Posts Tagged ‘blogging’

WORRY AMMA and ME – A Humorous Romance Story

October 24, 2014

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

October 17, 2014

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

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve

October 5, 2012

Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve.

Click the link above and read my journal

MARRIAGE A LA MODE – MY FAVOURITE SHORT STORIES Part 31

August 29, 2011

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

URBANIZATION OF THE MOFUSSIL GIRL – Story of a Modern Girl

August 5, 2011

URBANIZATION OF THE MOFUSSIL GIRL – Story of a Modern Girl.

Click the link above and read the story on my creative writing blog

Regards

Vikram Karve

Vikram Karve: SOCIAL NETWORKING – THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS

February 12, 2011

Vikram Karve: SOCIAL NETWORKING – THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS.

 
Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: SOCIAL NETWORKING – THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS

SOCIAL NETWORKING – THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS

CYBER SPACE and VIRTUAL REALITY

VIRTUAL REALITY
A Mulla Nasrudin Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Thanks to the advent of the internet, now-a-days, we have the opportunity to live in two worlds, the real world and the virtual world, and have two identities, online and offline, maintain two lives, one in real space and one in cyberspace, and have two kinds of friends, even relationships, virtual and real, offline and online.
Internet is a great tool for social networking and it enables us to live two lives and enjoy the benefits of instant interaction and friendships across the globe and facilitates us to enjoy the best of both worlds.
It is good to have the best of both worlds, the real and the virtual, as long as you maintain a balance.

Here is one of my favourite Mulla Nasrudin stories which exemplifies this …

Mulla Nasrudin bought a beautiful house at a picturesque place far away from civilization high up in the hills.

From time to time he would suddenly pack his bags, leave the city, and go away to his house in the hills, disappearing for days, sometimes for weeks, sometimes for months.

And just as suddenly as he used to disappear, he used to unpredictably return back to the city, suddenly, without any warning or notice.

When asked the reason for his erratic and whimsical behaviour, Nasrudin explained: 

“I have kept a caretaker woman up there in the hills to look after my house. She is the ugliest woman – horrible, repulsive, hideous, and nauseating. Just one look at her and one feels like vomiting.

When I go to live there, at first she looks horrible. But slowly, slowly, after a few lonely days, she is not so horrible. Then after some more desolate forlorn days, she doesn’t seem that undesirable. And as more and more time passes in lonesome seclusion, a day comes when I start seeing some beauty in her.

The day I start seeing beauty in that horrid woman I know that it is time to escape from my virtual world in the hills.

The day I start getting attracted to the hideous woman means enough is enough – I have lived away from the real world for too long – now even this horrible revolting woman has started looking beautiful.

I may even fall in love with this ghastly ugly repugnant woman – that’s dangerous.

Enough is Enough… Enough of the virtual world… it is time to get back to the real world…

So I pack up my things and rush back to the city.”


Dear Reader:
Has your Virtual World, your cyber space, your second life, started looking a bit too “beautiful”…?
Are you spending more time in cyberspace, social networking and interacting with your virtual friends, rather than having face to face interactions and communication with your immediate flesh and blood friends in real space?
Is there an imbalance? Are your virtual relationships overwhelming and taking precedence over your real relationships?
Are you losing touch with reality?
Maybe it is time for you to return back to the Real World, isn’t it…?
Of course, when you get saturated and bored spending too much time in the real world, feel suffocated with relationships in the Real World, you can always go back to the virtual world, your alter ego, and enjoy the best of both worlds, alternating and switching over between both your lives, online and offline, just like Mulla Nasrudin does between the city and the hill-station!
Social Networking gives you a lot of pleasure and satisfaction and internet a great tool for building relationships. It is good to have the best of both worlds, the real and the virtual, as long as you maintain a balance living your life in real space and cyber space.
Good Bye, take care…
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 COCKTAIL which is being published soon and is currently 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.
Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: http://karvediat.blogspot.com
Professional Profile of Vikram Karve:
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Creative Writing by Vikram Karve: http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/blog/posts.htm

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DEAD END

January 22, 2011

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
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.

ROVING EYE

July 11, 2010

ROMANCING MY EX

Fiction Short Story – a romance

By

VIKRAM KARVE

From my archives – One of my earliest fiction short stories written almost 20 years ago way back in the early 1990s when everyone loved travelling by train …

Do tell me if you liked the story …

I stood on the platform of Hyderabad Railway Station with placid indifference.

It was dark, and the incessant rain made the atmosphere quite depressing.

But I was in a state of elation… the long arduous business tour of the South had been successful and I was keen on getting back home to my family in Pune after a month’s absence.

The couple of beers and delicious Biryani Dinner had further enhanced my joyful mood.

The beer had been properly chilled and the meat deliciously succulent. I felt on top of the world.

The train entered the platform.

I entered the air-conditioned sleeper coach and found my berth.

There were four berths in the small enclosure.

I wondered who my companions would be.

I was a typical middle aged man with a roving eye and a faithful wife.

I was hoping for the best; a bit of flirtation didn’t hurt anyone.

An old lady entered and sat beside me… a disappointing start…!

Suddenly, Rajashree entered the compartment.

I am still not sure as to who was more surprised, Rajashree or me… ?

I certainly hadn’t bargained for this.

We, Rajashree and I, stared at each other incredulously.

I was at my wits’ end when Vijay suddenly came in.

The coincidence was unbelievable.

“What a pleasant surprise, old boy…!” Vijay exclaimed, shaking my hand, “Long time, no see!”

“Glad to see you, too,” I stammered, “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll go out and have some fresh air.”

I looked at Rajashree.

She pointedly avoided my glance and tried to look busy organizing the luggage. No hint of recognition, as if I were a total stranger…!

I made a quick exit to the platform and looked at the clock. There were still ten minutes for the train to start.

As I ambled on the platform, I wondered about the situation.

What were Vijay and Rajashree doing together in the same place?

Were they together, or was it a mere coincidence…?

Maybe they were just two co-travellers, total strangers, like the old woman and I.

If they were together Vijay would have certainly introduced Rajashree to me.

Probably he was too busy with the luggage and the porter.

There was plenty of time to get to the bottom of this mystery. It was a long overnight journey to Pune.

Vijay had been a crony of mine, till a few years ago.

We had studied together and later worked in the same firm till he had migrated to the USA in search of better prospects.

He was an unpretentious, soft-voiced man without temper, drama, or visible emotion. He was a fine gentleman and I was proud to claim his as a friend.

“Meet Rajashree, a friend and associate of mine”, he said as I entered the compartment.

I looked into her eyes and extended my hand.

Rajashree looked ravishing.

Around her slender neck she was wearing an exquisite diamond pendant which enhanced her alluring charm.

Her low-cut blouse, which accentuated the curves of her shapely breasts, made her look temptingly desirable.

She greeted me with a formal namaste, tinged with a chill reserve.

There was not a trace of recognition in her eyes.

I kept staring at her.

The silence was grotesque.

Vijay had introduced Rajashree as a ‘friend’ and ‘associate’ – a rather nebulous description of their relationship.

Was Vijay playing games with me…?

Why was Rajashree behaving in this strange manner, refusing to recognize me…?

Well, if they wanted to play a double game, I’d be too happy to oblige.

A man’s first love fills an enduring place in his heart.

Rajashree had been my protégée. Six years my junior, she was a management trainee when I first met her.

Her vigour was infectious, her wit barbed and she was at once stimulating and overbearing. Spirited and talkative, she always wanted to dominate. She was ambitious and her commitment to her career was complete.

I was her senior manger… it was the fourth job of my career and undoubtedly the best job I had ever held.

Rajashree was extremely competent and I mentored her, helped propel her career… and she made full use of my patronage.

She thirsted for quick success and her ambition took charge of her.

Her faults entirely arose from her overwhelming ambition and self-centeredness. She was impervious to absolutes and could measure her own success only in relation to others.

Despite her frailties and faults, Rajashree was an extremely desirable woman. I was attracted towards her and she responded with passion.

With the clarity of hindsight, I can now say that she led me up the garden path.

I can clearly remember the day I had gifted her that lovely diamond pendant which now adorned her slender neck. It was Rajashree’s twenty-fifth birthday, and after office we were strolling down Opera House intending to have a bowl of zesty Green Chilli Ice Cream at Bachellor’s Fruit Juice Stall opposite Chowpatty, and then spend the evening romancing the sunset on Marine Drive followed by dinner at her favourite restaurant in Churchgate.

I don’t know what made me do it, but suddenly, on the spur of the moment, I took her hand and led her into a posh jewellery shop and grandly asked her to choose her birthday present.

She promptly obliged by selecting a chic, exclusive, gorgeous and most expensive diamond pendant.

My credit cards and cheque book saved the day, but the impulsive birthday gift, which cost me a fortune, almost made me bankrupt.

But then, to me, it did not matter.

That night, for the first time, she made love to me.

Then we became lovers, I was madly in love with her, even proposed to her, she accepted, soon we got engaged and Rajashree became my fiancée.

Meanwhile, right from the beginning of our relationship, the office grapevine was working overtime. The love affair destabilized working relationships in my department.

Suddenly, everything started to go wrong for me at work.

My career took a down-swing and I was passed over for promotion.

Rajashree dropped me like a hot potato.

She didn’t want to be identified with a symbol of failure… she didn’t care for losers.

Now that I was of no use to her in furthering her ambitions, she abandoned me and cleverly latched on and ingratiated herself to a new powerful patron.

Her rise was rapid.

Within days she became my peer, and soon Rajashree broke the glass ceiling and became my boss.

Just imagine my plight and shame – my ex-protégée had now become my boss.

I accepted our reversal in roles with grace and tried to maintain a cordial working relationship, but Rajashree was ruthless.

It was the most humiliating time of my life and I still smart from the pain of those memories.

Soon the relationship between us had become so demoralized by hate and distrust that it was better severed than patched up.

I quit my job and moved to a new place.

I shed my pique and rancour and rebounded back fresh with zest.

I did well in my new job, got married to a nice back-home-type girl and settled down, and soon was living the life of a happy and contented family man.

The ticket-collector interrupted my chain of thoughts.

I noticed that Rajashree and Vijay were travelling together on a common ticket – so that was it – “Friends”, “Associates”, “Companions” – many nuances are possible in the relationship between a man and a woman.

I decided to go in for the kill.

“That’s a lovely pendant,” I said boldly to Rajashree, “it must have cost you a fortune.”

Rajashree ignored me.

Vijay gave her a canny look.

“You shouldn’t wear such expensive jewellery while travelling,” I added. “It is very dangerous, especially in trains.”

“He is right. You must be careful,” Vijay said to Rajashree.

Vijay was now looking curiously at the pendant, “Rajashree, it is really a very elegant and beautiful pendant. Fantastic diamond – must be very expensive. How much did it cost…?”

“No, No – it’s just costume jewellery, imitation stuff,” Rajashree said, “I picked it up in the lanes near Charminar, yesterday, for a couple of rupees.”

“What nonsense,” the old lady co-passenger sitting opposite Rajashree suddenly interjected out of the blue. “That is a superb diamond. And it is certainly not costume jewellery. It’s a beautifully crafted premium necklace.”

“No, No – it’s imitation …I know …I bought it…” Rajashree stammered nervously, trying to cover the necklace with the palu of her sari.

“Imitation diamond – what nonsense – that’s a genuine top-grade ornament…!” the lady said vehemently, “I should know. I’m a trained gemmologist and jewellery designer. Come on, young girl, show me the diamond, the pendant, and I will tell you its true price.”

Rajashree looked nervous. She put her hands over her neck.

“Let the lady have a look the necklace,” I spoke looking directly into Rajashree’s eyes. “I had once bought a diamond pendant exactly like the one you are wearing for my fiancée. I want to know whether I got my money’s worth.”

Rajashree looked dumbstruck, sat still, frozen, not knowing what to do.

Taking advantage, I moved fast, unfastened the clasp, removed the ornament from Rajashree’s neck and gave the necklace to the old lady.

My unexpected action hadn’t given Rajashree any time to react and she was frozen stunned.

I looked roguishly at Rajashree.

She was staring at me totally bewildered with wide and terrified eyes. Her eyes held a desperate appeal. She had suddenly become small, weak and vulnerable.

I saw tears of shame start in her eyes and her face became so ashen that she looked as thought she were about to faint.

I did not rebuke her for her mendacity.

There was no need.

Her guilt and shame itself were Rajashree own worst reprimand.

As the old lady was meticulously scrutinizing the diamond pendant, comprehension slowly dawned on Vijay.

The train was slowing down to stop at a station.

“Come, let’s go out on the platform,” Vijay said to me putting his hand affectionately on my shoulder, “I desperately need a breath of fresh air…!”

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 Trainer Manager 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

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

Email: vikramkarve@sify.com

MELTING MOMENTS Fiction Short Story – A Passionate Romance

December 14, 2009

MELTING MOMENTS

Fiction Short Story – A Passionate Romance
By

VIKRAM KARVE

Jayashree entered my life the moment I saw her photograph on Sanjay’s desk.

And my life changed forever!

Till that moment, I had never wanted anything belonging to anyone else.

I stared transfixed at her photo, enthralled, totally captivated by her beauty.

“Sir, this is Jayashree, my wife!” Sanjay said, getting up form the swivel chair.

He picked up the framed photograph and showed it to me.

I took her picture in my hand and looked intently at her, totally mesmerized.

What a stunning beauty!

Never before had the mere sight of a woman aroused such strong passions, and a yearning desire in me to this extent.

Sanjay was talking something, but it didn’t register.

I hastily said, “Cute!” for I believe that thoughts can transmit themselves if they are strong enough!

I thought Sanjay seemed just a trifle taken aback, but he smiled, and pulled out a photo-album from the drawer.

He began showing me the photographs and started describing his home, his family, his wedding, his honeymoon – the wonderful days they had spent together in Goa.

I took the album from him and looked at a photograph of Jayashree in a bathing suit which was so revealing that she might as well have worn nothing, but she conveyed such innocence that it was obvious that she had no inkling of this.

She looked ravishing. Absolutely Breathtaking! Her exquisite body was boldly outlined under the flimsy fabric and she radiated a tantalizing sensuousness with such fervour that I could not take my eyes off her.

“Cute,” I instinctively and unthinkingly said again, and bit my lip; it was the wrong word, but Sanjay didn’t seem to mind; he didn’t even seem to be listening.

Dear Reader, before I proceed further with my story, let me tell you something about myself.

My name is Vijay. At the time of this story I was the Master of a merchant ship – an oil tanker. Sanjay was my Chief Officer – my number two!

He had joined recently and it was our first sailing together.

I had not met him earlier, but in due course he proved to be an excellent deputy. He was young, just thirty, he ran the ship efficiently and I liked him for his good qualities.

But there was something in his eyes that I could not fathom. I shut my mind to it.

It’s extraordinary how close you can be to a man and still know nothing about him.

Sometimes I wondered whether he was much more naïve or a lot more shrewd than I thought.

“Captain, may I ask you a personal question?’ Sanjay asked me one evening, the first time we went ashore.

“Sure,” I said.

“Captain, I was wondering, why didn’t you get married so far?”  Sanjay said with childlike candour.

I sipped my drink and smiled, “I don’t really know. Maybe I am not marriage-material.”

“You tried?”

“Yes.”

“You loved someone?”

I didn’t answer.

And as I thought about it, I felt depressed.

Life was passing me by.

I looked around the restaurant.

The atmosphere was gloomy-dark and quiet. It was late; almost midnight.

Sanjay offered me a cigarette.

His hands were unsteady.

He seemed to be quite drunk.

As we smoked, he lapsed into silence – his eyes closed.

When he opened his eyes, I observed a strange metamorphosis in his expression.

He looked crestfallen; close to tears.

Suddenly, he blurted out, “I wish I had never got married.”

With those few words, Sanjay had bared the secret of his marriage.

As I attempted to smoothen my startled look into a grin, I was ashamed to find that, inwardly, I was glad to hear of his misfortune.

I wondered how I could desire and yearn for Jayashree to this extent without ever having met her in flesh and blood, merely by seeing her photograph?

But it is true; my heart ached whenever I thought of her.

We sailed from Chennai port next morning, and headed for Singapore.

It was the monsoon season and the sea was rough.

As the voyage progressed, the weather swiftly deteriorated.

The ship rolled and pitched feverishly, tossed about by the angry waves.

As we neared the Strait of Malacca, I began to experience a queer sensation – a strange foreboding.

Though I was moulded in a profession where intellect habitually meets danger, I felt restless and apprehensive. I had felt and fought occasional fear before, but this was different – a premonition – a nameless type of fright; a strange feeling of dread and uneasiness.

I tried my best to dispel my fear, thrust away the strange feelings. But all my efforts failed. The nagging uneasiness persisted and soon took charge of me.

It was so dark that I couldn’t even see our ship’s forecastle. The incessant rain and treacherous sea created an eerie atmosphere. I was close to panic as we negotiated the treacherous and hazardous waters of the Strait.

As I stared into the pitch blackness which shrouded the hour moments before the breaking of dawn, a strange tocsin began sounding in my brain – a warning I could not fathom.

The ship was pitching violently. I felt sick with fear and stood gasping for air, clutching the telegraph. I had to get outside, into the fresh air, or I’d suffocate.

As I groped my way along the rail in the bridge-wing, I heard a shrill voice behind me, “Don’t go away, Captain! Please stay. I can’t handle it alone. I can’t. Please, Sir. Don’t go!”

I turned around. It was Sanjay. He looked at me beseechingly with terror and fright in his eyes.

It penetrated to me in flash of revelation what I’d done.

I had transmitted my own fear into my crew. Sanjay was the Chief Officer. For him, to confess in front of the crew, that he could not handle it, brought home to me the fact of how desperate he was.

I had to take control at once.” You are not supposed to handle it as long as I’m around,” I shouted. “Go down to your cabin and catch up on your sleep. I don’t want passengers on the bridge. Get out from here.”

The moment those words left my mouth, I instantly regretted what I had said; but it was too late now. Sanjay was close to tears, humiliated in front of the crew. He shamefacedly left the bridge and went down to his cabin.

Suddenly, a searchlight was switched on, dead ahead. Instinctively I shouted an order to the quartermaster to swing the ship across the ship across to starboard. I crossed my fingers, desperately praying to avoid a collision. It was a near-miss, but the searchlight kept following our sheer to starboard.

I was angry now. I stopped the engines, picked up the loudhailer, rushed out the bridge-wing, leaned over, and shouted, “You stupid fools. Are you crazy? What the hell do you think you are doing?”

“We are in distress,” a voice answered. “Throw us a rope.”

I called the boatswain and told him to throw over the monkey-ladder. “Be careful, and report quickly,” I told him.

Ten minutes must have passed but there was no report. The silence was disquieting, ominous. I decided to go to the deck.

Before I could move, four men entered the bridge. They were wearing hoods. As I started at the nozzle of a carbine pointed at me, comprehensive dawned on me pretty fast. This was piracy on the high seas.

Incredible, but true, I had never imagined it would happen to me.

Undecided as to my next move, I stood there feeling far from heroic. There was no question of resistance. After all, this was a merchant ship, not a man-o’-war. Saving the lives of the crew was of paramount importance. The man pointing the carbine at me said softly, “Captain, we are taking over. Don’t try anything foolish. Tell the crew.”

Suddenly, there was deep shuddering sound followed by a deafening roar. The ship rose on top of a steep quivering hill and slithered down its slope. There was a resounding thud followed by reverberating screeching vibrations. We had run aground.

Suddenly the ship lurched wildly, throwing everyone off-balance. Sanjay suddenly appeared out of nowhere, made a running dive and grabbed the carbine from the pirate.

It happened too quickly, and so unexpectedly that I was totally dumbstruck. Everyone seemed to have opened fire. Bullets wildly straddled the bridge.

There was pandemonium, as crew members joined the melee, grappling with the pirates. I hit the deck and froze.

I don’t know who pulled me up, but by then everything was calm and quit. “The pirates have been overpowered,” said the boatswain, “but the Chief Officer ……….”

I followed his gaze.

Sanjay lay on the deck, in a pool of blood.

I knelt down beside him.

His face was vacant, but he tried to focus his eyes on me, whimpering, “Jayashree, Jayashree…” I shook him, he tried to get up, but slumped back – Sanjay was dead!

Six months later I knocked on a door.

There was long wait.

Then Jayashree opened the door.

Her gorgeously stunning dazzling face took my breath away.

She was even more beautiful than her photographs.

Dressed in white sari, she looked so proud in her grief that I felt embarrassed.

I had myself not yet recovered from the shock of Sanjay’s sudden death.

I said, awkwardly, “I am Captain Vijay.”

She looked directly into my eyes and said, “So I see.” Her dark eyes were hostile.

“I am sorry about what happened. Sanjay was a brave man, and we are all proud to have known him.” My words sounded insincere and I felt acutely uncomfortable.

“Proud!” she exclaimed, her magnificent eyes flashing. “Some people might feel grateful, especially those whose life he saved.”

I was stunned by the sting of her bitterness.

Never had I felt such a burning shame; the shame of being held responsible for someone’s death.

I looked at Jayashree helplessly, pleading innocence, but it was of no use.

It was hopeless now to try and explain.

The hurt was deep, and I had to let it go in silence.

Jayashree excused herself, turned and went inside.

It was then that I remembered the real reason for my visit.

I wanted to hand over what remained of Sanjay’s personal effects; an unfinished letter, a dairy, a framed photograph.

I would first give Jayashree the unfinished letter.

Once she read the letter – probably then she would understand the real reason for Sanjay’s reckless bravery, his suicidal heroics; his desperate concern about proving his masculinity.

When Jayashree returned, she was composed.

I gave her Sanjay’s unfinished letter.

She took the letter in her dainty hands and started reading it.

As she silently read on, I saw tears well up in her eyes.

I do not know whether I did the right thing by giving her Sanjay’s unfinished letter.

Probably it would have been wiser to destroy the letter and the diary – better to leave things unspoken and unhealed.

But I had thought it would be better to exorcise the sense of guilt and shame.

Better for me.

Better for Jayashree.

Best for both of us.

It was not easy, but we both had to come to terms with ourselves.

Jayashree finished reading the letter and looked at me, her eyes cold.

I looked at Jayashree, deep into her intoxicating eyes, and she looked into my eyes too.

We looked into each other, transfixed, in silence, a deafening silence.

And suddenly Jayashree’s frozen eyes melted and she smiled.

MELTING MOMENTS

Fiction Short Story – A Passionate Romance
By

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009

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


vikramkarve@sify.com

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

A DIVORCE STORY – MAN WOMAN and CHILD

September 14, 2009

MAN WOMAN and CHILD
[Fiction Short Story]

by

VIKRAM KARVE

“She can take the flat, but I want custody of my son,” the man says emphatically to the marriage counselor in the family court.

“No way,” shouts the woman, “he can keep his flat, his money, everything. I don’t want anything from him. I just want my son.”

The marriage counselor looks at the eight-year-old boy and asks him lovingly, “Dear boy, tell me, what do you want?”

“I want both of them,” the boy says.

“Both of them?” the counselor asks looking a bit puzzled.

“Yes,” the boy says emphatically, “I want both my mummy and my daddy.”

“I think you both should give it a last try, at least for your child’s sake,” the counselor says to the man and the woman.

“No. I’ve had enough. It’s over. We can’t stay with this man!” the woman says.

“We?” the man asks incredulously, “What do you mean ‘we’…Well you are most welcome to go wherever you want, but my son is staying with me. I am his father!”

“And I am his mother!” the woman pleads anxiously to the man, “Listen, I don’t want anything from you – maintenance, alimony, nothing! Just give me my son. I can’t live without him!”

“He’s my son too. I love him and I can’t live without him too!” the man says.

“See,” the counselor appeals to the man and the woman, “You both love your son so much. I still think you should try to reconcile.”

“No. I want out,” the woman says.

“Me too!” the man says.

“Okay, let’s go in,” the counselor says, shrugging her shoulders, “Since you two have agreed on everything else, the judge will probably ask you the same things I asked you, he will talk to the child, and then, considering the child’s age, let him stay with his mother and grant the father visiting rights.”

“This whole system is biased in favor of women! I can look after my son much better than her,” the man says angrily.

“My foot!” the woman says, “You’ll ruin his life. It is better he remains away from your influence!”

“Please don’t fight inside,” the counselor advises, “You want an amicable mutual consent separation, isn’t it?”

And so, the man and the woman separate, a step towards the death of their relationship.

Since their son is a small boy he goes with his mother.

After the six month long separation period is over, the man and woman assemble in the family court for their divorce.

“I want to tell you something,” the woman says to the man.

“What?” the man asks.

“Well I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’ve been seeing someone.”

“And you want to get married to him?”

“Yes.”

“That’s great. Go ahead. Good Luck to you!” the man says, “and who is the lucky guy?”

“Oh yes, he is indeed a lucky guy – He’s a childhood friend. Now he lives in the States and is here on a vacation.”

“So you’re off to the States?”

“Yes. Once all this divorce business is through.”

“Good for you.”

“It’s about our son…” the woman says awkwardly.

“What?” the man asks suspiciously.

“I want to leave him with you. As a gesture of goodwill, let’s say as a parting gift.”

“Goodwill? Parting Gift?” the man asks dumbfounded.

“We thought we should begin life afresh, without the baggage of the past.”

“You call our son the baggage of the past? How dare you? He is your son!” the man says angrily.

“And he is your son too!” the woman says, “He needs a father, especially now.”

“You’ve told the boy?”

“No,” the woman answers.

The man says nothing.

There is silence.

And then the man hesitantly says to the woman, “A friend of mine has just moved in with me. Actually she’s more than a friend. She’s going to live in with me for some time, to get to know each other better, and then we’ll decide. I don’t think it’s the right time for the boy to stay with me. I think you better keep our son with you – as goodwill, a parting gift, from me!”

Strange are the ways of life.

First the parents fought bitterly for his custody and now no one, not his mother nor his father, wants to keep him any longer.

And so the man and the woman each find their new life-partners and live “happily ever after” and their darling son is packed off to boarding school.

Sad, isn’t it, when children become hapless innocent victims of broken marriages.

MAN WOMAN and CHILD

[Fiction Short Story]

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009

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

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

vikramkarve@sify.com

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