KETTI
Short Fiction – A Travel Tale
By
VIKRAM KARVE
From my Creative Writing Archives:
Short Fiction – A Simple Love Story I wrote sometime in the 1990s …
Winter.
Early morning.
Chill in the air.
I stand alone on the metre gauge side of the lonely island platform of Mettupalaiyam Railway Station and stare at the peaks of the Blue Mountains (the Nilgiris) silhouetted in a veil of mist in the distance.
Nothing much has changed here since the last time I came here on my way to Ooty.
It was almost 30 years ago and even now the place, the things, the people – everything looks the same – as if frozen in time.
But for me there is a world of difference.
Then I was a young bride, full of inchoate zest, in the company of my handsome husband, eagerly looking forward to the romantic journey on the toy train of the Nilgiri Mountain Railway on my way to our honeymoon at Ooty.
Then, on my way to my honeymoon, the place felt so exciting.
Now it feels so gloomy.
Strange.
But true.
What’s outside just doesn’t matter; it is what is inside that matters.
I try not to reminisce.
Remembering good times when I am in misery causes me unimaginable agony.
I look at my watch.
7.30 A.M.
The small blue toy train pushed by its hissing steam engine comes on the platform.
Dot on time.
As it was then.
The same chill in the air. The same February morning – the 14th of February – Valentine’s Day.
Then I had the loving warmth of my husband’s arm around me.
Now I feel the bitter cold penetrating within me.
I drag my feet across the platform towards the mountain train – then they called it The Blue Mountain Express – now I don’t know.
Scared, anxious, fear in my stomach, I experience a strange uneasiness, a sense of foreboding, a feeling of ominous helplessness – wondering what my new life would have in store for me.
I sit alone in the First Class compartment right in front of the train and wait for the train to start – the train which is going to take me to the point to no return.
I wish that all this is just a dream.
But I know it is not.
And suddenly, Avinash enters.
We stare at each other in disbelief.
Time stands still.
There is silence, a grotesque silence, till Avinash speaks, “Roopa! What are you doing here?”
I do not answer.
Because I cannot answer.
I am struck dumb, swept by a wave of melancholic despair.
My vocal cords numbed by emotional pain.
I look ineffectually and forlornly at Avinash and I realize that there is no greater pain than to remember happier times when in distress.
“You look good when you get emotional,” Avinash says sitting opposite me.
In the vulnerable emotional state that I am in, I know that I will have a breakdown if I continue sitting with Avinash.
I want to get out, run away; but suddenly, the train moves.
I am trapped.
So I decide to put on a brave front, and say to Avinash, “Coming from Chennai?”
“Yes,” he says, “I’d gone for some work there.”
“You stay here? In Ooty?” I ask with a tremor of trepidation for I do not want to run into Avinash again and again; and let him know that I had made a big mistake by not marrying him – that I had made the wrong choice by dumping him, the man I loved, in search of a “better” life.
“I stay near Kotagiri,” Avinash says.
“Kotagiri?” I ask relieved.
“Yes, I own a tea-estate there.”
“You own a tea estate?”
“Yes. I am a planter.”
Now I really regret my blunder 30 years ago. Indeed I had made the wrong choice.
“Your family – wife, children?” I probe, curious.
“I didn’t marry,” he says curtly. “There’s no family; only me. A confirmed bachelor – just me – I live all by myself.”
“Oh, Avinash. You should have got married. Why didn’t you?”
“It is strange that you should be asking me why I did not marry,” he says.
“Oh my God! Because of me?”
Avinash changes the subject and says, “I’ll be getting off at Coonoor. My jeep will pick me up.”
He pauses, then asks me, “And you, Roopa? Going to Ooty? At the height of winter! To freeze over there?”
“No,” I say, “I am going to Ketti.”
“Ketti ?” he asks with derisive surprise.
“Yes. What’s wrong with going to Ketti?” I protest.
“There are only two places you can go to in Ketti – The boarding school and the old-age home. And the school is closed in December,” Avinash says nonchalantly, looking out of the window.
I say nothing.
Because I cannot say anything.
So I suffer his words in silence.
“Unless of course you own a bungalow there!” he says sarcastically turning towards me and mocking me once again.
The cat is out of the bag.
I cannot describe the sense of humiliation I feel sitting there with Avinash.
The tables seem to have turned.
Or have they?
There are only the two of us in the tiny compartment.
As the train begins to climb up the hills it began to get windy and Avinash closes the windows.
The smallness of the compartment forces us into a strange sort of intimacy.
I remember the lovely moments with Avinash.
A woman’s first love always has an enduring place in her heart.
“I am sorry if I hurt you,” Avinash says, “but the bitterness just came out.”
We talk.
Avinash is easy to talk to and I am astonished how effortlessly my words come tumbling out.
I tell him everything. Yes, I tell him everything – the entire story of my life.
How I had struggled, sacrificed, planned and taken every care.
But still, everything had gone wrong.
Widowed at 28.
Abandoned by my only son at 52.
Banished to an old-age home. So that “they” could sell off our house and emigrate abroad.
“They” – yes, “they” – those two who ruined my life, betrayed my trust – my only son who I doted upon and lived for and that scheming wife of his.
“I have lost everything,” I cry, unable to control my self. “Avinash, I have lost everything.”
“No, Roopa,” Avinash says. “You haven’t lost everything. You have got me! I’ve got you. We’ve got each other.”
Avinash takes me in his comforting arms.
Cuddled in his arms, I experience the same feeling, the same zest, the same warmth, the same lovely emotion, the same love, that I felt thirty years ago, yes, thirty years ago, as a newly-wed on my first romantic journey, on this same mountain toy train, on my way to my first honeymoon, into the lovely blue mountains.
VIKRAM KARVE
Copyright © Vikram Karve 2011
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
© vikram karve., all rights reserved.
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About Vikram Karve
A creative person with a zest for life, Vikram Karve is a retired Naval Officer turned full time writer. Educated at IIT Delhi, ITBHU Varanasi, The Lawrence School Lovedale and Bishops School Pune, Vikram has published two books: COCKTAIL a collection of fiction short stories about relationships (2011) and APPETITE FOR A STROLL a book of Foodie Adventures(2008) and is currently working on his novel. 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. Vikram has taught at a University as a Professor for almost 14 years and now teaches as a visiting faculty and devotes most of his time to creative writing. Vikram lives in Pune India with his family and muse – his pet dog Sherry with whom he takes long walks thinking creative thoughts.
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Fiction Short Stories Book
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© vikram karve., all rights reserved.
Short Fiction by Vikram Karve 