Click the link below and read my fiction short story on my creative writing blog:
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2007/10/my-wife-s-friend-a-short-story.htm
Regards
Vikram Karve
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Aflatoon Recipe
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2007/10/aflatoon.htm
happy cooking and eating
Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
happy cooking and eating
Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
AFLATOON
You want to relish the delicacy Aflatoon?
Just click the link below and read on
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2007/10/aflatoon.htm
Happy Eating
Vikram Karve
Just click the link below and read on
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2007/10/aflatoon.htm
Happy Eating
Vikram Karve
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Fiction by Vikram Karve
Click the link below and read my fiction short story - The Visitor:
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2007/09/the-visitor-fiction-short-story.htm
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/post/2007/09/the-visitor-fiction-short-story.htm
VIKRAM KARVE
Monday, September 03, 2007
Why do people keep dogs?
ARE YOU THINKING OF GETTING A DOG?
[A musing by Vikram Karve]
If you ask me “Why do people keep dogs?” I will ask you “Why do people have children?”
And remember, your children will grow up and, one day, may go away from you, maybe for higher studies, or to pursue their careers, or just leave you because they want to stay separately; but your dog will never leave you and will loyally remain with you forever till death. [Of course, if you throw out your dog, or get rid of it, then it’s a different matter; but your dog won’t leave you of its own accord].
If you are thinking of getting a dog into your home, as a family member, remember you are making a commitment to that dog for its lifetime, probably even more than your own children. And once the dog joins your family, invest your love and time to build a special bond that only a dog can offer. You'll both be happy you did.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
[A musing by Vikram Karve]
If you ask me “Why do people keep dogs?” I will ask you “Why do people have children?”
And remember, your children will grow up and, one day, may go away from you, maybe for higher studies, or to pursue their careers, or just leave you because they want to stay separately; but your dog will never leave you and will loyally remain with you forever till death. [Of course, if you throw out your dog, or get rid of it, then it’s a different matter; but your dog won’t leave you of its own accord].
If you are thinking of getting a dog into your home, as a family member, remember you are making a commitment to that dog for its lifetime, probably even more than your own children. And once the dog joins your family, invest your love and time to build a special bond that only a dog can offer. You'll both be happy you did.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
Monday, August 20, 2007
Lovedale - a short story
LOVEDALE
(a short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
Lovedale. A quaint little station on the Nilgiri Mountain Railway that runs from Mettupalayam in the plains on a breathtaking journey to beautiful Ooty, the Queen of Hill Stations. On Lovedale station there is just one small platform – and on it, towards its southern end, a solitary bench. If you sit on this bench you will see in front of you, beyond the railway track, an undulating valley, covered with eucalyptus trees, and in the distance the silhouette of a huge structure, which looks like a castle, with an impressive clock-tower. In this mighty building is located a famous boarding school – one of the best schools in India. Many such ‘elite’ schools are known more for snob value than academic achievements, but this one is different – it is a prestigious public school famous for its rich heritage and tradition of excellence.
Lovedale, in 1970. That’s all there is in Lovedale – this famous public school, a small tea-estate called Lovedale (from which this place got its name), a tiny post office and, of course, the lonely railway platform with its solitary bench.
It’s a cold damp depressing winter morning, and since the school is closed for winter, the platform is deserted except for two people – yes, just two persons – a woman and a small girl, shivering in the morning mist, sitting on the solitary bench. It’s almost 9 o’clock – time for the morning “toy-train” from the plains carrying tourists via Coonoor to Ooty, the “Queen” of hill-stations, just three kilometers ahead - the end of the line. But this morning the train is late, probably because of the dense fog and the drizzle on the mountain-slopes, and it will be empty – for there are hardly any tourists in this cold and damp winter season.
“I’m dying to meet mummy. And this stupid train – it’s always late,” the girl says. She is dressed in school uniform – gray blazer, thick gray woolen skirt, navy-blue stockings, freshly polished black shoes, her hair tied smartly in two small plaits with black ribbons.
The woman, 55 – maybe 60, dressed in a white sari with a thick white shawl draped over her shoulder and a white scarf around her head covering her ears, looks lovingly at the girl, softly takes the girl’s hand in her own, and says, “It will come. Look at the weather. The driver can hardly see in this mist. And it must be raining down there in Ketti valley.”
“I hate this place. It’s so cold and lonely. Everyone has gone home for the winter holidays and we have nowhere to go. Why do we have to spend our holidays here every time?”
“You know we can’t stay with her in the hostel.”
“But her training is over now. And she’s become an executive – that’s what she wrote.”
“Yes. Yes. She is an executive now. After two years of tough training. Very creditable; after all that has happened,” the old woman says.
“She has to take us to Mumbai with her now. We can’t stay here any longer. No more excuses now.”
“Even I don’t want to stay here. It’s cold and I am old. Let your mummy come. This time we’ll tell her to take us all to Mumbai.”
“And we’ll all stay together – like we did before God took Daddy away.”
“Yes. Mummy will go to work. You will go to school. And I will look after the house and all of you. Just like before.”
“Only Daddy won’t be there. Why did God take Daddy away?” the girl says, tears welling up in her eyes.
“Don’t think those sad things. We cannot change what has happened. You must be brave – like your mummy,” says the old lady putting her hand softly around the girl. The old lady closes her eyes in sadness.There is no greater pain than to remember happier times when in distress.
Meanwhile the toy-train is meandering its way laboriously round the steep u-curve, desperately pushed by a hissing steam engine, as it leaves Wellington station on its way to Ketti. A man and a woman sit facing each other in the tiny first class compartment. There is no one else.
“You must tell her today,” the man says.
“Yes,” the woman replies softly.
“You should have told her before.”
“When?”
“You could have written, called her up. I told you so many times.”
“How could I be so cruel?”
“Cruel? What’s so cruel about it?”
“I don’t know how she will react. She loved her father very much.”
“Now she will have to love me. I am her new father now.”
“Yes, I know,” the woman says, tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t know how to tell her; how she’ll take it. I think we should wait for some time. Baby is very sensitive.”
“Baby! Why do you still call her Baby? She is a grown up girl now. You must call her by her real name. Damayanti – what a nice name – and you call her Baby”
“It’s her pet name. Deepak always liked to call her Baby.”
“But I don’t like it! It’s ridiculous,” the man says firmly. “Anyway, all that we can sort out later. But you tell her about us today. Tell both of them.”
“Both of them? My mother-in-law also? What will she feel?”
“She’ll understand.”
“Poor thing. She will be all alone.”
“She’s got her work to keep her busy.”
“She’s old and weak. I don’t think she’ll be able to do the matron’s job much longer.”
“Let her work till she can. At least it will keep her occupied. Then we’ll see.”
“Can’t we take her with us?”
“You know it’s not possible.”
“It’s so sad. She was so good to me. Where will she go? We can’t abandon her just like that!”
“Abandon? Nobody is abandoning her. Don’t worry. If she doesn’t want to stay on here, I’ll arrange something – I know an excellent place near Lonavala. She will be very comfortable there – it’s an ideal place for senior citizens like her.”
“An Old Age Home?”
“Call it what you want but actually it’s quite a luxurious place. She’ll be happy there. I’ve already spoken to them. Let her continue here till she can. Then we’ll shift her there.”
“How cruel? She was so loving and good to me, treated me like her own daughter, and looked after Baby, when we were devastated. And now we discard her when she needs us most,” the woman says, and starts sobbing.
“Come on Kavita. Don’t get sentimental,. You have to face the harsh reality. You know we can’t take her with us. Kavita, you must begin a new life now – no point carrying the baggage of your past,” the man realizes he has said something wrong and instantly apologizes, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“You did mean it. That’s why you said it! I hate you, you are so cruel and selfish,” the woman says, turns away from the man and looks out of the window.
They travel in silence. An uneasy disquieting silence. Suddenly it is dark, as the train enters a tunnel, and as it emerges on the other side, the woman can see the vast green KettiValley with its undulating mountains in the distance.
“I think I’ll also get down with you at Lovedale. I’ll tell them. Explain everything. And get over with it once and for all,” the man says.
“No! No! I don’t even want them to see you. The sudden shock may upset them. I have to do this carefully. Please don’t get down at Lovedale. Go straight to Ooty. I’ll tell them everything and we’ll do as we decided.”
“I was only trying to help you. Make things easier. I want to meet Damayanti. Tell her about us. I’m sure she’ll love me and understand everything.”
“No, please. Let me do this. I don’t want her to see you before I tell her. She’s a very sensitive girl. I don’t know how she’ll react. I’ll have to do it very gently.”
“Okay,” the man says. “Make sure you wind up everything at the school. We have to leave for Mumbai tomorrow. There is so much to be done. We’ve hardly got any time left.”
The steam engine pushing the train huffs and puffs up the slope round the bend under the bridge. “Lovedale station is coming,” the woman says. She gets up and takes out her bag from the shelf.
“Sure you don’t want me to come?” asks the man.
“Not now. I’ll ring you up,” says the woman.
“Okay. But tell them everything. We can’t wait any longer.”
“Just leave everything to me. Don’t make it more difficult.”
They sit in silence, looking out of different windows, waiting for Lovedale railway station to come.
On the solitary bench on the platform at Lovedale station the girl and her grandmother wait patiently for the train which will bring their deliverance.
“I hate it over here. The cold scary dormitories. At night I miss mummy tucking me in. And every night I count DLFMTC ?”
“DLFMTC ?”
“Days Left For Mummy To Come ! Others count DLTGH – Days Left To Go Home.”
“Next time you too …”
“No. No. I am not going to stay here in boarding school. I don’t know why we came here to this horrible place. I hate boarding school. I miss mummy so much. We could have stayed on in Mumbai with her.”
“Now we will be all staying in Mumbai. Your mummy’s training is over. She can hire a house now. Or get a loan. We will try to buy a good house. I’ve saved some money too.”
The lone station-master strikes the bell outside his office. The occupants of the solitary bench look towards their left. There is no one else on the platform. And suddenly the train emerges from under the bridge – pushed by the hissing steam engine.
Only one person gets down from the train – a beautiful woman, around 30. The girl runs into her arms. The old woman walks towards her with a welcoming smile. The man, sitting in the train, looks cautiously trying not to be seen. A whistle; and the train starts and moves out of the station towards Ooty.
That evening the woman tells them everything.
At noon the next day, four people wait at Lovedale station for the train which comes from Ooty and goes down to the plains – the girl, her mother, her grandmother and the man. The girl presses close to her grandmother and looks at her new ‘father’ with trepidation. He gives her a smile of forced geniality. The old woman holds the girl tight to her body and looks at the man with distaste. The young woman looks with awe, mixed with hope, at her new husband. They all stand in silence. No one speaks. Time stands still. And suddenly the train enters.
“I don’t want to go,” the girl cries, clinging to her grandmother.
“Don’t you want to stay with your mummy? You hate boarding school don’t you? ” the man says extending his hand.
The girl recoils and says, “No. No. I like it here. I don’t want to come. I like boarding school.”
“Come Baby, we have to go,” her mother says as tears well up in her eyes.
“What about granny? How will she stay here all alone? No mummy - you also stay here. We all will stay here. Let this man go to Mumbai,” the girl pleads.
“Damayanti. I am your new father,” the man says firmly to the girl. And then turning to the young woman he commands, “Kavita. Come. The train is going to leave.”
“Go Baby. Be a good girl. I will be okay,” says the old woman releasing the girl.
As her mother gently holds her arm and guides her towards the train, for the first time in her life the girl feels that her mother’s hand is like the clasp of an iron gate. Like manacles.
“I will come and meet you in Mumbai. I promise!” the grandmother says. But the girl feels scared – something inside tells her she that may never see her grandmother again.
As the train heads towards the plains, the old woman begins to walk her longest mile – her loneliest mile – into emptiness, a void.
And poor old Lovedale Railway Station, the mute witness, doesn’t even a shed a tear. It tries. But it can’t. Poor thing. It’s not human. So it suffers its sorrow in inanimate helplessness. A pity. What a pity!
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
mailto:vikramkarve@sify.com
mailto:vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
(a short story)
by
VIKRAM KARVE
Lovedale. A quaint little station on the Nilgiri Mountain Railway that runs from Mettupalayam in the plains on a breathtaking journey to beautiful Ooty, the Queen of Hill Stations. On Lovedale station there is just one small platform – and on it, towards its southern end, a solitary bench. If you sit on this bench you will see in front of you, beyond the railway track, an undulating valley, covered with eucalyptus trees, and in the distance the silhouette of a huge structure, which looks like a castle, with an impressive clock-tower. In this mighty building is located a famous boarding school – one of the best schools in India. Many such ‘elite’ schools are known more for snob value than academic achievements, but this one is different – it is a prestigious public school famous for its rich heritage and tradition of excellence.
Lovedale, in 1970. That’s all there is in Lovedale – this famous public school, a small tea-estate called Lovedale (from which this place got its name), a tiny post office and, of course, the lonely railway platform with its solitary bench.
It’s a cold damp depressing winter morning, and since the school is closed for winter, the platform is deserted except for two people – yes, just two persons – a woman and a small girl, shivering in the morning mist, sitting on the solitary bench. It’s almost 9 o’clock – time for the morning “toy-train” from the plains carrying tourists via Coonoor to Ooty, the “Queen” of hill-stations, just three kilometers ahead - the end of the line. But this morning the train is late, probably because of the dense fog and the drizzle on the mountain-slopes, and it will be empty – for there are hardly any tourists in this cold and damp winter season.
“I’m dying to meet mummy. And this stupid train – it’s always late,” the girl says. She is dressed in school uniform – gray blazer, thick gray woolen skirt, navy-blue stockings, freshly polished black shoes, her hair tied smartly in two small plaits with black ribbons.
The woman, 55 – maybe 60, dressed in a white sari with a thick white shawl draped over her shoulder and a white scarf around her head covering her ears, looks lovingly at the girl, softly takes the girl’s hand in her own, and says, “It will come. Look at the weather. The driver can hardly see in this mist. And it must be raining down there in Ketti valley.”
“I hate this place. It’s so cold and lonely. Everyone has gone home for the winter holidays and we have nowhere to go. Why do we have to spend our holidays here every time?”
“You know we can’t stay with her in the hostel.”
“But her training is over now. And she’s become an executive – that’s what she wrote.”
“Yes. Yes. She is an executive now. After two years of tough training. Very creditable; after all that has happened,” the old woman says.
“She has to take us to Mumbai with her now. We can’t stay here any longer. No more excuses now.”
“Even I don’t want to stay here. It’s cold and I am old. Let your mummy come. This time we’ll tell her to take us all to Mumbai.”
“And we’ll all stay together – like we did before God took Daddy away.”
“Yes. Mummy will go to work. You will go to school. And I will look after the house and all of you. Just like before.”
“Only Daddy won’t be there. Why did God take Daddy away?” the girl says, tears welling up in her eyes.
“Don’t think those sad things. We cannot change what has happened. You must be brave – like your mummy,” says the old lady putting her hand softly around the girl. The old lady closes her eyes in sadness.There is no greater pain than to remember happier times when in distress.
Meanwhile the toy-train is meandering its way laboriously round the steep u-curve, desperately pushed by a hissing steam engine, as it leaves Wellington station on its way to Ketti. A man and a woman sit facing each other in the tiny first class compartment. There is no one else.
“You must tell her today,” the man says.
“Yes,” the woman replies softly.
“You should have told her before.”
“When?”
“You could have written, called her up. I told you so many times.”
“How could I be so cruel?”
“Cruel? What’s so cruel about it?”
“I don’t know how she will react. She loved her father very much.”
“Now she will have to love me. I am her new father now.”
“Yes, I know,” the woman says, tears welling up in her eyes. “I don’t know how to tell her; how she’ll take it. I think we should wait for some time. Baby is very sensitive.”
“Baby! Why do you still call her Baby? She is a grown up girl now. You must call her by her real name. Damayanti – what a nice name – and you call her Baby”
“It’s her pet name. Deepak always liked to call her Baby.”
“But I don’t like it! It’s ridiculous,” the man says firmly. “Anyway, all that we can sort out later. But you tell her about us today. Tell both of them.”
“Both of them? My mother-in-law also? What will she feel?”
“She’ll understand.”
“Poor thing. She will be all alone.”
“She’s got her work to keep her busy.”
“She’s old and weak. I don’t think she’ll be able to do the matron’s job much longer.”
“Let her work till she can. At least it will keep her occupied. Then we’ll see.”
“Can’t we take her with us?”
“You know it’s not possible.”
“It’s so sad. She was so good to me. Where will she go? We can’t abandon her just like that!”
“Abandon? Nobody is abandoning her. Don’t worry. If she doesn’t want to stay on here, I’ll arrange something – I know an excellent place near Lonavala. She will be very comfortable there – it’s an ideal place for senior citizens like her.”
“An Old Age Home?”
“Call it what you want but actually it’s quite a luxurious place. She’ll be happy there. I’ve already spoken to them. Let her continue here till she can. Then we’ll shift her there.”
“How cruel? She was so loving and good to me, treated me like her own daughter, and looked after Baby, when we were devastated. And now we discard her when she needs us most,” the woman says, and starts sobbing.
“Come on Kavita. Don’t get sentimental,. You have to face the harsh reality. You know we can’t take her with us. Kavita, you must begin a new life now – no point carrying the baggage of your past,” the man realizes he has said something wrong and instantly apologizes, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“You did mean it. That’s why you said it! I hate you, you are so cruel and selfish,” the woman says, turns away from the man and looks out of the window.
They travel in silence. An uneasy disquieting silence. Suddenly it is dark, as the train enters a tunnel, and as it emerges on the other side, the woman can see the vast green KettiValley with its undulating mountains in the distance.
“I think I’ll also get down with you at Lovedale. I’ll tell them. Explain everything. And get over with it once and for all,” the man says.
“No! No! I don’t even want them to see you. The sudden shock may upset them. I have to do this carefully. Please don’t get down at Lovedale. Go straight to Ooty. I’ll tell them everything and we’ll do as we decided.”
“I was only trying to help you. Make things easier. I want to meet Damayanti. Tell her about us. I’m sure she’ll love me and understand everything.”
“No, please. Let me do this. I don’t want her to see you before I tell her. She’s a very sensitive girl. I don’t know how she’ll react. I’ll have to do it very gently.”
“Okay,” the man says. “Make sure you wind up everything at the school. We have to leave for Mumbai tomorrow. There is so much to be done. We’ve hardly got any time left.”
The steam engine pushing the train huffs and puffs up the slope round the bend under the bridge. “Lovedale station is coming,” the woman says. She gets up and takes out her bag from the shelf.
“Sure you don’t want me to come?” asks the man.
“Not now. I’ll ring you up,” says the woman.
“Okay. But tell them everything. We can’t wait any longer.”
“Just leave everything to me. Don’t make it more difficult.”
They sit in silence, looking out of different windows, waiting for Lovedale railway station to come.
On the solitary bench on the platform at Lovedale station the girl and her grandmother wait patiently for the train which will bring their deliverance.
“I hate it over here. The cold scary dormitories. At night I miss mummy tucking me in. And every night I count DLFMTC ?”
“DLFMTC ?”
“Days Left For Mummy To Come ! Others count DLTGH – Days Left To Go Home.”
“Next time you too …”
“No. No. I am not going to stay here in boarding school. I don’t know why we came here to this horrible place. I hate boarding school. I miss mummy so much. We could have stayed on in Mumbai with her.”
“Now we will be all staying in Mumbai. Your mummy’s training is over. She can hire a house now. Or get a loan. We will try to buy a good house. I’ve saved some money too.”
The lone station-master strikes the bell outside his office. The occupants of the solitary bench look towards their left. There is no one else on the platform. And suddenly the train emerges from under the bridge – pushed by the hissing steam engine.
Only one person gets down from the train – a beautiful woman, around 30. The girl runs into her arms. The old woman walks towards her with a welcoming smile. The man, sitting in the train, looks cautiously trying not to be seen. A whistle; and the train starts and moves out of the station towards Ooty.
That evening the woman tells them everything.
At noon the next day, four people wait at Lovedale station for the train which comes from Ooty and goes down to the plains – the girl, her mother, her grandmother and the man. The girl presses close to her grandmother and looks at her new ‘father’ with trepidation. He gives her a smile of forced geniality. The old woman holds the girl tight to her body and looks at the man with distaste. The young woman looks with awe, mixed with hope, at her new husband. They all stand in silence. No one speaks. Time stands still. And suddenly the train enters.
“I don’t want to go,” the girl cries, clinging to her grandmother.
“Don’t you want to stay with your mummy? You hate boarding school don’t you? ” the man says extending his hand.
The girl recoils and says, “No. No. I like it here. I don’t want to come. I like boarding school.”
“Come Baby, we have to go,” her mother says as tears well up in her eyes.
“What about granny? How will she stay here all alone? No mummy - you also stay here. We all will stay here. Let this man go to Mumbai,” the girl pleads.
“Damayanti. I am your new father,” the man says firmly to the girl. And then turning to the young woman he commands, “Kavita. Come. The train is going to leave.”
“Go Baby. Be a good girl. I will be okay,” says the old woman releasing the girl.
As her mother gently holds her arm and guides her towards the train, for the first time in her life the girl feels that her mother’s hand is like the clasp of an iron gate. Like manacles.
“I will come and meet you in Mumbai. I promise!” the grandmother says. But the girl feels scared – something inside tells her she that may never see her grandmother again.
As the train heads towards the plains, the old woman begins to walk her longest mile – her loneliest mile – into emptiness, a void.
And poor old Lovedale Railway Station, the mute witness, doesn’t even a shed a tear. It tries. But it can’t. Poor thing. It’s not human. So it suffers its sorrow in inanimate helplessness. A pity. What a pity!
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
mailto:vikramkarve@sify.com
mailto:vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
Food for Thought on a Monday
FOOD FOR THOUGHT on a Monday
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Some things are under our control, others are not. Happiness and freedom begin with a clear understanding of one principle: Some things are within our control, and some things are not. It is only after you have faced up to this fundamental rule and learned to distinguish between what you can and can't control that inner tranquility and outer effectiveness become possible.
…Epictetus
Thoughts play a very important role in your life, whereas your feelings can make or break you; also affecting the lives of others around you.
We often let our attitudes or feelings govern our lives. We let feelings drive our thoughts, not realizing that thoughts drive actions, actions produce results, and results in turn produce more feelings, causing a vicious circle which may ultimately lead to loss of self-control.
Feelings are not totally controllable, as many times feelings are produced by external circumstances beyond your control, and if negative feelings are allowed to drive our thoughts and actions, then undesirable results emanate.
These undesirable results in turn produce further not-so-good feelings, and the vicious cycle continues. This is true for any unpleasant or negative feelings, like anger, envy, disgust or hatred, which tend to drive our thoughts and actions, and quickly take charge of our lives.
An analysis of other options indicates that neither actions nor results are suitable alternative drivers since they also are not totally controllable and will not always be pleasing.
The best solution is to establish ‘thought’ as the driver is because it is controllable and we can get good results. Moreover there is a matter of choice. It is in our control to think good and interesting thoughts. The happiest person is he or she who thinks the most interesting and good thoughts.
The human mind cannot totally prevent poor quality thoughts from arising, but it can choose whether or not to dwell on them. The mind moves from dwelling on poor quality thoughts by selecting alternative beneficial or pleasant thoughts to focus on.
Choosing to be driven by thoughts and then controlling those thoughts allows the best possible results. Positive thoughts lead to good performance (action), which yields desirable results, which in turn produces good feelings.
Good feelings are conducive to better thoughts and progressively this cycle facilities a high degree of self-control and feeling of happiness.
When good thoughts are combined with good potential the results can be remarkable. Thus, the very basis of self-control is refusing to allow our feelings to control our responses and dwelling instead on good, pleasant, joy-producing positive thoughts.
Develop and apply your skill to control your thoughts. That’s the key to a happy and healthy life.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Some things are under our control, others are not. Happiness and freedom begin with a clear understanding of one principle: Some things are within our control, and some things are not. It is only after you have faced up to this fundamental rule and learned to distinguish between what you can and can't control that inner tranquility and outer effectiveness become possible.
…Epictetus
Thoughts play a very important role in your life, whereas your feelings can make or break you; also affecting the lives of others around you.
We often let our attitudes or feelings govern our lives. We let feelings drive our thoughts, not realizing that thoughts drive actions, actions produce results, and results in turn produce more feelings, causing a vicious circle which may ultimately lead to loss of self-control.
Feelings are not totally controllable, as many times feelings are produced by external circumstances beyond your control, and if negative feelings are allowed to drive our thoughts and actions, then undesirable results emanate.
These undesirable results in turn produce further not-so-good feelings, and the vicious cycle continues. This is true for any unpleasant or negative feelings, like anger, envy, disgust or hatred, which tend to drive our thoughts and actions, and quickly take charge of our lives.
An analysis of other options indicates that neither actions nor results are suitable alternative drivers since they also are not totally controllable and will not always be pleasing.
The best solution is to establish ‘thought’ as the driver is because it is controllable and we can get good results. Moreover there is a matter of choice. It is in our control to think good and interesting thoughts. The happiest person is he or she who thinks the most interesting and good thoughts.
The human mind cannot totally prevent poor quality thoughts from arising, but it can choose whether or not to dwell on them. The mind moves from dwelling on poor quality thoughts by selecting alternative beneficial or pleasant thoughts to focus on.
Choosing to be driven by thoughts and then controlling those thoughts allows the best possible results. Positive thoughts lead to good performance (action), which yields desirable results, which in turn produces good feelings.
Good feelings are conducive to better thoughts and progressively this cycle facilities a high degree of self-control and feeling of happiness.
When good thoughts are combined with good potential the results can be remarkable. Thus, the very basis of self-control is refusing to allow our feelings to control our responses and dwelling instead on good, pleasant, joy-producing positive thoughts.
Develop and apply your skill to control your thoughts. That’s the key to a happy and healthy life.
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Friday, August 17, 2007
Alma Mater - ITBHU
Alma Mater
ITBHU
Institute of Technology
Banaras Hindu University
Varanasi
India
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, completed many courses, a Post Graduate Diploma in Management, an Engineering and Technology Post Graduation [M.Tech.] at a premier IIT 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. 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, and the delicious wholesome cuisine of the city, 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 nineteen seventies, 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://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
ITBHU
Institute of Technology
Banaras Hindu University
Varanasi
India
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, completed many courses, a Post Graduate Diploma in Management, an Engineering and Technology Post Graduation [M.Tech.] at a premier IIT 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. 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, and the delicious wholesome cuisine of the city, 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 nineteen seventies, 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://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Khubani Ka Meetha
KHUBANI KA MEETHA
[Qubani Ka Meetha]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
What’s the perfect ending to a rich and spicy Mughlai meal? A cool soothing Falooda, perhaps!
And after fiery Kolhapuri fare? A chilled Mastani, maybe, to quench the fires within!
And do you know what the ideal finale to a Hyderabadi Biryani repast is? It is a unique refreshing apricot-based sweet-dish dessert called Qubani Ka Meetha, or Khubani Ka Meetha, spell it whichever way you like. And you get it only in Hyderabad. That’s what I thought, till yesterday afternoon, when famished after a tiring bout of shopping on Main Street, I entered my all time favorite eatery, George Restaurant on East Street, and spotted on the “Today’s Special” menu board, written as the last item – Qubani Ka Meetha.
Now first a bit about George “The House of Quality Food, since 1936” – as the logo says. When I was small boy, in the 1960’s and 1970’s, once in a while, my father used bring for a meal to East Street in Pune Camp, to Kamling for Chinese, or Latif or Kwality for Mughlai, and after our meal we always had a meetha paan at George Paanwala at the entrance to George Restaurant. I used to peer inside to see the animated expressions of the hungry hoi-polloi patrons vigorously devouring their food, and yearn to taste the fare, but it was only in the late 1970’s that I became a regular patron and began to savor the mouthwatering cuisine served at George. Since then, there has been a remarkable metamorphosis in the ambiance and variety of cuisine and George has transformed into a decent affordable family restaurant.
Having decided to end my meal with the legendary Hyderabadi dessert Qubani Ka Meetha, I ordered a Mutton Biryani to pave the way. Well, the Biryani at George is first-rate, but not as superb as those I have tasted in Hyderabad, or even as good as that served by Olympia or Shalimar in Mumbai, or Dorabjee, Blue Nile, or Good Luck in Pune. It certainly passed the spread-test with flying colours, and tasted wholesome, maybe, a wee bit bland. Now-a-days, I’d rather savor the inimitable tender succulent Rotisserie Chicken, a Mix-Grill, a Roast, or a Mughlai Gravy dish with Naan, at George, but right now I focus on mindfully relishing the Biryani in front of me, enjoying every morsel.
The Qubani Ka Meetha, or Khubani Ka Meetha, is served. I lovingly caress the bowl – it’s nicely chilled. They’ve put a dollop of vanilla ice cream on top. I wish they’d served it with chilled freshly whipped cream [malai] as they do in Hyderabad. I push aside the ice cream, dig deep, scoop some of the darkish brown dessert on my tongue, and close my eyes as the luscious tang, sublime flavor and invigorating aroma of the apricots permeates within me. [Qubani, or Khubani, means Apricots or Jardaloo]. Something tickles my taste buds – it’s a pistachio nut – delectable as it disintegrates and releases its characteristic taste and the contrasting flavors mingle on my tongue. I blend in a bit of vanilla ice cream, and slowly and deliberately, relish every bit of the ambrosial Qubani Ka Meetha as it glides on my tongue. Today I’m not going to have a Paan, for I’ve had an ideal end to a delicious meal.
Dear fellow Foodies, please do let us know if you know any places in your town where one can relish this splendid legendary Hyderabadi dessert – Qubani Ka Meetha.
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
[Qubani Ka Meetha]
By
VIKRAM KARVE
What’s the perfect ending to a rich and spicy Mughlai meal? A cool soothing Falooda, perhaps!
And after fiery Kolhapuri fare? A chilled Mastani, maybe, to quench the fires within!
And do you know what the ideal finale to a Hyderabadi Biryani repast is? It is a unique refreshing apricot-based sweet-dish dessert called Qubani Ka Meetha, or Khubani Ka Meetha, spell it whichever way you like. And you get it only in Hyderabad. That’s what I thought, till yesterday afternoon, when famished after a tiring bout of shopping on Main Street, I entered my all time favorite eatery, George Restaurant on East Street, and spotted on the “Today’s Special” menu board, written as the last item – Qubani Ka Meetha.
Now first a bit about George “The House of Quality Food, since 1936” – as the logo says. When I was small boy, in the 1960’s and 1970’s, once in a while, my father used bring for a meal to East Street in Pune Camp, to Kamling for Chinese, or Latif or Kwality for Mughlai, and after our meal we always had a meetha paan at George Paanwala at the entrance to George Restaurant. I used to peer inside to see the animated expressions of the hungry hoi-polloi patrons vigorously devouring their food, and yearn to taste the fare, but it was only in the late 1970’s that I became a regular patron and began to savor the mouthwatering cuisine served at George. Since then, there has been a remarkable metamorphosis in the ambiance and variety of cuisine and George has transformed into a decent affordable family restaurant.
Having decided to end my meal with the legendary Hyderabadi dessert Qubani Ka Meetha, I ordered a Mutton Biryani to pave the way. Well, the Biryani at George is first-rate, but not as superb as those I have tasted in Hyderabad, or even as good as that served by Olympia or Shalimar in Mumbai, or Dorabjee, Blue Nile, or Good Luck in Pune. It certainly passed the spread-test with flying colours, and tasted wholesome, maybe, a wee bit bland. Now-a-days, I’d rather savor the inimitable tender succulent Rotisserie Chicken, a Mix-Grill, a Roast, or a Mughlai Gravy dish with Naan, at George, but right now I focus on mindfully relishing the Biryani in front of me, enjoying every morsel.
The Qubani Ka Meetha, or Khubani Ka Meetha, is served. I lovingly caress the bowl – it’s nicely chilled. They’ve put a dollop of vanilla ice cream on top. I wish they’d served it with chilled freshly whipped cream [malai] as they do in Hyderabad. I push aside the ice cream, dig deep, scoop some of the darkish brown dessert on my tongue, and close my eyes as the luscious tang, sublime flavor and invigorating aroma of the apricots permeates within me. [Qubani, or Khubani, means Apricots or Jardaloo]. Something tickles my taste buds – it’s a pistachio nut – delectable as it disintegrates and releases its characteristic taste and the contrasting flavors mingle on my tongue. I blend in a bit of vanilla ice cream, and slowly and deliberately, relish every bit of the ambrosial Qubani Ka Meetha as it glides on my tongue. Today I’m not going to have a Paan, for I’ve had an ideal end to a delicious meal.
Dear fellow Foodies, please do let us know if you know any places in your town where one can relish this splendid legendary Hyderabadi dessert – Qubani Ka Meetha.
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
DOING NOTHING
DOING NOTHING
by
VIKRAM KARVE
“What do you do?” she asks.
“Nothing!” I say.
“What do you mean ‘Nothing’? she asks. “You must be doing something!”
“I do nothing!” I say.
“Come on Vinay, stop kidding. I know you work somewhere.”
“Work? You asked me what I do, not where I work! I work at the Bureau of Statistics.”
“Bureau of Statistics? What statistics?”
“Vital Statistics.”
“Vital Statistics?” she asks her eyebrows arched in curious surprise.
“No, No. It’s not what you’re thinking. I meant statistics that are vital,” I say, trying to correct the faux pas. We compile, collate, consolidate, analyze and disseminate various statistics.”
“Wow! How interesting! Tell me more.”
“You can say I am an obsolescent man dealing with obsolete things.”
“Obsolescent man? Obsolete things? I don’t understand. Where exactly do you work?”
“I’m in the smallpox section.”
“Smallpox?”
“Yes. Smallpox. I maintain statistics pertaining to smallpox.”
“That’s funny! I thought smallpox was eradicated long back.”
“Smallpox may have been eradicated, but my office is still going strong,” I say proudly. It’s true – sometimes the ends vanish but the means proliferate and flourish till eternity.
“I can’t believe it! If there’s no smallpox around, why maintain statistics?”
“If you don’t maintain statistics how will the world come to know that something has vanished, disappeared or become obsolete!”
“You work on vital statistics for things that are obsolete?”
“Yes. Obsolete! Earlier I worked in the typewriters statistics section and it was we who discovered that typewriters had become obsolete the moment we had nothing to do!”
“But what do you do whole day?”
“Nothing!” I answer emphatically. “I told you I do nothing, didn’t I?”
“Don’t you feel bored, restless, doing nothing whole day? Soon you’ll go crazy!”
“Bored, restless, crazy? Not at all. Thanks to my work, I have developed the ability to savor long hours of leisure – a gift most of you so-called ‘busy’ people have lost, or probably never acquired.”
Yes indeed, my dear Reader; I do nothing. That’s what I love to do the most, that’s what I do best, and that’s what I do almost all the time – ‘Nothing’!
Well, actually, I love doing nothing because for most of the time I have nothing to do. I have plenty of leisure, plenty of time to do nothing, which is rare in a place like Mumbai, and I am always busy doing nothing; my life’s leitmotif being that famous epigram of Chang Cha’ao:
Only those who take leisurely what the people of the world are busy about can be busy about what the people of the world take leisurely.
I told you I have the ability to enjoy and savor long hours of leisure – a talent which is quite rare in today’s hectic world where everyone is busy running their own rat-race. I am lucky to enjoy so much leisure, for I am not running in any rat-race. I may not be a rat, but I am a man of no importance, neither handsome, nor wealthy, nor successful, nor powerful, nor famous, nor, indeed, particularly well endowed. How can I describe myself? The most apt word may be ‘anonymous’.
Oh yes, I am an ordinary man who looks so undistinguished and commonplace that you won’t notice me in a crowd, or even if there is no crowd, for I just blend into the surroundings. And in my anonymity lies my power, my freedom, to do nothing. You may call me an idler, a loafer, a loser, a failure – but I just don’t care, as long as I can pleasurably wallow, revel and rejoice in my anonymity, doing nothing. Indeed, anonymity is a sine qua non for my ‘doing nothing’ philosophy of life.
Hey, we’ve digressed! Enough of pontification. Let’s return to the conversation I’m having with the beautiful lady.
One evening I leave my office, after a busy day of doing nothing, cross through the Horniman Circle garden, walk down Vir Nariman Road, past Flora Fountain, cross MG road at Hutatma Chowk, pick up a vada pav at Ashok Satam’s stall next to the CTO, stroll leisurely towards Churchgate while the sea of humanity rushes by like a deluge, fortify myself with a refreshing cup of Irani tea at Stadium restaurant and sit on the parapet on Marine Drive staring vacantly at the tranquil sea doing what I do best – Nothing!
“Hi!” says a melodious feminine voice shaking me out of my reverie. I turn around. It’s Roopa, my classmate from college. She’s quite a looker and I feast my eyes on her in a yearning sort of way which is worth a hundred compliments.
She blushes at the genuine admiration in my eyes and says, “It’s so nice to see you, Vinay. After so many years. And here of all the places!”
“I like this place. It’s one of my favorites. I come here most evenings,” I say.
“And what were you doing sitting and staring blankly at the sea like a lost case?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You spend every evening here doing nothing?”
“Yes,” I say. “Of course, once in a while I go to the Gateway, or land’s end at Nariman Point, or the Chowpatty side, or even HangingGardens. But this is my favorite place for hanging out and doing nothing and most evenings I’m here.”
“What do you do?” she asks.
“Nothing!” I say.
[And we have the conversation about my work that I have described earlier in the beginning at the start of my story]
“Aren’t you happy to see me?” she asks.
“Of course I am,” I say looking directly into her large brown eyes.
“You’ve told me everything about yourself, but you haven’t asked me anything about me.”
“I’m no nosy parker. I don’t like to be too inquisitive.”
“Inquisitive? But you can be a bit curious can’t you? Don’t you want to know about me? What all I’ve achieved since college, what I’m doing, my work – aren’t you interested in me?”
“I was always interested in you. Don’t you remember? It was you who never gave me any bhav. You used me as a messenger to carry love letters to your boy friends, that’s all.”
“Please don’t say that. You know you were so sweet, that you were the only boy we all girls could confide in, talk to freely, knowing you would keep our secrets safe.”
“Okay Roopa, confide in me. Tell me, what are doing here?”
“I’ve come for my visa. They said it’d take an hour. So I just came here to kill time.”
“Visa? Here in Churchgate? I thought the visa office was in Breach Candy or somewhere there!”
“That’s the US Consulate. I’ve already got that. The UK visa office is here. In the Brabourne Stadium building, near Rustom Ice Cream.”
“Ah! Rustoms! Come on Roopa, let’s have some ice cream. Or sweet curds. Or whatever you like.”
“Let’s eat something first. That place looks good,” she says pointing to the Pizzeria, opposite the Marine Drive, where Talk of the Town was once there. “We’ll sit there and talk. And have some pizza.”
I order a huge special pizza, she a small one, and she begins talking about herself. I am easy to talk to, for I listen well. I know when to egg you on; by a subtle gesture, an encouraging look, or an appreciative word of genuine interest. I have the knack and when you talk to me your words will just come tumbling out.
Roopa tells me everything, about her Masters in Computers after we graduated in Maths, her natural talent in Software, her meteoric success, her globetrotting projects, her rise from job to job, from Mumbai, Bangalore, Gurgaon, to her present job in a top IT company in Pune. And also about her recent marriage to Deepak, another hotshot IT type working in the same company as hers.
“You know Vinay,” she says excitedly, “I am on the verge of breaking the glass ceiling. This project, the next one year, is crucial, it’s a do or die situation for me. If I succeed, my life is made forever. It’ll be a career breakthrough and there will be no looking back. I’ll be able to set up my own company. Maybe move to the States, Seattle.”
I nod and focus on my pizza.
“It’s going to be hectic. US, UK, Europe, Far East, Middle East, everywhere – I’ll be globetrotting all over, living out of a suitcase.”
“Great,” I say. “When do you take off? Tonight?”
“I wish I could, but there’s a small hitch.”
“Hitch?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Fantastic!” I say, but from the expression on her face I instantly realize that I have said the wrong thing, so I look down into my pizza and pretend to dig deep.
“It’s all wrong. The timing, I mean,” she says. “I’m so meticulous at work; I just don’t know how I could be so careless in my personal life and mess up everything.”
I say nothing. She wants to hear silence, silent approbation, and that is what she will hear. That’s the trick; always say something that the person you are talking to wants to hear, otherwise just keep quiet.
“I have to do something fast!”
“You asked your husband?”
“Are you mad? The moment Deepak comes to know, he’ll start jumping with joy having proven his virility. Everyone will come to know. And it’ll be curtains for me as far as this project is concerned.”
“You can still go, can’t you?”
“It’s a one year project. The moment my MCP bosses hear I’m pregnant, I’m out. And my husband – he’ll be the happiest. As it is he is inwardly jealous that I’ve got this project; that I’ll succeed and leave him behind. I must do something fast, isn’t it?”
My mouth full of pizza, I nod my head.
“Vinay, please tell me,” she says getting emotional, “my priorities are right, aren’t they?”
“Yes, of course, your priorities are right,” I say emphatically.
“What do you say? Now, at this crucial juncture, I should focus on my career, don’t you think? I can always have all the children I want later isn’t it?”
“Very right. Very right!” I say. “Roopa, you’re absolutely right!”
“Thanks, Vinay. I’m so lucky I met you. You are the only one I’ve told all this. Thanks for talking to me. You’ve helped me make my decision,” she says extending her hand on the table.
I place my hand on hers, press gently and look into her brown eyes.
“You’re such a darling, Vinay,” she says, “it’s so comforting to talk to you.” And then tears well up in her eyes and suddenly she breaks down, oblivious of the surroundings. I move across, caress her head and gently soothe her.
We talk a bit, and I walk her down to Rustom for a ‘Sandwich Ice Cream’, she collects her visa, and bid good bye to a reassured, composed and determined Roopa as she gets into a taxi on her way to catch a Volvo to Pune.
And then I leisurely stroll towards my favorite place on Marine Drive to continue doing nothing.
I rinse my lungs with the refreshing sea breeze, and suddenly smell a strong whiff of perfume, or maybe it’s one of those overpowering deos! I turn around. It’s the ravishing Nina, another of my ‘achiever’ go-getter classmates who after her MBA is now a hotshot in a top MNC.
I’ve seen her sometimes on Marine Drive, in her chauffer driven car, driving home late evening from her office in Nariman Point to her home on Malabar Hill. Once she even stopped and asked me if I wanted a lift, an offer I politely declined, and then she asked me what I was doing, and when I told her I was doing nothing, she gave me an uncanny smile, and I notice that every time she sees me ‘doing nothing’ on my favorite spot on Marine Drive from her car, she looks at me in a curious sort of way.
“Doing nothing?” she asks naughtily, her eyes dancing.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Come on, Vinay! You told me once, remember? I see you here almost every evening while driving home.”
“And never stop to say hello?”
“I don’t want to disturb your penance.”
“Penance? That’s malapropism!”
“Sorry. I mean your ‘doing nothing’ meditation.”
“That’s better! And what makes you disturb my meditation now?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Okay. Talk.”
“Not here. Too many people here. Let’s go to some quiet place where we can be alone.”
“HangingGardens? Remember our favorite bench in the secluded corner?”
“Okay. But don’t do anything naughty!”
“Let’s go. Where is your car?”
“I let it go; walked down from my office. Didn’t want the driver getting too curious.”
“Okay, I’ll get a cab. Hey, why not just walk down Marine Drive? Walking and talking – it wouldn’t look suspicious.”
“Okay,” she says, and we walk and we talk.
Being a ‘facts and figures’ finance person she doesn’t beat about the bush and comes straight to the point.
“I’m pregnant,” she says.
I suppress my emotion. This is too much for one evening. First Roopa, and now Nina. Coincidence, serendipity, I don’t know what.
This time I’m careful not to say anything.
“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” she asks.
“Of course. Congratulations!” I say.
“You’re the first one I’ve told. I just got the report this evening.”
“You husband?”
“No.”
“Oh my God! Is it someone else?”
“Shut up!”
“I’m sorry. But you must tell your husband immediately.”
“And he will immediately rush me to the nearest abortionist!”
“What?”
“We took all the precautions, but it’s happened. I want the baby.”
“Of course you must have the baby,” I say.
“I must. Isn’t it?”
“Of course you must. Why doesn’t he want it?”
“I told him when I have a baby I’m going to quit my job; at least take a long break to bring up my child. That’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes, that’s the right thing to do.”
“I feel being a full time mother is more important. At least when the baby is small, isn’t it?”
“Of course. You must take care of yourself from right now. Come on I’ll call a taxi. You shouldn’t strain yourself so much.”
“How sweet of you! Just let’s sit there by the sea.”
“Tell me, why doesn’t your husband want you to have a baby now?”
“Because he knows I’ll quit my job.”
“So?”
“Who is going to pay the EMI for the luxurious bungalow he wants to book?”
“Bungalow? It can wait. The baby is more important.”
“That’s just what I’ve been saying since we got married.”
“So?”
“He feels we should have all the material things first before we have a baby.”
“He’s got his priorities wrong.”
“He’s wrong, isn’t it?”
“Yes, he’s wrong. And you’re right.”
“So I should go ahead with the baby, isn’t it?”
“Of course.”
“And quit my job.”
“Of course you should,” I say, “and go and tell your husband right away and put your foot down. Tell him: ‘The baby takes priority, the bungalows can come later’.”
“I will, I will,” she says.
“You must. Be the strong girl like you were in college.”
Nina gives me a genuine smile of affection and says, “I’m so glad I talked to you, Vinay. Thanks for helping me make my decision.”
After Nina leaves in a taxi I sit by the sea at Chowpatty at the end of Marine Drive, marvel at the spectacle of the sun being swallowed by the sea, and reflect. Roopa and Nina. What contrasts! I liked talking to them. Talking to someone who needs comforting seems to make my own troubles go away!
And now it is time to go home – to my own troubles!
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/go/karve
by
VIKRAM KARVE
“What do you do?” she asks.
“Nothing!” I say.
“What do you mean ‘Nothing’? she asks. “You must be doing something!”
“I do nothing!” I say.
“Come on Vinay, stop kidding. I know you work somewhere.”
“Work? You asked me what I do, not where I work! I work at the Bureau of Statistics.”
“Bureau of Statistics? What statistics?”
“Vital Statistics.”
“Vital Statistics?” she asks her eyebrows arched in curious surprise.
“No, No. It’s not what you’re thinking. I meant statistics that are vital,” I say, trying to correct the faux pas. We compile, collate, consolidate, analyze and disseminate various statistics.”
“Wow! How interesting! Tell me more.”
“You can say I am an obsolescent man dealing with obsolete things.”
“Obsolescent man? Obsolete things? I don’t understand. Where exactly do you work?”
“I’m in the smallpox section.”
“Smallpox?”
“Yes. Smallpox. I maintain statistics pertaining to smallpox.”
“That’s funny! I thought smallpox was eradicated long back.”
“Smallpox may have been eradicated, but my office is still going strong,” I say proudly. It’s true – sometimes the ends vanish but the means proliferate and flourish till eternity.
“I can’t believe it! If there’s no smallpox around, why maintain statistics?”
“If you don’t maintain statistics how will the world come to know that something has vanished, disappeared or become obsolete!”
“You work on vital statistics for things that are obsolete?”
“Yes. Obsolete! Earlier I worked in the typewriters statistics section and it was we who discovered that typewriters had become obsolete the moment we had nothing to do!”
“But what do you do whole day?”
“Nothing!” I answer emphatically. “I told you I do nothing, didn’t I?”
“Don’t you feel bored, restless, doing nothing whole day? Soon you’ll go crazy!”
“Bored, restless, crazy? Not at all. Thanks to my work, I have developed the ability to savor long hours of leisure – a gift most of you so-called ‘busy’ people have lost, or probably never acquired.”
Yes indeed, my dear Reader; I do nothing. That’s what I love to do the most, that’s what I do best, and that’s what I do almost all the time – ‘Nothing’!
Well, actually, I love doing nothing because for most of the time I have nothing to do. I have plenty of leisure, plenty of time to do nothing, which is rare in a place like Mumbai, and I am always busy doing nothing; my life’s leitmotif being that famous epigram of Chang Cha’ao:
Only those who take leisurely what the people of the world are busy about can be busy about what the people of the world take leisurely.
I told you I have the ability to enjoy and savor long hours of leisure – a talent which is quite rare in today’s hectic world where everyone is busy running their own rat-race. I am lucky to enjoy so much leisure, for I am not running in any rat-race. I may not be a rat, but I am a man of no importance, neither handsome, nor wealthy, nor successful, nor powerful, nor famous, nor, indeed, particularly well endowed. How can I describe myself? The most apt word may be ‘anonymous’.
Oh yes, I am an ordinary man who looks so undistinguished and commonplace that you won’t notice me in a crowd, or even if there is no crowd, for I just blend into the surroundings. And in my anonymity lies my power, my freedom, to do nothing. You may call me an idler, a loafer, a loser, a failure – but I just don’t care, as long as I can pleasurably wallow, revel and rejoice in my anonymity, doing nothing. Indeed, anonymity is a sine qua non for my ‘doing nothing’ philosophy of life.
Hey, we’ve digressed! Enough of pontification. Let’s return to the conversation I’m having with the beautiful lady.
One evening I leave my office, after a busy day of doing nothing, cross through the Horniman Circle garden, walk down Vir Nariman Road, past Flora Fountain, cross MG road at Hutatma Chowk, pick up a vada pav at Ashok Satam’s stall next to the CTO, stroll leisurely towards Churchgate while the sea of humanity rushes by like a deluge, fortify myself with a refreshing cup of Irani tea at Stadium restaurant and sit on the parapet on Marine Drive staring vacantly at the tranquil sea doing what I do best – Nothing!
“Hi!” says a melodious feminine voice shaking me out of my reverie. I turn around. It’s Roopa, my classmate from college. She’s quite a looker and I feast my eyes on her in a yearning sort of way which is worth a hundred compliments.
She blushes at the genuine admiration in my eyes and says, “It’s so nice to see you, Vinay. After so many years. And here of all the places!”
“I like this place. It’s one of my favorites. I come here most evenings,” I say.
“And what were you doing sitting and staring blankly at the sea like a lost case?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You spend every evening here doing nothing?”
“Yes,” I say. “Of course, once in a while I go to the Gateway, or land’s end at Nariman Point, or the Chowpatty side, or even HangingGardens. But this is my favorite place for hanging out and doing nothing and most evenings I’m here.”
“What do you do?” she asks.
“Nothing!” I say.
[And we have the conversation about my work that I have described earlier in the beginning at the start of my story]
“Aren’t you happy to see me?” she asks.
“Of course I am,” I say looking directly into her large brown eyes.
“You’ve told me everything about yourself, but you haven’t asked me anything about me.”
“I’m no nosy parker. I don’t like to be too inquisitive.”
“Inquisitive? But you can be a bit curious can’t you? Don’t you want to know about me? What all I’ve achieved since college, what I’m doing, my work – aren’t you interested in me?”
“I was always interested in you. Don’t you remember? It was you who never gave me any bhav. You used me as a messenger to carry love letters to your boy friends, that’s all.”
“Please don’t say that. You know you were so sweet, that you were the only boy we all girls could confide in, talk to freely, knowing you would keep our secrets safe.”
“Okay Roopa, confide in me. Tell me, what are doing here?”
“I’ve come for my visa. They said it’d take an hour. So I just came here to kill time.”
“Visa? Here in Churchgate? I thought the visa office was in Breach Candy or somewhere there!”
“That’s the US Consulate. I’ve already got that. The UK visa office is here. In the Brabourne Stadium building, near Rustom Ice Cream.”
“Ah! Rustoms! Come on Roopa, let’s have some ice cream. Or sweet curds. Or whatever you like.”
“Let’s eat something first. That place looks good,” she says pointing to the Pizzeria, opposite the Marine Drive, where Talk of the Town was once there. “We’ll sit there and talk. And have some pizza.”
I order a huge special pizza, she a small one, and she begins talking about herself. I am easy to talk to, for I listen well. I know when to egg you on; by a subtle gesture, an encouraging look, or an appreciative word of genuine interest. I have the knack and when you talk to me your words will just come tumbling out.
Roopa tells me everything, about her Masters in Computers after we graduated in Maths, her natural talent in Software, her meteoric success, her globetrotting projects, her rise from job to job, from Mumbai, Bangalore, Gurgaon, to her present job in a top IT company in Pune. And also about her recent marriage to Deepak, another hotshot IT type working in the same company as hers.
“You know Vinay,” she says excitedly, “I am on the verge of breaking the glass ceiling. This project, the next one year, is crucial, it’s a do or die situation for me. If I succeed, my life is made forever. It’ll be a career breakthrough and there will be no looking back. I’ll be able to set up my own company. Maybe move to the States, Seattle.”
I nod and focus on my pizza.
“It’s going to be hectic. US, UK, Europe, Far East, Middle East, everywhere – I’ll be globetrotting all over, living out of a suitcase.”
“Great,” I say. “When do you take off? Tonight?”
“I wish I could, but there’s a small hitch.”
“Hitch?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Fantastic!” I say, but from the expression on her face I instantly realize that I have said the wrong thing, so I look down into my pizza and pretend to dig deep.
“It’s all wrong. The timing, I mean,” she says. “I’m so meticulous at work; I just don’t know how I could be so careless in my personal life and mess up everything.”
I say nothing. She wants to hear silence, silent approbation, and that is what she will hear. That’s the trick; always say something that the person you are talking to wants to hear, otherwise just keep quiet.
“I have to do something fast!”
“You asked your husband?”
“Are you mad? The moment Deepak comes to know, he’ll start jumping with joy having proven his virility. Everyone will come to know. And it’ll be curtains for me as far as this project is concerned.”
“You can still go, can’t you?”
“It’s a one year project. The moment my MCP bosses hear I’m pregnant, I’m out. And my husband – he’ll be the happiest. As it is he is inwardly jealous that I’ve got this project; that I’ll succeed and leave him behind. I must do something fast, isn’t it?”
My mouth full of pizza, I nod my head.
“Vinay, please tell me,” she says getting emotional, “my priorities are right, aren’t they?”
“Yes, of course, your priorities are right,” I say emphatically.
“What do you say? Now, at this crucial juncture, I should focus on my career, don’t you think? I can always have all the children I want later isn’t it?”
“Very right. Very right!” I say. “Roopa, you’re absolutely right!”
“Thanks, Vinay. I’m so lucky I met you. You are the only one I’ve told all this. Thanks for talking to me. You’ve helped me make my decision,” she says extending her hand on the table.
I place my hand on hers, press gently and look into her brown eyes.
“You’re such a darling, Vinay,” she says, “it’s so comforting to talk to you.” And then tears well up in her eyes and suddenly she breaks down, oblivious of the surroundings. I move across, caress her head and gently soothe her.
We talk a bit, and I walk her down to Rustom for a ‘Sandwich Ice Cream’, she collects her visa, and bid good bye to a reassured, composed and determined Roopa as she gets into a taxi on her way to catch a Volvo to Pune.
And then I leisurely stroll towards my favorite place on Marine Drive to continue doing nothing.
I rinse my lungs with the refreshing sea breeze, and suddenly smell a strong whiff of perfume, or maybe it’s one of those overpowering deos! I turn around. It’s the ravishing Nina, another of my ‘achiever’ go-getter classmates who after her MBA is now a hotshot in a top MNC.
I’ve seen her sometimes on Marine Drive, in her chauffer driven car, driving home late evening from her office in Nariman Point to her home on Malabar Hill. Once she even stopped and asked me if I wanted a lift, an offer I politely declined, and then she asked me what I was doing, and when I told her I was doing nothing, she gave me an uncanny smile, and I notice that every time she sees me ‘doing nothing’ on my favorite spot on Marine Drive from her car, she looks at me in a curious sort of way.
“Doing nothing?” she asks naughtily, her eyes dancing.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Come on, Vinay! You told me once, remember? I see you here almost every evening while driving home.”
“And never stop to say hello?”
“I don’t want to disturb your penance.”
“Penance? That’s malapropism!”
“Sorry. I mean your ‘doing nothing’ meditation.”
“That’s better! And what makes you disturb my meditation now?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Okay. Talk.”
“Not here. Too many people here. Let’s go to some quiet place where we can be alone.”
“HangingGardens? Remember our favorite bench in the secluded corner?”
“Okay. But don’t do anything naughty!”
“Let’s go. Where is your car?”
“I let it go; walked down from my office. Didn’t want the driver getting too curious.”
“Okay, I’ll get a cab. Hey, why not just walk down Marine Drive? Walking and talking – it wouldn’t look suspicious.”
“Okay,” she says, and we walk and we talk.
Being a ‘facts and figures’ finance person she doesn’t beat about the bush and comes straight to the point.
“I’m pregnant,” she says.
I suppress my emotion. This is too much for one evening. First Roopa, and now Nina. Coincidence, serendipity, I don’t know what.
This time I’m careful not to say anything.
“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” she asks.
“Of course. Congratulations!” I say.
“You’re the first one I’ve told. I just got the report this evening.”
“You husband?”
“No.”
“Oh my God! Is it someone else?”
“Shut up!”
“I’m sorry. But you must tell your husband immediately.”
“And he will immediately rush me to the nearest abortionist!”
“What?”
“We took all the precautions, but it’s happened. I want the baby.”
“Of course you must have the baby,” I say.
“I must. Isn’t it?”
“Of course you must. Why doesn’t he want it?”
“I told him when I have a baby I’m going to quit my job; at least take a long break to bring up my child. That’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes, that’s the right thing to do.”
“I feel being a full time mother is more important. At least when the baby is small, isn’t it?”
“Of course. You must take care of yourself from right now. Come on I’ll call a taxi. You shouldn’t strain yourself so much.”
“How sweet of you! Just let’s sit there by the sea.”
“Tell me, why doesn’t your husband want you to have a baby now?”
“Because he knows I’ll quit my job.”
“So?”
“Who is going to pay the EMI for the luxurious bungalow he wants to book?”
“Bungalow? It can wait. The baby is more important.”
“That’s just what I’ve been saying since we got married.”
“So?”
“He feels we should have all the material things first before we have a baby.”
“He’s got his priorities wrong.”
“He’s wrong, isn’t it?”
“Yes, he’s wrong. And you’re right.”
“So I should go ahead with the baby, isn’t it?”
“Of course.”
“And quit my job.”
“Of course you should,” I say, “and go and tell your husband right away and put your foot down. Tell him: ‘The baby takes priority, the bungalows can come later’.”
“I will, I will,” she says.
“You must. Be the strong girl like you were in college.”
Nina gives me a genuine smile of affection and says, “I’m so glad I talked to you, Vinay. Thanks for helping me make my decision.”
After Nina leaves in a taxi I sit by the sea at Chowpatty at the end of Marine Drive, marvel at the spectacle of the sun being swallowed by the sea, and reflect. Roopa and Nina. What contrasts! I liked talking to them. Talking to someone who needs comforting seems to make my own troubles go away!
And now it is time to go home – to my own troubles!
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/go/karve
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Suspicion
SUSPICION
[a fiction short story]
by
VIKRAM KARVE
The moment I saw the telephone booth I decided to ring up my wife in Pune. I wish I hadn’t. But then you wouldn’t be reading this story. At that precise point of time I should have been just out of Mumbai harbour, sailing on the high seas, but my ship’s departure was suddenly postponed by a day as some cargo documents were not in order and whilst the ship-chandlers and agents were on the job, obtaining the necessary clearances, I decided to see a movie at the Regal cinema and then kill time window-shopping on Colaba Causeway.
Having enjoyed the afternoon show, I was lazily strolling down Colaba Causeway when I saw the telephone booth. I wasn’t carrying my cell-phone – never do when sailing. I looked at my watch: 6.45PM.
Priya, my wife, should be home in Pune by now. I dialed our home number. The phone at the other end started ringing. Five rings. No one picked up. Ten rings. Twenty. And suddenly it cut-off. I tried again. No one picked up. I tried her cell-phone – ten rings, cut-off, she didn’t answer.
Walking towards Marine Drive, I wondered why Priya was late coming home. Her office finished at five, and it was just half-an-hour’s scooter drive to our home. Priya was always home by 6 PM. 6.15 at the most!
I looked at my watch: 7.15PM. Suddenly I spotted another phone booth. There was a proliferation of these nowadays. I went in and dialed. No reply. I dialed again and again. Our home landline number, her mobile number. I must have dialed both numbers at least ten times and every time the story was the same – ten rings and cut off.
As I walked by the sea in the enveloping darkness, strange thoughts began entering my brain. Maybe Priya had an accident. I wished I had never bought her that scooter. It was so dangerous driving a two-wheeler in the chaotic evening traffic of Pune. And Priya’s driving was so rash. I had warned her so many times about her reckless driving. But she just wouldn’t listen. Stubborn! That’s what she was. Like she insisted on buying the latest two-wheeler model with powerful pick-up, so she could zip around town. I’d suggested she use the car, but she said it was impossible for her to drive a car in the frenzied traffic on the narrow roads of Pune. And, of course, she was tired of traveling by bus. Besides it was below her dignity.
At first I was angry with her; then gradually my anger turned to anxiety. An accident? A distinct possibility. Maybe I was imagining things. Getting worried for nothing. Priya must be home by now!
“Please can I use your mobile phone?” I asked a stranger sitting on the parapet on the sea face.
“Sure,” he said, “tell me the number. I’ll try.”
I told him. He dialed. Once, twice! Then with a knowledgeable look on his face he told me what I already knew, “No one is picking up.”
I looked at my watch: 7.45PM. I felt a tremor of trepidation. Instinctively I knew that something was wrong. I tried to calm myself and think rationally.
“Anything wrong?” the stranger asked looking intently at me.
“No,” I said trying to wipe out the anxiety on my face, smoothening my worried look into a grin. “I’m trying to get my wife.”
“Why don’t you try some other number? Her friend, her office?” he said holding out his cell-phone.
Yes. Her office. Priya’s office. How come I didn’t think of it before?
I dialed Priya’s office number.
“Hello,” said a male voice.
“I want to speak to Priya Ranade,” I said. “I’m her husband speaking from Mumbai.”
“Oh,” the voice said,” Just a minute.”
There was long pause. The silence was killing. Then suddenly the sound of someone picking up the phone.
“Hello, Mr. Ranade, Godbole here.” Godbole was Priya’s boss. “Your wife left at five, as usual,” he said. “In fact even we are winding up now. It’s almost eight.” I could her some conversation in the background. “Just hold the line please,” Godbole said. After a few seconds Godbole spoke, “You’re speaking from Mumbai, are you? Anything wrong? Any problem?”
“No one is picking up the phone at my house,” I said.” Even her mobile.”
“I see,” Godbole said. “Why don’t you check up with Ashok Pandit. They left office together. Maybe your wife is at his place.”
“Yes.” The word escaped my mouth.
“Just a second,” Godbole said. “I’ll give you Ashok Pandit’s residence number.”
“Thanks, sir. I’ve got it,” I said, switched off and looked beseechingly at the stranger.
“Go ahead,” he said, got up and walked away to give me privacy.
Almost immediately I dialed Ashok’s number. I knew it by heart. After all, Ashok was one of my best friends, besides being Priya’s colleague at office.
Anjali, Ashok’s wife, came on the line.
“Hi, Anjali. Vinay here.”
“From the ship?”
“No. From Mumbai.”
“Anything wrong?”
“No. Is Ashok there?”
“No. He’s not come back from office.”
“But it’s eight o’clock,” I said.
“Ashok told me he’d be late,” Anjali said. “Some important business meeting. Dinner with a client or something. He told me not to wait for dinner. Why don’t you try his mobile?” She sounded so nonchalant that I decided not to delve any further.
“I just rang up to say goodbye,” I said and hung up.
So this was what going on the moment my back was turned. Under the garb of platonic friendship. And to think I had left Pune only yesterday, and they were having a good time already.
It was only yesterday morning that Ashok had come to see me off on the Deccan Queen. I’d asked him to take care of Priya while I was away at sea. And do you know what he said? “Don’t worry. Vinay. I’ll take good care of Priya. I’ll look after her so well that she won’t even miss you.”
Sure! She wasn’t missing me! I should have known. The familiar way they talked to each other; their ‘harmless’ jokes. Platonic friendship my foot! I had been a fool blinded by trust. Deep down I felt terribly betrayed. I was so angry, so full of hate, that I could feel the venom rising within me. I cannot begin to describe the intense emotions I experienced, but a strange force took charge of me impelling me to act, propelling me toward the nearest taxi. “Dadar,” I told the taxi driver, “Poona Taxi Stand.”
Something vibrated in my hands. Shit! I had forgotten to return the stranger’s cell-phone. I should have turned back, returned the mobile, but I do not know what bizarre force overwhelmed me that I just switched it off.
Soon I was on my way to Pune, having hired an entire taxi to myself owing to the urgency of my mission. Also I did not want any company. As I closed my eyes in self-commiseration, I saw both halves of my life, my marriage and my career, side by side, as I had never seen them before, and I tried to fathom how I could be so stupid in one and so capable in the other.
The voice of the taxi-driver shook me out of my thoughts, “Sir, we’ll stop at the Food-Court before climbing the ghats. You can have a cup of tea or eat something.”
I decided to give Priya her last chance. I dialed her cell number. Our home number. It was the same story. Ten rings. No one picked up. I looked at my watch. 10 PM. I dialed Ashok Pandit’s home number. A few rings.
“Hello,” It was Ashok’s wife Anjali again.
“I want to speak to Ashok Pandit,” I said curtly.
“He’s not home,” Anjali said. I could sense the irritation in her voice. “Who’s speaking? Vinay? Why don’t you try his mobile?”
I tried Ashok’s mobile. ‘Out of coverage area’: a recorded message said. Must have gone to his farmhouse in Panshet.
There was no doubt about it now. Too much of a coincidence. Unfaithful Wife and Devious Friend! Making a cuckold of me. Having a good time at the farmhouse on the very night of my departure! As if they were waiting for me to go. Just imagine what they would be up to during my six month absence away at sea. I felt tormented by the torrent of anger flowing within me. There was no going back now. I had to get the bottom of this.
The taxi took two hours to reach Pune - the longest two hours of my life. As I entered my apartment block I noticed that Priya’s scooter was parked at the usual place.
So there had been no accident. My suspicions were true! I ran up the steps to my second floor flat.
There was no lock on the door. So she had come back. I rang the bell. Once. Twice. Priya opened the door. She was looking at me as if she had seen a ghost. I stepped inside and quickly went to the bedroom. There was no one there.
“What’s wrong?” Priya exclaimed. “Why have you suddenly come back?”
“Where were you?” I asked ignoring her question. “I’ve been ringing up all evening.”
“You were supposed to be sailing.”
“The sailing got postponed,” I said irritably. “Answer my question. Where were you? I rang up at least five times.”
“I was right here,” Priya said.
We stood facing each other. I saw a flicker in her eyes. I knew she was hiding something. Then she spoke, trying to keep her voice calm, “There is something wrong with our phone. Even Ashok said he couldn’t get me.”
“When?” I snapped.
“He came to check in the evening. I told him to make a complaint.”
“He came here? Why? You could have rung up on your mobile.”
“I lost my cell-phone.”
“When?"
“I don’t know. Maybe in the office. Or on the way, the market.”
“You expect me to believe that! Lost cell-phone! Phone dead! And Ashok’s mobile out of coverage.”
“Ashok? You rung up Ashok? Are you mad?”
“You think I am dumb. You liar, you cheat…..” I screamed incoherently in furious rage.
“What’s wrong with you?” Priya shouted. “You suddenly land up at midnight and….”
Before she could complete her sentence the telephone started ringing. I rushed and picked it up.
“Priya, what’s wrong with Vinay?” It was Ashok’s voice. “He’s been ringing Anjali from Mumbai. There is a missed call on my mobile too.”
“It’s me!” I said angrily to Ashok and put the phone down. And then I looked at Priya squarely in the eye and said, “And now what do you have to say? This phone suddenly comes to life. With Ashok at the other end. Ringing you at midnight! Wow! What coincidence?”
She had no answer. Adulterous cheat! Deep down I felt terribly betrayed.
I did not return to my ship. Just couldn’t. Everyone tried to convince me that I was imagining things. But I am not convinced. They took me to the telephone exchange. But tell me, do they repair faults at midnight? And next day Ashok turned up with Priya’s cell-phone claiming that it was found lying in the office conference room. And expected me to believe it!
Ashok swore that he was innocent in the presence of his wife. Priya did likewise. But deep down within me is sown the seed of mistrust, growing day by day. Proliferating. Burgeoning into a massive tree of suspicion.
I have to make a decision. Soon. Once and for all. Clear everything. This way or that way!
I’ve read somewhere. The underlying principle of decision-making in uncertainty: “Suspend judgment till all possibilities are considered.”
So till this very day I am living in a state of suspension, considering all possibilities. And the more I think, the more the possibilities grow. Oh yes! The possibilities are endless!
I’ve got the sack for deserting my ship. And risk being blacklisted even by other companies if don’t return to the sea fast. And worse – they’ve tracked down the stranger’s mobile cell-phone and have filed a theft case against me and I am out on bail.
But I’m still waiting. Doing nothing. My judgment suspended. While I consider all possibilities. Till I reach a conclusion. Get to the bottom of it.
My wife wants me to consult a therapist – get some counseling. She thinks I’ve gone crazy. Everyone thinks I’ve gone crazy. Do you?
VIKRAM KARVE
copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
[a fiction short story]
by
VIKRAM KARVE
The moment I saw the telephone booth I decided to ring up my wife in Pune. I wish I hadn’t. But then you wouldn’t be reading this story. At that precise point of time I should have been just out of Mumbai harbour, sailing on the high seas, but my ship’s departure was suddenly postponed by a day as some cargo documents were not in order and whilst the ship-chandlers and agents were on the job, obtaining the necessary clearances, I decided to see a movie at the Regal cinema and then kill time window-shopping on Colaba Causeway.
Having enjoyed the afternoon show, I was lazily strolling down Colaba Causeway when I saw the telephone booth. I wasn’t carrying my cell-phone – never do when sailing. I looked at my watch: 6.45PM.
Priya, my wife, should be home in Pune by now. I dialed our home number. The phone at the other end started ringing. Five rings. No one picked up. Ten rings. Twenty. And suddenly it cut-off. I tried again. No one picked up. I tried her cell-phone – ten rings, cut-off, she didn’t answer.
Walking towards Marine Drive, I wondered why Priya was late coming home. Her office finished at five, and it was just half-an-hour’s scooter drive to our home. Priya was always home by 6 PM. 6.15 at the most!
I looked at my watch: 7.15PM. Suddenly I spotted another phone booth. There was a proliferation of these nowadays. I went in and dialed. No reply. I dialed again and again. Our home landline number, her mobile number. I must have dialed both numbers at least ten times and every time the story was the same – ten rings and cut off.
As I walked by the sea in the enveloping darkness, strange thoughts began entering my brain. Maybe Priya had an accident. I wished I had never bought her that scooter. It was so dangerous driving a two-wheeler in the chaotic evening traffic of Pune. And Priya’s driving was so rash. I had warned her so many times about her reckless driving. But she just wouldn’t listen. Stubborn! That’s what she was. Like she insisted on buying the latest two-wheeler model with powerful pick-up, so she could zip around town. I’d suggested she use the car, but she said it was impossible for her to drive a car in the frenzied traffic on the narrow roads of Pune. And, of course, she was tired of traveling by bus. Besides it was below her dignity.
At first I was angry with her; then gradually my anger turned to anxiety. An accident? A distinct possibility. Maybe I was imagining things. Getting worried for nothing. Priya must be home by now!
“Please can I use your mobile phone?” I asked a stranger sitting on the parapet on the sea face.
“Sure,” he said, “tell me the number. I’ll try.”
I told him. He dialed. Once, twice! Then with a knowledgeable look on his face he told me what I already knew, “No one is picking up.”
I looked at my watch: 7.45PM. I felt a tremor of trepidation. Instinctively I knew that something was wrong. I tried to calm myself and think rationally.
“Anything wrong?” the stranger asked looking intently at me.
“No,” I said trying to wipe out the anxiety on my face, smoothening my worried look into a grin. “I’m trying to get my wife.”
“Why don’t you try some other number? Her friend, her office?” he said holding out his cell-phone.
Yes. Her office. Priya’s office. How come I didn’t think of it before?
I dialed Priya’s office number.
“Hello,” said a male voice.
“I want to speak to Priya Ranade,” I said. “I’m her husband speaking from Mumbai.”
“Oh,” the voice said,” Just a minute.”
There was long pause. The silence was killing. Then suddenly the sound of someone picking up the phone.
“Hello, Mr. Ranade, Godbole here.” Godbole was Priya’s boss. “Your wife left at five, as usual,” he said. “In fact even we are winding up now. It’s almost eight.” I could her some conversation in the background. “Just hold the line please,” Godbole said. After a few seconds Godbole spoke, “You’re speaking from Mumbai, are you? Anything wrong? Any problem?”
“No one is picking up the phone at my house,” I said.” Even her mobile.”
“I see,” Godbole said. “Why don’t you check up with Ashok Pandit. They left office together. Maybe your wife is at his place.”
“Yes.” The word escaped my mouth.
“Just a second,” Godbole said. “I’ll give you Ashok Pandit’s residence number.”
“Thanks, sir. I’ve got it,” I said, switched off and looked beseechingly at the stranger.
“Go ahead,” he said, got up and walked away to give me privacy.
Almost immediately I dialed Ashok’s number. I knew it by heart. After all, Ashok was one of my best friends, besides being Priya’s colleague at office.
Anjali, Ashok’s wife, came on the line.
“Hi, Anjali. Vinay here.”
“From the ship?”
“No. From Mumbai.”
“Anything wrong?”
“No. Is Ashok there?”
“No. He’s not come back from office.”
“But it’s eight o’clock,” I said.
“Ashok told me he’d be late,” Anjali said. “Some important business meeting. Dinner with a client or something. He told me not to wait for dinner. Why don’t you try his mobile?” She sounded so nonchalant that I decided not to delve any further.
“I just rang up to say goodbye,” I said and hung up.
So this was what going on the moment my back was turned. Under the garb of platonic friendship. And to think I had left Pune only yesterday, and they were having a good time already.
It was only yesterday morning that Ashok had come to see me off on the Deccan Queen. I’d asked him to take care of Priya while I was away at sea. And do you know what he said? “Don’t worry. Vinay. I’ll take good care of Priya. I’ll look after her so well that she won’t even miss you.”
Sure! She wasn’t missing me! I should have known. The familiar way they talked to each other; their ‘harmless’ jokes. Platonic friendship my foot! I had been a fool blinded by trust. Deep down I felt terribly betrayed. I was so angry, so full of hate, that I could feel the venom rising within me. I cannot begin to describe the intense emotions I experienced, but a strange force took charge of me impelling me to act, propelling me toward the nearest taxi. “Dadar,” I told the taxi driver, “Poona Taxi Stand.”
Something vibrated in my hands. Shit! I had forgotten to return the stranger’s cell-phone. I should have turned back, returned the mobile, but I do not know what bizarre force overwhelmed me that I just switched it off.
Soon I was on my way to Pune, having hired an entire taxi to myself owing to the urgency of my mission. Also I did not want any company. As I closed my eyes in self-commiseration, I saw both halves of my life, my marriage and my career, side by side, as I had never seen them before, and I tried to fathom how I could be so stupid in one and so capable in the other.
The voice of the taxi-driver shook me out of my thoughts, “Sir, we’ll stop at the Food-Court before climbing the ghats. You can have a cup of tea or eat something.”
I decided to give Priya her last chance. I dialed her cell number. Our home number. It was the same story. Ten rings. No one picked up. I looked at my watch. 10 PM. I dialed Ashok Pandit’s home number. A few rings.
“Hello,” It was Ashok’s wife Anjali again.
“I want to speak to Ashok Pandit,” I said curtly.
“He’s not home,” Anjali said. I could sense the irritation in her voice. “Who’s speaking? Vinay? Why don’t you try his mobile?”
I tried Ashok’s mobile. ‘Out of coverage area’: a recorded message said. Must have gone to his farmhouse in Panshet.
There was no doubt about it now. Too much of a coincidence. Unfaithful Wife and Devious Friend! Making a cuckold of me. Having a good time at the farmhouse on the very night of my departure! As if they were waiting for me to go. Just imagine what they would be up to during my six month absence away at sea. I felt tormented by the torrent of anger flowing within me. There was no going back now. I had to get the bottom of this.
The taxi took two hours to reach Pune - the longest two hours of my life. As I entered my apartment block I noticed that Priya’s scooter was parked at the usual place.
So there had been no accident. My suspicions were true! I ran up the steps to my second floor flat.
There was no lock on the door. So she had come back. I rang the bell. Once. Twice. Priya opened the door. She was looking at me as if she had seen a ghost. I stepped inside and quickly went to the bedroom. There was no one there.
“What’s wrong?” Priya exclaimed. “Why have you suddenly come back?”
“Where were you?” I asked ignoring her question. “I’ve been ringing up all evening.”
“You were supposed to be sailing.”
“The sailing got postponed,” I said irritably. “Answer my question. Where were you? I rang up at least five times.”
“I was right here,” Priya said.
We stood facing each other. I saw a flicker in her eyes. I knew she was hiding something. Then she spoke, trying to keep her voice calm, “There is something wrong with our phone. Even Ashok said he couldn’t get me.”
“When?” I snapped.
“He came to check in the evening. I told him to make a complaint.”
“He came here? Why? You could have rung up on your mobile.”
“I lost my cell-phone.”
“When?"
“I don’t know. Maybe in the office. Or on the way, the market.”
“You expect me to believe that! Lost cell-phone! Phone dead! And Ashok’s mobile out of coverage.”
“Ashok? You rung up Ashok? Are you mad?”
“You think I am dumb. You liar, you cheat…..” I screamed incoherently in furious rage.
“What’s wrong with you?” Priya shouted. “You suddenly land up at midnight and….”
Before she could complete her sentence the telephone started ringing. I rushed and picked it up.
“Priya, what’s wrong with Vinay?” It was Ashok’s voice. “He’s been ringing Anjali from Mumbai. There is a missed call on my mobile too.”
“It’s me!” I said angrily to Ashok and put the phone down. And then I looked at Priya squarely in the eye and said, “And now what do you have to say? This phone suddenly comes to life. With Ashok at the other end. Ringing you at midnight! Wow! What coincidence?”
She had no answer. Adulterous cheat! Deep down I felt terribly betrayed.
I did not return to my ship. Just couldn’t. Everyone tried to convince me that I was imagining things. But I am not convinced. They took me to the telephone exchange. But tell me, do they repair faults at midnight? And next day Ashok turned up with Priya’s cell-phone claiming that it was found lying in the office conference room. And expected me to believe it!
Ashok swore that he was innocent in the presence of his wife. Priya did likewise. But deep down within me is sown the seed of mistrust, growing day by day. Proliferating. Burgeoning into a massive tree of suspicion.
I have to make a decision. Soon. Once and for all. Clear everything. This way or that way!
I’ve read somewhere. The underlying principle of decision-making in uncertainty: “Suspend judgment till all possibilities are considered.”
So till this very day I am living in a state of suspension, considering all possibilities. And the more I think, the more the possibilities grow. Oh yes! The possibilities are endless!
I’ve got the sack for deserting my ship. And risk being blacklisted even by other companies if don’t return to the sea fast. And worse – they’ve tracked down the stranger’s mobile cell-phone and have filed a theft case against me and I am out on bail.
But I’m still waiting. Doing nothing. My judgment suspended. While I consider all possibilities. Till I reach a conclusion. Get to the bottom of it.
My wife wants me to consult a therapist – get some counseling. She thinks I’ve gone crazy. Everyone thinks I’ve gone crazy. Do you?
VIKRAM KARVE
copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
"healthy" dating
“HEALTHY” DATING
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 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 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 – either 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’s Sheena’s boyfriend from HR.
“Here,” he says, coming close, proffering an Ice Cream cone.
She steps back awkwardly, perplexed and taken aback with 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. And as they walk slowly out of Churchgate station towards Marine Drive, they slowly lick the creamy yummy 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 do at the disc?”
“Maybe.”
“And you?”
She’s furious. But she controls herself. 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 he’s been stalking her - watching her every day. 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 enjoying their pizza. 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? 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 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! Bloody ditcher, that’s what he is - to hell with him!” Sheena says angrily and goes off to sleep.
But our heroine cannot sleep. She eagerly waits for sunrise. For at six in the morning Mohan has promised to meet her on Marine Drive opposite the Aquarium. And then they will go together for a ‘healthy’ jog on Marine Drive.
She feels happy, full of anticipation and zest.
Happiness is when you have something to look forward to.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
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 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 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 – either 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’s Sheena’s boyfriend from HR.
“Here,” he says, coming close, proffering an Ice Cream cone.
She steps back awkwardly, perplexed and taken aback with 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. And as they walk slowly out of Churchgate station towards Marine Drive, they slowly lick the creamy yummy 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 do at the disc?”
“Maybe.”
“And you?”
She’s furious. But she controls herself. 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 he’s been stalking her - watching her every day. 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 enjoying their pizza. 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? 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 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! Bloody ditcher, that’s what he is - to hell with him!” Sheena says angrily and goes off to sleep.
But our heroine cannot sleep. She eagerly waits for sunrise. For at six in the morning Mohan has promised to meet her on Marine Drive opposite the Aquarium. And then they will go together for a ‘healthy’ jog on Marine Drive.
She feels happy, full of anticipation and zest.
Happiness is when you have something to look forward to.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
MARINE DRIVE
MARINE DRIVE
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 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 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 – either 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’s Sheena’s boyfriend from HR.
“Here,” he says, coming close, proffering an Ice Cream cone.
She steps back awkwardly, perplexed and taken aback with 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. And as they walk slowly out of Churchgate station towards Marine Drive, they slowly lick the creamy yummy 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 do at the disc?”
“Maybe.”
“And you?”
She’s furious. But she controls herself. 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 he’s been stalking her - watching her every day. 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 enjoying their pizza. 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? 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 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! Bloody ditcher, that’s what he is - to hell with him!” Sheena says angrily and goes off to sleep.
But our heroine cannot sleep. She eagerly waits for sunrise. For at six in the morning Mohan has promised to meet her on Marine Drive opposite the Aquarium. And then they will go together for a ‘healthy’ jog on Marine Drive.
She feels happy, full of anticipation and zest.
Happiness is when you have something to look forward to.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
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 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 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 – either 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’s Sheena’s boyfriend from HR.
“Here,” he says, coming close, proffering an Ice Cream cone.
She steps back awkwardly, perplexed and taken aback with 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. And as they walk slowly out of Churchgate station towards Marine Drive, they slowly lick the creamy yummy 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 do at the disc?”
“Maybe.”
“And you?”
She’s furious. But she controls herself. 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 he’s been stalking her - watching her every day. 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 enjoying their pizza. 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? 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 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! Bloody ditcher, that’s what he is - to hell with him!” Sheena says angrily and goes off to sleep.
But our heroine cannot sleep. She eagerly waits for sunrise. For at six in the morning Mohan has promised to meet her on Marine Drive opposite the Aquarium. And then they will go together for a ‘healthy’ jog on Marine Drive.
She feels happy, full of anticipation and zest.
Happiness is when you have something to look forward to.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
RIP
RIP – A HORROR STORY
by
VIKRAM KARVE
Read this slowly and carefully. Take your time. Savor every word. Try to enjoy it. It’s 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 this I’m going to finish you. Yes. You read right. I’m going to finish you once and for all. Murder you in cold blood. Till you are dead. RIP. Requiescat in pace. Or is it requiescant in pace? It really doesn’t matter. But you for sure are going to rest in peace. That’s right. Rest in Peace. RIP. Forever.
You think this is a big joke? It isn’t. I’m going to terminate you. I’ve been watching you for days. You’re so nice and healthy. That’s 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. 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 murder as something far distant, don’t you? It’s not! It’s very near, very close to you. Maybe just behind you. Believe me. I’m dead serious. Don’t 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 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. Don’t 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. Don’t 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! 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 don’t 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 look. So don’t 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. Don’t look behind you. Don’t believe this – until you feel the gentle prick of the hypodermic needle in your spine.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
by
VIKRAM KARVE
Read this slowly and carefully. Take your time. Savor every word. Try to enjoy it. It’s 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 this I’m going to finish you. Yes. You read right. I’m going to finish you once and for all. Murder you in cold blood. Till you are dead. RIP. Requiescat in pace. Or is it requiescant in pace? It really doesn’t matter. But you for sure are going to rest in peace. That’s right. Rest in Peace. RIP. Forever.
You think this is a big joke? It isn’t. I’m going to terminate you. I’ve been watching you for days. You’re so nice and healthy. That’s 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. 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 murder as something far distant, don’t you? It’s not! It’s very near, very close to you. Maybe just behind you. Believe me. I’m dead serious. Don’t 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 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. Don’t 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. Don’t 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! 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 don’t 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 look. So don’t 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. Don’t look behind you. Don’t believe this – until you feel the gentle prick of the hypodermic needle in your spine.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2006 Vikram Karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
Sunday, July 22, 2007
BOILING A FROG - A Parable
BOILING A FROG
[A Parable]
by
Vikram Karve
I have heard this story somewhere about the delusion of learning from experience.
If you try to place a frog in a pot of boiling water the frog will immediately try to scramble out.
Now try this. Gently place the frog in a pot of water which is at normal room temperature and don’t scare him. The frog will stay put and remain in the water.
Now place the pot of water with the frog on a stove on a very slow fire so that the temperature of the water starts changing very very gradually so it’s hardly discernible.
You may observe something very interesting happening. As the temperature rises slowly the frog will do nothing. At first, the frog may show every sign of enjoying himself. As the temperature gradually increases, the frog will start becoming groggier and groggier until he is unable to climb out of the pot.
Though there is nothing restraining him, the frog will sit there and boil in the water.
Why?
Because the frog’s internal apparatus for sensing threats to survival is geared up to react to sudden changes in his environment, not to slow, gradual change.
It’s the same with us, isn’t it?
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
[A Parable]
by
Vikram Karve
I have heard this story somewhere about the delusion of learning from experience.
If you try to place a frog in a pot of boiling water the frog will immediately try to scramble out.
Now try this. Gently place the frog in a pot of water which is at normal room temperature and don’t scare him. The frog will stay put and remain in the water.
Now place the pot of water with the frog on a stove on a very slow fire so that the temperature of the water starts changing very very gradually so it’s hardly discernible.
You may observe something very interesting happening. As the temperature rises slowly the frog will do nothing. At first, the frog may show every sign of enjoying himself. As the temperature gradually increases, the frog will start becoming groggier and groggier until he is unable to climb out of the pot.
Though there is nothing restraining him, the frog will sit there and boil in the water.
Why?
Because the frog’s internal apparatus for sensing threats to survival is geared up to react to sudden changes in his environment, not to slow, gradual change.
It’s the same with us, isn’t it?
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
Saturday, July 21, 2007
LAMINGTON
LAMINGTON
( a melt in the mouth treat )
By
VIKRAM KARVE
In the evening I often go for a walk on Aundh Road from Bremen Chowk towards the railway line at Khadki. It’s one of the best places to walk in Pune, wide roads with plenty of greenery and foliage on both sides. And on my way back I treat myself with a Lamington at the Spicer College Bakery Shop. I delicately place the soft delicacy between my lips, press and squeeze a piece of the wonderful stuff on my tongue. I close my eyes in order to enhance the experience of supreme bliss as the Lamington melts in my mouth and the chocolatty-coconutty luscious syrupy sweetness permeates into me.
A Lamington is a delicious cube of sponge cake, dipped in melted chocolate and sugar and coated in desiccated coconut. They originated in Australia around 1898 in what later became the state of Queensland. Whilst the origin of the name for the Lamington cannot be accurately established, there are several theories. Lamingtons are most likely named after Charles Baillie, 2nd Baron Lamington, who served as Governor of Queensland from 1896 to 1901. However, the precise reasoning behind this is not known, and stories vary. According to one account, the dessert resembled the homburg hats favoured by Lord Lamington. Another tells of a banquet in Cloncurry during which the governor accidentally dropped a block of sponge cake into a dish of gravy, and then threw it over his shoulder, causing it to land in a bowl of desiccated coconut or peanut butter. A diner thought of replacing the gravy with chocolate and thus created the lamington as we know it today. Ironically, Lord Lamington was known to have hated the dessert that had been named in his honour, once referring to them as "those bloody poofy woolly biscuits".
Another theory is that they were named after Lady Lamington, the wife of the Governor.The Spicer College Bakery Lamington is my favourite – and can you imagine it costs just Eight Rupees [that’s six Lamingtons for a Dollar, for those who think in Dollars!]. The chocolate icing keeps the cake moist. The desiccated coconut protects it from drying out in the hot climate. And it’s quite a juicy generous lip-smacking treat!
The Spicer College Bakery serves a variety of healthy goodies like carrot cake, nut cake, doughnuts, samosas, soy patties, soya milk; but, for me, it’s always the yummy succulent Lamington!
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
( a melt in the mouth treat )
By
VIKRAM KARVE
In the evening I often go for a walk on Aundh Road from Bremen Chowk towards the railway line at Khadki. It’s one of the best places to walk in Pune, wide roads with plenty of greenery and foliage on both sides. And on my way back I treat myself with a Lamington at the Spicer College Bakery Shop. I delicately place the soft delicacy between my lips, press and squeeze a piece of the wonderful stuff on my tongue. I close my eyes in order to enhance the experience of supreme bliss as the Lamington melts in my mouth and the chocolatty-coconutty luscious syrupy sweetness permeates into me.
A Lamington is a delicious cube of sponge cake, dipped in melted chocolate and sugar and coated in desiccated coconut. They originated in Australia around 1898 in what later became the state of Queensland. Whilst the origin of the name for the Lamington cannot be accurately established, there are several theories. Lamingtons are most likely named after Charles Baillie, 2nd Baron Lamington, who served as Governor of Queensland from 1896 to 1901. However, the precise reasoning behind this is not known, and stories vary. According to one account, the dessert resembled the homburg hats favoured by Lord Lamington. Another tells of a banquet in Cloncurry during which the governor accidentally dropped a block of sponge cake into a dish of gravy, and then threw it over his shoulder, causing it to land in a bowl of desiccated coconut or peanut butter. A diner thought of replacing the gravy with chocolate and thus created the lamington as we know it today. Ironically, Lord Lamington was known to have hated the dessert that had been named in his honour, once referring to them as "those bloody poofy woolly biscuits".
Another theory is that they were named after Lady Lamington, the wife of the Governor.The Spicer College Bakery Lamington is my favourite – and can you imagine it costs just Eight Rupees [that’s six Lamingtons for a Dollar, for those who think in Dollars!]. The chocolate icing keeps the cake moist. The desiccated coconut protects it from drying out in the hot climate. And it’s quite a juicy generous lip-smacking treat!
The Spicer College Bakery serves a variety of healthy goodies like carrot cake, nut cake, doughnuts, samosas, soy patties, soya milk; but, for me, it’s always the yummy succulent Lamington!
VIKRAM KARVE
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Thursday, July 19, 2007
THE WALLFLOWER Parts 1,2,3,4,5
THE WALLFLOWER
By
VIKRAM KARVE
[PART – 1]
“I don’t want to marry Manisha,” I told my mother.
My mother looked as if she had been pole-axed. Suddenly there was a metamorphosis in her expression – a distant look across my shoulder followed by a smile of forced geniality.
“Manisha is coming!” my mother whispered.
I turned around quickly and saw Manisha entering the wicket-gate and walking towards us.
She wished my mother and smiled at me. “I want to come and see you off at the airport.”
“Why bother? I’ll go on my own,” I said. “The flights are quite unpredictable. They never leave on time. And how will you come back all the way?”
“You two talk here in the garden,” my mother said. “I’ll go inside and pack your things.”
“I am sorry about last night,” Manisha said, with genuine regret in her voice.
“It’s okay.” I looked at Manisha. Plump and full-faced, with small brown eyes and dusky complexion, hair drawn back into a conventional knot – there was only one adjective to describe Manisha – ‘prosaic’; yes, she looked prosaic – so commonplace, unexciting and pedestrian.
“I’ll go inside and help your mother,” Manisha said, and went inside.
‘Last night’ was the fiasco at the disco. Manisha and I - An unmitigated disaster!
“Let’s dance,” I had asked Manisha.
“No,” Manisha was firm.
“Come on. I’ll teach you,” I pleaded. “Everyone is on the floor.”
But Manisha did not budge. So we just sat there watching. Everybody was thoroughly enjoying themselves. Many of my friends and colleagues were on the floor, with their wives, fiancées and girlfriends. Among them Sanjiv and Swati.
“Who is this wallflower you’ve brought with you?” taunted Sanjiv, during a break in the music.
“My fiancée, Manisha,” I answered, trying to keep cool.
“Your fiancée? How come you’ve hooked on to such a Vern?” Swati mocked. “Come on Vijay,” she said derisively, coming close and looking directly into my eyes. “You are an Executive now, not a clerk. Don’t live in your past. Find someone better. She doesn’t belong here.”
If someone had stuck a knife into my heart it would have been easier to endure than these words. It always rankled; the fact that I had come up the hard way, promoted from the ranks.
“This is too much” I said angrily to Sanjiv.
“Cool down, Vijay,” Sanjiv said putting his hand on my shoulder. “You know Swati doesn’t mean it.”
But I knew that Swati had meant every word she uttered.
“Let’s go,” I told Manisha. “I’ve had enough.”
When we were driving home, Manisha asked innocently, “What’s a Vern?”
“Vernacular!” I answered. And at that moment there was a burst of firecrackers and rockets lit up the sky to usher in the New Year.
That night I could not sleep. I thought of my future, trying to see both halves of my future life, my career and my marriage, side by side. I realized that my career was more important to me than anything else. I had to succeed at any cost. And a key ingredient in the recipe for success was a ‘socially valuable’ wife. It mattered. It was the truth. Whether you like it or not. Swati was right. Manisha just didn’t belong to that aspect and class of society of which I was now a part. I had crossed the class barrier; but Manisha had remained where she was. And she would remain there, unwilling and unable to change.
In marriage one has to be rational. Manisha would be an encumbrance, maybe even an embarrassment. It was a mistake - my getting engaged to her. She was the girl next door, we had grown up together and everyone assumed we would be married one day. And our parents got us engaged. At that point of time I didn’t think much of it. It was only now, that my eyes had opened; I realized the enormity of the situation. I was an upwardly mobile executive now, not a mere clerk, and the equations had changed. What I needed was someone like Swati. Smart, chic and savvy. Convent educated, well groomed and accustomed to the prevalent lifestyle, a perfect hostess, an asset to my career. And most importantly she was from a well-connected family. I tired to imagine what life would have been like had I married Swati.
Sanjiv was so lucky. He was already going places. After all Swati was the daughter of the senior VP.
Suddenly I returned to the present. I could bear my mother calling me. I went inside. Manisha was helping her pack my bags, unaware of what was going on in my mind. I felt a sense of deep guilt, but then it was question of my life.
“What’s wrong with you?” my mother asked after Manisha had left.
“Why were so rude to Manisha, so distant? She loves you so much!”
“I don’t love her,” I said.
“What?” my mother asked surprised, “Is there some else?”
“No,” I said.
“I don’t understand you.”
“Manisha is not compatible anymore. She just doesn’t fit in.”
I could see that my mother was angry. Outwardly she remained calm and nonchalant; her fury was visible only in her eyes.
“Who do you think you are?” she said icily, trying to control herself. “You know Manisha from childhood, isn’t it? For the last two years you have been engaged and moving around together. And suddenly you say Manisha is not compatible?” My mother paused for a moment, and then taking my hand asked me softly, “What happened last night?”
I told her. Then we argued for over two hours and till the end I stuck to my guns. Finally my mother said, “This is going to be difficult. And relations between our families are going to be permanently strained. Think about Manisha. It will be so difficult for her to get married after the stigma of a broken engagement. Forget about last night. It’s just a small incident. Think about it again. Manisha is the ideal wife, so suitable for you.”
But I had made up my mind, so I told my mother, “If you want I’ll go and talk to her father right now and break off the engagement.”
“No,” my mother snapped. “Let your father come home. He will decide what to do.”
The doorbell rang. I opened the door. Standing outside along with my father were Manisha and her parents.
“I have fixed up your wedding with Manisha Patwardhan on the 30th of May of this year,” my father thundered peremptorily in his usual impetuous style.
“Congratulations,” echoed Manisha’s parents, Mr. and Mr. Patwardhan.
I was dumbstruck. Manisha was smiling coyly. My mother was signaling to me with her eyes not to say anything. She was probably happy at the fait accompli. I felt trapped. I excused myself and went up to my room. I locked the door. Someone knocked.
“Give me five minutes,” I said. “I’ll get ready and come down.”
“Come soon,” said Manisha from the other side of the door.
I took out my notepad and wrote a letter to Manisha:
Dear Manisha,
Forgive me, but I have discovered that I can’t marry you and I think that it is best for us to say goodbye.
Yours sincerely,
Vijay
I knew the words sounded insincere, but that was all I could write for my mind had bone blank and I wanted to get it over with as fast as possible; just one sentence to terminate our long relationship. I knew I was being cruel but I just couldn’t help it.
I sealed the letter in a postal envelope, wrote Manisha’s name and address on it and put it in my bag. I looked at my watch. It was time to leave.
Everyone came to the airport to see me off. Sanjiv and Swati had come too. They were located at Pune and I was off on a promotion to Delhi.
“I’m really very sorry about last night,” Swati apologized to us. She took Manisha’s hand and said tenderly, “Manisha, please forgive me. You are truly an ideal couple – both made for each other.”
As I walked towards the boarding area Manisha’s father Mr. Patwardhan shouted to me jovially, “Hey, Vijay. Don’t forget to come on 30th of May. The wedding muhurat is exactly at 10.35 in the morning. Everything is fixed. I have already booked the best hall in town. If you don’t turn up I’ll lose my deposit!”
I nodded to him but in my mind’s eye I smiled to myself – the “joke” was going to be on him! Then I waved everyone goodbye, went to the waiting hall, sat on a chair, opened my bag and took out the letter I had written to Manisha. I wish I had torn up the letter there and then, but some strange force stopped me. I put the envelope in my pocket and remembered my mother’s parting words: “Please Vijay. Marry Manisha. Don’t make everyone unhappy. Manisha is good girl. She’ll adjust. I’ll talk to her.”
During the flight I thought about it. I tried my utmost, but I just could not visualize Manisha as my wife in my new life any more. Till now I had done everything to make everybody happy. But what about me? It was my life after all. Time would heal wounds, abate the injury and dissipate the anger; but if I got trapped for life with Manisha, it would be an unmitigated sheer disaster.
I collected my baggage and walked towards the exit of Delhi Airport. Suddenly I spotted a red post box. I felt the envelope in my pocket. I knew I had to make the crucial decision right now. Yes, it was now or never.
To be continued…
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
THE WALLFLOWER
By
VIKRAM KARVE
[PART – 2]
[continued from Part 1]
I collected my baggage and walked towards the exit of Delhi Airport. Suddenly I spotted a red post box. I felt the envelope in my pocket. I knew I had to make the crucial decision right now. Yes, it was now or never.
I walked towards the red post box and stood in front of it, indecisive and confused. I took a deep breath, took out the envelope from my pocket and looked at it – the address, postage stamp – everything was okay.
I moved my hand to post the letter. A strange force stopped my hand in its tracks. I hesitated, and in my mind I tried to imagine the severe ramifications, the terrible consequences of what I was about to do.
At first Manisha would be delighted, even surprised, to see my handwriting on the letter. And then she would read it…! I dreaded to even think about the unimaginable hurt and distress she would feel… and then her parents… and mine…the sense of betrayal and insult…relationships built and nurtured for years would be strained, even broken, forever. And poor Manisha…everyone knew we were engaged…how tongues would wag…the stigma of broken engagement…the anguish of my betrayal of her love… she would be devastated… may even commit…
Suddenly my cell-phone rang interrupting my train of thoughts. ‘Must be Manisha monitoring me as usual,’ I thought getting irritated at her – Manisha’s suffocating familiarity and closeness seemed like manacles and I was glad I was getting away from her. I decided not to answer, but my mobile kept ringing persistently, so I looked at the display. It wasn’t Manisha, but an unknown new number.
“Hello,” I said into my cell-phone.
“Mr. Joshi?” a male voice spoke.
“Yes. Vijay Joshi here. Who is it, please?” I asked.
“Sir, we’ve come to receive you. Please come to the exit gate and look for the board with your name.”
“I’m coming,” I said and looked the letter addressed to Manisha in my hand.
No. Not now in a hurry. Providence was giving me signals to wait, reflect, and think it over, not to do something so irretrievable in such a hurry. So I put the envelope in my pocket and walked away from the post box towards the exit.
I settled down well in my new job and liked my place in Delhi. Every morning I would put the envelope in my pocket determined to post it in the post box outside my office on my way to work but something happened and I didn’t post the letter to Manisha. Meanwhile I rang up Manisha, and my mother, every evening, and made pretence that everything was okay. The stress and strain within me was steadily building up.
Every time I looked at the envelope I felt as if was holding a primed grenade in my hand. With every passing day, the 30th of May was approaching nearer and nearer. Time was running out, and I knew I would have to unburden myself of the bombshell pretty fast. So one day, during lunch break, I decided to post the fateful letter and get it over with once and for all.
As I was walking out someone from the reception called out to me, “Hey, Mr. Joshi, is Mr. Gokhale in his office?”
Gokhale was my boss, and he was out on tour, so I said, “No, he’s gone on tour. Anything I can do?”
“Sir, there’s a courier for him,” the receptionist said.
“I’ll take it and give it to him when he comes,” I said, signed the voucher and took the envelope from the courier.
The moment I looked at the envelope an electric tremor of trepidation quivered through me like a thunderbolt.
I cannot begin to describe the bewildered astonishment and shocking consternation I felt when I saw Manisha’s distinctive handwriting on the envelope. Beautiful large flowing feminine writing with her trademark star-shaped ‘t’ crossing, the huge circle dotting the ‘i’… there was no doubt about it. And of course her favorite turquoise blue ink. There was no doubt about it but I turned the envelope around hoping I was wrong, but I was right – the letter to my boss Mr. Gokhale was indeed from Manisha; she had written her name and address on the reverse, as bold as brass!
My pulse raced, my insides quivered, my brain resonated and I trembled with feverish anxiety. At first impulse I wanted to tear open the envelope and see what was inside, but I controlled myself, tried to mask my inner emotions, put on a fake smile of geniality for everyone around, gently put the letter in my pocket and began retracing my steps back to my office.
I discreetly felt the two envelopes in my suit pocket – one, my unposted letter to Manisha; and the other, much fatter, Manisha’s unopened letter to my boss Mr. Avinash Gokhale.
To be continued…
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
THE WALLFLOWER
By
VIKRAM KARVE
[Part 3]
[continued from part 2]
I locked myself in my office, sat down, calmed myself with a glass of water, took out the two envelopes and put them on the table in front of me. My unposted letter to Manisha would now have to wait – I thanked my stars that some mysterious hidden restraining force had stopped me from posting it every time I tried to.
I picked up Manisha’s envelope addressed to Avinash Gokhale. It was sheer serendipity that I happened to be at the reception when the courier arrived – otherwise I would have never known.
I looked at the envelope. The whole thing was incredulous. Why on earth should Manisha write to Avinash Gokhale? What was the connection? How did she know Gokhale? What had she written to him?
Had my simpleton mother blurted out something to her – told Manisha or her parents what I’d said – that I didn’t want to marry her? My mind went haywire with strange thoughts. Revenge! Yes, revenge. Stung by my betrayal, Manisha had somehow found out the name of my boss, from Sanjiv or Swati most probably, and was out to ruin my career – wreck vengeance on me for ditching her. Written to Avinash Gokhale what a jerk I was. These things mattered in my company. My heart skipped a beat. I felt a tremor of trepidation. I suddenly realized that I had to swiftly interrupt this pernicious line of thinking and insidious train of thoughts.
No, No! It was just not possible. No chance. Manisha was not the vindictive type. She would never do such a thing. Especially to me. She always loved me so much. And I was sure my mother would not have been so indiscreet and would have kept our conversation to herself.
But then anything is possible. I couldn’t take any chances. Dying with curiosity I desperately felt like tearing open the envelope and reading the letter. I had to get to the bottom of this mystery. It was simple. I would open the letter in the privacy of my house. Steam-open the envelope very carefully so no one would even discern. Then I would read it and accordingly decide the further course of action.
I wondered why Manisha had sent this letter so indiscreetly to the office address with her name and address written so blatantly. Was it on purpose? She could have spoken privately to Gokhale, or even e-mailed him. Why this bold as brass missive? Was it on purpose? She wanted me to know…No. No. It was too bizarre!
I had an impulse to call up Manisha then and there and get it over with once and for all, but I stopped myself. I had to know first what she had written in that letter before I could do anything.
The suspense was killing. I felt restless and uneasy. When I feel tense I go for a long walk. That’s what I did. I went for a long walk around my entire office, each department, making pretence of MBWA [Management By Walking Around]. When I returned to my office it was four, still an hour to go. The next hour was the longest hour of my life.
The moment it was five, I rushed out of my office. The moment I opened the door I ran bang into the receptionist. “Mr. Joshi, Sir. That letter for Mr. Gokhale – you want me to give it to his PA?”
“No. No. I’ll give to him personally,” I said feeling the envelope in my coat pocket.
She gave me a curious questioning look so I hastily said, “Don’t worry, I’ve locked it carefully in my drawer,” and hurriedly walked away.
I rushed home to my apartment. I put some water in a pot to boil and then carefully held the envelope over it. I had to steam it open very meticulously and delicately – no tell tale signs.
Soon I had Manisha letter in my hands.
Dear Avinash… she began. Oh … great… Dear Avinash indeed! Already on first name terms – Thank God for small mercies it wasn’t Darling Avinash , Sweetie-pie or something more mushy!
[to be continued…]
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
THE WALLFLOWER
By
VIKRAM KARVE
[Part 4]
[Continued from part 3]
Dear Avinash,
The suddenness with which you popped the question left me so dumbfounded that I am still recovering from the shock. Shock? Maybe that’s the wrong word, but the swiftness of your proposal, out of the blue, on our very first date – well I am a simple girl and it really left me dazed.
You called once. I didn’t answer. You didn’t call again. I really appreciate that. That was very gentlemanly of you.
You sent me an e-mail. Explaining your feelings. Apologizing for what you did at the spur of the moment. Said sorry for having hurt my feelings. Please don’t say sorry. You haven’t hurt my feelings at all. Maybe outwardly I didn’t show it, but in fact, inside, I felt so good, so happy, that a suave man like you found a simple ordinary looking girl like me so attractive.
Avinash, please try to understand. I also feel the same way about you. I can’t exactly describe the emotions I experienced when we were together. Is it love? I don’t know. It’s the first time it’s happened to me that I’ve felt so attracted to someone. I really feel like being with you, forever, spending the rest of our lives together. Thanks for proposing to me, Avinash – I accept.
What I want to say now I don’t want to say over the phone, or e-mail, so I am writing this letter. I am writing this because I believe that there is no place for secrets between husband and wife. Please read it carefully and destroy it. For my sake. Please. Read what I have written, think about it carefully, and I’ll wait for your reply.
You know Vijay, don’t you? Vijay Joshi. Of course you do. He works with you in Delhi. You are his boss.
In fact, I came to Sanjiv and Swati’s party in Pune just to see what Vijay’s boss looked like. Of course, I’d also come to help out Swati, but I was more interested to know how Vijay is doing in his new job in Delhi and maybe say something good about him. But the thunderbolt struck and we ended saying sweet nothings to each other. I hope Swati didn’t notice, as she seemed the busy hostess most of the time, and I haven’t told her, or anyone, about our hush-hush dinner-date the next evening in that lovely romantic garden restaurant.
Now, let’s talk about Vijay. Vijay and me were neighbors ever since I remember. Our families are very very close, deeply bonded to each other. Vijay and I are the dearest of dearest childhood friends, inseparable buddies who grew up together. Vijay has always been my most intimate confidant. I have always told him everything. Except about you – about us. It’s the first time I have hidden something from Vijay. And I’m feeling so guilty about it.
Avinash, I really love Vijay. But not in that way. Vijay is my friend, yes; buddy, yes; even soul mate, yes; but I just can’t imagine Vijay as my lover. Like I can visualize you!
Now brace your heart, Avinash!
I am engaged to Vijay. And our wedding date has been fixed on the 30th of May. Everyone knows about it.
This was fixed long back by both our families. My marriage to Vijay – a foregone conclusion and implicit happy culmination of our friendship. I too was happy. Till I met you. Now it is different.
What do we do, Avinash?
I just can’t bear to tell Vijay myself. To him it will be a terrible betrayal, a stab in his back. I can’t break his heart. He will be devastated.
I don’t have the guts to tell my parents; or his, either. They will be shattered, the hurt very painful and relationships will be strained forever.
So what do we do, Avinash?
I have an idea. It may sound bizarre, but let’s give it a try. Why not make Vijay fall in love with someone else?
Avinash, why don’t you introduce Vijay to some nice girl out there? Someone smart and chic, like Swati. I think he likes girls like that – I’ve seen him stealing canny glances at Swati when he thought I wasn’t looking. Right now he is lonely, vulnerable, and I am sure you there are many lovely, mod, savvy, attractive women out there in Delhi who are also lonely and vulnerable. You’ve just got to match them and hope for the best.
Avinash, try to understand. I want Vijay to call off our engagement. I want him to “break” my heart. It will be better that way, isn’t it? For me, for you, and for all of us.
Avinash. Am I asking too much of you? You like the idea, or is it too weird? Or can you think of anything better?
I am waiting for your reply. Please send me e-mails only. Don’t ring up or write – we have to very careful of hidden ears and curious eyes.
And remember to destroy this letter right now.
Yours lovingly,
Manisha.
[To be continued?]
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
THE WALLFLOWER
by
VIKRAM KARVE
[Part 5]
I read the letter once again, slowly, carefully, word by word, till the last line – “And remember to destroy this letter right now”.
It was unbelievable – this bolt from the blue from Manisha. I laughed to myself. I thought I was smart, but it was Manisha who was playing the double game.
I put the letter on the table, closed my eyes, and tried to think clearly. It was crazy – a classy snob like Avinash Gokhale falling for a pedestrian Plain Jane like Manisha Patwardhan! Yes, Love is blind – Love is truly blind! Or, is it?
Instinctively I picked up my cell-phone and called Manisha.
“Hi, Vijay,” Manisha said, “what’s up?”
“Just thought of you, so called to say Hi,” I said.
“How’s life out there?”
“Good. I like Delhi. You’ll like it too – when you come here.”
“Come there?”
“You’re going to come here and stay with me in Delhi after we get married, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” Manisha said smoothly – so smoothly, so slickly, so effortlessly, so glibly, without even the slightest demur or trace of dither, that, for a moment I was struck dumb.
“Hey, Vijay, what happened?” Manisha asked.
“Nothing,” I answered, “everything okay out there?”
“Oh, yes, I’d gone to your place this morning – everyone is fine.”
“Your parents?”
“My Mum and Dad are fine. Everyone is okay – just waiting for you to come. When are you coming to Pune?”
“I don’t know. There’s lots of work.”
“Come on, Vijay. Don’t tell me you can’t come for a day or two, at least on a weekend. I’m sure there’s not that much work that the heavens will fall if you are not there.”
“It’s not that – my boss here is a funny guy.”
“Funny Guy?”
“A painful killjoy called Avinash Gokhale,” I said, and listened carefully, but I couldn’t even detect even the slightest gasp or tremor in her voice as Manisha continued talking smoothly and glibly as ever, “Never mind, Vijay, you just work hard,” and then she effortlessly changed the subject to the latest happenings in Pune and started off with mushy ‘sweet nothings’ about how much she missed me.
Listening to her, for a moment, I thought the letter in front of me was a forgery, but then I knew Manisha’s handwriting too well. I was too flabbergasted to continue the conversation so I quickly said bye and kept the cell-phone on the table.
I never imagined Manisha could be so secretive, so mendacious. It was strange – how close one can be to a person and yet know nothing about her. And Avinash Gokhale? I worked with him every day, spent hours together, yet knew nothing about him, except that he was brilliant workaholic and a recluse – a most boring and private person who always kept to himself, never mixed around, never socialized or attended parties, a pain in the neck who everyone avoided and the only thing he ever talked was about work.
Made for each other – two secretive loners – Manisha Patwardhan and Avinash Gokhale.
But why was I so bothered? Good Luck to them! My problem was being solved. I had to just quietly wait and watch, do nothing, till my boss found some nice smart chic girl for me. Can anyone be luckier? Life was going to be exciting!
I carefully put Manisha’s letter back into the envelope and resealed it meticulously with a glue-stick. No one could have suspected that it had been steamed open. Now all I had to do was to quietly put it in the mail folder of Avinash Gokhale before he reached office on Monday morning.
Suddenly, I was jolted out of my thoughts by the ring-tone of my cell-phone.
“Hello!” I said.
“Is that Mr. Joshi?” a sweet mellifluous feminine voice said.
“Yes. Vijay Joshi here,” I said.
“I’m Vibha speaking.”
“Vibha?” I asked surprised. I didn’t know any Vibha.
“Oh I’m sorry Mr. Joshi, we haven’t met. I’m Vibha Gokhale. Avinash Gokhale’s wife.”
[ to be continued ]
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
By
VIKRAM KARVE
[PART – 1]
“I don’t want to marry Manisha,” I told my mother.
My mother looked as if she had been pole-axed. Suddenly there was a metamorphosis in her expression – a distant look across my shoulder followed by a smile of forced geniality.
“Manisha is coming!” my mother whispered.
I turned around quickly and saw Manisha entering the wicket-gate and walking towards us.
She wished my mother and smiled at me. “I want to come and see you off at the airport.”
“Why bother? I’ll go on my own,” I said. “The flights are quite unpredictable. They never leave on time. And how will you come back all the way?”
“You two talk here in the garden,” my mother said. “I’ll go inside and pack your things.”
“I am sorry about last night,” Manisha said, with genuine regret in her voice.
“It’s okay.” I looked at Manisha. Plump and full-faced, with small brown eyes and dusky complexion, hair drawn back into a conventional knot – there was only one adjective to describe Manisha – ‘prosaic’; yes, she looked prosaic – so commonplace, unexciting and pedestrian.
“I’ll go inside and help your mother,” Manisha said, and went inside.
‘Last night’ was the fiasco at the disco. Manisha and I - An unmitigated disaster!
“Let’s dance,” I had asked Manisha.
“No,” Manisha was firm.
“Come on. I’ll teach you,” I pleaded. “Everyone is on the floor.”
But Manisha did not budge. So we just sat there watching. Everybody was thoroughly enjoying themselves. Many of my friends and colleagues were on the floor, with their wives, fiancées and girlfriends. Among them Sanjiv and Swati.
“Who is this wallflower you’ve brought with you?” taunted Sanjiv, during a break in the music.
“My fiancée, Manisha,” I answered, trying to keep cool.
“Your fiancée? How come you’ve hooked on to such a Vern?” Swati mocked. “Come on Vijay,” she said derisively, coming close and looking directly into my eyes. “You are an Executive now, not a clerk. Don’t live in your past. Find someone better. She doesn’t belong here.”
If someone had stuck a knife into my heart it would have been easier to endure than these words. It always rankled; the fact that I had come up the hard way, promoted from the ranks.
“This is too much” I said angrily to Sanjiv.
“Cool down, Vijay,” Sanjiv said putting his hand on my shoulder. “You know Swati doesn’t mean it.”
But I knew that Swati had meant every word she uttered.
“Let’s go,” I told Manisha. “I’ve had enough.”
When we were driving home, Manisha asked innocently, “What’s a Vern?”
“Vernacular!” I answered. And at that moment there was a burst of firecrackers and rockets lit up the sky to usher in the New Year.
That night I could not sleep. I thought of my future, trying to see both halves of my future life, my career and my marriage, side by side. I realized that my career was more important to me than anything else. I had to succeed at any cost. And a key ingredient in the recipe for success was a ‘socially valuable’ wife. It mattered. It was the truth. Whether you like it or not. Swati was right. Manisha just didn’t belong to that aspect and class of society of which I was now a part. I had crossed the class barrier; but Manisha had remained where she was. And she would remain there, unwilling and unable to change.
In marriage one has to be rational. Manisha would be an encumbrance, maybe even an embarrassment. It was a mistake - my getting engaged to her. She was the girl next door, we had grown up together and everyone assumed we would be married one day. And our parents got us engaged. At that point of time I didn’t think much of it. It was only now, that my eyes had opened; I realized the enormity of the situation. I was an upwardly mobile executive now, not a mere clerk, and the equations had changed. What I needed was someone like Swati. Smart, chic and savvy. Convent educated, well groomed and accustomed to the prevalent lifestyle, a perfect hostess, an asset to my career. And most importantly she was from a well-connected family. I tired to imagine what life would have been like had I married Swati.
Sanjiv was so lucky. He was already going places. After all Swati was the daughter of the senior VP.
Suddenly I returned to the present. I could bear my mother calling me. I went inside. Manisha was helping her pack my bags, unaware of what was going on in my mind. I felt a sense of deep guilt, but then it was question of my life.
“What’s wrong with you?” my mother asked after Manisha had left.
“Why were so rude to Manisha, so distant? She loves you so much!”
“I don’t love her,” I said.
“What?” my mother asked surprised, “Is there some else?”
“No,” I said.
“I don’t understand you.”
“Manisha is not compatible anymore. She just doesn’t fit in.”
I could see that my mother was angry. Outwardly she remained calm and nonchalant; her fury was visible only in her eyes.
“Who do you think you are?” she said icily, trying to control herself. “You know Manisha from childhood, isn’t it? For the last two years you have been engaged and moving around together. And suddenly you say Manisha is not compatible?” My mother paused for a moment, and then taking my hand asked me softly, “What happened last night?”
I told her. Then we argued for over two hours and till the end I stuck to my guns. Finally my mother said, “This is going to be difficult. And relations between our families are going to be permanently strained. Think about Manisha. It will be so difficult for her to get married after the stigma of a broken engagement. Forget about last night. It’s just a small incident. Think about it again. Manisha is the ideal wife, so suitable for you.”
But I had made up my mind, so I told my mother, “If you want I’ll go and talk to her father right now and break off the engagement.”
“No,” my mother snapped. “Let your father come home. He will decide what to do.”
The doorbell rang. I opened the door. Standing outside along with my father were Manisha and her parents.
“I have fixed up your wedding with Manisha Patwardhan on the 30th of May of this year,” my father thundered peremptorily in his usual impetuous style.
“Congratulations,” echoed Manisha’s parents, Mr. and Mr. Patwardhan.
I was dumbstruck. Manisha was smiling coyly. My mother was signaling to me with her eyes not to say anything. She was probably happy at the fait accompli. I felt trapped. I excused myself and went up to my room. I locked the door. Someone knocked.
“Give me five minutes,” I said. “I’ll get ready and come down.”
“Come soon,” said Manisha from the other side of the door.
I took out my notepad and wrote a letter to Manisha:
Dear Manisha,
Forgive me, but I have discovered that I can’t marry you and I think that it is best for us to say goodbye.
Yours sincerely,
Vijay
I knew the words sounded insincere, but that was all I could write for my mind had bone blank and I wanted to get it over with as fast as possible; just one sentence to terminate our long relationship. I knew I was being cruel but I just couldn’t help it.
I sealed the letter in a postal envelope, wrote Manisha’s name and address on it and put it in my bag. I looked at my watch. It was time to leave.
Everyone came to the airport to see me off. Sanjiv and Swati had come too. They were located at Pune and I was off on a promotion to Delhi.
“I’m really very sorry about last night,” Swati apologized to us. She took Manisha’s hand and said tenderly, “Manisha, please forgive me. You are truly an ideal couple – both made for each other.”
As I walked towards the boarding area Manisha’s father Mr. Patwardhan shouted to me jovially, “Hey, Vijay. Don’t forget to come on 30th of May. The wedding muhurat is exactly at 10.35 in the morning. Everything is fixed. I have already booked the best hall in town. If you don’t turn up I’ll lose my deposit!”
I nodded to him but in my mind’s eye I smiled to myself – the “joke” was going to be on him! Then I waved everyone goodbye, went to the waiting hall, sat on a chair, opened my bag and took out the letter I had written to Manisha. I wish I had torn up the letter there and then, but some strange force stopped me. I put the envelope in my pocket and remembered my mother’s parting words: “Please Vijay. Marry Manisha. Don’t make everyone unhappy. Manisha is good girl. She’ll adjust. I’ll talk to her.”
During the flight I thought about it. I tried my utmost, but I just could not visualize Manisha as my wife in my new life any more. Till now I had done everything to make everybody happy. But what about me? It was my life after all. Time would heal wounds, abate the injury and dissipate the anger; but if I got trapped for life with Manisha, it would be an unmitigated sheer disaster.
I collected my baggage and walked towards the exit of Delhi Airport. Suddenly I spotted a red post box. I felt the envelope in my pocket. I knew I had to make the crucial decision right now. Yes, it was now or never.
To be continued…
VIKRAM KARVE
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
THE WALLFLOWER
By
VIKRAM KARVE
[PART – 2]
[continued from Part 1]
I collected my baggage and walked towards the exit of Delhi Airport. Suddenly I spotted a red post box. I felt the envelope in my pocket. I knew I had to make the crucial decision right now. Yes, it was now or never.
I walked towards the red post box and stood in front of it, indecisive and confused. I took a deep breath, took out the envelope from my pocket and looked at it – the address, postage stamp – everything was okay.
I moved my hand to post the letter. A strange force stopped my hand in its tracks. I hesitated, and in my mind I tried to imagine the severe ramifications, the terrible consequences of what I was about to do.
At first Manisha would be delighted, even surprised, to see my handwriting on the letter. And then she would read it…! I dreaded to even think about the unimaginable hurt and distress she would feel… and then her parents… and mine…the sense of betrayal and insult…relationships built and nurtured for years would be strained, even broken, forever. And poor Manisha…everyone knew we were engaged…how tongues would wag…the stigma of broken engagement…the anguish of my betrayal of her love… she would be devastated… may even commit…
Suddenly my cell-phone rang interrupting my train of thoughts. ‘Must be Manisha monitoring me as usual,’ I thought getting irritated at her – Manisha’s suffocating familiarity and closeness seemed like manacles and I was glad I was getting away from her. I decided not to answer, but my mobile kept ringing persistently, so I looked at the display. It wasn’t Manisha, but an unknown new number.
“Hello,” I said into my cell-phone.
“Mr. Joshi?” a male voice spoke.
“Yes. Vijay Joshi here. Who is it, please?” I asked.
“Sir, we’ve come to receive you. Please come to the exit gate and look for the board with your name.”
“I’m coming,” I said and looked the letter addressed to Manisha in my hand.
No. Not now in a hurry. Providence was giving me signals to wait, reflect, and think it over, not to do something so irretrievable in such a hurry. So I put the envelope in my pocket and walked away from the post box towards the exit.
I settled down well in my new job and liked my place in Delhi. Every morning I would put the envelope in my pocket determined to post it in the post box outside my office on my way to work but something happened and I didn’t post the letter to Manisha. Meanwhile I rang up Manisha, and my mother, every evening, and made pretence that everything was okay. The stress and strain within me was steadily building up.
Every time I looked at the envelope I felt as if was holding a primed grenade in my hand. With every passing day, the 30th of May was approaching nearer and nearer. Time was running out, and I knew I would have to unburden myself of the bombshell pretty fast. So one day, during lunch break, I decided to post the fateful letter and get it over with once and for all.
As I was walking out someone from the reception called out to me, “Hey, Mr. Joshi, is Mr. Gokhale in his office?”
Gokhale was my boss, and he was out on tour, so I said, “No, he’s gone on tour. Anything I can do?”
“Sir, there’s a courier for him,” the receptionist said.
“I’ll take it and give it to him when he comes,” I said, signed the voucher and took the envelope from the courier.
The moment I looked at the envelope an electric tremor of trepidation quivered through me like a thunderbolt.
I cannot begin to describe the bewildered astonishment and shocking consternation I felt when I saw Manisha’s distinctive handwriting on the envelope. Beautiful large flowing feminine writing with her trademark star-shaped ‘t’ crossing, the huge circle dotting the ‘i’… there was no doubt about it. And of course her favorite turquoise blue ink. There was no doubt about it but I turned the envelope around hoping I was wrong, but I was right – the letter to my boss Mr. Gokhale was indeed from Manisha; she had written her name and address on the reverse, as bold as brass!
My pulse raced, my insides quivered, my brain resonated and I trembled with feverish anxiety. At first impulse I wanted to tear open the envelope and see what was inside, but I controlled myself, tried to mask my inner emotions, put on a fake smile of geniality for everyone around, gently put the letter in my pocket and began retracing my steps back to my office.
I discreetly felt the two envelopes in my suit pocket – one, my unposted letter to Manisha; and the other, much fatter, Manisha’s unopened letter to my boss Mr. Avinash Gokhale.
To be continued…
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
THE WALLFLOWER
By
VIKRAM KARVE
[Part 3]
[continued from part 2]
I locked myself in my office, sat down, calmed myself with a glass of water, took out the two envelopes and put them on the table in front of me. My unposted letter to Manisha would now have to wait – I thanked my stars that some mysterious hidden restraining force had stopped me from posting it every time I tried to.
I picked up Manisha’s envelope addressed to Avinash Gokhale. It was sheer serendipity that I happened to be at the reception when the courier arrived – otherwise I would have never known.
I looked at the envelope. The whole thing was incredulous. Why on earth should Manisha write to Avinash Gokhale? What was the connection? How did she know Gokhale? What had she written to him?
Had my simpleton mother blurted out something to her – told Manisha or her parents what I’d said – that I didn’t want to marry her? My mind went haywire with strange thoughts. Revenge! Yes, revenge. Stung by my betrayal, Manisha had somehow found out the name of my boss, from Sanjiv or Swati most probably, and was out to ruin my career – wreck vengeance on me for ditching her. Written to Avinash Gokhale what a jerk I was. These things mattered in my company. My heart skipped a beat. I felt a tremor of trepidation. I suddenly realized that I had to swiftly interrupt this pernicious line of thinking and insidious train of thoughts.
No, No! It was just not possible. No chance. Manisha was not the vindictive type. She would never do such a thing. Especially to me. She always loved me so much. And I was sure my mother would not have been so indiscreet and would have kept our conversation to herself.
But then anything is possible. I couldn’t take any chances. Dying with curiosity I desperately felt like tearing open the envelope and reading the letter. I had to get to the bottom of this mystery. It was simple. I would open the letter in the privacy of my house. Steam-open the envelope very carefully so no one would even discern. Then I would read it and accordingly decide the further course of action.
I wondered why Manisha had sent this letter so indiscreetly to the office address with her name and address written so blatantly. Was it on purpose? She could have spoken privately to Gokhale, or even e-mailed him. Why this bold as brass missive? Was it on purpose? She wanted me to know…No. No. It was too bizarre!
I had an impulse to call up Manisha then and there and get it over with once and for all, but I stopped myself. I had to know first what she had written in that letter before I could do anything.
The suspense was killing. I felt restless and uneasy. When I feel tense I go for a long walk. That’s what I did. I went for a long walk around my entire office, each department, making pretence of MBWA [Management By Walking Around]. When I returned to my office it was four, still an hour to go. The next hour was the longest hour of my life.
The moment it was five, I rushed out of my office. The moment I opened the door I ran bang into the receptionist. “Mr. Joshi, Sir. That letter for Mr. Gokhale – you want me to give it to his PA?”
“No. No. I’ll give to him personally,” I said feeling the envelope in my coat pocket.
She gave me a curious questioning look so I hastily said, “Don’t worry, I’ve locked it carefully in my drawer,” and hurriedly walked away.
I rushed home to my apartment. I put some water in a pot to boil and then carefully held the envelope over it. I had to steam it open very meticulously and delicately – no tell tale signs.
Soon I had Manisha letter in my hands.
Dear Avinash… she began. Oh … great… Dear Avinash indeed! Already on first name terms – Thank God for small mercies it wasn’t Darling Avinash , Sweetie-pie or something more mushy!
[to be continued…]
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
THE WALLFLOWER
By
VIKRAM KARVE
[Part 4]
[Continued from part 3]
Dear Avinash,
The suddenness with which you popped the question left me so dumbfounded that I am still recovering from the shock. Shock? Maybe that’s the wrong word, but the swiftness of your proposal, out of the blue, on our very first date – well I am a simple girl and it really left me dazed.
You called once. I didn’t answer. You didn’t call again. I really appreciate that. That was very gentlemanly of you.
You sent me an e-mail. Explaining your feelings. Apologizing for what you did at the spur of the moment. Said sorry for having hurt my feelings. Please don’t say sorry. You haven’t hurt my feelings at all. Maybe outwardly I didn’t show it, but in fact, inside, I felt so good, so happy, that a suave man like you found a simple ordinary looking girl like me so attractive.
Avinash, please try to understand. I also feel the same way about you. I can’t exactly describe the emotions I experienced when we were together. Is it love? I don’t know. It’s the first time it’s happened to me that I’ve felt so attracted to someone. I really feel like being with you, forever, spending the rest of our lives together. Thanks for proposing to me, Avinash – I accept.
What I want to say now I don’t want to say over the phone, or e-mail, so I am writing this letter. I am writing this because I believe that there is no place for secrets between husband and wife. Please read it carefully and destroy it. For my sake. Please. Read what I have written, think about it carefully, and I’ll wait for your reply.
You know Vijay, don’t you? Vijay Joshi. Of course you do. He works with you in Delhi. You are his boss.
In fact, I came to Sanjiv and Swati’s party in Pune just to see what Vijay’s boss looked like. Of course, I’d also come to help out Swati, but I was more interested to know how Vijay is doing in his new job in Delhi and maybe say something good about him. But the thunderbolt struck and we ended saying sweet nothings to each other. I hope Swati didn’t notice, as she seemed the busy hostess most of the time, and I haven’t told her, or anyone, about our hush-hush dinner-date the next evening in that lovely romantic garden restaurant.
Now, let’s talk about Vijay. Vijay and me were neighbors ever since I remember. Our families are very very close, deeply bonded to each other. Vijay and I are the dearest of dearest childhood friends, inseparable buddies who grew up together. Vijay has always been my most intimate confidant. I have always told him everything. Except about you – about us. It’s the first time I have hidden something from Vijay. And I’m feeling so guilty about it.
Avinash, I really love Vijay. But not in that way. Vijay is my friend, yes; buddy, yes; even soul mate, yes; but I just can’t imagine Vijay as my lover. Like I can visualize you!
Now brace your heart, Avinash!
I am engaged to Vijay. And our wedding date has been fixed on the 30th of May. Everyone knows about it.
This was fixed long back by both our families. My marriage to Vijay – a foregone conclusion and implicit happy culmination of our friendship. I too was happy. Till I met you. Now it is different.
What do we do, Avinash?
I just can’t bear to tell Vijay myself. To him it will be a terrible betrayal, a stab in his back. I can’t break his heart. He will be devastated.
I don’t have the guts to tell my parents; or his, either. They will be shattered, the hurt very painful and relationships will be strained forever.
So what do we do, Avinash?
I have an idea. It may sound bizarre, but let’s give it a try. Why not make Vijay fall in love with someone else?
Avinash, why don’t you introduce Vijay to some nice girl out there? Someone smart and chic, like Swati. I think he likes girls like that – I’ve seen him stealing canny glances at Swati when he thought I wasn’t looking. Right now he is lonely, vulnerable, and I am sure you there are many lovely, mod, savvy, attractive women out there in Delhi who are also lonely and vulnerable. You’ve just got to match them and hope for the best.
Avinash, try to understand. I want Vijay to call off our engagement. I want him to “break” my heart. It will be better that way, isn’t it? For me, for you, and for all of us.
Avinash. Am I asking too much of you? You like the idea, or is it too weird? Or can you think of anything better?
I am waiting for your reply. Please send me e-mails only. Don’t ring up or write – we have to very careful of hidden ears and curious eyes.
And remember to destroy this letter right now.
Yours lovingly,
Manisha.
[To be continued?]
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
THE WALLFLOWER
by
VIKRAM KARVE
[Part 5]
I read the letter once again, slowly, carefully, word by word, till the last line – “And remember to destroy this letter right now”.
It was unbelievable – this bolt from the blue from Manisha. I laughed to myself. I thought I was smart, but it was Manisha who was playing the double game.
I put the letter on the table, closed my eyes, and tried to think clearly. It was crazy – a classy snob like Avinash Gokhale falling for a pedestrian Plain Jane like Manisha Patwardhan! Yes, Love is blind – Love is truly blind! Or, is it?
Instinctively I picked up my cell-phone and called Manisha.
“Hi, Vijay,” Manisha said, “what’s up?”
“Just thought of you, so called to say Hi,” I said.
“How’s life out there?”
“Good. I like Delhi. You’ll like it too – when you come here.”
“Come there?”
“You’re going to come here and stay with me in Delhi after we get married, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” Manisha said smoothly – so smoothly, so slickly, so effortlessly, so glibly, without even the slightest demur or trace of dither, that, for a moment I was struck dumb.
“Hey, Vijay, what happened?” Manisha asked.
“Nothing,” I answered, “everything okay out there?”
“Oh, yes, I’d gone to your place this morning – everyone is fine.”
“Your parents?”
“My Mum and Dad are fine. Everyone is okay – just waiting for you to come. When are you coming to Pune?”
“I don’t know. There’s lots of work.”
“Come on, Vijay. Don’t tell me you can’t come for a day or two, at least on a weekend. I’m sure there’s not that much work that the heavens will fall if you are not there.”
“It’s not that – my boss here is a funny guy.”
“Funny Guy?”
“A painful killjoy called Avinash Gokhale,” I said, and listened carefully, but I couldn’t even detect even the slightest gasp or tremor in her voice as Manisha continued talking smoothly and glibly as ever, “Never mind, Vijay, you just work hard,” and then she effortlessly changed the subject to the latest happenings in Pune and started off with mushy ‘sweet nothings’ about how much she missed me.
Listening to her, for a moment, I thought the letter in front of me was a forgery, but then I knew Manisha’s handwriting too well. I was too flabbergasted to continue the conversation so I quickly said bye and kept the cell-phone on the table.
I never imagined Manisha could be so secretive, so mendacious. It was strange – how close one can be to a person and yet know nothing about her. And Avinash Gokhale? I worked with him every day, spent hours together, yet knew nothing about him, except that he was brilliant workaholic and a recluse – a most boring and private person who always kept to himself, never mixed around, never socialized or attended parties, a pain in the neck who everyone avoided and the only thing he ever talked was about work.
Made for each other – two secretive loners – Manisha Patwardhan and Avinash Gokhale.
But why was I so bothered? Good Luck to them! My problem was being solved. I had to just quietly wait and watch, do nothing, till my boss found some nice smart chic girl for me. Can anyone be luckier? Life was going to be exciting!
I carefully put Manisha’s letter back into the envelope and resealed it meticulously with a glue-stick. No one could have suspected that it had been steamed open. Now all I had to do was to quietly put it in the mail folder of Avinash Gokhale before he reached office on Monday morning.
Suddenly, I was jolted out of my thoughts by the ring-tone of my cell-phone.
“Hello!” I said.
“Is that Mr. Joshi?” a sweet mellifluous feminine voice said.
“Yes. Vijay Joshi here,” I said.
“I’m Vibha speaking.”
“Vibha?” I asked surprised. I didn’t know any Vibha.
“Oh I’m sorry Mr. Joshi, we haven’t met. I’m Vibha Gokhale. Avinash Gokhale’s wife.”
[ to be continued ]
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright 2007 Vikram Karve
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://www.ryze.com/go/karve
vikramkarve@sify.com
vikramkarve@hotmail.com
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