WORRY AMMA and ME – A Humorous Romance Story

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: DON’T WORRY, BE HAPPY – A Humorous Story.

Link to my original post in my academic and creative writing journal: 
http://karvediat.blogspot.in/201…

DON’T WORRY, BE HAPPY
(A Humorous Story)
By
VIKRAM KARVE

From my Creative Writing Archives:

One of my humorous fiction stories – I wrote this story more than 4 years ago, in the year 2010

WORRY AMMA – a story by Vikram Karve

“I am worried,” she said.

“Worried…? About what…?” I asked.

“Marriage…”

“Marriage…? What marriage…? Whose marriage…?”

“My marriage, you stupid…” she admonished me.

“Your marriage…? But you are not getting married…!”

“That’s what I am worried about. Why am I not getting married? I am worried that I may never get married…”

“Of course you will get married…”

“Really…you think so…”

“Of course I think so…you are the most eligible girl…so beautiful…so talented…so educated…the best boys will queue up and ask for your hand in marriage…”

She did get married.

Yes, she got married at the right time and to the best boy.

But not before she subjected me to a few onslaughts of her terrible spells of worry.

For example, just before her engagement ceremony she took me aside and said, “I am worried…”

“Not now…!” I admonished.

“Don’t talk to me like that…you are the only one…”

“Okay, okay, tell me…”

“Do you really think we are compatible…?”

“Of course you are compatible…in fact you two are made for each other and your marriage will be a big success…” I assured her.

“Will he let me work after marriage…?”

“Of course, he will let you work…didn’t you both discuss it the other day…”

“Yes, but I am worried that in the heart of his heart he does not want me to work. ”

“I spoke to your fiancé. I asked him very clearly. He wants you to work and have a successful career…” I lied.

“Really…?”

“Yes…”

She had a flourishing marriage and a highly successful career but that did not stop her from bombarding me with her salvoes, fits and spells of worry whenever we met from time to time.

“I am worried. Will I have children?”

She had two – a boy and a girl.

“I am worried about my kids. What will they do in life? It is so difficult, there is so much competition.”

Both her children did very well. 

Her son got into IIT, then into IIM, and got a very good job in an MNC. 

Her daughter got into AIIMS, became a doctor, specialized in Gynaecology, and was working in a leading hospital.

But her blitzkrieg of worries continued unabated.

“I am worried.”

“Now what?”

“My children’s marriage, you fool. Will my son get a good girl, will she get along with me? My daughter….?”

Both her son and daughter got the best of spouses who got along very well with their in-laws. 

In fact, her daughter-in-law doted on her and they stayed together as a happy joint family.

And her daughter who had married a colleague doctor lived nearby and visited her almost every day.

Still she kept worrying.

“I am worried.”

“Now what?”

“My daughter – her pregnancy – will her delivery be okay?”

“Come on, both she and her husband are the best gynaecologists in town. Surely there is no reason to worry.”

Her daughter had a very smooth pregnancy and delivered a bonny boy. 

So did her daughter-in-law.

It seemed to be the end of her worries. 

She and her husband were well off. 

They had a beautiful house in the posh area of the Pune.

They enjoyed the best of health and they were looking forward to a satisfying retired life. 

They were blessed with grandchildren and gave the impression of one happy family. 

I envied her.

She had everything in the world.

She was really lucky. 

At least now, there was absolutely no reason for her to worry.

Worry Amma, as I called her, came into my life when I was a small boy studying in the third standard. 

She was our newly arrived neighbour’s daughter, my new classmate, and I was supposed to “guide” her and “look after her” especially as we travelled to school and back in the public bus (there were no school buses those days). 

But most of the time it was she who was looking after me and making my life miserable with her constant worrying.

She was always worried:

Will the bus come on time? 

Will she be late for assembly?

Will she do well in her exams?

She worries about her homework, and later, about how she looked, about her her crushes, everything – she worried about everything you can imagine. 

I was her sounding board who she bombarded with her worries. 

That’s why I secretly called her “Worry Amma.”

She did very well at studies.

So did I.

I thought she, like other girls would study arts, but to my horror she too joined the same IIT as I did and made my life miserable with her worries for the next five years. 

And then, try as I did, I could not escape her salvoes of worry whenever we met. 

In fact I seemed to have got so used to her that I missed her whenever we did not meet for some time.

Just like I was missing her now. 

I had not met Worry Amma for over a month as she had gone on a holiday abroad with her husband and entire family.

“Hi, all alone?” Worry Amma accosted me as I was enjoying my SPDP at Vaishali. 

She did not ask if she could join me – she just pulled a chair and sat opposite me.

“I am worried,” she said.

“Now what? Are you worried that you have nothing to be worried about?” I joked.

“I am worried about you.”

“Me? You are worried about me?” I gasped, choking on the food in my mouth.

Worry Amma looked at me with firm determination and said to me: 

“Yes. You. I am really worried about you. Look at you. Living all alone. Eating all this junk food. Nobody to look after you. I am really worried about you. But don’t you worry – I will find you a nice wife.”

Now, I am worried.

VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 
1. If you share this post, please give due credit to the author Vikram Karve
2. Please DO NOT PLAGIARIZE. Please DO NOT Cut/Copy/Paste this post
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Disclaimer:
This story is a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the story are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright Notice:
No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.
Copyright © Vikram Karve (All Rights Reserved)
     
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

First Posted by me Vikram Karve in this blog at 5/17/2011 09:45:00 AM at url: http://karvediat.blogspot.in/201…

Posted by Vikram Karve at 10/24/2014 03:12:00 PM

From Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve : ZAMEEN – Short Fiction Story – DEAD END

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: ZAMEEN – Short Fiction Story – DEAD END.

Link to my original post in my academic and creative writing journal:
http://karvediat.blogspot.in/201…

DEAD END aka ZAMEEN
Short Fiction Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE

From my Creative Writing Archives:

There is a saying in Urdu:

 Har qatl di e jar zan zar zameen

(The motive for every murder is because of woman, money or land)

Most crimes occur because of Zan (woman or love passion) or Zar (money). 

This is a story where Zameen (land) is a motive for a crime.

I wrote this short story 21 years ago, sometime in the year 1993. 

One evening when I had gone on a long evening walk, I happened to witness a brutal land acquisition.

The might of the powers-that-be was on full display against the hapless landowners who were being evicted from their land.

They were protesting because the promised compensation had not been paid to them.

The hapless landowners feared that once they lost their land, they would have to make rounds of various government offices for compensation and pay bribes to get their due.

A few years later, someone told me that the land had been encroached upon, so the whole land acquisition exercise had gone waste, and the biggest losers were the erstwhile landowners.

The whole scene and situation moved me and I wrote a fiction short story called DEAD END.

Then, the story was highly appreciated.  

Huge land acquisitions take place for building projects and institutions. 

But does anyone look at it from the perspective of the displaced landowners? 

You even hear stories, maybe apocryphal, of land being forcibly acquired from farmers ostensibly for public purposes, and then the acquired land is “de-reserved” and sold off to builders who make a huge profit by building residential and commercial projects.

Land can become a big bone of contention and is the root of crime and corruption (the Zameen in crime triad Zan Zar Zameen).

I think this fiction story DEAD END is quite relevant even today. 

Do tell me if you like the story.

DEAD END – Short Fiction Story by VIKRAM KARVE

Manjunath was a contented 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. Is it not gross 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 were 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 land acquisition operation began.
 
Awe-struck, Manjunath saw the might of the government on display. 

Manjunath 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 4 unskilled labourer, domestic attendant or peon’s job for him out here.”
 
“Hold your tongue,” the rehabilitation officer said angrily, “These so-called ‘illiterate buggers’, as you call them, were land-owners, displaced from their own land. They are entitled a job in lieu of their land acquired for this project.”
 
“Okay, okay. Don’t get hot,” the employment officer said to the rehabilitation officer. 

Then, the employment officer looked at Manjunath and curtly asked him, “Do you possess 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 will 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 a land-owner into a cook.

First he worked as a cook in the ramshackle canteen for construction workers and later as a cook 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 stopped going for my daily evening jog to Baicol beach.

Now the whole place was  littered with debris from the construction work and the air was no longer pure, but polluted by fumes and dust.

It was no longer quiet and calm, but the noise from the ongoing construction work 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.

I no longer loved the place and, more so, I could not bear the pain of witnessing 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 changed 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.”
 
“De-notified it? Don’t give me bullshit!” I shouted, “How the hell has this posh residential complex come up here? And if the government did not want the land for the steel plant, then why was this excess acquired land not returned back to the original owners?”
         
“Sir, this land which was sold by the acre in your time, fifteen years ago – now it is priced 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.”
 
This was no surprise.

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 the definition of the term ‘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 cannot 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 is 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 of ways of how to get Manjunath off the hook.
 
An hour later, the SP came rushing into the police headquarters. 

The SP looked dazed, as if he had been pole-axed. 

“The guy went crazy,” the SP stammered, “Sir, 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 is blood everywhere.”
 
In the morgue, staring sadly at Manjunath’s dead body, the SP commented, “Look at the expression on his face, sir. He looks so content.”
 
“Yes,” I said. “He has reached the dead end.”

VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 
1. If you share this post, please give due credit to the author Vikram Karve
2. Please DO NOT PLAGIARIZE. Please DO NOT Cut/Copy/Paste this post
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Disclaimer:
1. This story is a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the story are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
2. All stories in this blog are a work of fiction. Events, Places, Settings and Incidents narrated in the story are a figment of my imagination. The characters do not exist and are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright Notice:
No part of this Blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Blog Author Vikram Karve who holds the copyright.
Copyright © Vikram Karve (All Rights Reserved)
     
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

Posted by Vikram Karve at 10/17/2014 02:04:00 PM

THE SOLDIER – a short story

THE SOLDIER
A Short Story
by
VIKRAM KARVE

Original Post Link on my Academic and Creative Writing Journal
http://karvediat.blogspot.in/2013/01/the-pen-is-mightier-than-sword.html

THE PEN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD

Short Fiction – A Soldier’s Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

 

The Soldier sat on the footpath near the gate of the Accounts Office.

 

“Abe Langde … Hat Wahan Se (Hey you one-legged cripple … Move from there)” a street-food cart vendor said, “Yeh Meri Jagah Hai (This is my place).”

 

The soldier winced.

 

Then he looked down at his amputated leg.

 

Yes, he was indeed a cripple, a langda.

 

When he had joined the army he had two strong legs.

 

And now he had just one leg and one stump.

 

He picked up his crutch, pushed his body up and slowly hobbled a few steps away and was about to sit under a shady canopy near the street corner when a traffic policeman shouted, “Ae Bhikari … Wahan Mat Baith (Hey Beggar … don’t sit there).”

 

“Main Bhikari Nahin Hoon … Main Fauji Hoon (I am not a beggar … I am a soldier),” protested the soldier.

 

“Phir Border Pe Ja Kar Lad (Then go and fight on the border),” the policeman said with sarcasm.

 

“Wahi to kar raha tha (That is what I was doing),” the soldier mumbled to himself.

 

As the soldier tottered on the street on his crutches he talked to himself. He had been a fool to be brave. He should have played safe. At least he wouldn’t have lost his leg. And he wouldn’t have been discharged from the army as medically unfit.

 

Now he was being made to run from pillar to post for his disability pension because just because some clerk had “misplaced” his documents.

 

The soldier was exasperated.

 

In the army he was expected to do everything promptly and properly in double-quick time.

 

But these civilians were just not bothered.

 

First the paperwork was delayed due to red tape.

 

Then there were some careless typographical errors in his papers and his documents had to be sent back for the necessary corrections.

 

And now his papers had been misplaced.

 

It was sad.

 

Nobody was bothered about his plight.

 

The civilian babus comfortably cocooned in their secure 9 to 5 five-day-week jobs were slack and indifferent and did not give a damn for the soldiers they were meant to serve.

 

Civilians expected soldiers to be loyal unto the grave without offering loyalty in return.

 

“What is the big deal if you lost a leg?” one cruel clerk had remarked mockingly, “You soldiers are paid to fight. And if you die, or get wounded, it is a part of your job. You knew the risks before you joined, didn’t you? If you wanted to live a safe life why did you become a soldier? You should have become a chaprassi (peon) like your friend.”

 

Tears rolled down the soldier’s cheek as he thought of this.

 

Others were not so cruel and heartless, but their sympathy was tinged with scorn.

 

Indeed, he should have become a chaprassi like his friend who was now helping him get his disability pension.

 

Both he and his friend had been selected for the post of peon in a government office.

 

But he had been a fool – he told everyone that it was below his dignity to work as achaprassi and then he went to recruitment rally and joined the army as a soldier.

 

He made fun of his friend who took up the job of a peon and boasted with bloated pride about being a soldier.

 

And now the tables had turned and the peon was having the last laugh on the soldier.

 

The peon was secure in his job while the soldier was out on the street, crippled for life and begging for his pension.

 

And now his friend wasn’t even called a chaprassi – they had upgraded all Class-4 to Class-3 and his friend was now designated as “assistant”.

 

His friend would retire at the age of 60 after a safe, secure, easy, tension-free career without any transfers or hardships.

 

And if he got disabled they wouldn’t throw him out.

 

And if he died, his wife or son or daughter would get a job in his place.

 

Nothing like that for the soldier. He had to fend for himself.

 

The soldier felt disheartened.

 

He looked at his amputated leg and deeply regretted his decision to join the army.

 

Indeed he had made a mistake.

 

He would have been much better off as a peon or in some other civilian job.

 

The soldier also felt a sense of guilt that he had made fun of his friend.

 

Today he was at his friend’s mercy.

 

The soldier had to live on the kindness of the man he had once ridiculed and scoffed at.

 

It was a terrible feeling.

 

It was more than six months as he anxiously waited for his pension and dues.

 

His friend had given the soldier, and his family, shelter and food. And now he was trying to help him out by running around from office to office using the “peon network” to trace the misplaced papers.

 

The soldier felt sorry for his hapless wife.

 

She was at the mercy of his friend’s wife who openly derided her and made her displeasure quite clear by making scathing comments about the soldier, his wife and their children and kept on carping about how they were sponging on her hospitality like parasites.

 

The soldier’s wife hated his friend’s wife but she had to suffer the humiliation in silence and bear the daily insults – it was terrible to be at the mercy of someone who detested you.

 

Today the friend had asked the soldier to stand outside the gate and gone into the accounts office alone.

 

He had gone in alone because last time the soldier had spoilt everything by refusing to a pay a bribe to the accounts officer.

 

The soldier had even threatened the accounts officer that he would report the matter.

 

The accounts officer was furious: “Go and report. Nothing will happen. Now I will see to it that your papers are not traced until you die. What do you bloody soldiers think? That you can threaten us? This is not the army. This is the accounts office. Haven’t you heard the saying that the pen is mightier than the sword – now I will show you.”

 

Today his friend had gone inside to negotiate.

 

The clerks had told him not to bring the soldier inside the office as the egoistic accounts officer may get furious on seeing the soldier and everything will be spoilt.

 

Once everything was “settled”, they would try and trace the “misplaced” documents and he could take them out to obtain the soldier’s signature and resubmit the papers for clearance of the disability pension.

 

The soldier waited anxiously in the hot sun for his friend to come out. Angry thoughts buzzed in his mind.

 

“Ungrateful, corrupt people – all these civilians,” the soldier muttered to himself, “we sacrifice our life and limb for their sake and they humiliate us, even ask me to pay a bribe to get my own disability pension.”

 

“Patriotism, heroism, idealism – no one bothers about these things anymore. I made a mistake by joining the army,” he mumbled to himself, “I made a bigger mistake trying to be brave. What was the point of showing courage, initiative, daring and going beyond the call of duty to nab those guys? How does it matter if a few sneak in? Out here in the city, who is bothered about these things anyway? They don’t even know what is happening out there. Had I looked the other way no one would have known and I would not be a one-legged cripple – a langda. And even then, I wish they had shot me in the head and I had died. That would have been better”.

 

The soldier thought of his wife, his children, the bleak future awaiting them.

 

How long would they have to be dependent on the mercy of his friend and his loath wife?

 

He felt sad, very sad, as depressing thoughts of despondency and hopelessness perambulated in his brain.

 

He wondered whether his disability pension problem would be solved today.

 

It was taking long – his friend had gone in at 10 and it was almost 12 noon now.

 

The sweltering summer sun was hot and the soldier felt parched and weak.

 

He had drunk just a cup of tea since they started their journey to the accounts office in the city by bus from their friend’s home in the distant suburbs early in the morning.

 

Suddenly the soldier felt faint, so he walked towards the compound wall of the accounts office, took support and slid down to sit on his haunches.

 

At 12:30 his friend emerged from the gates of the accounts office. He was happy – the bribe had been paid, the documents had been promptly traced. Now all he had to do was get the soldier’s signature on the papers and he had been assured that the soldier’s disability pension and all his dues would be given within a month.

 

He began to look around for the soldier and saw him sitting strangely, propped against the wall.

 

The soldier’s eyes were closed and it seemed that he had fallen asleep.

 

Something seemed amiss, so he briskly walked towards the soldier, bent down and touched the soldier’s shoulder.

 

The soldier fell down to his side.

 

The friend panicked. He thought the soldier had fainted so he started shouting for help.

 

The traffic policeman, the street-cart vendor and some passers-by rushed to help.

 

The policeman told the vendor to sprinkle some water on the soldier’s face but nothing happened.

 

The policeman rang up the police control room for an ambulance.

 

“I hope he is not dead,” the friend said with trepidation.

 

“I don’t know. But it looks like he is totally unconscious. What happened? Who is he? He was muttering that he is a fauji – is he really a soldier?” the policeman asked.

 

The friend told the policeman the soldier’s story – the full story.

 

“Sad,” the policeman said, “very sad – the way they treat our soldiers.”

 

The ambulance arrived.

 

A paramedic examined the soldier and said, “I think he is dead. We will take him to the hospital. There the doctors will examine him and officially pronounce him dead.”

 

“The enemy’s bullets could not do what the babus did – the enemy’s bullets could not kill him but the these babus  killed him,” the policeman commented.

 

“Yes, the accounts officer was right,” the distraught friend said, “the pen is indeed mightier than the sword.”

 

 

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2012

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.

DEAD END – A Fiction Short Story

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

Click the link above and read the story in my creative writing journal.

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve.

Click the link above and read my journal

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.

Click the link above to read the story in my journal

SAPIENCE – My Favourite Short Stories Revisited Part 25

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: SAPIENCE – My Favourite Short Stories Revisited Part 25.

Click the link above to read one of my earliest short stories SAPIENCE

EGGS VODKA and a KISS

Click the link below and read the story and the recipe in my journal

http://karvediat.blogspot.com/2011/11/food-sex-perception-food-for-thought.html

Rest in Peace – RIP.

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

Click the link above and REST IN PEACE

MARRIAGE A LA MODE – MY FAVOURITE SHORT STORIES Part 31

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: MARRIAGE A LA MODE – MY FAVOURITE SHORT STORIES Part 31.

Click the link above and read in my creative writing journal

Regards

Vikram Karve