my neighbour…so she called me to her office and asked for your mobile number.”
“I’ve told you not to give my number to anyone…”
“I told her…but she said it was very urgent…I think she wants to come over in the evening…”
“This evening…?... I am switching off my mobile…”
“No you don’t…You’ll like her…she is your type…”
“My Type?... What do you mean?...Sudha please…”
“Bye, Vijay…I don’t want to keep your mobile busy…She’ll be calling any time now…Remember, her name is Nisha…All the Best…” Sudha cuts off the phone.
As I wait for the mysterious lady’s call, let me tell you’re a bit about Sudha.
Ever since she dumped me and married that suave, slimy, effeminate, ingratiating sissy Suhas, Sudha probably felt so guilt ridden that she had taken upon herself the responsibility for getting me married.
Sudha was my neighbour, the girl next door; my childhood friend, playmate, classmate, soul-mate, confidante and constant companion. I assumed we would get married but she suddenly fell for Suhas who she met at a training seminar.
I hated Suhas – he was one of those glib, smooth-talking, street-smart, slick characters that adorn the corporate world – a clean-shaven, soft-spoken, genteel, elegantly groomed metrosexual type with an almost feminine voice and carefully cultivated mannerisms as if he had been trained in a finishing school.
At first, I was devastated and could not understand why Sudha had betrayed me, but when Sudha gently explained to me that she always saw me as a friend and never as a husband, I understood and maintained cordial relations with her, though I loathed her husband who had shamelessly moved into her spacious apartment after relocating from Delhi to Mumbai.
Probably Sudha thought I had remained unmarried because of her (which may have been true to an extent) so in order to allay her guilt conscience she kept on setting up dates for me hoping for the best.
The ring of my cell-phone interrupts my train of thoughts.
“Mr. Vijay…?” asks a sweet mellifluous feminine voice.
“Yes,” I say my heartbeat slightly increasing.
“Nisha here,” she says, “Is it a good time to talk.”
“Of course,” I say.
“I want to meet you…Is it okay if I come over to your place this evening…”
My My My! She comes to the point pretty fast isn’t it?
“Today evening…?” I blurt out a bit incredulous.
“It’s a bit urgent,” she says.
“Sure. You are most welcome,” I stammer recovering my wits.
“Six-thirty…before you go for your jog…or later after you return…or maybe we can meet up at the Oval…”
I am truly stunned… this Nisha is indeed stalking me…meet up at the Oval…as brazen as that… I have never experienced such blatant propositioning…Tocsins sound in my brain…
“Mr. Vijay…” I hear Nisha’s soft voice in the cell-phone earpiece.
“Yes, Yes, six-thirty is absolutely fine…I’ll wait for you in my house…you know the place…” I stutter recovering my wits.
“Yes, I know your place,” Nisha says, “I’ll be there at six-thirty,” and she disconnects.
I go home early, shower, deodorize, groom, titivate, put on my best shirt and wait in eager anticipation for this mysterious woman who is coming onto me so heavily.
Precisely at six-fifteen the bell rings.
I open the door.
“Hi, I’m Nisha,” the stunningly attractive woman in front of me says.
Sudha was right…Nisha is certainly very hot… oh yes, Nisha is indeed my type of woman.
“I’m sorry I’m a bit early, but I noticed you were in, saw your car below…”she says.
‘Noticed I was in’… My, My…She knows my car…about my daily jogs on the Oval…my routine…everything…she’s really hot on my trail…isn’t she?
I look at her. She comes closer towards me.
She looks and smells natural. No attempt to camouflage her raw steamy physical self behind a synthetic mask of make-up and artificial deodorants.
Her persona is tantalizingly inviting and temptingly desirable; her tight-fitting pink T-shirt tucked into hip hugging dark blue jeans accentuate the curves of her exquisite body and she radiates a captivating aura, an extraordinary magnetic attraction, I have never experienced before.
I cannot take my eyes off her, her gorgeous face, her beautiful eyes, her lush skin, so I feast my eyes on her, let my eyes travel all over her shapely body.
The frank admiration in my eyes wins a smile. She lets her eyes hold mine.
“Aren’t you going to ask me to come in?” she smiles as if reading my mind.
“Oh, yes, sorry, please come in,” I say, embarrassed at having eyed her so openly.
I guide her to the sofa and sit as near her as politely possible.
We sit on the sofa. She looks terribly attractive, very very desirable.
Our closeness envelops us in a stimulating kind of intimacy.
Overwhelmed by passion I inch towards her.
She too comes closer.
I sense the beginnings of an experience I have dreamt about in my fantasies.
“Actually, I have come for mating,” she says.
“Mating…?” I exclaim instinctively, totally shocked, stunned beyond belief.
I look at her tremendously excited, yet frightened, baffled, perplexed, wondering what to do, how to make my move, as the improbability of the situation makes me slightly incredulous and bewildered
I notice her eyes search the drawing room, then she looks at the bedroom door, and asks, “Where is your daughter?”
“Daughter? I’m not married,” I say, completely taken aback.
“I know,” she says, “I’m talking about your lovely dog…or rather, bitch…” she laughs tongue-in-cheek.
“I’ve locked her inside. She is not very friendly.”
“I know. Hounds do not like strangers…but don’t worry…soon I won’t be a stranger…” Nisha says, gets up and begins walking towards the closed bedroom door.
“Please,” I say anxiously, “Angel is very ferocious and aggressive.”
“Angel…what a lovely name,” Nisha says, “I have been seeing you two jogging and playing at the Oval. That’s why I have come here…to see your beautiful hound Angel…” and then she opens the door.
Angel looks suspiciously as Nisha enters the bedroom and as she extends her hand towards her to pat her on the head, Angel growls at Nisha menacingly, her tail becomes stiff, and the hackles on her back stiffen, since, like most Caravan Hounds, she does not like to be touched or handled by anyone other than me, her master.
“Please…please…” I plead to Nisha, but she moves ahead undaunted and caresses Angel’s neck and suddenly there is a noticeable metamorphosis in the hound’s body language as the dog recognizes the true dog lover. All of a sudden Angel licks Nisha’s hand, wags her tail and jumps lovingly at Nisha who embraces her.
I am really surprised at the way Nisha is hugging and caressing Angel as not even the most ardent of dog lovers would dare to fondle and take liberties with a ferocious Caravan Hound.
“She’s ideal for Bruno. They’ll love each other,” Nisha says cuddling Angel.
“Bruno?”
“My handsome boy… I was desperately looking for a mate for Bruno…and then I saw her…they’re ideally suited…a perfect made for each other couple.”
“You’ve got a hound?”
“A Mudhol.”
“Mudhol?”
“Exactly like her.”
“But Angel is a Caravan Hound.”
“It’s the same…a Caravan Hound is the same as a Mudhol Hound …in fact, the actual name is Mudhol…”
“I don’t think so.”
“Bet?”
“Okay.”
“Dinner at the place of my choice.”
“Done.”
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To my place.”
“To your place?”
“To meet Bruno…doesn’t Angel want to see him?”
“Of course… me too.”
And so, the three of us, Nisha, Angel and I, drove down to Nisha’s home on Malabar Hill. The moment we opened the door Bruno rushed to welcome Nisha…then gave Angel a tentative look…for an instant both the hounds stared menacingly at each other…Bruno gave a low growl…then extended his nose to scent…Angel melted…it was love at first sight.
Nisha won the bet…we surfed the internet…cross checked in libraries…she was right… Mudhol Hound is the same as Caravan Hound…but not the same as a Rampur, Rajapalyam or Chippiparai Hound.
But that’s another story.
Here is what happened to our “Dating and Mating Story”.
As per our bet, I took Nisha out to dinner – a sumptuous Butter Chicken and Tandoori affair at Gaylord’s. And while we were thoroughly enjoying our food, suddenly, out of the blue, Sudha and her husband landed up there, sat on the neighbouring table, and the way Sudha gave me canny looks, I wonder if it was a “contrived” coincidence.
Angel and Bruno had a successful mating and Nisha and Bruno would visit my pregnant girl every day, and then, on D-Day, Nisha stayed through the night to egg on Angel in her whelping.
Angel gave birth to four cute little puppies, and every day the “doggie” parents and “human” grandparents would spend hours doting on the little ones.
Since Nisha and I could not agree as to who should take which puppy we solved the problem by getting married – strictly a marriage of convenience – but Sudha, her aim achieved, tells me that Nisha and I are the most rocking couple madly in love.
And so now we all live together as one big happy family – ours, theirs, mine and hers.
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
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Dating
DATING
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/05/dating-and-mating.htm
Click the link above to read a passionate love story on my creative writing blog
Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/05/dating-and-mating.htm
Click the link above to read a passionate love story on my creative writing blog
Vikram Karve
Monday, April 27, 2009
HOW NOT TO CURE ALCOHOLISM
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/
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/04/alcoholism.htm
Cheers
Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
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
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mailto:vikramkarve@sify.com
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