DEAD END – A Fiction Short Story

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: DEAD END – A Real Estate Crime Story.

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Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve.

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From Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve – THE GIRL WHO DUMPED ME – A Love Story

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: THE GIRL WHO DUMPED ME – A Love Story.

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Rest in Peace – RIP.

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: Rest in Peace – RIP..

Click the link above and REST IN PEACE

BEST OF BOTH WORLDS – A Story of Non Resident Indian (NRI) Diaspora

BEST OF BOTH WORLDS
A Short Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE

I have noticed one thing. In the colony where I live in Pune almost everyone’s children have migrated to the USA to realize the American Dream (That’s why Computer Science, Software Engineering and IT is so popular – it is the easiest way to go abroad). But one thing is very funny about this Indian (Puneri) diaspora. In their professional lives and careers they quickly adopt “modern” western American values but in their personal lives they still cling on to traditional Indian values. This story explores this dichotomy…

A middle aged woman watches the sun set from the balcony of her tenth floor flat of one of those ubiquitous residential “townships” rapidly sprawling and proliferating around the once remote suburb of Aundh on the outskirts of the once beautiful and picturesque city of Pune in western India.

The doorbell rings. It’s her husband back home from work.

He’s tired and aching all over after the long bone-rattling, back-breaking and lung-choking commute on the terrible roads and in the polluted atmosphere.

“Good news,” his wife says exuberantly, giving him his customary cup of tea.

“What?” the husband asks nonchalantly, carefully pouring the precise amount of tea from the cup into the saucer and lifting the saucer to his lips to enjoy his tea in his usual habitual manner.

“Our daughter Nalini is pregnant,” the wife exults.

“At long last – I thought she didn’t have time for mundane things like procreation –  I am so glad she found time from her busy schedule,” the husband comments acerbically and noisily sips his tea in his customary acerbic style.

“Don’t be sarcastic. She’s a career woman. Aren’t you happy…?”

“Of course I’m happy. I’m 56 now – it’s high time I became a grandfather.”

“I’ll have to go…”

“Where…?”

“For her delivery.”

“To Seattle…?”

“Yes. Her due date is sometime in December. I better go as early as possible, maybe in October. Poor thing, it’s her first child. You better get the visas and all ready well in time. Nalini wants me to stay for at least three-four months after her delivery.”

“Three-four months after her delivery…? So you’ll be away for more than six months…?”

“Yes. I’m her mother and I have to be there to help her. Poor thing. It’s her first delivery. And that too in America… poor thing…”

“Poor thing…? Who asked her to go there…? And what about me…?”

“You also come and help out.”

“I won’t get six months’ leave.”

“Come for a month. To see the baby. In December or January…”

“I’ll see. But I don’t like it there. It’s too boring. And in December it will be freezing cold.”

“Then stay here.”

“I wish we hadn’t shifted from Sadashiv Peth.”

“Why…? Isn’t this lovely apartment better than those two horrible rented rooms we had…? And it’s all thanks to Nalini.”

“I know… I know… Don’t rub it in. But sometimes I wish we hadn’t pushed her into Computers and IT. We should have let her study arts, history, literature – whatever she wanted to.”

“And it would have been difficult to find a decent boy for her and she would be languishing like an ordinary housewife with no future… slogging away throughout her life like me.”

“And we would be still staying in the heart of the city and not in the wilderness out here… and you wouldn’t have to go all the way to America for her delivery…!”

“Don’t change the topic….” the wife says.

“I am not changing the topic,” says the husband firmly. “You are not going for Nalini’s delivery to America. Let them, she and her husband, manage on her own.”

“But why shouldn’t I go…? She is sending the ticket.”

“It’s not a question of money. The fact is I don’t want to stay all alone at this age. It is difficult. And here, in this godforsaken township full of snobs, I don’t even have any friends.”

“Try to understand. I have to be there. It’s her first delivery.”

“Tell me one thing.”

“What…?”

“Don’t the women out there have babies…?”

“Yes. So…?”

“And do they always have their mothers around pampering them during their pregnancies and deliveries…? And then mollycoddling their babies for the next few months, maybe even a year…?”

“I don’t know,” she said evading an answer, “for them it’s different.”

“Different…?”

“Our girls are najuk.”

“Najuk…?”

“Delicate…. fragile.”

“Nonsense. They are as tough as any one else. It’s all in the mind. It’s only our mindset that’s different.”

“What do you mean…?”

“Thousands of women who have migrated from all over the world are delivering babies out there every day, but it’s only our girls who can’t do without their mothers around, is it…?”

“Don’t argue with me. It’s our culture… our tradition. A daughter’s first delivery is her mother’s responsibility.”

“Culture…? Tradition…? What nonsense…? It’s not culture… it’s attitude…! Our people may have physically migrated to the modern world, but their mental make-up hasn’t changed, isn’t it…?”

“Please stop your lecturing. I’m fed up of hearing…” the wife pleads.

The husband continues as if he hasn’t heard her: “What they require is attitudinal change and to stop their double standards. Nonsense… Nobody forced them to go to America… They went there on their own and it’s high time they adopt the American way of life instead of clinging on to roots and values they themselves have cast off…”

“Please. Please. Please. Enough… I beg of you. Don’t argue. Just let me go.”

“No. You can’t go. I can’t stay alone for six months. Why should I…?”

“Try to understand. I’ve told you a hundred times. It’s our only daughter’s first delivery. I have to be there.”

“Okay. Tell her to come here.”

“Here…?”

“Yes. Here. To Pune. We’ll do her delivery right here in Pune. We’ll go to the best maternity hospital and then you can keep her here as long as you want. She’ll be comfortable, the weather will be good and you can pamper your darling daughter and her baby to your heart’s content.”

“No.”

“What do you mean ‘No’…? You went to your mother’s place for your deliveries isn’t it…? And you came back after the babies were more than three months old.”

“That was different. I wasn’t working.”

“Oh. It’s about her job is it…? I’m sure they have maternity leave out there. She can take a break. Come here to India. Have her baby. And if she wants to go back early we’ll look after the kid for a couple of months and then I’ll take leave and we’ll both go and drop the baby there.”

The wife says nothing.

“Give me the phone. I’ll ring her up and tell her to come here as early as possible. I’ll convince her she will be more comfortable here,” the husband says.

“I’ve already spoken to her and tried to convince her exactly what you suggested,” the wife says.

“And…?”

“She wants the baby to be born there. It’s something about citizenship.”

“So that’s the point…” the husband says, “She wants the best of both worlds, isn’t it…?”

VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2011
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Did you like this story?
This is a story from my recently published anthology of Short Fiction COCKTAIL and I am sure you will like all the 27 stories in COCKTAIL
To order your COCKTAIL please click any of the links below:
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COCKTAIL ebook
If you prefer reading ebooks on Kindle or your ebook reader, please order Cocktail E-book by clicking the links below:
AMAZON
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005MGERZ6
SMASHWORDS
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/87925

Foodie Book:  Appetite for a Stroll
If your are a Foodie you will like my book of Food Adventures APPETITE FOR A STROLL. Do order a copy from FLIPKART:
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About Vikram Karve

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

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

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve The Efficacy of Marriage Counselling in the Alleviation of Marital Discord

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve.

 

The Efficacy of Marriage Counselling in the Alleviation of Marital Discord

THE EFFICACY OF MARRIAGE COUNSELLING IN THE ALLEVIATION OF MARITAL DISCORD
Fiction Short Story
By

VIKRAM KARVE

From my Creative Writing Archives:

Short Fiction – A Story of changing relationships

“Your relationship has become so demoralized by distrust that you two better break up rather than try to patch up.”

“What?”

“Yes. It’s better you split instead of living in perpetual suspicion like this. Why live a lie?”

“How can you say this? You are a marriage counsellor … you are supposed to save marriages, not break them.”

“But then what can I do if you don’t change your attitude?” I said in desperation, “you have to learn to trust your wife … just stop being jealous, suspicious, possessive. Mutual trust is important in a marriage, especially a long distance marriage like yours.”

I looked at the man sitting in front of me.

He was incredibly handsome; mid thirties, maybe forty, well groomed, sharp features accentuated by a smart neatly trimmed beard, clean brown eyes, he looked strong and confident, and his outward appearance betrayed no sign of what was going on inside him.

He looked at me longingly, in a lingering sort of way that women secretly want men to look at them.

I blushed, felt good, but quickly composed myself.

In such vulnerable situations anything could happen and I had to be careful, so I said to him in a firm dispassionate tone, “I think you better go now. It’s time for your flight.”

“It’s delayed.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. I’m the pilot – the commander of the aircraft. I’ve to report after an hour.”

“I’ll leave? It’s almost check-in time.”

“No! No! Please stay. There’s still two hours for your flight toLondon . I’ll get you checked-in. There’s something I want to tell you,” he pleaded, “I’ll order some more coffee.”

The airport restaurant was deserted at this late hour and wore a dark, eerie look, with just a few people huddled in muted whispers.

“I want to thank you for giving me this special appointment – agreeing to meet me here at such short notice,” he said.

“It’s okay. It was quite convenient for both of us, enroute catching our flights. A nice quiet discreet place, this airport restaurant.”

He paused for a moment, then spoke guiltily, “I did something terrible today.”

“What?”

“I stole my wife’s cell-phone.”

“Stole?”

“Yes.”

“You stole your wife’s mobile?”

“Yes. Just before I left. I took it from her purse. She was fast asleep.”

“This is too much! Stealing your wife’s mobile. That was the most despicable thing to do. I don’t think we should talk any more. You need some serious help,” I said, gulped down my coffee and started to get up.

“No! No! Please listen. It’s those tell-tale SMS messages!”

“SMS messages?”

“From ‘Teddy Bear’.”

“Teddy Bear?”

“Someone she knows. ‘Teddy Bear’. She’s saved his number. She keeps getting these SMSs, which she erases immediately.

“This ‘Teddy Bear’ SMSs your wife?”

“Yes. I think they are having a good time right behind my back the moment I take off on a flight. This ‘Teddy Bear’ and my wife. This evening when she was bathing while I was getting ready to leave for the airport, her cell-phone was lying on the bed, an SMS came from ‘Teddy Bear’ : “I am yearning for you. SPST.”

“SPST? What’s that?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I called the number. A male voice said: ‘Hi Sugar!’ Just imagine, he calls her ‘Sugar’. I hung up in disgust immediately. Then during dinner she kept getting calls and SMSs – must be the same chap: ‘Teddy Bear’.”

“Your wife spoke to him?”

“No. She looked at the number and cut it off. Four or five times. Then she switched her mobile to silent and put in her purse.”

“You asked her who it was?”

“No.”

“You should have. It may have been a colleague, a friend. That’s your problem – you keep imagining things and have stopped communicating with her. Ask her next time and I’m sure everything will clear up.”

“No! No! I am sure she is having an affair with this ‘Teddy Bear’ chap. Had it not been for the last minute delay in my flight, I wouldn’t have been home at that time.” he said. And then suddenly he broke down, tears pouring down his cheeks, his voice uncontrollable, “The moment I take off, she starts cheating on me.”

It was a bizarre sight. A tough looking man totally shattered, weeping inconsolably.

“Please,” I said, “control yourself. And you better not fly in this state.”

“I think you’re right,” he said recovering his composure, “I’m in no mood to fly.”

He took out a cell-phone from his shirt pocket, dialled the standby pilot and a few other numbers and told them he was unwell and was going off the roster.

He kept the mobile phone on the table.

“Your wife’s cell-phone?” I asked pointing to the sleek mobile phone he had kept on the table.

“Yes.”

“She’ll be missing it.”

“No. She’ll be fast asleep. I’ll go back and put it in her purse.”

We sat for some time in silence. It appeared he was in a trance, a vacuous look in his eyes. Years of counselling had taught me that in such moments it was best to say nothing. So I just picked up my cup and sipped what remained of my coffee.

Suddenly he got up and said, “I think I’ll go home,” and he quickly turned and walked away.

It was only after he had gone, as I kept my coffee cup back on the table, that I noticed that he had forgotten the cell-phone on the table, his unfaithful wife’s cell-phone.

An idea struck me.

At first I was a bit hesitant; then curiosity took charge of me and I picked it the mobile phone.

Hurriedly I clicked on ‘names’, pressed ‘T’, quickly found‘Teddy Bear’ and pressed the call button.

A few rings and I instantly recognized my husband’s baritone voice at the other end, “Hey Sugar, where are you? Why aren’t you answering? Did you get my SMS  –  ‘SPST’  –  ‘Same Place Same Time’. Why did you give me a blank call?…..”

I couldn’t believe this. My dear own husband – ‘Teddy Bear’. Right under my nose. It was unimaginable, incredulous.

I felt shattered. My very own world came tumbling down like a pack of cards.

I cannot begin to describe the emotions that overwhelmed me at that moment, but I’ll tell you what I did.

I put the cell-phone in my purse, walked briskly to the check-in counter without looking back, quickly checked in, and boarded the flight; and, Dear Reader, as you read this, at this very moment, I am on my way to London to present my research paper on ‘ The efficacy of marriage counselling in the alleviation of marital discord ’ at the International Conference of Counsellors.

And till I return, let everyone here stew in suspense.

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2011
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

VIKRAM KARVE educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale, and Bishop’s School Pune, is an Electronics and Communications Engineer by profession, a Human Resource Manager and Trainer by occupation, a Teacher by vocation, a Creative Writer by inclination and a Foodie by passion. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and creative non-fiction articles in magazines and journals for many years before the advent of blogging. His delicious foodie blogs have been compiled in a book “Appetite for a Stroll”. A collection of his short stories about relationships titled COCKTAIL has been published and Vikram is currently busy writing his first novel and with his teaching and training assignments. Vikram lives in Pune with his family and his muse – his pet DobermanX girl Sherry, with whom he takes long walks thinking creative thoughts.

Short Stories Book:

COCKTAIL – Short Stories about Relationships By VIKRAM KARVE

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INDIAPLAZA

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APK PUBLISHERS (They ship overseas too)

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Foodie Book:

Appetite for a Stroll

http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm

http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o

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Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog:http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/posts.htm

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: http://karvediat.blogspot.com

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

Email: vikramkarve@sify.com

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Creative Writing by Vikram Karve: A POET AND HIS MUSE

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: A POET AND HIS MUSE.

A POET AND HIS MUSE

THE CREATIVE ENGINE

Fiction Short Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Do you remember the moment when you saw your first creative effort published, your very own words in print, for the world to read?

I do.

It was the happiest moment of my life when I saw my first fiction short story published in the Sunday literary supplement of a newspaper long long back. (Well  literary supplements have disappeared long back and today we have page 3 gossip and entertainment news in their place).

Tell me, dear reader, what inspires you to write…?

Do you have a “Creative Engine”  –  to inspire you and help you unleash your creative talents…?

Some of us may be inspired by a Muse.

Here is a simple Story of a Poet and his Muse. I am sure you will like the story.

Chotte Lal is in seventh heaven, on cloud nine…call it what you like.

But one thing is sure. This is the happiest moment of his life.

Chotte Lal experiences a delightfully beautiful emotion as he looks lovingly at his own words printed on the top left hand corner of the last page of the newspaper.

Chotte Lal experiences an ecstatic feeling of pride, joy, thrill – I really have no words to describe this unique emotion, but if you are a writer, just recall the moment when you saw your first creative effort in print, and you will understand what I mean.

Chotte Lal reads his poem to himself, slowly, deliberately, tenderly, drinking in each word, drowns his self in his creation, in a state of blissful timelessness, till the bookstall owner roughly shakes him out of his idyllic reverie loudly asking for money for the newspaper.

Chotte Lal pays him, and then, continuing to read his own poetry, walks with a spring in his step towards the running room to share his happiness with his colleagues.

And as he strides down the long platform towards his destination, let me tell you a bit about Chotte Lal, the hero of our story, an Engine Driver in the railways.

Chotte Lal’s father was a humble gangman whose life’s ambition was to make his motherless son an Engine Driver.

Everyday as he looked up from his lowly place beside the railway tracks fascinated by the sight of the haughty engine drivers speeding by, roughly snatch the tokens he held up for them, and then rudely throw their tokens kept in small leather pouches mounted on large cane rings at a distance for him to fetch and hand over to the signalman, his resolve became stronger and stronger, and Chotte Lal’s father dreamed of the moment when his son, sitting in the driver’s seat, would pick up the token from him.

The day his dutiful obedient son Chotte Lal was selected as an engine driver, his father was so overjoyed, that he celebrated all night, indulging himself so much that he died of liver failure in the morning.

Now let’s get back to our story and see what our hero Chotte Lal is up to.

Chotte Lal walks into the driver running room. No one notices. His fellow drivers are busy playing cards.

“See. See. My poem has been published,” Chotte Lal says excitedly holding out the newspaper.

A driver takes the newspaper from his hands and says. “Hey, look, there is going to be a pay hike…” and he begins reading the headlines from the front page as the others listen.

“No. No. Not there. My poem is on the back page,” Chotte Lal says.

“Where?”

Chotte Lal turns the paper and shows him.

“Good,” the driver says even without reading the poem, turns back to the first page and begins reading aloud details of the pay hike.

“Illiterate Greedy Dopes. Bloody Riff Raff…! Only interested in money,” Chotte Lal says in anger snatching the paper.

“Oh yes, we are illiterates worried about money, not philosophers like you wasting your time writing poetry,” someone says.

“Why don’t you become a Professor instead of wasting time here?” another taunts.

“Or join the film industry, write poems for songs, sher-shairy…” they jeer.

Chotte Lal walks out in a huff.

But let me tell you dear reader that the drivers are right.

Chotte Lal certainly doesn’t belong here amongst this hard drinking rough and earthy fraternity.

Chotte Lal lives on a higher plane – while his compatriots drink and gamble to pass their time in their leisure and changeover breaks, Chotte Lal reads, and now, he writes.

Had Chotte Lal got the proper opportunity he would be a man of erudition, but as I have already told you, circumstances willed otherwise and poor Chotte Lal he had no choice.

Chotte Lal is a good engine driver. He is happy in his job and content with life. He never gets bored with the long waits for he always carries with him a good book to read. And now he’s started writing – yes, creative writing.

Chotte Lal always wanted to write but did not know how till one evening, while waiting for a signal, the glorious spectacle of the setting sun, the picturesque countryside, the villagers hurrying home, the birds chirping returning to their nests, the endless tracks disappearing into the horizon in front of him, the whole scene in its entirety, inspired him so much that the spark of creativity was ignited within him and for the first time he poured out his inner feelings on paper, and thereby was born his first creative effort, a poem – Waiting for the Signal.

Chotte Lal lives in a typical railway town, a relic of the Raj, with its spacious well laid out railway colony with huge bungalows and neat cottages, amidst plenty of greenery and expanse.

This quaint mofussil town boasts of a newspaper – a four page tabloid really.

The back page of this local rag features crosswords, tit-bits, and creative contributions from readers, which Chotte Lal always reads with avid interest and it was his dream to see his own creative writing printed right there on that page one day.

So he neatly wrote down his first creative composition “Waiting for the Signal” on a foolscap sheet of paper torn from his daughter’s notebook and personally submitted his contribution to the editor who gave him an amused look and said, “We’ll see!”

Chotte Lal waited, and waited, almost lost hope, and now, at long last, his poem had been published.

Chotte Lal walks conspicuously towards the exit of the Railway Station, deliberately stopping by at the Station Master’s Office, the ASMs, the Train Clerks, the TTEs, yearning for appreciation, hoping someone would say something, but all he gets is smiles of forced geniality.

“Useless fellows!” he says to himself, and then begins walking fast towards his house eager to show his poem to his wife and children.

Seeing Chotte Lal walk past his dhaba without even a glance in that direction, Ram Bharose senses something terribly is wrong, for every time Chotte Lal returns from duty he always stops by at Ram Bharose’s Dhaba for a cup of tea and to pick up a parcel of Anda-Bun for Engine, his pet dog.

As always, Engine is the first to welcome him at the compound gate of his home and gives him the customary enthusiastic reception, playful, vigorously wagging his tail, barking, jumping, running – but today Chotte Lal’s response is different – he just walks by –  no hugging, no fondling, no baby-talk and most importantly no Anda-Bun.

Engine is confused at his Master’s odd behaviour and follows him loyally towards the door of the cottage.

Chotte Lal rings the bell.

His wife of twenty years opens the door, gives him a preoccupied look, and begins walking towards the kitchen.

“See, See,” Chotte Lal says with childlike enthusiasm, “My poem had been published in the newspaper.”

“Poem…? What Poem…?” his wife asks.

Chotte Lal hands over the tabloid to his wife and shows her the poem – Waiting for the Signal.

His wife gives it a cursory glance and asks, “How much did they pay you for it…?”

“Pay me…? What are you talking…?” Chotte Lal asks puzzled.

“Yes. Pay you. Don’t tell me you are doing this for charity. Or maybe the poem is so third rate that they haven’t thought it worth even a paisa,” his wife says scornfully.

“Please!” Chotte Lal raises his voice getting angry, “This beautiful poem is the fruit of my creative effort, not some item for sale. Where is the question of money? You will never understand the value of creative reward!”

“Creative reward my foot…! This good for nothing local rag prints a poem of yours and you are boasting as if you have won the Nobel Prize…!” his wife mocks. “Why don’t you stop wasting your time doing all this nonsense and join my brother’s transport business – he wants to make you the Regional Manager.”

“I don’t want to go to the city.”

“You want to rot in this godforsaken place driving engines all your life?”

“I like my job. I like this place. I like to read and write.”

“Oh yes, now all you will be doing is wasting your time and your effort writing all this nonsense for free, when you could be earning handsomely if you put in the same efforts elsewhere!”

“I am happy where I am and content with what I have.”

“Oh, sure. You are happy to live in a gutter and watch other men climb mountains!”

“Papa, Mama is right,” his daughter interjects appearing suddenly, “Why don’t you retire and take your pension and then take up the job uncle is offering you as regional manager in his transport business and let us all move to the city…?”

“Here, here,” the father says excitedly, giving the newspaper to his daughter, “My poem is published today. Read it and tell me how you like it.”

“You can read it later. Have your breakfast first,” her mother says sternly, “you’re getting late for college.”

“Take the newspaper with you. Show my poem to your friends, your teacher,” he says.

A horn honks. The girl puts the newspaper in her bag and rushes out. Chotte Lal excitedly runs behind his daughter towards the gate and shouts to her, “My poem is on the back page…it is called Waiting for the Signal…”

A boy is waiting for her on a motorcycle. Maybe it’s her college classmate, her boyfriend, maybe… Chotte Lal realises how little he knows about his children.

His son – he has already gone to the city to work in his uncle’s company. He is obsessed with earning money and has no time for the finer things of life. Like mother like son. He feels sad. It’s a pity, a real pity.

There is nothing worse for a man than to realise that his wife, his son are ashamed of him.

Maybe his daughter will appreciate his poem, his talent, his creative genius, his worth – after all she is a student of arts.

He looks at his daughter. She is talking to the boy, pointing to the rear seat, telling him it is dirty.

Then, she takes out the precious newspaper which Chotte Lal has given her. Chotte Lal looks on in anticipation. Maybe his daughter is going to show the poem to the boy.

Yes, Chotte Lal’s daughter does take out the newspaper from her bag. But she doesn’t even open it, leave alone showing her father’s poem to her friend. She just crumples the newspaper and wipes the motorcycle seat with it and throws it on the ground.

Then she sits on the seat and they drive off on the motorcycle.

Chotte Lal experiences a pain much worse than if a knife had pierced through his heart.

His dog Engine rushes out, picks up the newspaper in his mouth, brings it to Chotte Lal, drops it at his feet and begs for his treat.

Suddenly Chotte Lal realises he has forgotten to get Engine’s customary treat – the Anda-Bun.

“Come,” he says to Engine.

He picks up the newspaper and they both, Master and dog, walk towards Ram Bharose’s Dhaba.

Chotte Lal looks at Engine as he happily cavorts and gambols in spontaneous delight at this unexpected outing.

“And now you have got a Pie Dog, a Mongrel,” his wife was furious when he had got the tiny abandoned pup whose mother had been run over by a train.

First he used to take the baby puppy along with him in his Engine, and his assistant driver named the pup “Engine”. But soon the word spread and he got a memo.

Since then Engine remained home, and whenever Chotte Lal was away on duty, poor Engine was dependent on the reluctant love of his wife who Chotte Lal suspected actually liked the cheerful dog.

They reach Ram Bharose’s Dhaba.

“What happened, Driver Sahib, you didn’t take your usual Anda-Bun parcel…?” Ram Bharose says.

“I forgot,” Chotte Lal says, “Give me one Anda-Bun now, and a cup of tea.”

Chotte Lal thinks of showing the poem to Ram Bharose, but hesitates. The poor guy may barely be literate. And if educated people like his colleagues, even his wife, and daughter, no one could appreciate his creative composition, how can he expect this country bumpkin to do so.

So he sits down and decides to read his own poem to himself – celebrate his own personal victory, and not be dependent on others for his happiness.

He gives the Anda-Bun to his delighted dog Engine who sits at his feet and starts polishing it off hungrily.

Then he sips the piping hot rejuvenating tea and starts reading the poem to himself.

Suddenly he feels a nudge on his feet – it’s Engine, prodding with his paw, looking up expectantly at him, eyes dazzling, making a sound, talking, trying to say something.

“Want to hear my poem…?” Chotte Lal lovingly asks his pet dog Engine, affectionately caressing the dog’s ears.

Engine gets up, nods his head, places it on Chotte Lal’s knee adoringly, and wags his tail.

As Chotte Lal reads his poem “Waiting at the Signal”, his devoted dog Engine listens to His Master’s voice with rapt attention, his eyes glued on Chotte Lal’s face, and his tail wagging in appreciation.

After he finishes reading the poem, Chotte Lal looks lovingly at Engine. Engine looks back at him with frank admiration, wags his tail, and proffers his paw as a “shake hand” gesture.

Chotte Lal is overwhelmed with emotion. He orders one more Anda-Bun for Engine.

Delighted at his Master’s sudden spurt of generosity, Engine gratefully devours the delicious Anda-Bun and looks pleadingly at Chotte Lal as if saying: “Encore.”

“You want to hear once again,” Chotte Lal asks Engine, who again keeps his head tenderly on Chotte Lal’s knee, looks up lovingly at his Master, continuously wagging his tail, listening with rapt attention to his Master’s voice, waiting for him to finish, in eager anticipation for his reward of an Anda-Bun.

Many such recitations and Anda-Buns later, dog and master, Engine and Chotte Lal walk back home.

Chotte Lal looks admiringly at Engine – his sincere patron, a true connoisseur who understands, appreciates.

He gets the inner urge to write, to express, to say something – Engine has ignited the spark of creativity within him.

Moments later, the creativity within him unleashed, Chotte Lal sits at his desk and pours out his latent emotions, his inner feelings, on paper, writing poem after poem, while his darling pet dog, his stimulus, his inspiration, his muse, his motivating “Engine”, sits loyally by his side looking lovingly at his Master with undisguised affection.

And so, the Railway Engine Driver Chotte Lal creates and his “Creative Engine” inspires and appreciates – they sit together in sublime unison – the Poet and his Muse – in perfect creative harmony.

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2010

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

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

VIKRAM KARVE educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale, and Bishop’s School Pune, is an Electronics and Communications Engineer by profession, a Human Resource Manager and Trainer by occupation, a Teacher by vocation, a Creative Writer by inclination and a Foodie by passion. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and creative non-fiction articles in magazines and journals for many years before the advent of blogging. He has written a foodie book Appetite For A Stroll and a book of fiction short stories which is being published soon and is busy writing his first novel. Vikram lives in Pune with his family and pet Doberman girl Sherry, with whom he takes long walks thinking creative thoughts.

Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog: http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/posts.htm
Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: http://karvediat.blogspot.com
Professional Profile of Vikram Karve:

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

vikramkarve@sify.com
Foodie Book:

Appetite for a Stroll
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm

http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o

http://shopping.sify.com/appetiteforastroll-vikram-karve/books/9788190690096.htm

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

DEAD END

DEAD END.

 

DEAD END

Short Fiction – A Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

From my Creative Writing Archives:

I wrote this short story sometime in the mid 1990s. Then, it was highly appreciated. I think it is quite relevant even today.

Manjunath was a contended man.

He was the proud owner of a coconut grove, more than a hundred trees, located on the most picturesque stretch of the western coast, skirting the Arabian Sea. The land was fertile and the yield was excellent.

Every morning, along with his wife and two sons, Manjunath would cast his fishing nets into the gentle waters of Baicol Bay, and in the evening, when he pulled in his nets with the receding tide, the catch would be adequate, if not substantial.

I loved Baicol Bay. It was a most beautiful and pristine place by the sea and sunset, on the western coast, was a special event.

So every evening, I went for a jog on the soft unspoilt beach, and after a swim in the crystal-clear waters, I relaxed on the sands, beholding the fascinating, yet soothing, spectacle of the mighty orange sun being devoured under the horizon of the sea.

As darkness enveloped, Manjunath would gently appear by my side with a tender coconut in hand.

At that moment, there was nothing more refreshing than sweet coconut water.

The year was 1980 and I was a fresh, young and idealistic Indian Police Service (IPS) Officer, on my first posting, as Assistant Superintendent of Police (ASP) of this lovely coastal district.

The air was fresh and unpolluted and the weather was temperate. There was no railway line, no industries, and no noise. The district headquarters was a one-street town. Everybody knew everybody, the people were peace-loving, and in the prevailing climate of contentment, it was no surprise that the crime-rate was almost zero.

One day, my boss, the Superintendent of Police (SP) took me to an important meeting in the District Collector’s office.

As I heard the words of the Collector, I experienced a deep sense of distress. A notification had been issued and a mammoth Steel Plant had been sanctioned in the Baicol Bay area. Land Acquisition was the immediate top priority. The police were to ensure that there was no law and order problem.

“But why can’t they locate the Steel Plant somewhere else?” I protested. “This lovely palace will be ruined. And where will the people go?”

At first, the Collector appeared dumbstruck by my interruption. Then he glowered at me with a fierce and threatening stare. I avoided his gaze and looked around the room. Everyone was looking at me in a curious manner. My boss, the SP, was desperately gesturing to me to keep quiet.

“I wonder whose side you are on?” the Collector snapped angrily, still giving me an intimidating glare.

“Don’t worry, Sir,” the SP spoke, addressing the Collector. “There will be no problems. The people here are a docile lot. Everything shall proceed smoothly.”

When we were driving back to our office, the SP said, “Joshi, you better tame your tongue and watch what you say, especially in front of others.”

“Sir, you please tell me. Isn’t this injustice? We pay them a pittance for their fertile land. And then evict them from their habitat, and destroy the beauty of this place, just because someone decides to set up a set up a Steel Plant here.”

“It’s in the national interest, Joshi. Why don’t you try and understand. Everyone shall be properly rehabilitated with a job and a house and also get a compensation.”

“Come on, sir,” I argued. “You know where we are going to relocate them. The rehabilitation camp is more than twenty kilometres away from the sea front. And we are putting them into small overcrowded multi-storeyed tenements, which are at complete variance from their ethos. These people are used to open spaces, fresh air, and most important – the waterfront, the sea.”

“That’s enough, Joshi,” the SP said angrily. “Your job is to carry out my orders. I want you to take personal charge of this operation. The task must be completed smoothly and on schedule. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied meekly.

That evening I held a meeting with the affected villagers. Manjunath was sitting in the first row, right in front of me. I spoke of patriotism, sacrifice for the “national cause” and the prosperity the Steel Plant would bring into their lives.

To my utter surprise, there was no resistance. Everyone seemed convinced, I think because they where simple people who believed every word I said, but to my own self, my own words sounded insincere and I felt acutely uncomfortable.

And so the operation began.

Awe-struck, Manjunath saw the might of the government on display. He watched with tears in his eyes, columns of police standing by, while bulldozers destroyed his beloved coconut grove.

A few days later Manjunath stood before the employment officer. The employment officer was in a foul mood. “These illiterate buggers get jobs on a platter while my matriculate brother-in-law rots unemployed in city,” he complained, “I had promised my wife that I would wrangle at least a Class IV job for him out here.”

“Hold your tongue,” said the rehabilitation officer. “These so-called ‘illiterate buggers’, as you call them, were land-owners, displaced from their own land.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t get hot,” the employment officer said to the rehabilitation officer. Then he looked at Manjunath and curtly asked him, “Do you posses any special skills?”

Manjunath could not comprehend, so he just stood silent.

In an exasperated manner, the employment officer snapped, “We haven’t got all day. Tell me. What can you do?”

“Coconuts,” Manjunath answered.

“Coconuts?”

“Yes, Sir. Coconuts.”

“What else?”

“Fish.”

“Fish and Coconuts, eh! You’ll see plenty of them,” the employment officer said. He wrote the word ‘cook’ beside Manjunath’s name in the register.

And so, at one stroke, Manjunath was transformed, from land-owner into a cook, first in the ramshackle canteen for construction workers and later in the huge industrial canteen of the Steel Plant.

But Manjunath was lucky. At least he had become a cook. Most others became Unskilled Labourers because the skills they possessed, like farming and fishing, were not relevant as far as the Steel Plant was concerned.

And so almost all the “skilled” workers – the tradesmen, all the welders, fitters, machinists, electricians etc. – they all came from outside, from faraway places, the cities and the urban areas. And the complexion of the place began to change.

Soon I stooped going for my daily evening jog to Baicol beach, for now it was littered with debris from the construction work and the air was no longer pure, but polluted by fumes and dust and the noise was unbearable.

And, of course, now there would be no Manjunath waiting for me with a tender coconut in hand.

So when my transfer came, I felt relieved and happy, for I no longer loved the place and, more so, because it was getting painful to see the beginning of the systematic metamorphosis of a beautiful natural paradise into a huge monster of concrete and steel.

When I returned after fifteen long years, the place had change beyond recognition. The gigantic steel plant, the railway line, the new port, the industries, the ‘fruits’ of liberalization and the signs of prosperity, modern buildings adorned by adjoining slums, filth and polluted air, all types of vehicles clogging the roads, restaurants and bars, the noise and even most of the people looked alien.

As we drove down to the police headquarters, the SP said, “It’s not the same place when you were here, sir.”

“The crime-rate was zero then,” I said. “What has gone wrong?”

“There are two types of people now, Sir – the liberalised Indian and the marginalised Indian.”

“And us!”

“And us,” he laughed, “yes, sir, and us trying to sort the whole thing out.”

I was head of the crime branch at the state police headquarters and had been sent down to investigate a series of bizarre murders. A few bigwigs were waylaid, had their heads chopped off and their headless bodies dumped outside their houses. It had created such a scare that my boss had rushed me down.

The car stopped. I recognized the place at once.

“The common thread, sir,” the SP said. “All the victims lived in this luxury residential enclave.”

“I knew this place,” I said, feeling a tinge of nostalgia. “There used to be a coconut grove here. This place was acquired for the steel plant. But now I see that it is just outside the perimeter wall. I wonder why they excluded this area.”

“Must be the environment stipulations, sir,” the SP mumbled, “the two hundred meter zone or something. They must have de-notified it.”

“Don’t give me bullshit!” I shouted. “Then how the hell has this posh residential complex come up here? And if they didn’t want the land for the steel plant then why wasn’t this land returned back to the original owners?”

“Sir, land which was sold by the acre in your time, fifteen years ago, is now priced the same per square foot.”

“The fruits of progress, is it?” I snapped.

I could see that the SP was getting confused by my unexpected line of investigation, and he was getting a bit scared too, for I was a DIG. So I decided to put him at ease.

“Tell me, Pandey,” I said patronizingly. “What were you before joining the IPS?”

“An Engineer, Sir. From IIT, Delhi.”

I wasn’t surprised. Engineers, even doctors, were joining the IAS and IPS nowadays. I looked at the SP and said, “Let me explain in a way you will understand.”

Pandey was looking at me intently.

I paused, and asked him. “Do you know what’s a system?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered.

“Every system has a natural rhythm,” I said, “take this place for example. All the people here in this system, farmers, fishermen, everyone, they all had a natural rhythm of life which perfectly matched the rhythm of this place. And there was harmony. Then suddenly we disturb the system. We drastically change the rhythm of the place. Create a mismatch. And when the people can’t cope up, we call them ‘marginalised Indians’ – as you put it.”

Pandey looked thoroughly confused, so I avoided further rhetoric and came straight to the point, “You are looking for a motive, isn’t it, Pandey?”

“Yes, Sir,” he said.

“Okay, consider this. You own some fertile land. We forcibly acquire it, mouthing platitudes like ‘national interest’, ‘patriotism’ etc. Then we sit on your land for fifteen long years while you are reduced from an owner to a labourer. And then, one fine day, you find that your beloved land been grabbed by some land-sharks from the city. What would you do?”

The SP did not reply.

“Do one thing, Pandey,” I said. “There’s a man called Manjunath. He probably works as a cook in the Steel Plant canteen. Bring him to me. He may have some clue and maybe he will give us a lead.”

In my mind’s eye I was thinking how to get Manjunath off the hook.

An hour later the SP came rushing into the police headquarters. He looked dazed, as if he had been pole-axed. “The guy went crazy,” he stammered. “When the police party approached him, he was chopping coconuts with a sharp sickle. Suddenly he slashed his own neck. He died on the way to hospital. There’s blood everywhere.”

In the morgue, looking at Manjunath’s dead body the SP commented, “Look at the expression on his face, sir. He looks so content.”

“Yes,” I said. “He’s reached the dead end.”

VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2010
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

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

Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog –http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/posts.htm

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

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

Email: vikramkarve@sify.com
Foodie Book: Appetite for a Stroll

http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm

http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o

http://shopping.sify.com/appetiteforastroll-vikram-karve/books/9788190690096.htm

© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

TEDDY BEAR and SUGAR

Short Fiction – A Romance

TEDDY BEAR and SUGAR.

Read more on my academic and creative writing journal

http://karvediat.blogspot.com

RENDEZVOUS AT SUNRISE

“Do you remember the first fiction short story you wrote…?” a young friend, and a fan of my writing, asked me this evening.
“Of course I remember,” I said, “it was a short story called RENDEZVOUS AT SUNRISE.”
“I am sure it was about your first crush…your first romance,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, “How did you guess…?”
“I want to read it,” she said, “why don’t you post it on your blog.”
“I have already…” I said.
“Why don’t you post it once more…” she said.
So here is my first creative baby – a fiction short story written by me more than twenty years ago. It is a simple love story. I am sure you will love reading it .

RENDEZVOUS AT SUNRISE

By

VIKRAM KARVE
Sunrise, on the eastern coast, is a special event.

I stood at Dolphin’s Nose, a spur jutting out in to the Bay of Bengal, to behold the breaking of the sun’s upper limb over the horizon of the sea.

As the eastern sky started unfolding like crimson petals of a gigantic flower, I was overcome by a wave of romance and nostalgia – vivid memories, not diminished by the fact that almost ten years had passed.

I was a young bachelor then, and Vizag (Visakhapatnam) did not have much to offer.

Every Sunday morning, I used to rise before dawn and head for Dolphin’s Nose to enjoy the resplendent spectacle of sun majestically rising out of the sea.

The fresh salty sea breeze was a panacea for all the effects of the hangover caused by Saturday night excesses.    After the viewing the metamorphosis at sunrise, I used to walk downhill along the steep mountain-path towards the rocky beach for a brief swim.

I used to notice a flurry of activity at a distance, in the compound of a decrepit building, which I used to ignore, but curious, one day I decided to have a closer look.

It was a fish market.

Most of the customers were housewives from the nearby residential complexes who were in their “Sunday-worst” – sans make-up, slovenly dressed, face unwashed and unkempt hair – what a contrast from their carefully decked-up appearances at the club the previous evening.

I began to walk away, quite dejected, when I first saw her.

I stopped in my tracks.

She was a real beauty – tall, fair and freshly bathed, her long lustrous hair dancing on her shoulders.
She had large expressive brown eyes and her sharp features were accentuated by the rays of the morning Sun.

I cannot begin to describe the sensation she evoked in me but it was the first time in my life that I felt my heart ache with intense yearning.
I knew this was love.    But I knew in my heart that I stood no chance – she had a mangalsutra around her neck.
She was married – maybe happily too.

Nevertheless I went close to her and made her pretense of buying some fish.

Smiling cannily at me she selected a couple of pomfrets and held them out to me.

I managed to briefly touch her soft hands – the feeling was electric and a shiver of thrill passed through me.

She communicated an unspoken good-bye with her teasing dancing eyes and briskly walked away.

I was too delightfully dazed to follow her.

I returned to my room and had fried pomfret for breakfast. Needless to say they were delicious.

I religiously followed this routine every Sunday morning.

She never missed her rendezvous with me – same place, same time, at precisely Seven o’clock in the morning.

But not a word was exchanged between us.

I was too shy and she probably wanted to keep it this way – a beautiful ethereal relationship – a love so delicate that one wrong move might destroy everything.

Meanwhile, I have developed a taste for fried pomfret – quite creditable, considering that I had never eaten fish before.

I left Vizag and traveled around the world, met so many beautiful girls in the numerous exotic places I visited, but I never forgot her.

A man’s first love always has an enduring place in his heart.     And now I was back in Vizag almost ten years later.

As I walked down the slope towards the beach, in my mind’s eye I could still vividly visualize the playfully sublime look on her face – her gentle smile and communicative eyes – although ten years had passed.

I could not contain the mounting excitement and anticipation in me. I was desperately yearning to see her again. It was a forlorn hope but I was flushed with optimism.

As I reached the beach I noticed that the Sun was well clear of the horizon.

I glanced at my watch. It was almost Seven O’clock.

I hastened my step – almost broke in to a run – and reached the fish market and stood exactly at the same spot where we used to have our rendezvous at sunrise.    With tremors of anticipation, almost trepidation, I looked around with searching eyes.

Nothing had changed. The scene was exactly the same as I had left it ten years ago.

Only one thing was missing – she wasn’t there.

I had drawn a blank.

I was crestfallen.

My mind went blank and I was standing vacuously when suddenly I felt that familiar electrifying touch, the same shiver of thrill.

It shook me to reality, as quick as lighting.

She softly put two promfret fish in my hands.

I was in seventh heaven.

I looked at her.

I was not disappointed.

Her beauty had enhanced with age.

But something had changed.

Yes, it was in her eyes.

Her large brown eyes did not teasingly dance anymore.

There was a trace of sadness, a tender poignancy in her liquid brown eyes as she bid me an unspoken goodbye.

I was so dumbstruck by the suddenness of the event, and the enormity of the moment, that I stood frozen, like a statue, unable to react or to say anything.

It was only as she was leaving that I noticed that there was no mangalsutra around her slender neck.

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2010

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

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

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

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

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

Email: vikramkarve@sify.com

Foodie Book: Appetite for a Stroll