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
Creative Writing by Vikram Karve from Pune India – Anthology of Short Stories
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AM I A VICTIM OF DEEMED CORRUPTION.
Click the link above and read on my creative writing blog.
The article is posted below too:
AM I A VICTIM OF DEEMED CORRUPTION ?
This morning while discussing recent events pertaining to Anna Hazare’s Anti-Corruption Movement, the Lokpal Bill and current events, someone mentioned the term “Deemed Corruption”. He said that if a government servant delays the work of a citizen beyond a reasonable time then that government servant will be deemed to be corrupt and it will be a case of deemed corruption. After hearing this, I thought of a recent problem which is happening to me and I wonder whether I am unwittingly a victim of deemed corruption.
When I was in the navy we were required to be prompt in the performance of our duties, but unfortunately the same promptness was not shown towards us by various civilian “babus” especially those in accounts offices. And now, for no fault of mine, I am facing a problem after my retirement too, owing to the indifferent attitude of the lower bureaucracy. I retired almost one year ago but even till today a part of my retirement benefits have been withheld because of gross inefficiency on the part of a nameless faceless clerk. Let me tell you about it.
Our Accounts Office withheld a substantial amount from my retirement benefits for adjustments towards house rent since my original rent bills were not received by them from the MES (Military Engineering Service) from the year 2008 onwards despite reminders. (I had no role to play in this – the MES is required to directly send the bills to our Accounts Office promptly in a time bound manner). Of course, my pay office had been deducting provisional house rent every month from my salary but they said they had to reconcile with the original rent bills, adjust plus or minus, get it audited, and only then could they release the money due to me.
I occupied those government quarters in 2008 and vacated them in 2010. Monthly provisional rent has been regularly recovered from me. The biggest joke is that the MES has issued me a Final Clearance Certificate and a Final No Demand Certificate when I vacated the house. These certificates have been sent to the Accounts Office. But all this is of no use as they want the original rent bills from the MES and there is nothing I can do about it except write reminders and wait patiently.
Someone told me that as per norms the MES is required to send rent bills to the accounts office every quarter (within three months) but in this case the work has been delayed by almost four years by some clerk in the MES and I am the loser for no fault of mine. There is no effective grievance redressal machinery to whom I can complain. All that is happening is that there is ever-increasing correspondence as letters and reminders are being exchanged between various agencies but nothing seems to move the mighty clerks of the MES.
I wonder whether this inordinate delay is due to inefficiency or is it a case of deemed corruption?
Is it possible that my work is being purposely delayed because I did not pay the required “mamool” or speed money? Frankly I don’t know whether I have to pay a bribe to the MES clerks in order to get this routine work done – I have never done so before and I am not going to do so now.
This case shows that how the clerks of the lower bureaucracy are supreme. They have no accountability and seem to be invulnerable. No one is held responsible for such delays and for non-performance of their duties. I am sure many such cases of “deemed corruption” are happening everywhere and common citizens are suffering for no fault of theirs as their work is inordinately delayed by lower bureaucracy.
Anna Hazare is right. Whereas Grand Corruption and Multi-Crore Scams grab the headlines and this may be important at the macro level as it affects the nation, at the micro level, it is petty corruption by the lower bureaucracy which is troubling the common citizen. It will be a great relief to the common man if the chronic problem of omnipresent all-pervading petty corruption can be addressed effectively.
I wish the government enacts a strong and effective Lokpal Bill which brings the lower bureaucracy under its purview, specifies a time bound Citizens Charter, implements and puts in place an effective, prompt, easy to use, e-governance style IT Based online Grievance Redressal Mechanism and, most importantly, incorporates the concept of deemed corruption and stipulates severe punishment and heavy penalties for those indulging in deemed corruption and harassing the common citizen. This will surely help alleviate the distress caused to the common citizen.
PS – As far as my case is concerned, I don’t know what to do. Any suggestions on how to solve my problem?
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© vikram karve., all rights reserved.
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Vikram Karve : FOOD – HOW TO EAT IT.
Create a positive eating atmosphere, an environment of happy conducive vibes, honour your taste buds, respect your food and eat it in a proper state of mind, with love, zest, awareness and genuine appreciation and it will transport you to a state of bliss and happiness.
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.
http://shopping.sify.com/appetiteforastroll-vikram-karve/books/9788190690096.htm
Short Stories Book:
Cocktail – Short Stories about Relationships :
http://www.facebook.com/notes.php?pages#!/pages/Cocktail-by-Vikram-Karve-APK-Publishers/177873552253247
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Vikram Karve: SOCIAL NETWORKING – THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS.
Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: SOCIAL NETWORKING – THE BEST OF BOTH WORLDS
http://shopping.sify.com/appetiteforastroll-vikram-karve/books/9788190690096.htm
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Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: A POET AND HIS MUSE.
But one thing is sure. This is the happiest moment of his life.
Chotte Lal experiences an ecstatic feeling of pride, joy, thrill – I really have no words to describe this unique emotion, but if you are a writer, just recall the moment when you saw your first creative effort in print, and you will understand what I mean.
Everyday as he looked up from his lowly place beside the railway tracks fascinated by the sight of the haughty engine drivers speeding by, roughly snatch the tokens he held up for them, and then rudely throw their tokens kept in small leather pouches mounted on large cane rings at a distance for him to fetch and hand over to the signalman, his resolve became stronger and stronger, and Chotte Lal’s father dreamed of the moment when his son, sitting in the driver’s seat, would pick up the token from him.
Chotte Lal certainly doesn’t belong here amongst this hard drinking rough and earthy fraternity.
Chotte Lal lives on a higher plane – while his compatriots drink and gamble to pass their time in their leisure and changeover breaks, Chotte Lal reads, and now, he writes.
Had Chotte Lal got the proper opportunity he would be a man of erudition, but as I have already told you, circumstances willed otherwise and poor Chotte Lal he had no choice.
This quaint mofussil town boasts of a newspaper – a four page tabloid really.
The back page of this local rag features crosswords, tit-bits, and creative contributions from readers, which Chotte Lal always reads with avid interest and it was his dream to see his own creative writing printed right there on that page one day.
His wife of twenty years opens the door, gives him a preoccupied look, and begins walking towards the kitchen.
A boy is waiting for her on a motorcycle. Maybe it’s her college classmate, her boyfriend, maybe… Chotte Lal realises how little he knows about his children.
His son – he has already gone to the city to work in his uncle’s company. He is obsessed with earning money and has no time for the finer things of life. Like mother like son. He feels sad. It’s a pity, a real pity.
There is nothing worse for a man than to realise that his wife, his son are ashamed of him.
Maybe his daughter will appreciate his poem, his talent, his creative genius, his worth – after all she is a student of arts.
Then, she takes out the precious newspaper which Chotte Lal has given her. Chotte Lal looks on in anticipation. Maybe his daughter is going to show the poem to the boy.
Yes, Chotte Lal’s daughter does take out the newspaper from her bag. But she doesn’t even open it, leave alone showing her father’s poem to her friend. She just crumples the newspaper and wipes the motorcycle seat with it and throws it on the ground.
Then she sits on the seat and they drive off on the motorcycle.
He picks up the newspaper and they both, Master and dog, walk towards Ram Bharose’s Dhaba.
Since then Engine remained home, and whenever Chotte Lal was away on duty, poor Engine was dependent on the reluctant love of his wife who Chotte Lal suspected actually liked the cheerful dog.
Chotte Lal looks admiringly at Engine – his sincere patron, a true connoisseur who understands, appreciates.
He gets the inner urge to write, to express, to say something – Engine has ignited the spark of creativity within him.
Moments later, the creativity within him unleashed, Chotte Lal sits at his desk and pours out his latent emotions, his inner feelings, on paper, writing poem after poem, while his darling pet dog, his stimulus, his inspiration, his muse, his motivating “Engine”, sits loyally by his side looking lovingly at his Master with undisguised affection.
And so, the Railway Engine Driver Chotte Lal creates and his “Creative Engine” inspires and appreciates – they sit together in sublime unison – the Poet and his Muse – in perfect creative harmony.
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog:
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A young IT professional discovers her true metier.
Please click on the title link below and read on my creative writing blog
A Leisurely Romance – A LAZY HOT AFTERNOON IN MUMBAI.
Thank you
Regards
Vikram Karve
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LOVE TORN APART
Fiction Short Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
One of my earliest fiction short stories set on the beautiful Nilgiri Mountain Railway – for old times’ sake…
Lovedale.
A quaint little station on the Nilgiri Mountain Railway that runs from Mettupalayam in the plains up the Blue Mountains on a breathtaking journey to beautiful Ooty, the Queen of Hill Stations.
On Lovedale railway station there is just one small platform – and on it, towards its southern end, there is a solitary bench.
If you sit on this bench you will see in front of you, beyond the railway track, an undulating valley, covered with eucalyptus trees, and in the distance the silhouette of a huge structure, which looks like a castle, with an impressive clock-tower.
In this mighty building is located a famous boarding school – one of the best schools in India. Many such ‘elite’ schools are known more for snob value than academic achievements, but this one is different – it is a prestigious public school famous for its rich heritage and tradition of excellence.
Lovedale, in 1970.
That is all there is in Lovedale – this famous public school, a small tea-estate called Lovedale (from which this place got its name), a tiny post office and, of course, the lonely railway platform with its solitary bench.
It’s a cold damp depressing winter morning, and since the school is closed for winter, the platform is deserted except for two people – yes, just two persons – a woman and a small girl, shivering in the morning mist, sitting on the solitary bench.
It’s almost 9 o’clock – time for the morning “toy-train” from the plains carrying tourists via Coonoor to Ooty, the “Queen” of hill-stations, just three kilometres ahead – the end of the line. But this morning the train is late, probably because of the dense fog and the drizzle on the mountain-slopes, and it will be empty – for there are hardly any tourists in this cold and damp winter season.
“I’m dying to meet mummy. And this stupid train – it’s always late,” the girl says.
She is dressed in school uniform – gray blazer, thick gray woollen skirt, navy-blue stockings, freshly polished black shoes, her hair tied smartly in two small plaits with black ribbons.
The woman, 55 – maybe 60, dressed in a white sari with a thick white shawl draped over her shoulder and a white scarf around her head covering her ears, looks lovingly at the girl, softly takes the girl’s hand in her own, and says, “It will come. Look at the weather. The driver can hardly see in this mist. And it must be raining down there in Ketti valley.”
“I hate this place. It’s so cold and lonely. Everyone has gone home for the winter holidays and we have nowhere to go. Why do we have to spend our holidays here every time?”
“You know we can’t stay with her in the hostel.”
“But her training is over now. And she’s become an executive – that’s what she wrote.”
“Yes. Yes. She is an executive now. After two years of tough training. Very creditable; after all that has happened,” the old woman says.
“She has to take us to Mumbai with her now. We can’t stay here any longer. No more excuses now.”
“Even I don’t want to stay here. It’s cold and I am old. Let your mummy come. This time we’ll tell her to take us all to Mumbai.”
“And we’ll all stay together – like we did before God took Daddy away.”
“Yes. Mummy will go to work. You will go to school. And I will look after the house and all of you. Just like before.”
“Only Daddy won’t be there. Why did God take Daddy away?” the girl says, tears welling up in her eyes.
“Don’t think those sad things. We cannot change what has happened. You must be brave – like your mummy,” says the old lady putting her hand softly around the girl.
The old lady closes her eyes in sadness.
There is no greater pain than to remember happier times when in distress.
Meanwhile the toy-train is meandering its way laboriously round the steep u-curve, desperately pushed by a hissing steam engine, as it leaves Wellington station on its way to Ketti.
A man and a woman sit facing each other in the tiny first class compartment.
There is no one else in the compartment.
“You must tell her today,” the man says.
“Yes,” the woman replies softly.
“You should have told her before.”
“Told her before…? How…? When…?”
“You could have written, called her up. I told you so many times.”
“How can I be so cruel…?”
“Cruel…? What’s so cruel about it…?”
“I don’t know how she will react. She loved her father very much.”
“Now she will have to love me. I am her new father now.”
“Yes, I know,” the woman says, tears welling up in her eyes, “I don’t know how to tell her; how she’ll take it. I think we should wait for some time. Baby is very sensitive.”
“Baby! Why do you still call her Baby…? She is a grown up girl now. You must call her by her real name. Damayanti – what a nice name – and you call her Baby…!”
“It’s her pet name. Deepak always liked to call her Baby.”
“Well I don’t like it…! It’s childish, ridiculous…!” the man says firmly, “Anyway, all that we can sort out later. But you tell her about us today. Tell both of them.”
“You want me to tell both of them right now…? My mother-in-law also…? What will she feel…? She will be shocked…!”
“She’ll understand.”
“Poor thing. She will be all alone.”
“Stop saying ‘poor thing… poor thing’. She’ll be okay. She’s got her work to keep her busy.”
“She’s old and weak. I don’t think she’ll be able to do that matron’s job much longer.”
“Let her work till she can. At least it will keep her occupied. Then we’ll see.”
“Can’t we take her with us…?”
“You know it’s not possible.”
“It’s so sad. She was so good to me. Where will she go…? We can’t abandon her just like that…!”
“Abandon…? Nobody is abandoning her. Don’t worry. If she doesn’t want to stay on here, I’ll arrange something – I know an excellent place near Lonavala. She will be very comfortable there – it’s an ideal place for senior citizens like her.”
“You want to me to put her in an Old-Age Home…?”
“Call it what you want but actually it’s quite a luxurious place. She’ll be happy there. I’ve already spoken to them. Let her continue here till she can. Then we’ll shift her there.”
“I can’t be that cruel and heartless to my mother-in-law. She was so loving and good to me, treated me like her own daughter, and looked after Baby, when we were devastated. And now we discard her when she needs us most,” the woman says, and starts sobbing.
“Come on Kavita. Don’t get sentimental,. You have to face the harsh reality. You know we can’t take your mother-in-law with us. And by the way, she is your ex-mother-in-law now.”
“How can you say that…?”
“Come on, Kavita, don’t get too sentimental…you must begin a new life now…there is no point carrying the baggage of your past…” the man realizes he has said something wrong and instantly apologizes, “I am sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“You did mean it…! That’s why you said it…! I hate you, you are so cruel, mean and selfish,” the woman says, turns away from the man and looks out of the window. They travel in silence, an uneasy disquieting silence.
Suddenly it is dark, as the train enters a tunnel, and as it emerges on the other side, the woman can see the vast lush green Ketti Valley with its undulating mountains in the distance.
“Listen Kavita, I think I’ll also get down with you at Lovedale. I’ll tell them. Explain everything. And get over with it once and for all,” the man says.
“No! No! I don’t even want them to see you. The sudden shock may upset them. I have to do this carefully. Please don’t get down at Lovedale. Go straight to Ooty. I’ll tell them everything and we’ll do as we decided.”
“I was only trying to help you, Kavita. Make things easier for everyone. I want to meet Damayanti. Tell her about us. I’m sure she’ll love me and understand everything.”
“No, please. Let me do this. I don’t want her to see you before I tell her. She’s a very sensitive girl. I don’t know how she’ll react. I’ll have to do it very gently.”
“Okay,” the man says. “Make sure you wind up everything at the school. We have to leave for Mumbai tomorrow. There is so much to be done. We’ve hardly got any time left.”
The steam engine pushing the train huffs and puffs up the slope round the bend under the bridge.
“Lovedale station is coming,” the woman says. She gets up and takes out her bag from the shelf.
“Sure you don’t want me to come with you to the school…?” asks the man.
“No. Not now. You go ahead to Ooty. I’ll ring you up,” says the woman. “Okay. But tell them everything. We can’t wait any longer.”
“Just leave everything to me. Don’t make it more difficult.”
They sit in silence, looking out of different windows, waiting for Lovedale railway station to come.
On the solitary bench on the platform at Lovedale station the girl and her grandmother wait patiently for the train which will bring their deliverance.
“I hate it over here in boarding school. I hate the cold scary dormitories. At night I miss mummy tucking me in. And every night I count DLFMTC…”
“DLFMTC… ?”
“Days Left For Mummy To Come…! Others count DLTGH – Days Left To Go Home…”
“Next time you too …”
“No. No. I am not going to stay here in boarding school. I don’t know why we came here to this horrible place. I hate boarding school. I miss mummy so much. We could have stayed on in Mumbai with her.”
“Now we will be all staying in Mumbai. Your mummy’s training is over. She can hire a house now. Or get a loan. We will try to buy a good house. I’ve saved some money too.”
The lone station-master of the forlorn Lovedale Railway Station strikes the bell outside his office.
The occupants of the solitary bench look towards their left.
There is no one else on the platform.
And suddenly the train emerges from under the bridge – pushed by the hissing steam engine.
Only one person gets down from the train – a beautiful woman, around 30.
The girl runs into her arms.
The old woman walks towards her with a welcoming smile.
The man, sitting in the train, looks furtively, cautious not to be seen.
A whistle; and the train starts and moves out of Lovedale station towards Fern Hill tunnel on its way to Ooty – the end of the line.
That evening the small girl and her granny sit near the fireplace with the girl’s mother eating dinner and the woman tells them everything.
At noon the next day, four people wait at Lovedale station for the train which comes from Ooty and goes down to the plains – the girl, her mother, her grandmother and the man.
The girl presses close to her grandmother and looks at her new ‘father’ with trepidation. He gives her a smile of forced geniality.
The old woman holds the girl tight to her body and looks at the man with distaste.
The young woman looks with awe, mixed with hope, at her new husband.
They all stand in silence. No one speaks. Time stands still.
And suddenly the train enters.
“I don’t want to go,” the girl cries, clinging to her grandmother.
“Don’t you want to stay with your mummy…? You hate boarding school don’t you…? ” the man says extending his hand.
The girl recoils and says, “No. No. I like it here. I don’t want to come. I like boarding school. I want to stay here.”
“Come Baby, we have to go,” her mother says as tears well up in her eyes.
“What about granny…? How will she stay here all alone…? No mummy – you also stay here. We all will stay here. Let this man go to Mumbai,” the girl pleads.
“Damayanti…! I am your new father…!” the man says firmly to the girl.
And then the man turns to the young woman and he commands, “Kavita. Come. The train is going to leave.”
“Go Baby. Be a good girl. I will be okay,” says the old woman releasing the girl.
As her mother gently holds her arm and guides her towards the train, for the first time in her life the girl feels that her mother’s hand is like the clasp of an iron gate… like manacles.
“I will come and meet you in Mumbai. I promise…” the grandmother says fighting back her tears.
But the girl feels scared – something inside tells her she that may never see her grandmother again.
As the train heads towards the plains, the old woman begins to walk her longest mile – her loneliest mile – into emptiness, a void.
Poor old Lovedale Railway Station.
It wants to cry.
It tries to cry.
But it cannot even a shed a tear.
For it is not human.
So it suffers its sorrow in inanimate helplessness, powerless, hapless, a silent spectator, and a mute witness. Yes, Lovedale helplessly watches love being torn apart.
“Love being torn apart at Lovedale” – a pity, isn’t it…?
Yes, a pity…real pity…!
LOVE TORN APART
Fiction Short Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2010
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
VIKRAM KARVE educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU and The Lawrence School Lovedale, is an Electronics and Communications Engineer by profession, a Human Resource Manager and Trainer by occupation, a Teacher by vocation, a Creative Writer by inclination and a Foodie by passion. An avid blogger, he has written a number of fiction short stories and creative non-fiction articles in magazines and journals for many years before the advent of blogging. His delicious foodie blogs have been compiled in a book “Appetite for a Stroll”. Vikram lives in Pune with his family and pet Doberman girl Sherry, with whom he takes long walks thinking creative thoughts.
Vikram Karve Creative Writing Blog – http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
Professional Profile of Vikram Karve – http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
Email: vikramkarve@sify.com
Links to my creative writing blog and profile
CREATIVE WRITING by VIKRAM KARVE
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