Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: THE VULTURES – a short story.
Click the link above and read the story in my journal
Creative Writing by Vikram Karve from Pune India – Anthology of Short Stories
Academic and Creative Writing Journal Vikram Karve: THE VULTURES – a short story.
Click the link above and read the story in my journal
Posted in creative, english, ezine, fiction, india, indian, karve, literature, online, pune, short, stories, story, vikram, vikram karve, vikram waman karve, women, writing | Tags: author, cocktail, dog, fiction, pet, pune | Leave a Comment »
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Dear Friends,
I have written a book of short stories called COCKTAIL. The twenty-seven stories in this collection explore fascinating aspects of modern day relationships – love, romance, sex, betrayal, marriage, parenting and even pet parenting. Relationships are like cocktails, emotions shaken and stirred, and I assure you that you will enjoy reading these stories.
COCKTAIL is my first book of fiction. I want COCKTAIL to sell well as I feel that the success of this book will be an important launch pad as I embark on my creative writing journey and help me publish my novel, which I am currently writing.
I seek your blessings and good wishes and I am sure you will motivate me by buying a copy of my book COCKTAIL. This appetizing COCKTAIL costs just the same as an alcoholic cocktail, probably less, and I assure you that you will love it.
Please click the link below to buy the book online:
http://www.apkpublishers.com/books/fiction/cocktail_by_vikram_karve.html
You can order it on FLIPKART too. Just click the link below and place your order.
(Please ignore the “out of stock” bit – my publisher assures me the book will be delivered to you by FLIPKART and they will update the status the moment they get an order):
I promise you that you will thoroughly enjoy this delicious COCKTAIL and you will be happy to have this book on your bookshelves.
Warm Regards and Best Wishes
Cheers … !!!
VIKRAM KARVE
Pune
9326177039
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This morning while taking my pet dog Sherry for her morning walk in the fields of Wakad I saw a few donkeys and recalled this story:
A wise man, a renowned teacher, once publicly vowed that he would eradicate illiteracy and he would teach everyone to read.
Some mischievous boys brought a donkey to the teacher and asked him if he could teach the donkey to read.
The wise teacher stunned the students by taking up the challenge and said, “Give me the donkey for a month and I will teach it to read.”
The teacher went home and began to train his donkey to read.
At first he put the donkey into the stable and gave him no food for some days.
Then he found a thick book and put some food between the pages.
In the beginning the teacher turned the pages and gave the donkey the food between the pages.
After a while the donkey learnt to turn the pages with his tongue to find and eat the food by itself.
Each time when the donkey finished the book and found no more food between the pages it would bray: “Eee aah… Eee aah…Eee aah…”
Then the teacher would reward the donkey with some food.
Three days before the one month period was over the teacher stopped feeding the donkey.
For three full days he did not feed the donkey.
The poor starved and famished donkey, after fasting for three days without a morsel of food, was voraciously hungry.
On the fateful day when the whole school assembled to see the miracle of the donkey reading.
The wise teacher brought the ravenously hungry donkey onto the stage.
He asked for a big book and put it in front of the donkey.
The hungry donkey turned the first page of the book with its tongue and when it could not find any food the donkey brayed: “Eee aah… Eee aah…”
Then the donkey turned one more page, and again not finding any food, it cried: “Eee aah… Eee aah…”
The famished donkey kept turning the pages of the book one by one with its tongue and when it could not find any food between the pages its braying grew louder and louder and soon the hapless donkey was turning the pages and shrieking in a loud voice: “Eee aah… Eee aah…” till it reached a crescendo.
Proud of his achievement the wise teacher gave a said to the gathering: “You all have seen that the donkey has turned the pages of the book and he read it.”
One of the naughty students asked: “But we could not understand anything.”
The wise teacher replied: “Of course you could not understand what the donkey read because it was donkey language. In order to understand it you have to learn donkey language. Come to me for tuition in the evening. I will teach you donkey language.”
Moral of the Story
If you want to communicate with a “donkey”, you have to learn “donkey language”.
PS – I always remember this story while training my pet dog Sherry. In fact, not only have I learnt her “dog language” but I have taught her my “human language” too.
Yes, I will tell you how I did it sometime later in my blog.
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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 PERFECT MATCH
Fiction Short Story – A Romance
By
VIKRAM KARVE
I am busy working in my office on the morning of the First of April when my cell phone rings.
It is Sudha, my next door neighbour, so I take the call.
“Vijay, you lucky dog, your life is made,” Sudha says excitedly.
“Lucky Dog? Please, Sudha, I am busy,” I say, a trifle irritated.
“Don’t switch off your cell phone,” Sudha says, “you are going to get a very important phone call.”
“Important call?”
“From the hottest and most eligible woman in town,” Sudha says with exuberance, “She’s fallen head over heels for you, Vijay. She wants to date you.”
“Date me? Who’s this?”
“My boss.”
“Your boss?”
“Come on, Vijay, I told you, didn’t I, about the chic Miss Hoity Toity who joined last week…”
Suddenly it dawns on me and I say to Sudha, “Happy April Fools Day…”
“Hey, seriously, I swear it is not an April Fools’ Day prank. She is really going to ring you up…she desperately wants to meet you…”
“Desperately wants to meet me? I don’t even know her…haven’t even seen her…”
“But she’s seen you…”
“Seen me…where…?”
“Jogging around the Oval Maidan…I think she is stalking you…”
“Stalking me…?”
“She knows everything…your routine…where you stay…that you are my neighbour…so she called me to her office and asked for your mobile number.”
“I’ve told you not to give my number to anyone…”
“I told her…but she said it was very urgent…I think she wants to come over in the evening…”
“This evening…?… I am switching off my mobile…”
“No you don’t…You’ll like her…she is your type…”
“My Type?… What do you mean?…Sudha please…”
“Bye, Vijay…I don’t want to keep your mobile busy…She’ll be calling any time now…Remember, her name is Nisha…All the Best…” Sudha cuts off the phone.
As I wait for the mysterious lady’s call, let me tell you’re a bit about Sudha.
Ever since she dumped me and married that suave, slimy, effeminate, ingratiating sissy Suhas, Sudha probably felt so guilt ridden that she had taken upon herself the responsibility for getting me married.
Sudha was my neighbour, the girl next door; my childhood friend, playmate, classmate, soul-mate, confidante and constant companion. I assumed we would get married but she suddenly fell for Suhas who she met at a training seminar.
I hated Suhas – he was one of those glib, smooth-talking, street-smart, slick characters that adorn the corporate world – a clean-shaven, soft-spoken, genteel, elegantly groomed metrosexual type with an almost feminine voice and carefully cultivated mannerisms as if he had been trained in a finishing school.
At first, I was devastated and could not understand why Sudha had betrayed me, but when Sudha gently explained to me that she always saw me as a friend and never as a husband, I understood and maintained cordial relations with her, though I loathed her husband who had shamelessly moved into her spacious apartment after relocating from Delhi to Mumbai.
Probably Sudha thought I had remained unmarried because of her (which may have been true to an extent) so in order to allay her guilt conscience she kept on setting up dates for me hoping for the best.
The ring of my cell-phone interrupts my train of thoughts.
“Mr. Vijay…?” asks a sweet mellifluous feminine voice.
“Yes,” I say my heartbeat slightly increasing.
“Nisha here,” she says, “Is it a good time to talk.”
“Of course,” I say.
“I want to meet you…Is it okay if I come over to your place this evening…”
My My My!
She comes to the point pretty fast isn’t it?
“Today evening…?” I blurt out a bit incredulous.
“It’s a bit urgent,” she says.
“Sure. You are most welcome,” I stammer recovering my wits.
“Six-thirty…before you go for your jog…or later after you return…or maybe we can meet up at the Oval…”
I am truly stunned… this Nisha is indeed stalking me…meet up at the Oval…as brazen as that… I have never experienced such blatant propositioning…Tocsins sound in my brain…
“Mr. Vijay…” I hear Nisha’s soft voice in the cell-phone earpiece.
“Yes, Yes, six-thirty is absolutely fine…I’ll wait for you in my house…you know the place…” I stutter recovering my wits.
“Yes, I know your place,” Nisha says, “I’ll be there at six-thirty,” and she disconnects.
I go home early, shower, deodorize, groom, titivate, put on my best shirt and wait in eager anticipation for this mysterious woman who is coming onto me so heavily.
Precisely at six-fifteen the bell rings.
I open the door.
“Hi, I’m Nisha,” the stunningly attractive woman in front of me says.
Sudha was right…Nisha is certainly very hot… oh yes, Nisha is indeed my type of woman.
“I’m sorry I’m a bit early, but I noticed you were in, saw your car below…”she says.
‘Noticed I was in’… My, My…She knows my car…about my daily jogs on the Oval…my routine…everything…she’s really hot on my trail…isn’t she?
I look at her. She comes closer towards me.
She looks and smells natural. No attempt to camouflage her raw steamy physical self behind a synthetic mask of make-up and artificial deodorants.
Her persona is tantalizingly inviting and temptingly desirable; her tight-fitting pink T-shirt tucked into hip hugging dark blue jeans accentuate the curves of her exquisite body and she radiates a captivating aura, an extraordinary magnetic attraction, I have never experienced before.
I cannot take my eyes off her, her gorgeous face, her beautiful eyes, her lush skin, so I feast my eyes on her, let my eyes travel all over her shapely body.
The frank admiration in my eyes wins a smile. She lets her eyes hold mine.
“Aren’t you going to ask me to come in?” she smiles as if reading my mind.
“Oh, yes, sorry, please come in,” I say, embarrassed at having eyed her so openly.
I guide her to the sofa and sit as near her as politely possible.
We sit on the sofa. She looks terribly attractive, very very desirable.
Our closeness envelops us in a stimulating kind of intimacy.
Overwhelmed by passion I inch towards her.
She too comes closer.
I sense the beginnings of an experience I have dreamt about in my fantasies.
“Actually, I have come for mating,” she says.
“Mating…?” I exclaim instinctively, totally shocked, stunned beyond belief.
I look at her tremendously excited, yet frightened, baffled, perplexed, wondering what to do, how to make my move, as the improbability of the situation makes me slightly incredulous and bewildered
I notice her eyes search the drawing room, then she looks at the bedroom door, and asks, “Where is your daughter?”
“Daughter? I’m not married,” I say, completely taken aback.
“I know,” she says, “I’m talking about your lovely dog…or rather, bitch…” she laughs tongue-in-cheek.
“I’ve locked her inside. She is not very friendly.”
“I know. Hounds do not like strangers…but don’t worry…soon I won’t be a stranger…” Nisha says, gets up and begins walking towards the closed bedroom door.
“Please,” I say anxiously, “Angel is very ferocious and aggressive.”
“Angel…what a lovely name,” Nisha says, “I have been seeing you two jogging and playing at the Oval. That’s why I have come here…to see your beautiful hound Angel…” and then she opens the door.
Angel looks suspiciously as Nisha enters the bedroom and as she extends her hand towards her to pat her on the head, Angel growls at Nisha menacingly, her tail becomes stiff, and the hackles on her back stiffen, since, like most Caravan Hounds, she does not like to be touched or handled by anyone other than me, her master.
“Please…please…” I plead to Nisha, but she moves ahead undaunted and caresses Angel’s neck and suddenly there is a noticeable metamorphosis in the hound’s body language as the dog recognizes the true dog lover. All of a sudden Angel licks Nisha’s hand, wags her tail and jumps lovingly at Nisha who embraces her.
I am really surprised at the way Nisha is hugging and caressing Angel as not even the most ardent of dog lovers would dare to fondle and take liberties with a ferocious Caravan Hound.
“She’s ideal for Bruno. They’ll love each other,” Nisha says cuddling Angel.
“Bruno?”
“My handsome boy… I was desperately looking for a mate for Bruno…and then I saw her…they’re ideally suited…a perfect made for each other couple.”
“You’ve got a hound?”
“A Mudhol.”
“Mudhol?”
“Exactly like her.”
“But Angel is a Caravan Hound.”
“It’s the same…a Caravan Hound is the same as a Mudhol Hound …in fact, the actual name is Mudhol…”
“I don’t think so.”
“Bet?”
“Okay.”
“Dinner at the place of my choice.”
“Done.”
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To my place.”
“To your place?”
“To meet Bruno…doesn’t Angel want to see him?”
“Of course… me too.”
And so, the three of us, Nisha, Angel and I, drove down to Nisha’s home on Malabar Hill. The moment we opened the door Bruno rushed to welcome Nisha…then gave Angel a tentative look…for an instant both the hounds stared menacingly at each other…Bruno gave a low growl…then extended his nose to scent…Angel melted…it was love at first sight.
Nisha won the bet…we surfed the internet…cross checked in libraries…she was right… Mudhol Hound is the same as Caravan Hound…but not the same as a Rampur, Rajapalyam or Chippiparai Hound.
But that’s another story.
Here is what happened to our “Dating and Mating Story”.
As per our bet, I took Nisha out to dinner – a sumptuous Butter Chicken and Tandoori affair at Gaylord’s. And while we were thoroughly enjoying our food, suddenly, out of the blue, Sudha and her husband landed up there, sat on the neighbouring table, and the way Sudha gave me canny looks, I wonder if it was a “contrived” coincidence.
Angel and Bruno had a successful mating and Nisha and Bruno would visit my pregnant girl every day, and then, on D-Day, Nisha stayed through the night to egg on Angel in her whelping.
Angel gave birth to four cute little puppies, and every day the “doggie” parents and “human” grandparents would spend hours doting on the little ones.
Since Nisha and I could not agree as to who should take which puppy we solved the problem by getting married – strictly a marriage of convenience – but Sudha, her aim achieved, tells me that Nisha and I are the most rocking couple madly in love.
And so now we all live together as one big happy family – ours, theirs, mine and hers.
A PERFECT MATCH
Fiction Short Story – A Romance
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.
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
Posted in creative, english, ezine, fiction, food, india, indian, karve, literature, novel, online, pune, short, stories, story, travel, Uncategorized, vikram, vikram karve, vikram waman karve, women, writing | Tags: anthology, author, bitch, blog, blue cross, breed, caravan, care, chic lit, chick lit, children, chippiparai, creative, date, dating, doberman, dog, eauthor, english, family, fiction, fun, grooming, guard, heavy petting, hound, humor, india, indian, internet, karve, kci, kennel, labrador, literature, love, marriage, match, matchmaking, mate, mating, matrimonial, mixed, mudhol, mumbai, novel, online, parenting, pedigree, pet, play, pune, rajapalayam, rampur, romance, short, short stories, short story, show, soul, stories, story, stray, trainer, training, vikram, vikram karve, watch, web, weblog, website, women, writer, writing | Leave a Comment »
THE ART OF OUTSOURCING
By
VIKRAM KARVE
Short Fiction – One of my favourite fiction short stories…
One leisurely morning, while I am loafing on Main Street, in Pune, I meet an old friend of mine.
“Hi!” I say.
“Hi,” he says, “where to?”
“Aimless loitering,” I say, “And you?”
“I’m going to work.”
“Work? This early? I thought your shift starts in the evening, or late at night. You work at a call center don’t you?”
“Not now. I quit. I’m on my own now.”
“On your own? What do you do?”
“LPO.”
“LPO? What’s that?”
“Life Process Outsourcing.”
“Life Process Outsourcing? Never heard of it!”
“You’ve heard of Business Process Outsourcing haven’t you?”
“BPO? Outsourcing non-core business activities and functions?”
“Precisely. LPO is similar to BPO. There it’s Business Processes that are outsourced, here it’s Life Processes.”
“Life Processes? Outsourced?”
“Why don’t you come along with me? I’ll show you.”
Soon we are in his office. It looks like a mini call center.
A young attractive girl welcomes us. “Meet Rita, my Manager,” my friend says, and introduces us.
Rita looks distraught, and says to my friend, “I’m not feeling well. Must be viral fever.”
“No problem. My friend here will stand in.”
“What? I don’t have a clue about all this LPO thing!” I protest.
“There’s nothing like learning on the job! Rita will show you.”
“It’s simple,” Rita says, in a hurry. “See the console. You just press the appropriate switch and route the call to the appropriate person or agency.”
And with these words Rita disappears. It’s the shortest induction training I have ever had in my life.
And so I plunge into the world of Life Process Outsourcing; or LPO as they call it.
It’s all very simple.
Everyone is busy. Working people don’t seem to have time these days, but they have lots of money; especially those double income couples, IT nerds, MBA hot shots, finance wizards; just about everybody running desperately in the modern rat race.
So what do they do? Simple. They ‘outsource’!
‘Non-core Life Activities’, for which you neither have the inclination or the time – you just outsource them; so you can maximize your work-time to rake in the money and make a fast climb up the ladder of success.
A ring, a flash on the console infront of me and I take my first LPO call.
“My daughter’s puked in her school. They want someone to pick her up and take her home. I’m busy in a shoot and just can’t leave,” a creative ad agency type with a husky voice says.
“Why don’t you tell your husband?” I suggest.
“Are you crazy or something? I’m a single mother.”
“Sorry ma’am. I didn’t know. My sympathies and condolences.”
“Condolences? Who’s this? Is this LPO?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say, press the button marked ‘children’ and transfer the call, hoping I have made the right choice. Maybe I should have pressed ‘doctor’.
Nothing happens for the next few moments. I breathe a sigh of relief.
A yuppie wants his grandmother to be taken to a movie. I press the ‘movies’ button. ‘Movies’ transfers the call back, “Hey, this is for movie tickets; try ‘escort services’. He wants the old hag escorted to the movies.”
‘Escort Services’ are in high demand. These guys and girls, slogging in their offices minting money, want escort services for their kith and kin for various non-core family processes like shopping, movies, eating out, sight seeing, marriages, funerals, all types of functions; even going to art galleries, book fairs, exhibitions, zoos, museums or even a walk in the nearby garden.
A father wants someone to read bedtime stories to his small son while he works late. A busy couple wants proxy stand-in ‘parents’ at the school PTA meeting. An investment banker rings up from Singapore; he wants his mother to be taken to pray in a temple at a certain time on a specific day.
Someone wants his kids to be taken for a swim, brunch, a play and browsing books and music.
A sweet-voiced IT project manager wants someone to motivate and pep-talk her husband, who’s been recently sacked, and is cribbing away at home demoralized. He desperately needs someone to talk to, unburden himself, but the wife is busy – she neither has the time nor the inclination to take a few days off to boost the morale of her depressed husband when there are deadlines to be met at work and so much is at stake.
The things they want outsourced range from the mundane to the bizarre; life processes that one earlier enjoyed and took pride in doing or did as one’s sacred duty are considered ‘non-core life activities’ now-a-days by these highfalutin people.
At the end of the day I feel illuminated on this novel concept of Life Process Outsourcing, and I am about to leave, when suddenly a call comes in.
“LPO?” a man asks softly.
“Yes, this is LPO. May I help you?” I say.
“I’m speaking from Frankfurt Airport. I really don’t know if I can ask this?” he says nervously.
“Please go ahead and feel free to ask anything you desire, Sir. We do everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yes, Sir. Anything and everything!” I say.
“I don’t know how to say this. This is the first time I’m asking. You see, I am working 24/7 on an important project for the last few months. I’m globetrotting abroad and can’t make it there. Can you please arrange for someone suitable to take my wife out to the New Year’s Eve Dance?”
I am taken aback but quickly recover, “Yes, Sir.”
“Please send someone really good, an excellent dancer, and make sure she enjoys and has a good time. She loves dancing and I just haven’t had the time.”
“Of course, Sir.”
“And I told you – I’ve been away abroad for quite some time now and I’ve got to stay out here till I complete the project.”
“I know. Work takes top priority.”
“My wife. She’s been lonely. She desperately needs some love. Do you have someone with a loving and caring nature who can give her some love? I just don’t have the time. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”
I let the words sink in. This is one call I am not going to transfer. “Please give me the details, Sir,” I say softly into the mike.
As I walk towards my destination with a spring in my step, I feel truly enlightened.
Till this moment, I never knew that ‘love’ was a ‘non-core’ ‘life-process’ worthy of outsourcing.
Long Live LPO!
Life Process Outsourcing!
Love Process Outsourcing!
Call it what you like, but I’m sure you’ve got the essence of outsourcing.
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
http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve
http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm
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